How I achieved orgasm during a massage

Hi everyone! I thought I'd share something that happened to me last week. I still can't believe it happened to me. I've never written anything like this before, so please don't judge me too harshly. A little about myself. My name is Lena, I'm thirty-two years old, and I've been married for six years. My relationship with my husband is good, but in bed, things are very bland. He tries, and I try, but it feels more like fulfilling marital duties than real sex. I can't even remember the last time I experienced something truly intense. That's probably why it all happened. A friend had been telling me to get a massage for a while. She said it helps me relax, unwind, and feel like a woman. I kept demurring, but then I finally made an appointment. I chose a more expensive salon so that everything would be decent. I asked for a male massage therapist—my friend said men have stronger hands and are better at working my back. Honestly, I just imagined that men's hands on my body were something forbidden and therefore pleasurable. But I didn't admit it to myself. I arrived. The salon was cozy, with dim lighting and the scent of some kind of oils. The receptionist showed me into the room and said the technician would be right there. I undressed, lay down on the couch, and covered myself with a sheet. My heart was pounding, like before an exam. He entered quietly. I heard the door close, and only then his voice. Calm, low. He introduced himself as Andrey. He asked if I had any back problems, what I should pay attention to. He spoke so casually that I calmed down a little. He started with my shoulders. His hands were warm, confident. He kneaded my trapezius muscles, my neck, and I felt the tension slowly melt away. Everything was within the bounds of propriety. Well, almost. When he moved down to my lower back, his fingers brushed the edge of the sheet that covered me to mid-thigh. I froze. He didn't do anything unnecessary, just adjusted the fabric, but this accidental touch on my bare skin sent a shudder through my body. Then he moved to my legs. He opened one leg to the knee and began rubbing my calf. His movements were strong but gentle. He gradually moved higher. When his fingers touched the back of my thigh, I involuntarily squeezed my legs. He stopped. "Relax," he said quietly. "You can't work your muscles like that." I tried. But when his palm landed on my buttock through the sheet and began kneading, I realized I was breathing only occasionally. He didn't ask permission. He was just doing his job. But his hands were too close to the place where everything was burning. He covered me with the sheet and moved to the other leg. Everything repeated itself. And this time I didn't squeeze. On the contrary, I caught myself spreading my thighs slightly. Just a little, a couple of centimeters. Just to feel the cool air where it had become too hot. He seemed to notice, but didn't show it. Then he asked me to roll over onto my back. I hesitated, but then rolled over. Now I was lying in front of him, covered only by a thin sheet. He stood next to me and looked at me. Not like a doctor, but like a man. It lasted only a second, but I managed to see that look. He started at the front of my neck, moving down to my collarbones. His fingers glided over my skin lightly, barely touching. This was no longer a healing sensation, but something else entirely. I closed my eyes to keep from giving myself away. I was afraid he'd see too much in them. He pulled back the edge of the sheet, revealing my chest. I flinched, wanting to say something, but he gently pressed his hand on my shoulder. "That's how it should be," he said in the same calm tone. "The pectoral muscles are also tightening." I couldn't find an answer. He began massaging the area above my breasts, then around them. His fingers circled, getting closer to my nipples. I felt them hardening. I felt bukvoeb.run ashamed, but also good at the same time. When he finally ran his thumb over the nipple itself, I let out a soft sob. He pretended not to hear. His hands settled on my stomach. I felt my muscles clench beneath his palms. He pressed, rubbed, and then—I don't know how it happened—his hand found its way between my legs. I shuddered and squeezed my knees, but he didn't remove his hand. “Trust me,” he said almost in a whisper. And I must have gone crazy. Because I spread my legs. Everything after that was a blur. His fingers slid up my inner thigh, then higher. The sheet disappeared somewhere. I lay completely naked, and he was still dressed. This made me feel especially vulnerable and therefore even more aroused. He began to caress me there. Slowly but surely. His fingers found the most sensitive spots, and I could no longer hold back my moans. I gripped the edges of the couch with my hands. Everything that was happening seemed like a dream, but the sensations were too vivid. Andrey spread my legs wider. I didn't resist. He unzipped his fly, and I saw his penis for the first time. It was big. Too big, even. I was afraid it would hurt. But it didn't hurt. He entered slowly but deeply. I felt him fill me completely, without leaving a trace. My body responded on its own. I moaned loudly, no longer caring if anyone could hear. He began to move. At first, measuredly, then faster and harder. His hands held my hips. The couch creaked. I forgot about everything in the world: about my husband, about propriety, about the fact that this was wrong. I was just a body that had finally received what it had been waiting for so long. I came quickly. Never in my life had I come so intensely. But he didn't stop. He flipped me over onto my stomach and put me on my knees. I buried my face in the pillow, and he entered again from behind. So deeply that I cried out. Each of his thrusts sent sparks before my eyes. He leaned toward me and whispered something in my ear. I couldn't make out the words. I could only feel his breath on my neck. A few minutes later he pulled out and came on my back. I lay there, unable to move. He silently took a towel and dried me off. I thought he'd say something, explain, but he simply said: — The session is over. I got dressed with wobbly legs and left the office drunk. The receptionist smiled sweetly and asked if I liked it. I nodded. Since then, I've only thought about one thing: when I'll go there again.