I Started with a Massage and Ended Up Thinking About You

That night I came home with a stiff neck, that kind of dull pain that settles between the shoulder and the nape and won’t go away no matter how much you ignore it. I’d been dragging it around for days and, honestly, I couldn’t take it anymore. I made myself some tea, dimmed the lights until only the lamp on the bedside table was left on, and put on one of those calm-music playlists that promise deep relaxation. I wanted to switch off. Nothing more. I swear to you: that was the plan.

I sat on the edge of the bed, in my underwear, and started with my neck. Slow, circular movements, fingertips sinking right where it hurt most. The first minute was pure relief. I felt the muscle give little by little, the tension I’d carried all day beginning to loosen. I closed my eyes. My breathing grew slower, deeper.

I brought my hands up to the base of my skull, then down the sides of my neck to my shoulders. I pressed there, into that knot that forms from staring at screens so much, and let out a sigh without even noticing. The pain was still there, but it was no longer in charge. Something else was in charge now: a warm sensation beginning to spread, that pleasant laziness of when the body finally surrenders.

I changed the playlist to one that was a little more upbeat. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe because the relaxed silence was starting to bore me, or maybe because some part of me already sensed where this was going. The new music had a more marked rhythm, warmer, and I let myself be carried by it. From my shoulders I moved to my arms, then to my thighs.

Just a little more.

I started massaging my legs with both hands, from the knee upward, pressing the inner thighs with my thumbs. The skin there is thinner, more sensitive, and each pass made my breath hitch a little. I went up slowly, unhurried, enjoying the heat of my own hands on me. And I’ll admit that at some point I stopped thinking about my neck pain altogether.

Are you imagining it? Because I’d like you to. Close your eyes for a second and imagine that half-lit room, the music in the background, a woman who thought she was only going to relax and who suddenly realizes her body is asking her for something else.

I changed the song again, this time to one with a more sensual rhythm, one of those tracks that seem made for moving slowly against someone. And my hands, almost on their own, left my thighs behind and started to climb. Over my stomach, slowly, feeling my skin tighten as they passed. Up to my breasts.

I circled them with my palms first, not touching what I most wanted to touch, teasing myself with the wait. When my fingers finally passed over my nipples, they were already pebbled, hard, begging for attention. I squeezed them gently, massaged them in circles, and a shiver ran from the nape of my neck all the way down. There was no way to keep pretending this was still a massage.

I admit I got turned on faster than I expected. But I wanted to go slowly. I wanted to stretch out every second. There’s something about making yourself wait that multiplies the desire, don’t you think? That delicious tension of knowing what’s coming and still delaying it on purpose.

Not yet. Hold on a little longer.

I brought one hand down the center of my body, barely brushing, until I reached between my legs. Over the fabric at first, pressing with my palm, feeling the heat that had already built up there. Then I moved the cloth aside and let the tip of my fingers graze my clit, very slowly, almost without touching. Just enough to draw a moan out of me that I didn’t even try to hold back.

Would you beg me for more? Because that’s exactly what my body was doing: begging. Every light caress left me wanting the next one, firmer, faster. And I denied myself for one more moment just to feel that warm desperation growing between my legs.

Just when I was starting to lose control, I stopped. I pulled my hand away too soon, breathing hard, my heart pounding in my chest. I brought my fingers to my mouth and licked them, slowly, sucking on them, tasting myself. Then, thoroughly wet, I took them back down.

This time I didn’t hold back so much. I started moving them in circles over my clit, slow and firm, finding the exact rhythm my body knows by heart. I sped up, slowed down, sped up again. I played with myself, bringing myself right to the edge and then pulling back. Slow, fast, slow again. My hips started moving on their own against my own hand.

I went a little lower and slid my fingers inside. Slowly at first, feeling how my body received them, and then matching the movement to the rhythm of the music. In and out, first gently, then with more hunger, while my thumb kept pressing exactly where I needed it most. My breath caught. My legs trembled.

And I came. With my hand pressed against me, biting my lip so I wouldn’t make too much noise, feeling my whole body tense and release at the same time. I stayed still for a moment, panting, my fingers still wet and a little moisture sliding down the inner side of my thigh.

So much for a neck ache.

And you? Are you getting turned on yet, or not yet? Because now it’s my turn to ask you for something. I want you to close your eyes again and think of your hands as mine.

***

Imagine it’s me touching you. Take one hand down low, slowly, unhurried, just like I did. Take your time, go up and down along the length, slowly, pressing just enough. Don’t rush. I want you to feel every inch as if it were my fingers tracing that skin.

Do it again, a little faster now. Up and down, up and down, finding the rhythm. More. A little more. And if you feel yourself getting close too soon, stop. Pause right on the edge and breathe. It turns me on to imagine your breathing speeding up when you force yourself to wait, the way you clench your teeth from holding back the need.

Now touch only the tip. With your fingertip, in gentle circles, nothing more. And go slowly downward, trace everything from top to bottom until you reach the balls. Stroke them carefully, squeeze them a little, play with them the way I would if I were there, on my knees in front of you, looking you in the eyes.

Go back to the tip. Start again from the bottom, slow, that’s it. That’s how I like it. Slowly, marking each movement, letting the tension build without releasing it yet.

Would you like to put it between my breasts? Because I’m thinking about that right now. About what it would feel like, about pressing them together to hold you while you move between them. That’s it: now move your hand fast, without stopping, imagining you’re right there, between my breasts, with my hands guiding you.

Think that you’re about to come. That all the tension you held onto is letting go all at once. Don’t stop this time. I want you to let yourself go thinking of me, imagining yourself staining me, marking my skin while I look at you and smile. Like that, just like that.

***

I stayed stretched out on the bed for a while, the music still playing softly, catching my breath. The neck, by the way, stopped hurting. I’d been dragging it around all day and in the end what cured it wasn’t precisely the massage I’d planned.

There’s something I find fascinating about these nights alone. It’s not just the physical pleasure, though there’s plenty of that. It’s the freedom. No one to please but yourself. No one watching, no one judging the rhythm, the sighs, the pauses. You can be as slow or as impatient as you want. You can make yourself wait until you’re begging. You can stop right on the edge as many times as you like just for the pleasure of prolonging the inevitable.

And, above all, you can imagine. That’s what I like most. That in my head there are no limits. That I can turn a boring neck-pain massage into whatever I want, with whoever I want. Tonight I chose you, unknown person reading this. I put you in my room, I put my hands on you, I asked things of you. And if you made it this far imagining it with me, then we both know it worked.

I like to think that somewhere, right now, someone closed their eyes while reading and let themselves get carried away just like I did. That the fantasy traveled from my head to yours and became real for a moment, even if we never see each other, even if we don’t even know each other’s name. Desire doesn’t need anything more than that: a willing imagination and a little time alone.

Are you left wanting more?

Me too. I’m always left wanting more. That’s why tomorrow, when I come home with a stiff neck again, I’ll probably turn on the lamp, dim the lights, and put on that relaxing playlist, telling myself that this time it really will just be a massage. And we both know how it’s going to end.

I hope you let your imagination run wild. And I hope, whoever you are, you liked it as much as I did.