Your erotic stories

It was about 3 o'clock on a Thursday afternoon, and everybody was winding down at work. Another long day inside a gray glass and steel skyscraper. My boss stopped by and looked at the paltry pile in my inbox and suggested I take the rest of the day off. Big deal, two extra hours. I had to wait for the train after 5 anyway. Two hours to kill. What to do? I wandered out into the street, slipped into a bookstore for a few minutes and then walked towards the train station. Then I remembered the massage parlor.

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It had been a quiet day at my salon this Friday. I run a small salon in a midsized town in the western U.S. I do hair styling of course, manicures and pedicures and some massage. Some of my women clients like a relaxing massage, but since I’m gay, I assure you, it’s strictly professional.

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"Are you feeling stressed?" "Yes," I muttered to the screen. "Is life getting on top of you?" "Yes again," I sighed. "Well I can help you – with a spiritually uplifting Aromatherapy massage." "Why not?" I asked myself, looking at the screen again before reading on. "Provided by a fully qualified Masseuse ...."

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Andrea and Mitch were enjoying their first real vacation since their honeymoon. It was late afternoon when they began to walk back from the beach, hand in hand. Mitch had a knapsack slung over one bare, sunburnt shoulder. He would blame married life and his desk-job for his complexion and physique before taking personal responsibility. He wasn't terribly out of shape, just a little thicker and a loss of the definition he'd had in college.

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"Well, here we are." My husband Michael holds open the glass door for me to enter the place. The Relaxation Station; a spa in a shopping center. I sigh inwardly; a tacky name, but as this visit is on him I can't complain too much...

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My fiftieth birthday, the big five-O, I was so determined to treat it like any other day, "It's just a number." I said to myself speaking out loud as I stepped out of the shower, wrapped a bath towel around me, tucked it into my cleavage and walked back to my bedroom across the short landing. Reality soon disillusioned me as I removed the towel from my naked body in front of the wardrobe mirror.

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Five o'clock was here and none too soon. This particular Tuesday had been a madhouse at work. Working at my computer terminal, answering the phone and talking to colleagues, often all at the same time, had taken its toll. My back and shoulders ached, and, to make matters worse, I'd overdone it at the gym during lunch hour on Monday. In a word, I was sore.

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You come home from work and find me waiting for you. I am wearing a French maid uniform with white thigh highs and black stiletto heels. I lead you to the bathroom where a robe and toiletries are ready for you. Relaxing music is playing. "We have about half an hour until dinner is ready, Sir."

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The lights are dim, and soft music is playing as you enter through the doorway. You see a candle or two set out, adding a floral scent to the room. The massage table is laid out in the center of the room, with ample space for your masseuse to walk around you while you're lying down. A chair is set out, and you leave your robe on it as you make your way onto the table. You take a couple of towels lying nearby and cover your breasts and pelvis as you lay on your back on the table.

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I guess I should have realized that something like this would happen eventually. I was always made fun of in school for having a "girly" build. At only five foot 4 inches I'm not particularly tall. I have slim shoulders, thin arms and legs and my hips are probably more shapely than most guy's. I didn't exactly help things by keeping my blonde hair shoulder length. I told everyone it was because I liked metal music. Most of all though, I apparently have a nice ass.

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