Five Friends and the Mature Pool Massagist

What I’m going to tell you happened on the last weekend of June, that one when summer is already hitting full force even though the calendar still seems to be in doubt. I changed the names, because enjoying yourself is one thing and pointing fingers at people is another, but the rest happened exactly as I’m going to describe it. Whoever wants to believe it, can believe it; whoever doesn’t, can amuse themselves imagining it.

There are five of us. Noa, Bea, Irene, Vera, and me, Carla. We’re all around twenty-five, all bisexual, all with the same habit of not tying ourselves to anyone for longer than we feel like. We live right by the sea, in a town on the Levante coast, and precisely because of that, when the heat arrives, what we dream of is escaping anywhere with shade and no one to look at us sideways.

And this year there was a new addition to the group. Or rather, a new name: Marcos.

Marcos is a client at the accounting firm where I work. He’s fifty-four, which for some will be a lot and for us is exactly what we were looking for. He’s divorced, lives alone in a rented house with a pool, and makes his living giving massages. Only to women, by his own choice. He says they tip better and that word-of-mouth advertising works better that way. That’s not the important part, anyway. The important part is his hands.

The five of us had talked more than once about Marcos’s hands. I had already slept with him —that’s no secret among us— and I knew firsthand that a man who spends years touching other people’s bodies learns things a twenty-year-old kid can’t even imagine. The others sensed it. They wanted to find out for themselves.

***

We’d spent the whole week trying to organize a getaway. The problem with living in front of a beach is that the last thing you feel like doing is going to another beach, so we were considering the mountains, some country house, the usual. But coordinating five different jobs just as tourist season kicks off is impossible. Marcos, who had slipped into the messaging group because one of us added him “for work-related matters,” eventually took the bait.

—Let’s see, girls —he wrote—. You want to disconnect, sunbathe without any creep coming near you, be naked if you feel like it, and come and go whenever you want. I work every morning until mid-afternoon in the summer, I can’t take you sightseeing. But my house has a pool, tall trees that block the view, and air conditioning. It’s yours. I’ll give you keys. The only thing I ask is that you don’t touch my office or the console.

And then he topped it off with the line that left us all staring at the screen in silence:

—When was the last time you had a massage just, and exclusively, on your breasts?

Bea burst out laughing so loudly it could be heard from the kitchen. Vera typed three question marks in a row. Irene, who’s the oldest in the group and the fussiest about everything, replied that we accepted before any of the rest of us could say a word.

I was curious, I admit it. I’d had my whole body massaged before, but never just that part. And knowing my friends, I knew that wasn’t going to stay just a massage.

***

We arrived on Friday at six in the evening, with asphalt-melting heat, in two cars and wearing very little: bikinis, a couple of light dresses for the night, and not much else. Marcos met us at the door and we all jumped on him like spoiled nieces, with kisses, hugs, and the occasional naughty hand sliding over his swim trunks.

Never tell a group of women they can do whatever they want. They will.

He showed us the house, two floors all to himself, the rooms with the sheets already changed —a gentleman’s touch— and the kitchen. We started making the shopping list and he appeared with a serious face.

—Did you really think I was going to leave the fridge empty? —he said.

He took my hand, I took Noa’s, Noa took Bea’s, and so on in a chain, and he led us to the fridge and opened it. It was full. Water, fruit, vegetables, meat, a few treats, and on the bottom shelf, a cake. Because it turned out that week was Irene’s and Vera’s birthday, and he had remembered. I think that cake won us over more than anything else.

Then he led us to the garden, again in a chain, and right in front of us he took all his clothes off and got into the pool, inviting us to do the same.

You have to understand something about Marcos. He spends the whole day touching women’s bodies of every age and every shape. Seeing five naked girls didn’t give him any erection; he didn’t even flinch. And far from offending us, that relaxed us. He wasn’t looking at us like five horny little girls. He was looking at us like five women who wanted to go for a swim.

So we undressed. Top off, bottoms off, thongs tossed onto the loungers, and five bodies in the water.

***

The water was just the right temperature, neither cold nor lukewarm. We played, splashed each other, flirted. We all ended up touching him underwater, shrunk by the coolness, and he wasn’t keeping still either: one hand on a breast, the other on a hip, fingers brushing between our legs as if by accident. We were genuinely comfortable, heating up slowly, laughing like idiots.

At one point he came up with an idea we christened, through laughter, “the underwater kiss.” We sat on the edge of the pool, legs open, feet in the water, and he would dive under, build momentum, and pop up in a leap to kiss us right between the legs before sinking back under again. Up, kiss a cunt, down, up, kiss another. With all that water falling and all that jumping, it was more comic than pornographic, but the mix of laughter and Marcos’s tongue brushing where it brushed had my pulse racing.

The birthday girls wanted to imitate him. Irene and Vera got in the water and started jumping up to kiss us the same way, only they have long hair and, every time they surfaced, what brushed our crotches wasn’t their lips but a mass of wet hair stuck to their faces. It looked more like a horror movie scene than anything else. We laughed until it hurt.

***

Marcos got out of the water before the birthday girls were completely exhausted. He went into the house and came back with a portable massage table, which he set up in the shade of the biggest tree in the garden. He kept bringing things out: towels, bottles of oil, and a cloth bag whose contents we still couldn’t see.

When everything was ready, he dropped his line:

—First candidate for the special massage. Come out, dry off well so you don’t slip, and lie on your back.

The first one was Irene. I don’t know why, but she shot out of the water, dried herself, and lay down on the table before anyone could react. The rest of us stayed at the pool’s edge, feet in the water, watching.

He started gently, rubbing oil all over her torso, warming her skin without touching her breasts yet. Irene, who’s short on patience, got impatient right away.

—Marcos, stop trying to relax me and get me going already —she complained, spreading her legs wide to make the hint clear.

We all laughed. But instead of touching her pussy, he calmly withdrew his hand and spoke to her in that deep, steady voice he has.

—I’m not going to finger you, Irene. I told you I’d give you a breast massage, and that’s what I’m going to do. If you want someone to touch you down there, call one of those lizards sunbathing on the edge. Though I’d advise you to choose carefully, in case you get a surprise.

Irene grumbled, but she let him continue, waiting for one of us to get up and help her out. None of us moved. Sometimes we can be a bit cruel, I admit it.

Then Marcos put his hands on her breasts. And we saw how Irene, without even realizing it, closed her legs and relaxed completely.

***

I’m not going to describe the technique, because I didn’t fully understand it myself. I’ll only say he took all the time in the world. He kneaded her breasts, made her nipples hard almost effortlessly, and slowly drew the first gasps out of her with that alone. We could hear them from the water, coming faster and faster, rougher and rougher.

Noa’s curiosity got her out of her seat. She sat down on a nearby hammock to watch, and Marcos, without stopping the massage, told her to look inside the bag and choose whatever she wanted. Noa bent down, rummaged around, and let out a cry of delight.

—You’ve got it! I can’t believe it, you’re a box of surprises.

The rest of us turned our heads. Curiosity again. We saw Noa standing beside the table, her hands lost between Irene’s thighs, which were now wide open. And we heard Irene gasping much harder.

One by one, Bea, Vera, and I came closer to look. And there it was: Noa was sliding in and out of Irene’s pussy with a vibrator she’d been looking for for months, sold out in half a dozen shops. It turned out Marcos had it, and you could tell by every moan how well it was doing Irene.

Marcos knew his breast massage was already superfluous, that Noa was doing the real work. But he kept going. He kept kneading her breasts with a watchmaker’s calm while Irene writhed her hips, clutched the edge of the table, and, with a cry that sounded more like a toothache than pleasure, exploded in an orgasm that shook her whole body. He didn’t stop for a second. He kept his rhythm, impassive, as if nothing were happening.

Irene nearly fainted. Noa’s face was split between surprise at her friend’s orgasm and the satisfaction of knowing she now had somewhere to borrow her favorite toy from. And the three of us, sitting in the hammocks, watched one of our own get fucked while the man kept doing his thing.

I remind you that we were all naked. That Marcos was naked. And that his cock was still asleep, shriveled, unresponsive. The control that man has is something I still can’t explain.

***

When the trembling passed, Irene wanted more. She asked Marcos to come closer to her head so she could suck him off. He, of course, said no.

—I’m giving you a breast massage, not a blowjob. If you want something in your mouth, have one of your friends pass you something else from the bag.

—Look, Marcos —she insisted, still breathless—. I love your massage, I appreciate it, but I want your cock. I want it in my mouth and I want it inside me. So either nicely or not so nicely, you decide.

Lying on her back, she couldn’t do much, truth be told. But he didn’t give in, and he explained why with a patience that even Irene, stubborn as she is, eventually understood.

—Listen, girls, because this is going to happen to all of you and you’re all going to want the same thing. I can give you what you’re asking for, but I’m not some kid who gets hard in five minutes. If I have to do this with all five of you this afternoon, I’ll be done with the last one at dawn and completely wrecked. And that’s not the plan, for two reasons. One, because I need my recovery time, I’m not one of the toys in the bag. And two, because in half an hour we’re going out to dinner —I made a reservation to celebrate the birthdays. I said breast massage, not happy ending. That you’re five very sexual and pretty filthy women, with all affection, is another matter. Enjoy the end of the massage, because we need to get dressed up.

All five of us burst out at once, laughing:

—Marcos, you don’t even drink alcohol.

***

So that’s the first part. It’s short not because it’s short —it isn’t— but because even I, who’m the one telling this, think it’s better to do it in installments. For the record, the idea of cutting it off was mine just as much as Irene’s, Noa’s, Bea’s, Vera’s, and Marcos’s, who, when they read it, nearly lost sleep over how long it was.

The rest —the dinner, the drinks, what happened that night in the house with the pool and the next two days— I’ll tell you in another story. And soon, I promise. Whoever likes reading should keep going; exercising the brain is a good summer sport too.