What Happened in the Treatment Room with My Last Client of the Day

I admit I barely looked at her when she came into the room. I’d been on my feet all day and all I could think about was closing up. I prepared the table, checked that the oil was at just the right temperature, and told her to lie face down, naked except for the ridiculous paper panties we provide, with her face fitted into the face cradle and a towel covering her ass. It wasn’t the first time she’d come to the center, but it was the first time I’d treated her.

I went over to her. I guessed she was about forty, though her body didn’t show it. Slim, brunette, narrow waist, and a big, firm ass the towel barely contained. Medium-sized breasts, flattened against the table. Shoulder-length dark hair. I never got to see her face. The atmosphere was perfect: dim light, vanilla and sandalwood candles, the ideal temperature to be naked. She almost was. I was still in my short-sleeved white uniform.

I was twenty-nine and desperate to get home, have dinner, and forget about everything. That job was a lot more physical than people imagined, and that mature woman was my last client of the day.

I started as always, in the middle of her back, pressing firmly. She was very tense. I worked my way to her shoulders and nape, where I had to be generous with the oil. I massaged her arms and went back to her back.

“Is your neck tight?” I asked.

“Very. And my legs. I’m on my feet all day.”

I moved down to her calves and worked my way up her thighs. She complained, but not because I was overstepping—my mind was on muscles and tendons only—but because of real pain, accumulated fatigue. Her skin was warm and firm, and beneath my thumbs I could feel the hardened knots of someone who endures endless shifts without sitting down.

I kneaded her calves and thighs right up to the edge of the towel and changed areas. I added more oil and worked the soles of her feet, pausing at the arch with slow, deep strokes. She couldn’t help letting out a long sigh, proof I’d hit the right spot. Then I went back to her thighs, lingered a few minutes on the shoulder blades, working out every tension with the edge of my hand. The background music was very low, the candles scented the room, and for a moment it was just a good massage.

“I have to massage pretty high up on you, almost to the glutes,” I warned her. “Can I take off the towel? It’ll be better for that overworked area.”

“Yes, sure.”

I think I behaved like a perfect professional until I moved the towel aside. There before me was a round, big, not-at-all-soft ass. Her brown back shone with oil, as did her slightly parted thighs. It would have been a perfect sight if not for those paper panties. Focusing, I worked down with both hands from the base of her buttocks to the inner thigh, firm but not too hard, because that maneuver could hurt.

I made a circular motion across the width of her right thigh. I switched to the left and repeated the move, hard. I heard her moan. I stopped dead.

One of my hands was very close to her crotch. I didn’t realize it until I heard her. I kept rotating her thigh to keep up appearances; I couldn’t stop the massage all at once.

“Everything okay?” I asked, just in case.

She made a sound that was sort of a yes.

I don’t know why—yes I do—I added more oil and started tracing both thighs from the hollow behind her knees upward, higher and higher. I should have stopped, or not even started. But she was moaning softly, insistently, and that eased my fears.

If she doesn’t turn over now, she never will.

And when I say I was going higher and higher, I mean I ended up touching her ass underneath those ridiculous panties. I’m a massage therapist and it’s not unusual to work a client’s glutes, always warning them first to avoid awkward situations. This time I didn’t warn her. I didn’t want to break the spell, didn’t want to hear her voice or see her face, just wanted to watch her back breathing hard while I stroked that perfect ass.

I thought all of it could go very badly: fired, in front of a judge, my name dragged through the mud. It would be enough for her to tense her back, sit up, and say one word. But she didn’t. She just kept breathing deeply, and that divine ass completely shut down my common sense.

Those damn panties twisted, went see-through, lost all substance. So I tore them. She lifted her pelvis so I could remove the scraps. While one hand ran over her shiny thighs, the other toyed with her buttocks and went lower. I started stroking her pussy, neither shaved nor fully covered, outside the lips. I slid my middle finger through the opening until I found her wetness and her clitoris, slowly. Her moans got louder.

Looking back now, it seems strange to me that she didn’t turn over so we could finish right there on the table. No: she preferred to stay face down, at the mercy of my hands, with her face hidden in the cradle.

I alternated clitoral caresses with one finger inside, then two, while my right hand played with her ass and lower back. Then I felt something over my pants: her hand searching for me, stroking me through the fabric. That’s how we stayed for a while. She was soaked in oil and desire, I was getting harder and harder. I pulled my pants down, she found my cock blind and squeezed it. I went back to her pussy, and not just her pussy: thanks to the oil, my finger slid into her ass without effort while I kept stroking her from the front. It wasn’t that she liked the combination; it was that I was driving her crazy. And even then she didn’t move her head a single centimeter.

A crazy idea occurred to me. I stopped the massage and went around the table until I was in front of her. Feeling my way, without seeing her face, I found the opening where her head was and brought my cock to her mouth. She took me in slowly. I stayed like that for a while, in a rather uncomfortable position, while with my free hands I kneaded her shoulders. It wasn’t comfortable, but I liked feeling her saliva slide down me.

I was neglecting the rest of her body, so after a few minutes I went back south, with my cock shining. I took one of those cylindrical cushions we use to raise a client’s pelvis and placed it under her hips, pushing her ass up. She was on the edge. After stroking her clit a little more, I didn’t hesitate to go in again: the index finger in her ass, already surrendered; the middle and ring finger inside her; the little finger brushing her button, clumsily if anything.

I worked her with one hand, faster and faster. She stopped moaning and almost screamed. I pulled my fingers out, switched them to another hole, went back in, and she could do nothing but clamp down around my hand and come. She came as if she’d been waiting for that moment for years.

I withdrew my fingers and caressed her ass while she panted and recovered. I was euphoric and rock hard, with no plan at all. If at that instant she had stood up, dressed, and left, leaving me to run to the bathroom, it would still have been the best day of my life.

But she reached her hands back and spread her buttocks, offering me her ass, oily and throbbing. I asked no questions. I climbed onto the table, lubed up well, and slid in slowly. I fucked her for minutes, burning, but not wanting to finish. I wanted to do everything to her: her pussy, her mouth, come on her tongue. But what more could I ask if that wonderful woman was asking me for exactly that. The pressure of her ring squeezing me nearly killed me, the oil making every thrust glide. I didn’t last long. I pulled out in time and came all over her ass and back.

Even so, I wasn’t about to leave hungry. I buried my face between her legs and ate her pussy in that same position, while I slipped a finger back into her dilated ass. She didn’t take long to come again, this time with a softer orgasm than the first.

She pulled her face out of the cradle, but even then I never saw it. She murmured something affectionate and unintelligible and laid her face on her arms, relaxed. With a hot, damp towel I cleaned the oil and my own mess off her, from neck to feet. I pulled my pants back on with my back to her. She sat up, stood, reached for her robe, and walked toward the showers.

“Thank you,” she said, in a barely audible voice.

Out of the corner of my eye, for just a second, I saw her cross the door and disappear. I never saw her face. She never saw mine either. And even today, every time I prepare the last table of the day, I wonder if she’ll come back.