GROANS AND MOANS (short steamy stories)

buzz

It’s kind of weird how this all came about. My assistant, Maya, asked for the afternoon off so she could participate in a documentary film. When I asked what it was about, she said happy endings. I didn’t know what she meant, but Maya seemed awfully embarrassed. “When I was nineteen I worked as a masseuse. It wasn’t on my résumé because…well, I knew what people would think.” I still didn’t know what she was talking about, but I didn’t ask a second time. “Anyway, a girl I used to work with is making a documentary about happy endings. I would never give them. I thought it was gross.

She wants to interview me on the con side. She’s got enough girls who are pro.” “Yes, of course,” I said. “Go ahead. Should be a very interesting film.” Maya grinned and called out, “Thanks, Linda,” as she skipped from my office. Happy endings? Call me naïve, but I honestly had no clue what she meant. Thank goodness for Google! I must admit, I was a little shocked after reading the definition: A happy ending massage culminates in s****l contact, usually manual or oral stimulation. Men are typically clients for these offerings, but some women also request happy endings. This activity is illegal in America and not performed at legitimate spas. What kind of a place had Maya worked, if her fellow masseuses were prostituting themselves to clients? My stomach turned, thinking about sweet Maya faced with rampant erections, and men begging her to provide some relief. At least, that was my initial impression.

As the days passed, I started looking at Maya differently. I would spot her at the coffeemaker, or bent over the photocopier, and imagine those tiny hands working a stranger’s oily flesh. In the beginning, I pictured her massaging fat old men, then slimmer, younger men, and then…me. It got to the point where I could barely breathe when she entered my office. She would say, “Linda, are you okay? Your cheeks are all red.” “I’m fine,” I would tell her. “Hot flashes. Just you wait!” She’d laugh and fetch me a glass of water. It was more than I could stand. I hadn’t felt intimate touch since my cheating bastard of an ex husband ran off with a close friend of ours. When he left me, my body shut down. I didn’t want another man. I didn’t want anyone, not even myself. And suddenly, there was Maya, making me throb, making me wet. God, I wanted her to touch me, but I couldn’t ask. Just couldn’t. Above all else, I was a professional woman, and responsible VPs resist the temptation to seduce their staffers. I’d always believed that, and one little all-consuming crush wasn’t going to sway me. But I needed something. I started touching myself in the shower, but I never really got anywhere. My p***y would ache all day, and I couldn’t seem to satisfy it. After a while, my brain felt like it was on fire. I became so irritated with myself that I started scratching at work, leaving red claw marks down my neck and my chest. Maya said I should see a doctor. One day, on a whim, I asked, “How is that documentary coming along?” She gave me a very strange look. “Weird that you’d ask. It’s premiering at a little film festival next Friday. Want to come?” “No, no.” Yes, yes! “I don’t want to cramp your style. It’ll be all young people, I’m sure.” “Linda, don’t say stuff like that.” Maya shook her head. “Anyway, my friend wants me to invite everyone I know. She’s afraid no one will show up.” “Okay,” I said before Maya could change her mind. “I’ll be there.” And I was there, with bells on. Okay, not bells, but my best black dress over my most slimming undergarments. I sat on my own while Maya joined her incredibly attractive young friends. The film was truly eye-opening for me.

One woman in particular made me sit up and take notice. Her name was Shari, and she was on the pro side of the happy endings issue. “Massage represents release and relief. It’s an intimate interaction, and it kicks up arousal in a lot of people. I think the natural progression is a happy ending. Touch and sexuality are so intricately interwoven. I don’t want my clients leaving frustrated.” That made so much sense. Why was it okay for a masseuse to rub your back but not your front? The divide started to seem arbitrary. After the film, there was a reception in the lobby. I’d lost track of Maya, but I spotted Shari, the eloquent advocate of happy endings. My god, was she tall! Her red velvet gown clung to her firm breasts while a black shawl draped haphazardly over her shoulders. I felt starstruck, seeing her there. My feet just started moving, and they didn’t stop until I was standing right in front of her. “Can I make an appointment?” That’s what I said. No small talk. Straight to the chase. “Sure.” As she slipped her phone from her purse, she introduced herself. “I know,” I said. “I saw you in the film.” I stared into her dungeon-dark eyes, hoping she’d know what I wanted —hoping I wouldn’t have to tell her.

She must have understood, because she smiled mysteriously as she looked up from her phone. “Are you busy now?” “Now? What, you mean like right now?” I stammered like an i***t. “No, I’m free. Now is perfect.” If I’d put it off or scheduled the massage for another day, I’d surely have lost my nerve. We slipped into a taxi and chatted about the movie. I didn’t even know what I was saying, I was so lost in the enormity of paying for s*x. Really, that’s what I was about to do. As Shari unlocked the door of an unlit spa, she said, “We closed up for the night so everyone on staff could go to the film premiere. It’ll be just the two of us.” “Oh, good.” My stomach roiled as Shari led me up a narrow staircase. I don’t know what I was expecting. I just wanted it not to be sleazy. Luckily, when she opened the door at the top of the stairs, the setting sat somewhere between comfortable and clinical. I could handle that. There was a massage table in her little room, and a fountain, some bamboo shoots, other greenery. Shari left the room while I undressed fully.

I bristled with an anxious, almost embarrassed sort of heat. She knocked before coming back in the room, and by then I was flat on the prepared table, with my face through that odd pillow with the hole in the middle. Shari gave me a whole lot of information, but my ears were buzzing. I had no idea what she said. When she set her oiled hands on my skin, I melted. It had been so long. She wouldn’t have believed me if I’d told her. Years. So many years since I’d been touched—even like this, just her hands on my back. Without warning, I started crying. At first, I kept it quiet. I didn’t want her to hear me whimpering, but when the full-on sobs took over, I couldn’t hide my sorry state. Shari asked if I’d like a tissue, and when I arched up I caught my first glimpse of her. She’d taken off her gown. What she wore now was black, like a corset with panties. She reminded me of a flamenco dancer, for some reason. She seemed wildly passionate, but totally in control. “Thanks.” I dabbed my eyes, then blew my nose. “I’m sorry about this. I don’t know what’s gotten into me.” “It’s very common,” she said. “Massage releases pent-up emotions. No need to feel sorry.” When I settled back in, with my tissues balled up in my fist, she asked if I’d like her to work her way up from my calves. Yes, I wanted that. Very much so. When her warm palms traced oil up my legs, I melted all over again. I’d never thought of my calves as sensitive, but when Shari touched them, raw energy swirled through my pelvis. That sensation—I recognized it from years ago. From when I was a teenager, when I was in college.

Long, long ago. “That feels amazing,” I said. My head was spinning, and so was my belly. My whole body felt dizzy. Standing to one side, Shari worked her way up my thighs. The closer she got to my naked rear, the more intensely that warm energy swirled between my legs. I stared down at the floor, smiling like an i***t, and picturing Shari in her black lingerie. When she started kneading my asscheeks, I actually groaned. “Sorry,” I said, feeling dreadfully embarrassed. “Don’t be.” Her smile gleamed in her voice. “Make all the noise you like.” I wasn’t shy after that. In truth, I couldn’t keep it in. When she stroked my ass with scented oil, I moaned like a monster. In my entire life, I don’t think anyone had ever touched me in quite that way. It felt amazing. After a while, Shari asked, “Are you ready to flip?” I didn’t even answer her—I just did it. I turned over on the massage table and opened my legs. Before I could stop myself, I ended up asking, “Do you ever massage people naked?” Her lips pursed beautifully, and then she smiled. “Only if I really like them.” She must have really liked me, because she unstrung her corset and slipped out of it right before my eyes.

Her body made mine pulse. I wanted to spread oil across her golden skin. Her firm breasts pointed in my direction as I stared at her bare p***y. I wished I’d shaved mine, too. I could just imagine her palm pressing against my baby-smooth cunt. Instead, she ran her fingers through the dark curls between my legs. When I felt her slick hand against the pulpy, pounding mass of my c**t, my whole body melted into the vinyl cushion. “Oh, that’s good. That’s sooo good.” She rubbed my p***y with the meat of her palm. I don’t know if it was the oil or Shari’s nudity, or just the fact that I hadn’t been touched intimately in almost a decade, but my sleeping body woke up. My p***y gushed as I pressed it against her hand. She wasn’t doing anything special, not that I could see, but I didn’t need much convincing. “Want me to go in?” she asked. Her breasts surged as she rubbed me, like her whole body was doing the work. I stared at them as I tried to unpack her question. “Go in?” She held up two fingers and raised an eyebrow. “Oh!” When did I become such a naïve old woman? “Yes, okay.” Shari doused my mound with oil, and just feeling that warm, slick stuff sliding over my hot folds made me moan.

When she pressed two fingers into my p***y, my bones turned to pudding. She moved slowly inside of me, looking for something…and finding it. “Oh my god!” I arched on the table. “What is that?” “Feels good, huh?” She rubbed that strange place somewhere inside me, and I wondered if that could possibly be my G-spot. If it was…well, I finally understood what all the fuss was about. “Thank you,” I said, almost in a whisper. Shari stroked me with her fingers, tracing gentle circles around my c**t. She obviously knew what she was doing. My swollen lips felt fatter by the second. She summoned the juice that had been hibernating inside of me forever. At least, it felt like forever since I’d been aroused like this, and unashamedly so. “Don’t stop,” I said, gripping Shari’s wrist. From the look she gave me, I thought maybe I shouldn’t have done that, but she didn’t say anything, so I didn’t let go. And then she jumped and laughed and I asked, “What?” “Didn’t you feel that?” She rubbed me faster, inside and out. “Your p***y’s milking my fingers. You must really like this.” My eyes fluttered. “I really do.” I didn’t speak after that, not in words. I surrendered to the sensations Shari aroused in my body. It wasn’t just one sensation—oh no. She made me want to push, and she made me want to pull. I bucked at her hand, launching my hips up in the air and then right back down. I wasn’t in control of my actions anymore. My thighs tensed. I held my legs stiff as she scoured my c**t. Then she tickled my G-spot and I nearly flipped off the table. She had to hurl her naked self on my belly to keep me in place. “Mmm!” I shrieked and shouted, keeping my lips pressed shut. “Mmm mm-mmm!” My arms thrashed, and Shari jammed her tight breasts into my skin. I thrust my hips, forcing her to writhe on top of me. My brain had set itself on fire. I couldn’t think. All I knew was my want—more, more, more! The pulpy ache of my p***y expanded to devour my belly and my breasts. My eternally soft n*****s drew into tight, dark buds. I reached for my breasts, cupping them, squeezing them, and that threw me well over the edge. I wailed as the pleasure morphed into pain.

Suddenly, my p***y felt huge, like a balloon set to explode. I cried, “Stop! Please! Enough!” Shari rose from my body like a mist, withdrawing her fingers from my p***y and wiping them with a cloth. I couldn’t catch my breath. My chest rose and fell. The whole room seemed hazy, like it was lost in a fog. When Shari leaned across my thigh and blew on my c**t, I shivered and laughed. It took a while to find my words, but when I did, I gushed. I must have thanked her a million times, and told her how glad I was that she’d brought me here, how grateful, how long it had been. I guaranteed that I’d make ours a standing appointment. I would come back every week—twice a week, if she’d have me. When I ran out of breath and finally stopped talking, Shari said, “I’m glad you enjoyed it. To tell you the truth, women very rarely walk through that door. I’ve never given a full release massage to another woman.” She seemed like such an expert, like she knew exactly what to do. I said, “I don’t believe it. You did such a fabulous job. I know I’m naïve, but there’s no way that was your first time.” “Well…” Shari c****d her head coquettishly. “My first time at work.”