He Massaged More Than My Back – Erotic Massage Story for Her

I never thought I’d book a massage just because someone else told me to.

But after another week of sitting too long, sleeping too little, and feeling the tension crawl up my neck, I gave in.

“Trust me,” my coworker Lisa had said, lowering her voice like it was something scandalous. “He’s amazing. But it’s not just his hands. It’s… the way he touches you. You’ll see.”

I laughed at the time. But by Friday afternoon, I was calling the number she had scribbled on a sticky note.

The spa was tucked into a quiet street on the edge of the city. Nothing flashy. Just a clean glass door, a soft chime as I stepped inside, and warm sandalwood in the air.

He was already waiting at the reception. Tall. Late thirties, maybe. Broad shoulders, short sleeves hugging muscular arms. Dark hair, neat beard, confident eyes.

“Hi,” he smiled. “You must be Emma. I’m Alex. First time here?”

His voice was low and calm.

“Yes,” I nodded, suddenly aware of how tight my shoulders were. “Lisa sent me.”

His smile widened like he knew exactly who Lisa was.

“Come on back. We’ll start slow.”

---

The massage room was soft with warm light. Clean linens, faint music, a scent I couldn’t place but made me want to sink into the table already.

He gave me a towel, told me to undress to my comfort level, and that he’d be back in a moment.

I took off everything but my panties and laid down on my stomach.

When he returned, he spoke softly, always letting me know what he was doing. The towel stayed folded over my lower body, and his hands began at my shoulders.

It felt… normal at first. Professional. Strong pressure, smooth rhythm, exactly what I needed.

But something about his hands made my skin spark.

Not just the way he pressed, but how he moved—slow, intentional, confident.

He didn’t rush. He paused sometimes, like he was reading my body.

His thumbs dug gently into my lower back, working out knots that made me exhale involuntarily.

“That okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I mumbled, cheek turned to the side.

Then he slid one hand to my hip, just slightly, as he pressed along the edge of the towel.

My breath caught.

He didn’t go lower. Just traced the line where towel met skin.

Then back up again.

My heart was no longer calm.

---

When he reached my neck, he leaned in closer. I could feel his breath near my ear.

“You’re really tense here,” he whispered.

“Yeah. Work.”

“Let’s do something different. I want you to tell me exactly what feels good. So I can stay there longer. Okay?”

“Okay.”

He moved back down. Shoulder blades. Mid-back. Lower.

Then his hand slid again to my side—just where my ribs curve—and pressed slowly toward my waist.

“There,” I said softly.

“Here?”

“Mhm. Can you… go over that again?”

He didn’t answer. He just did it. Slower this time.

Then his hand slid lower, brushing the edge of my hip.

He paused.

“Did you mean like this?”

His fingers circled, barely grazing the top of my thigh under the towel.

I didn’t speak. I just nodded.

He moved carefully, drawing little lines with his fingers. His other hand pressed between my shoulder blades, grounding me.

Then he lifted the towel—only slightly—and massaged the very top of my glutes.

The first real sound I made was a soft moan.

He heard it.

“Tell me what feels good,” he whispered.

“Don’t stop.”

---

His hands were warm. Oily. They slid over my skin like silk.

Now he was at my thighs. Slow, steady strokes upward. His thumbs parting the muscles gently. Closer. Closer.

My breath was shallow.

When he reached the edge of my panties, he stopped.

“May I?”

I turned my head, looked at him over my shoulder.

“Yes.”

He slipped them down slowly, folding them aside.

Then he opened my thighs just slightly, massaging the softest parts of me. Still slow. Still deliberate.

One hand stayed at my inner thigh. The other moved back up my spine.

It was like he was tracing a path of fire along my body.

My hips shifted on the table.

He leaned in again. His lips near my ear.

“You’re so responsive. It’s beautiful.”

I didn’t know whether to hide or arch into his hands.

Then one hand slid under me, gently cupping me. Not moving. Just holding.

I gasped.

His fingers brushed me lightly.

I was soaked.

“Let me make you feel good,” he said, voice thick.

And he did.

---

He turned me over slowly, like I was made of glass.

Now I was lying on my back, exposed, but somehow not shy. His eyes met mine before they trailed downward.

“Beautiful,” he murmured.

He began again. Neck. Shoulders. Chest.

His thumbs circled the tops of my breasts, just enough to make me sigh.

Then lower.

Over my ribs. Stomach. Hips.

His hands never left me.

He kissed the inside of my thigh.

Then again.

Then higher.

His tongue found me.

I moaned, loud now.

His mouth was patient. Skilled.

He didn’t stop when I started to shake. Didn’t stop when I cried out.

He kept going until I was limp against the table, breathless.

Then he stood, undressed slowly. Eyes never leaving mine.

His body was hard. Ready.

He didn’t ask.

He leaned over me, kissed me like he knew my mouth already.

And slid into me in one smooth stroke.

I gasped again.

His hands cradled my head as he moved.

Slow. Deep. Careful.

Then faster.

I wrapped my legs around him.

He groaned into my neck.

I felt him everywhere.

Every thrust sent me closer.

And when we came, it felt like falling apart together.

---

After, he didn’t rush away.

He brought a warm towel. Wiped me down gently. Kissed my forehead.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

I laughed, still dazed. “Aren’t I supposed to say that?”

He smiled. “Maybe. But I meant it.”

I got dressed slowly, body buzzing.

At the door, he handed me a card.

“Come back anytime. And next time… we’ll go even slower.”

I walked out, the scent of sandalwood still clinging to me.

Lisa was right.

It wasn’t just a massage.

It was everything I didn’t know I needed.