What happens when a lonely woman on a solo trip meets a handsome masseur.
I was back in my room after a hearty dinner. The hotel looked swanky after the dusty trails I had walked on all day. I was on a work trip in Hyderabad. It was a new city, and I was enjoying the gift of anonymity it offered. I knew nobody here. Every stranger I met on the streets was a potential friend.
I got out of my clothes, threw a hotel robe over the white bra and panties I was wearing, and rolled on the plush bed. I turned some light music on.
The temperature of the air-conditioned room was just perfect.
I read a few pages of my book, then turned over in bed, rolled under the cosy blanket and closed my eyes. I could smell the sweetness in my hair — the vestiges of a hair spa session I had treated myself to three days back. Instantly, flashbacks from what happened in the salon started playing in my head.
I thought of Vijay, my masseur — his tall, muscular frame, those ripped arms, that black mandala tattooed on his right forearm, his hair that stood on end, and his touch.
Most of all, I thought of his touch, the way he had run his fingers over my back and neck, massaging, rubbing, easing the knots of pain after a long day of walking.
I reached into my bag on my bedside table and pulled out the visiting card he had slipped me. I rolled over in bed, with his card clasped tightly in my palms, toying with the idea of calling him. Would it be wise? Would it make me sound too desperate?
But then again, today was my last night in Hyderabad. After tonight, I would never see him again. Unable to help myself, I picked up my phone and dialled his number.
“Hey Vijay. What’s up?”
“Nothing ma’am just got home.” His voice was casual, only mildly surprised, as if he had been expecting my call. As if it was normal for clients to call their masseurs after every session.
“I just got back too, and I am exhausted. I thought it would be nice if I could get another massage right now.”
“Aap idhar aa jao na, Ma’am,” he said in his adorable, broken Hindi. He was asking me to come over. Butterflies assailed my stomach at the thought.
“I can’t go immediately na, what to do?”
“You aren’t in Jubilee Hills right now,” he drawled in his South Indian accent. His voice sounded nice, unlike anything I had ever heard before. I guess I needed to make more friends from Hyderabad.
“Haan,” I said, biting my lips, “Main waha pad hoti to kya kartey?” What would you do if I were there with you?
Don’t blame me for flirting with him. I was slightly drunk. And Vijay was hot. God, he was so tall, with broad shoulders and that easy smile. I couldn’t imagine why he was wasting his time in a massage parlour and had not auctioned for movies already.
I could hear his laugh when he replied, “I would give you a nice massage if you were here.”
“Mmmm,” I mumbled, running my fingers through my hair, remembering his touch, relishing in the comfort of that thought.
“Aap video call karo na, ma’am? I could show you how to massage.”
I laughed at his suggestion. “Can massage techniques be taught over video call?”
“Yeah,” he said, biting down on a laugh, “you call me and see. I will tell you exactly where to press and where to rub.”
I giggled in the darkness. Were we even talking about a massage anymore?
A rush of heat was rising in my chest. It sent tingles to the tips of my fingers and the soles of my feet. I was excited to be talking to him.
I couldn’t help imagining him on a video call with me, thinking of how it would be to see his face, the tattoos on his arm — I had never been with anybody with a tattoo before. Maybe I should change that?
Giggling at the thought, I replied, “But I am alone. It takes two to massage, right?” The audacity in the innuendo shocked me. It sent a pleasant thrill shooting down between my legs.
“By the way,” I continued, “It sounds so nice when you call me ma’am.”
“Okay Madam,” he said, emphasising the word, rolling it around his mouth with his adorable Hyderabadi accent. “It would be nice if you were here.”
“Sad that I’m not, ain’t it?”
“If only something,” he cleared his throat, “could change that?”
I laughed out loud.
I started imagining him near me. I closed my eyes and saw him close as if he were right next to me. His tall, 6 feet frame would make my 5 feet 3 inches feel tiny. He could literally throw me around, make me moan, make me beg… I checked myself, only in time to realise that my hand had wandered down on its own accord, and now rested on my white panties, applying just enough pressure on my clit.
I thought of him again and bit my lips as I remembered. He was bulky, with broad, muscled arms, fair skin, and interesting texture of hair — after all, he was a stylist. Damn, he was so good with his hands. I wondered what magic his fingers would work hooked inside my pussy.
In a flash, the memories of that evening came rushing back to me.
At first, he had washed my hair. Then, he led me into an air-conditioned chamber, turned on some soft music, and started applying the spa products to my hair. He was talking to me, asking questions, telling me random bits of information about himself. Initially, I hadn’t appreciated that; I wanted to sleep. I wanted peace. The scented candles in the room and the ambient light made me feel cosy and happy.
Soon enough, though, I warmed up to the conversation. He spoke Hindi in a thick, Telugu accent. His voice was soft, and he enunciated simple words as though with great difficulty — with the air of a man not so comfortable with the language he was speaking in. I found it adorable. It lulled me deeper into the bubble of cosiness I was reveling in.
I looked into the mirror, suddenly shy. He was wearing a black tee with the salon logo and blue jeans. Our eyes met. I closed my eyes quickly. I could feel his gaze on me as he started massaging my back and shoulders. Goosebumps blossomed on my skin wherever he touched.
Vijay was gentle with his hands. He touched my neck and started moving his fingers in tight little circles on the exposed skin. I bit down a gasp.
Why was I getting aroused?
For some strange reason, I felt awake, acutely aware of every inch of my skin. Vijay’s fingers were on my shoulders now, massaging them on top of the thin fabric of the tunic I wore. He pinched the skin gently, pressing as his fingers moved towards the outer edges.
I breathed. This felt good.
He had stopped talking. The only sounds in the room were the music playing and his breathing that changed with the movement of his hands — growing shallower as he applied more pressure, easing when he only rubbed my skin.
He was massaging my back now, and I sat straight in my chair, eyes closed, lost in the magic of the sensations running through my body. He pressed both his thumbs on either side of my spine and slowly ran them downwards, applying pressure evenly, till he reached my tailbone, then started over from the base of my neck. It was calming.
It was soothing.
For I was squirming in my chair, yearning to reach out and touch myself, to give my throbbing clit the pressure it needed. When Vijay was massaging my back, my mind raced with images of how good it would feel if he did it with no clothes on me. I imagined my naked skin like putty in his hands, every neuron flaring with the desire to be touched, rubbed, smothered. It took a tremendous effort not to gasp out loud when he pressed down on my shoulders with more pressure than I was expecting — the effect was instantaneous. I could feel happiness flooding in every cell of my body.
I couldn’t see his face, but I felt him staring at me in the semi-darkness of the room.
“If you’re comfortable, Ma’am, shall I massage your shoulders again?” he asked.
I murmured consent, and he pushed his fingers inside my tunic.
My body burned at his touch on my naked skin.
I was sure he could feel it too — the insane attraction, the chemistry that flared up between us. Pleasure bubbled up between my legs — too intense to be ignored. I crossed my legs, pressing my thighs together tight. I didn’t have to touch myself to confirm I was sopping wet.
Vijay kept on massaging my bare skin, his fingers inside my tunic. He didn’t overstep his boundaries, but my mind was racing with dirty thoughts. I wondered if he was hard too. I wondered how his dick would look — long, most probably, given his height, and thick. I wondered if it would slide inside my wet pussy in one motion, or would we require lube? I wondered how it would feel with his hardness filling me up from inside.
I opened my eyes. He was looking at me in the mirror. Our eyes met. There was a fire in them that mirrored the burning of my senses. I closed them in an instant, afraid I wouldn’t be able to hold myself back if I went on looking at his face.
I wondered how it would feel if he pushed me against the mirror and entered me from behind. I imagined pressing my palms on the smooth glass surface, screaming with pleasure as he pounded me. I imagined my boobs quivering in rhythm with his thrusts, his balls slapping against my bare ass. I imagined his grunts mingling with my moans as our frantic lovemaking reached a crescendo, fucking till we burst — together, pleasure overpowering our senses.
It was as if a wave of pleasure that was building up in my stomach gushed out of me — all at once, all too soon. A calm fell over me, and I opened my eyes. Vijay was still massaging my shoulders, but as our eyes met again, I gave him a small nod. He removed his hands instantly.
“Okay, ma’am?” he asked.
“Okay,” I said.
Did he realise he had just made his client cum sitting on his chair?
He gave me a half-smile and left the room. I was sure he knew it. That he felt it too.
When I made the payment at the counter, he slipped me his card. I could have sworn he whispered, “I give private massage sessions too.”
But, when I looked up, he had his back turned to me.
Smiling, I collected the change and left.
I opened my eyes, taking in the plush surroundings. This hotel room looked bland, somehow, lifeless. Maybe it was time to bring it to life.
Maybe it was time to live my dirty fantasy.
“It would be nice if you were here. Ma’am,” Vijay was saying on the phone.
“Oh, shut up,” I said.
He sounded taken aback.
“Shut up and come here,” I told him, sending over a map link via text message. “Jaldi aao.”
I couldn’t endure this teasing any longer.
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