I thought it was a normal massage (32M). She corrected me.

*Names and locations changed. This is the one story I’ve never told anyone.*

I was 32. I’d been with Sarah for almost two years: long distance, New York to Providence. She was very hot, but very religious, like actually religious, not performatively, which I respected but could be a challenge.

But a couple of years in, our situation was long distance and I was living in corporate housing in Rhode Island, working on a client engagement that was supposed to be three months and kept extending, and I was wound pretty tight. I’d been dealing with it the way I deal with everything: I ran.

Marathon training. The idea was that if I exhausted my body enough, it would stop asking for things.

The night in question- I’d just finished a brutal day at a Boston conference. Eight hours of stakeholder management, which if you’ve never had the pleasure is basically smiling while people who don’t understand what you do explain your job to you incorrectly. Then a ten-mile training run that morning, because I’m an idiot who thought that was a good idea before a full conference day.

I should have just driven back to Providence or taken an Advil and gone to sleep. But my shoulders were so locked up I could barely turn my head to check the mirrors, and when I saw the sign through the rain- “Central Wellness Zone”- I told myself it was basically physical therapy.

I’d looked up the reviews while I was parked outside. Almost all women. The language wasn’t too spa-speak, no “pampered” or “relaxing retreat.” More like: “Very thorough.” “She found knots I didn’t know I had.” “Not fancy but she knows what she’s doing.” One woman wrote that she’d been coming for twelve years.

That mattered to me. This wasn’t a place that traded in ambiguity. The building itself surprised me, a freestanding two-story, almost like a townhouse. Dark wood trim. A small understated sign by the door. You could walk past it and think someone lived there.

The lobby was warm, softly lit. Well-appointed but didn’t try too hard: comfortable chairs, good lighting, the kind of quiet that feels intentional. It smelled like lemongrass and eucalyptus. No clutter or tchotchkes on the front desk.

This was a place where women came, you could tell immediately; something about the colors, the scale of the furniture and the absence of anything that was trying to impress. A salon for body work, run by someone who took the work seriously. Twisting stairs led up to a second floor.

“Hello?”

From upstairs: “We close soon! One moment!”

I stood there in the lobby. Not unwelcome. Just noticed. A man in a place built for women, asking to be let in.

I should mention I was still in my conference suit. I’d driven straight from the Marriott without stopping at the corporate housing to change. Which meant I was standing in this lobby in a rain-spotted Brooks Brothers, looking like a man who had not planned to be here.

The stairs creaked. She descended like a ship coming into harbor. Sue. Early sixties, maybe mid. Short gray hair, practical. Gold-rimmed glasses. A floral tunic over loose black pants.

She basically looked like someone’s grandmother. She stopped on the last step and looked me over: suit, loosened tie, glasses, rain still dripping from my hair.

“You look like you wrestled a bear and lost.” Her laugh was loud and completely unapologetic.

“Something like that,” I said. I adjusted my glasses. I do that when I’m finding words, Sarah’s pointed it out.

Sue was still looking at me. Not unkindly. But like she was reading something.

“Okay, Harry Potter,” she said. “Last one of the night. I fix you. Shower first. Fifteen minutes in sauna. Heat makes the muscles listen.”

The routine was pretty efficient. She pointed me up twisting stairs, gave me a towel, and told me where to go and didn’t invite questions. Shower room on the left. Sauna at the end of the hall. Fifteen minutes. Then she’d come get me.

The shower was brisk and hot, and I didn’t linger. The sauna was small, wood-paneled, and also very hot. I sat in towel and let the wet heat do its work, feeling my skin prickle, my muscles start to loosen against their will. Everything felt far away except the heat and the smell of cedar.

When Sue opened the door, I’d lost track of time. “Good,” she said. “You’re ready. Come.”

The massage room was nice but spare. A table, a low cabinet, a folding screen positioned near the corner where towels and supplies were stacked. Soft light. The smell of eucalyptus and something else- wintergreen, maybe. Clean surfaces and nothing decorative.

I lay face-down on the table, the towel draped over my hips and face into the cradle. I was already hot and half-melted in a way I’m not used to being.

Then her hands were on me.

And they weren’t gentle. They were tools of pure, focused pressure.

Sue leaned her weight into the heel of her palm, finding a knot in my trapezius. A sharp, painful pop and I grunted into the face cradle.

“Too tight!” she said to the muscle itself, not me. “You runners are all the same. Like stone men.”

Her thumbs dug in along my spine, grinding agony and relief. She worked in silence for a long time, and I only remember hearing our breathing and the oil she used pretty liberally.

“Very fit man,” almost to herself. “All alone here in Rhode Island?”

“Yeah,” My head was heavy. Thoughts slow.

“Girlfriend back home.”

It wasn’t a question.

“Yea,” I said. “I miss her.”

“Mmm.” A pause. Her hands kept working my lower back. “Body needs care.”

Her hand clapped on my shoulder.

“So, where you from?” she asked, sort of conversational.

“New York,” my face half-buried in the cradle. “City, not state.”

“Ah, New York!” Her tone got bright. “I lived in Queens for years.” Her fingers dug into the base of my spine.

“My youngest son, he’s grad school there now. Smart boy. Engineering.”

I said something, more groan than words, and her hands were working the stiff muscles of my thighs.

She adjusted my legs, spreading them slightly wider apart. Pressing hard into the knots that had formed from training.

Then, with a slow movement, her hand flattened against my inner thigh. High up. Her fingers near the edge of the towel.

She was over twice my age. That definitely wasn’t in the brochure. My mind, fogged with endorphins and fatigue, scrambled for something.

“Good,” she said, her tone satisfied.

Her hands moved again, sliding higher up my inner thighs, the warmth of her touch through the towel. The pressure was deliberate. My breath deepened as I felt her fingers press. That I felt.

“You have kids soon?” she asked.

I groaned, my face still half-buried in the cradle.

“Hopefully,” I managed to say. “That’s the plan. But I’ve been working out here for a few years now. It’s just, it’s really difficult.”

She tsk’d softly, and she widened my thighs.

“You’re horny,” she stated. Not a question. Diagnosis.

My stomach flipped. I froze, unsure how to respond.

“I… uh…” I stammered.

She chuckled.

“Relax,” she said, like exasperated. “We’re not that kind of place.”

*Good to know.*

Then, in one fluid motion, she whipped my towel off and just tossed it aside.

“But it is my place.”

My naked skin prickled.

“Good body. Nice chunky white Playgirl ass,” she said purely observational.

There was just quiet for a bit before she added, “I know what you need.”

Her hand came down on my bare cheeks with a firm, open-palmed smack.

It wasn’t playful. It was a reset.

“Up,” Sue commanded. “On your back now.”

I moved before my mind could protest, a clumsy roll onto the vinyl. The towel was gone. I was completely naked, the light doing nothing to hide me.

“No.” She moved my hands aside. Not harsh. Just clarifying jurisdiction.

She reached for the bottle again. The glug of oil into her palm was loud. She warmed it between her hands, watching my face. Not a flicker in her eyes, just pure assessment like a contractor surveying a job.

Then her slick hands were on my chest.

She worked my pectoral muscles with the same clinical force she’d used on my back, and a small knot gave way.

“See?” she said. “Tight everywhere. Even here.”

Her hands were moving, tracing ridges of my abdomen, finding tension I carry without knowing it.

She didn’t stop. Just her hands moving lower, bypassing the obvious, gripping the top of my thigh. Her fingers deep into my quads.

“This muscle is hard. From running, yes?”

“Mhm.”

“Mmm.” Then I felt her hand in a slow circle on my inner thigh, working the muscle. The circle widening. Each pass and oil-slick knuckles a fraction closer. My heart was starting to beat faster.

“You lucky,” Sue said, her voice low. “Almost nine. No more customers.”

Her breath hit my neck as she leaned in, and then her hot tongue glid across my ear which sent static crackling through my skull.

She pulled back and stood there with her hands on her hips, expression neutral.

“Still tense”

She tapped my shoulder. “Turn over.”

Sue took a steaming towel and completely erased the oil from my skin. The heat opened something: my skin was finally breathing. Then the soft towel padded me until I was completely dry.

Then I remember hearing the cabinet open and close and the folding screen being repositioned.

Then: cool sprinkles of talcum powder all over my dried body like silk. Sue smoothed it across my skin, back, legs, ass, like dough to be worked.

I was still laying face-down with my head in the hole. Naked. Powdered. Waiting.

Very deliberately, she shifted my feet, moving my legs outward until they lay in a V.

And then so soft I thought I was imagining it, just the faintest brush over the fine hairs of my calves moving upward reeallly slowly. The pace of something that knows exactly where it’s going and is in no hurry.

My heart climbed into my throat.

Her fingertips tracing along my inner calves. The touch was so feather light it was lighting me up. My skin was desperate for more contact, more pressure, anything but this barely touching me and not enough.

Then along my inner thighs.

My legs opening wider without my permission.

Her fingertips over my ass, barely there, whispering so slowly and lightly over my cheeks.

I started moaning.

More touches. Small, random, everywhere. Skittering across my back, curling over my shoulders, dancing along my spine. I couldn’t track them. I couldn’t predict them. My every nerve was awake and straining. I was now rock hard.

From Sue: *shhhh*

She picked up speed. The touches were, light, random, and making me crazy . My balls had drawn up tight. Goosebumps all over my skin.

Then, fingertips disappeared.

“On hands and knees. Get ass up.”

I understood, in a way I hadn’t fully processed, that I had stopped being a client and become a situation she was managing.

I set my jaw thinking I could endure a woman literally twice my age no matter how hard up I was.

“Good,” Sue read something in my locked spine.

“You fight. I finish. Is simple.”

I went rigid and every muscle clenched.

This was a funny thing to me because this was the thing I knew how to do. I’d been doing endurance training for months, pretty much directly about not giving in.

She looked at my stiff cock in the exact way she looked at my shoulders, which is a first for me from a woman.

“This,” she announced, “is also a muscle. Very, very tight.”

I wanted to say something. But before I could form a word, she had her hand snaked under me around my shaft.

Her grip was intense: and my cock felt like it was the most important thing that had ever happened to it.

Her attitude was the amusement of someone encountering a very familiar problem.

She began very slowly. Her thumb swiped over the head and I discovered there was already moisture there, which I didn’t want to think about too carefully.

“See?” she said. “This one needs the most work.”

Her other hand was cupping my balls the same way she’d touched on my trapezius. She weighed them. Literally weighed them, like someone estimating produce. Heavy.

Her hand kept moving on my cock while her other hand did something I can only describe as management.

I was by this point gone quiet but gripping the edges of the table. I was aware of my thighs trembling and that I couldn’t stop them and I was aware that Sue didn’t care.

“Better,” she said. *Up-down. Up-down.*

“How long has it been?”

“Sue…”

“A week?”

“Actually,” I groaned, “weeks.”

She paused. Not her hands, her hands kept moving.

“Weeks,” she repeated. Flat.

She released me and stepped away. Another soft scrape and the folding screen was being moved fully in front of the cabinet and her supplies.

“*Why*?”

The question was a demand. Her grip tightened on the upstroke, not letting me evade.

“I thought-” at this point my hips were moving on their own, into her hand. “I thought it would help. With the marathon.”

Then she shifted lower.

She put her mouth on my balls. She knelt behind me and took one of my testicles into her mouth the same matter-of-fact way she’d done everything else.

Her lips sealed around it. Her tongue moved. Perfect, pressure that seemed to communicate directly with my brainstem, bypassing whatever part of me still thought it was in charge. Her hand never stopped moving on my cock. The coordination was… I don’t have a word for it.

I hadn’t cum in weeks. Weeks of discipline. Weeks of telling myself the denial would make me sharper, more focused, better at my job and my training and my life. And now this woman had me on my hands and knees with her mouth on my balls and her hand on my cock and I got it that thinking I could manage this may have been a mistake.

She doubled down. Mouth and hand doing something my body barely understood. One testicle, then the other. Like she wasn’t in a hurry.

My jaw clamped shut. *Weeks. I held on for weeks.*

I tried the thing that always worked: I went somewhere else. Focused on my teeth. The specific ache in my shoulder.

Her hand tightened, slick, twisting, and her mouth matched it, suction deepening. The message was clear: *No. You’re here.*

She released my balls from her mouth.

I felt her tongue trace a slow line along my ass. *Wtf*.

*My body was now starting to short circuit.*

She held my cheeks apart with firm hands. A first.

Her long tongue fluttering and tongue darting the center ring.

*Sparks, and wisps of electrical smoke…*

I clenched teeth tighter. Concentrating hard, breathing harder.

Her hand went like a slick piston. I could feel my balls aching and churning.

She took away her tongue. I remember a drop of sweat fell.

“I finish you now”

Her hand on my cock tightened.

Her tonguetip returned, pressing just past the point of resistance, wriggling barely inside.

Her hand went, faster, tighter and twisting wetly, gathering to a blur of speed. A second hand joined.

I furrowed my brow doubling down.

*Nice… try… granma, but… I’m a… trained enduran-*

She…**shoved**…her entire tongue into my asshole and my throat made a sound like if a rusty pipe had burst.

Her tongue up there. Gripping the table white knuckled. The stroking. She began twisting it around slowly at first…

An eye closed as the other rolled up. My jaw dropped.

*aauugfhjck*

Then the sixty-something Chinese grandmother became a hurricane, twisting her tongue in circles like a wild snake gone berserk, whirling her tongue around and around faster and faster-

**AAAHGH-HHAAAAAA-**

A *huge* pulse shot out of me, the first rope smacking the folding screen with a wet THWAP.

I *detonated.*

**AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA**

Another another. Another. Cum shooting across vinyl, hitting the cabinet, hitting the screen full force. I was exploding.

Sue didn’t even pause. Her hand kept pumping. Another jet. Her tongue spinning like a cyclone as I erupted, thick ropes flying everywhere. My scream didn’t even make her blink. Just the body responding to proper pressure.

My orgasm went through me in waves- through my whole body, fingertips, toes, places I didn’t know could feel that.

It felt like forever. I finally collapsed gasping onto the slickened table.

Whatever I said wasn’t a word.

The folding screen looked like a jellyfish had exploded against it, wet globs slowly oozing down its panels.

She put my glasses back on.. The click of the oil bottle cap.

I briefly considered proposing marriage as a warm, damp cloth wiped me clean, like it was nothing more than an oil change.

I lay there twitching for awhile after she stepped away, the room settling back. Rain still ticking against the windows like nothing unusual had occurred.

I tried to take inventory: hands, legs, breath. Everything there. Everything worked. But the tension was gone.

Sue was wiping various dripping surfaces, returned the folding screen back away from her cabinet and supplies, restoring order.

“Sit up slowly,” she said, already turning away. “Drink water.”

My legs held. When I breathed, it went all the way down. Sue handed me a bottle of water and watched me drink it.

“Better,” she said.

I nodded. I didn’t trust myself to say anything meaningful.

She wrote something in her appointment book. Tore off a slip. Set it on the counter.

“Come back next week,” she said.

I sat in the car for a full minute before I turned the key, hands parked on the wheel, noticing how easily my shoulders stayed down.

Nothing felt dramatic. That was what unsettled me. Just calmness.

Halfway back to the corporate housing, my phone buzzed: Sarah.

Something ordinary. A check-in. I read it and waited for the familiar pinch in my chest.

I replied like a normal person.

Later, in bed, I lay on my back and waited for the usual return of restlessness, the itch to get up, to run, to plan, to brace my way back into control.

I felt *amazing.*