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Knead

By: Alessia Brio



I've been here dozens of times, but the door's always been closed. I often wondered what it looked like inside, and today—on a whim—I see. The room is small, maybe eight by twelve, and most of it is occupied by the padded table in its center. A few shelves mounted high on the walls hold towels, oils, candles, a CD player, and a small collection of discs—classical music and nature sounds, although none are currently playing. On the ledge beneath the table are stacks of clean sheets, neatly folded. A wicker basket in the far corner contains the used linens. The walls are a soft shade of taupe with a hint of russet blush to warm them, and a mud brown area rug stretches virtually wall-to-wall, covering the bare linoleum tile. One large window, on the only outside wall, is covered by bamboo blinds, closed to the day's bright sunlight. A torchiere lamp tucked into one corner provides the only unnatural light, and its bulb is shaded with a pale peach scarf. The wall fountain gurgles lightly as water trickles over its rocks. In all, the room has a very earthy—almost primeval—feel. It is an atmosphere conducive to relaxation.

I stand in the doorway and watch her quickly strip the linens from the table and replace them with fresh, her movements fluid from years of repetition. When she finishes, she immediately turns to me, arm extended, and I hand her the clipboard, with its completed client information sheet. She tucks it under her arm and grins, putting me at ease. Her features are elfin—delicate with an underlying strength, confident and devastatingly feminine. I feel a hint of something that I'd rather not feel in this environment—with this person. I'm here on business, after all—even though that business is pleasure. Health, too. And vitality. Vigor. Peace. All those things. All those things wrapped up in touch—in skin. My throat is suddenly dry.

"First time?"

"No," I manage to croak.

"Then you know the drill. Undress to your comfort level," she continues in a soft voice, handing me a pale green flannel sheet which feels as if it's just been taken from a dryer, "and lie on the table on your back. I'll be back in just a moment."

I can't look her in the eyes. In a few minutes, she'll be running her hands over my skin, and it's too much—too close for comfort—to also let her capture my gaze. I feel the need to hold that part of me in reserve, so I busy myself untying my sneakers and just say, "Okay. Thanks."

The door closes with a soft snick, and she's gone. Exhaling, I peel off my socks and stuff them into my sneakers. "Steady now," I mutter as I disrobe, hanging my jeans, sweatshirt, and underclothes on the hooks on the back of the door. No mirror, I note. That fact would have comforted me at one time, but now it's merely an observation. I used to dislike being naked, even when alone. Doesn't bother me any more. I've worked hard to regain my health, and in the process, I've become more comfortable in my own skin than at any other time in my life. I still expect, though, to feel at least a little self-conscious being naked in an unfamiliar place and—very soon—with an unfamiliar person. However, I don't today and that surprises me a little. It makes me wonder if I am somehow familiar with the situation in ways of which I am not conscious, or if I've really changed so significantly in the past few years. I hope the latter.

It's not at all chilly in the room, but I don't want to be standing there in my birthday suit when the door opens again. It's a busy place, after all, and I really don't want to flash the other customers. So, I quickly mount the table and cover myself with the sheet. It's warm! No, not the sheet. Well, the sheet's warm, too, but I'm referring to the table itself. It must be heated, although I noticed no cords or controls. Damn, it feels wonderful.

I lay back and stretch the sheet from toes to shoulders. It's light weight and clings to my curves, making me feel somewhat like a topographic map. I notice the ceiling for the first time. Just the standard drop tile, but someone's painted it a deep blue and sprinkled tiny yellowish-white stars across it. I'm thinking they probably glow in the dark when there's a soft knock on the door.

"Ready?" she asks, opening the door a crack.

I experience a moment of apprehension—a miniature panic attack at the looming intimacy—but swallow it with a gulp. "Yeah."

She slips into the room, closes the door, then remembers something. She reopens the door, and I know without looking that she's putting the "Do Not Disturb" sign on the knob. I hear a beep as she turns off her cell phone and places it on a shelf.

A hand prompts me to lift my knees. First contact. When I do, a semi-cylindrical bolster slides beneath them.

"How's that?"

"Great."

She hears something insincere in my voice and studies my face for a moment. I smile and assure her that I'm very, very comfortable—physically. She catches my drift. She knows I'm pushing myself. She also knows I need this.

In an effort to ease my unease, I ask what type of oil or lotion she uses. I'm kind of a snob about the stuff, which is rather weird seeing as how I'm far from a "high maintenance" kind of woman. But, this is skin we're talkin' about! I'm serious about my skin. I'm rather surprised that she can't rattle off the contents of the jar in her hands, but she does the next best thing and reads it to me.

Funny how the label reading calms me, but it does. There are no complex chemical-sounding names and, more importantly to me, no mineral oil or petroleum compounds. Just nut oils and other organics. Good. They can actually nourish the skin, whereas the others just lay on top of it. I'm ready now—or as ready as I'm gonna get—and she senses that.

Standing at the head of the table, she starts with my face. Damn! It's not easy to let someone touch your face, and I feel the muscles in my brow twitch—itching to form that little crease between my eyes. Even a lover's caress is typically brief, moving quickly away from the intimate and toward to the erogenous. Big difference, I realize. Huge.

She feels my reticence and backs off just a bit. She lifts the back of my head into her palms and allows the fingers of each hand to stroke the long, tight muscles along the back of my neck, pulling slightly upward and turning my head gently from side to side as if to ease it from my body like a cork from a bottle. I make an involuntary guttural sound, which she interprets as appreciation. It is.

Just a little bit of scalp massage. It feels good, but I don't think I hold much—if any—tension in my scalp. I'm thinking that I'd rather she focus on the trouble spots when it hits me that she's back on my face. Sneaky!

This time, she works my jaw. It's not as unsettling as having the central part of my face touched.

"TMJ problems?"

"No," I murmur. "Why?"

"You're tight here."

I just grunt something monosyllabic and non-committal because she's moving back toward my eyes and my forehead. It doesn't faze me now, though. A barrier has been overcome. Oh, it's not as if I would've stopped her earlier, but the objective here is to lessen tension—not heighten it. She understands this very well. Very well indeed.

Her fingers lightly cover every millimeter of my face. No deep pressure, just feather strokes and tapping. My lips, conditioned to respond to touch, want to capture the fingers between them—to return the caress in an equally pleasurable fashion. I remind myself to be still. Accept. Take, for a change. I'm not very good at being passive.

Arms are next. As she works, I recall how I once hated my upper arms; how I wouldn't wear sleeveless tops even on sweltering summer days. She somehow senses this and asks, "Did I trigger a memory?"

"Baggage," I admit. "Good riddance."

"Gotcha. This isn't easy for you. I can tell."

Is it that obvious? I don't know how to respond, so I do what I typically do in those situations: I retreat. I tiptoe away, leaving my body to enjoy her touch without the interference of my mind. Alone in my little emotional cave, safe and dark, I wonder why I invest so much energy into hiding my insecurities. In so doing, what do I achieve? More importantly, perhaps, what do I lose? The deepest, most fulfilling relationships I've ever known are those in which I bare those insecurities—or, at the very least, am willing to do so. Is there any love deeper than the absence of fear?

"You're doing great, though." Her voice follows me into my mind cavern. My body is sinking into the warm table; muscles—even the ones she's not yet touched—are beginning to let go of stored frustrations. I drift. It's quite pleasant, ethereal.

She hums softly—or, maybe it's me. There's a blending, it seems, of our selves. Her confidence, her competence, infuses me with a peaceful energy. Then, with a hand resting on each bare shoulder, she whacks me with an emotional 2x4:

"May I massage your tummy?"

My tummy. Oh, fuck! The core of all my body angst. I remind myself that even when it was firm and flat, I believed it unattractive. Now it's round and there's ample cushioning over the muscles. And scars, too. Those striped mementos of three big babies and over a decade of neglect. Can't forget the scars.

She waits. While she doesn't speak, I can hear her saying, "Trust me." What's the worst that could happen? I ask myself. What's the best?

"Sure." My own voice surprises me.

Without opening my eyes, I can feel her smile. She takes my consent as a compliment, which, in a way, it is. "Thanks."

"Here," she continues, forcing me to open my eyes. She lays a folded sheet across my breasts. "Pinch the corners of this for just a sec."

I do, and she carefully tugs the cover sheet from beneath it, pulling it down and exposing my abdomen. I try not to think about what she may be thinking. She's a professional, I remind myself. Not that it helps. Professionals can be nit-picky critics, too. But, really, what does it matter if she finds my tummy repulsive? How can I expect her opinion to differ from my own?

The worst, of course, doesn't happen. She doesn't gasp or exclaim, "Ew, gross!" I knew she wouldn't, really, but fear is not rational. A goal I've long sought teases my consciousness. I think I see a way to reach it, or at least a way to continue the journey.

As my mind wanders, she's doing things to the muscles on either side of my navel: pressing deeply, having me inhale, bend my knee, and then exhale as I slowly lower it. There are audible popping sounds in my back as I comply. I am amused. She seems pleased with what she's accomplishing—on more than one level, I suspect.

"Does this hurt?" she asks as she circles the table to repeat the process on my right side.

"No. Should it?"

"As hard as I worked it? Yes, definitely. But, you'll notice a big difference in your lower back when you stand. Those muscles connect to your spine. They initiate walking, which is why they often knot."

She pulls the sheet over my tummy when she's finished there. I'm so proud of myself. I conquered a fear. Hooray for me! I drift into self-congratulatory musings as she moves on to my legs. After a few minutes, I realize that I completely forgot to worry about her impression of my thighs.

By the time she instructs me to flip over, I'm just floating. My body is so relaxed that I'm loath to engage the muscles required to turn. But, turn I must if this incredible experience is to continue.

She lifts the sheet like a privacy screen, turning her head. It's unnecessary at this point, because I've no modesty remaining. I roll onto my stomach, and she blankets me again. The heated table feels divine against my chest. She fiddles with something under the head of the table, and pieces shift such that my arms comfortably dangle and my face rests in a doughnut-shaped pillow. I can see the floor.

When she stands at the head of the table, I can see her feet. She's not wearing shoes. Just those thick socks—the kind the crunchies wore with their Birkenstocks back in my undergrad days. There's a small hole in one of them. The left one.

The sheet settles over a new topography. I'm much more confident in this position. Ass up. My better side, I believe. I'm long in the torso, which gives my back a fluid grace I don't find in other parts of my body. Oh, occasionally I'll glimpse it in the line of cheekbone or jaw, but it's seldom and, I suspect, more a flattering play of light and shadow than anything else.

She starts with my feet, which I absolutely love. I'm not the least bit ticklish—at least, not on my feet—probably because I spend as much time as possible barefoot. Moving on, she uncovers one leg at a time and works each muscle group, all the way up to, and including, my ass. It's extremely sensual, but not the least bit sexual. Again, I drift. My thoughts are of warm waters and gentle breezes and the kind of silent camaraderie that takes my breath away.

Resting a haunch on the table at my waist, she carefully lifts my arm and drapes it over her thigh. The added contact makes me instantly aware of her body, her femininity, her sex. She's very appealing, and the competence and joy with which she practices her craft make her even more so. Under different circumstances, I could easily take her right there on the table. Not today. That's not the kind of taking on today's agenda.

In the course of her ministrations, she presses on a couple of spots above my elbow, and I feel a shift in my shoulder. "Yes! Got that sucker," she whispers, more to herself than to me. After she repeats the entire process on my other arm, she trails her fingertips down my forearm—elbow to hand.

I am stunned at the intimacy. My hands! Oh, stop. It's too much. I'm whimpering inside, maybe outside, too. She makes tiny circles in my palms. Her fingers stroke mine, one at a time—base to tip—pulling me away from my self. Stop! No. No, don't. Don't stop—ever. I've never been touched in this way. I'm exposed. It's frightening—and liberating.

I ache when I think of all the beauty I've allowed to pass me by. A single tear drips onto the floor, and with it goes my fear. All the resistance, all the insecurities, all the worries suddenly seem such a phenomenal waste of time and energy.

She finally pulls the sheet from my back, rolling it upon itself until it rests on the crest of my ass. This is why I'm here. "Neck and shoulders," I'd written on the info sheet as my problem areas. Seems like eons ago, but it couldn't be more than thirty minutes—maybe forty. Moving to the head of the table, she places both of her hands on my back. "Your skin," she begins, but doesn't complete the sentence.

I give myself to the touch, and she delivers. With each stroke, I get lighter. The Unbearable Lightness of Being—I get it now. She's in my head and under my skin, and I can feel our energies merging. I surrender completely, yet I've never been so powerful.

I'm sure time is passing, but I'm oblivious to it 'cause I'm traveling at the speed of thought. That smart guy with the funny hair said it was all relative, and I think he was right.

There's a soft tap on the door. Another, a bit louder.

"Wow," she breathes. "Are you okay?"

I can't yet speak, so I just nod.

"Steph," a voice calls. "Your two o'clock's here."

Turning her head toward the door, she responds, "Sorry. Just a sec."

To me, she continues, "You went so deep, and I got pulled into you. It was like a trance. That's never happened to me before." She pauses for a moment and then repeats, "Wow."

She starts to say something else and instead shrugs and slips out the door.

I dress quickly and step into the reception area. She's telling the proprietor about me—how she was blown away by the experience. On and on. She's as bubbly and energized and enthusiastic as I am reflective and empowered.

"Thank you so, so, so much!" She smiles and extends her arm to shake hands in parting. I freeze. For a split second, I'm afraid to touch it—afraid the force of that intimacy will return. I'm standing up, after all, and it might knock me off my feet. Then, I mentally slap myself. How easy it is to backslide.

I return her smile as I grasp her hand. It's just a hand, of course, but I am again changed. I am—now and forever—open to the infinite, and I am—now and forever—beautiful.



Kneaded Relief



Remember payday. It will all be worth it then. Sharon let the thought repeat in her head like a mantra as she clung to the pole on the train.

Of course, there wasn't a spare seat, not after a mongrel of a day like today. Her feet ached, her mind reeled and her back was killing her. All she wanted was to sit down and close her eyes. She'd be home soon but until then, she'd just have to endure.

Endurance was the name of the game on stock take day. Sharon had spent the entire day on her feet, and the day had started three hours early and ended an hour late. Twelve hours climbing up and down ladders, counting pens, rulers, boxes of paperclips (thank god she didn't have to count the contents of each box!). The overtime would be lovely but, right now, her body didn't care.

At last, she was home. She closed the door against the world and dumped her bag on a chair. 

And there he was - a smile on his face, a hug in his arms and a glass in his hand. 

"I'm not even going to ask, I can see it in your face." Greg handed her the glass - white wine with a dash of soda water. "Are you hungry?"

She took a long sip before answering. "No, not at all – the boss organised a Chinese banquet in the loading bay. The food was great. Pity there were no chairs though."

"Thought it might have been a day like that." Again Greg smiled, taking her hand and leading her gently to the bedroom.

"Honey, I'm really tired, I don't want ..." Sharon's protest dried in her mouth at the door. Greg had been busy. The room was bathed in soft candlelight and a soothing aromatic blend of lavender and chamomile filled the air. A towel covered the bed and a large bottle of oil sat on the bedside table.

"A massage, no strings attached. OK?" 

A grateful smile answered him. "Can I finish my wine first?"

"Oh, I think so. Now, sit down."

She sat on the edge of the bed and sipped her wine while he went to work, kneeling in front of her and gently removed her shoes, sliding his hands under her skirt to unclip the stockings and roll them down her legs and off. Then he stood, carefully loosening her hair and letting it fall across her shoulders before turning his attention to her blouse.

He carefully unbuttoned it and eased it off her shoulders, taking her wine glass and setting it on the bedside table as she shrugged out of the sleeves. He reached around her and undid her bra, removing and giving her back the glass. 

"OK, baby, stand up for me, please."

She did, finishing the last of her wine. Again, Greg knelt before her, reached around her, almost resting his head against her stomach as he unclasped the skirt and let it fall to the floor. The garter belt followed and, finally, he slipped his thumbs into the elastic of her panties and slid them down her legs, lifting each foot in turn to free her from the last of her clothing.

For a moment, he sat back on his heels, looking up at his woman; the candlelight playing soft shadows across her body. God, she was beautiful. He rose up, kissing her belly button, sliding his hands across her ass and up, across her waist to her rest at her breasts as he stood up. He kissed each breast and her neck before taking the now empty wine glass from her hand and steering her to lie on the bed.

He had seen the small spark in her eyes but ignored it. He'd promised no strings. 

Greg straddled her legs, covering her back with massage oil and kneading the tired, tight muscles gently but firmly. "Relax now, honey." Her shoulders were so tight, the muscles tensed in big knots. Gradually he felt the tension release under his fingers. 

"Is that good, honey?" It certainly looked like it – her eyes were closed, her features relaxed.

"Mmm."

Smiling, he kept working; slowly moving down her spine, easing the muscles, watching her relax. Lower and lower he worked until he reached her firm buttocks. Greg loved Sharon's ass. He really hoped she'd relaxed enough from her busy day to enjoy some fun, but he'd promised no strings and would take his cue from her.

He lightly massaged her ass cheeks and ran his hands full length up her back and down again, coming to rest on her buttocks.

Sharon's voice had a dreamy quality. "Don't stop. Mmm, that's so nice." She wiggled her ass at him, opening her thighs just a little.

His cock stirred, remembering the look in her eyes. Greg dribbled the massage oil across her cheeks and let a little run down the crack. He began kneading and caressing each cheek and between them, following the trail of oil, his fingers skittering across her pucker, around her pussy and loving her clit. 

She moaned and spread her thighs further, allowing him greater access. Teasing, he moved his hands away, kneading her buttocks and caressing the small of her back. She writhed and moaned, arching her back. Her pussy glistened wetly, and not all of it was oil.

"Oh, god, don't stop now." Sharon groaned as she felt his weight leave the bed. She turned to protest, only to see him tearing off his t-shirt and shorts.

She rose up onto her knees, pushing her legs far apart and her ass high, and began rubbing her clit with her hand, humping her fingers, rocking her ass at him and moaning.

Listening to her, watching her body move, shimmering as the light reflecting off the oil, Greg held himself in iron control His cock was rock hard and straining. More than anything, he wanted to bury it in her. Her ass was shiny with oil, pointing at him.


"Oh god, baby." His voice was thick, lusty. She shivered at the tone of it. He poured more oil on the top of her crack, following it down with his finger, circling the pucker, pressing against it.

She pushed back against his finger, jamming her ass onto it. "Yes, baby. Fuck my ass with your fingers. Open me up."

He eased his finger out and poured more oil over her now slightly open pucker, then eased the finger back in, spreading the oil as deep as he could reach, sliding in and out as she rocked on his hand, panting and moaning, strumming her clit.

Again, he eased away, this time to coat his throbbing cock with oil. He guided it to her ass, sliding it up and down along her crack. Now Sharon was still – no rocking, no strumming – waiting.

Greg pressed the head against her, leaning into her. He felt the resistance as he pushed, despite the oil. He watched, amazed as the head sank and the muscle ring snapped behind it, gripping him in that tight, tight hole. He heard Sharon's sharp intake of breath.

He paused. He wanted to ram his entire length into that incredibly tight, warm space. But he knew better. 

Sharon started strumming her clit again, breathe coming in little gasps as she tried to adjust to the size of him. Slowly she began leaning back against him, impaling herself on him, moaning at his size, his heat as he stretched her, filling her until she felt his balls resting against her pussy. 

Her groan matched his. So big. So tight. They rested, each marvelling at the feel of the other. Then it became too much, but not enough.

"Need to move." Greg began to withdraw.

"Yes. God." Only the head of Greg's cock remained inside her.

She moaned, empty, and then hissed as he pulled back further, his cock head flaring her sphincter. Greg groaned. She was silky inside, but so very tight, almost painfully tight. He pushed steadily back into her, filling her again with rock hard heat. Her walls gripped his cock so firmly, her sphincter held his head in place on the outstrokes. Sharon moaned and writhed beneath him as he moved within her, pushing him deeper.

Each stroke sent more sparks of sensation pulsing through her. She rubbed her clit with fierce determination and the feeling grew, filling her, taking control of her nervous system, releasing little twitches as it soared ever higher.

He was close, very close, but this was her time. He pulled back, holding her by the hips, fighting to hold back the mounting orgasm. She drove herself back onto him, battling his grip. 

"Baby, no." The words were forced through gritted teeth. "Steady please." She felt so good. Not yet, dammit! "I'm too close." 

Sharon barely heard him, almost mindless now, on the edge of her own orgasm. "Me too. Come on. Fuck me."

Her words shattered the veneer of control and he drove hard into her, again and again, finally shouting as the tension exploded out with his seed, deep into her.

Even after he came, he kept pumping, feeling her still teetering on the edge. She was wound impossibly high and tight, almost sobbing for release, her hand a blur on her clit. He reached under her and shoved two fingers deep into her pussy, thrusting them in time with his cock in her ass.

That did it. The balloon inside her burst, shooting sparks through her, making her body twitch and shake, her mind engulfed by the force of her release. Her muscles clenched tight, imprisoning Greg's cock in her ass, mind numbingly tight on his sensitive organ. 

Together they collapsed on the bed, Greg rolling off Sharon as soon as her muscles allowed and then scooping her up in a gentle cuddle.

"OK, now I'll ask. How was your day, honey?"

Thank you for reading. Please take a moment to vote or leave a comment.



Kneading More



This story is based on a fantasy inspired by a real mobile app that my cousin installed on her tablet. Even though it's not in the story, in my twisted brain I'm the boss and my cousin is the babysitter. Maybe my next story will be about how the massage app helped me fulfill my cousin fantasies. Enjoy!




Harry and Sylvia clearly needed to hire a nanny. Sylvia had a successful psychotherapy practice and Harry was a writer, and neither had the time, energy or inclination to care for their two year old child. 

The well-to-do couple asked around, and their friends Mr. and Mrs. Sherman raved about a young woman they'd recently had babysit their own child. To describe this girl they used adjectives like "bright", "tactful", "friendly" and "responsible". But on a rainy Thursday morning one October, when Harry answered the doorbell and saw the new nanny standing there, those were not the adjectives that came to mind. "Gorgeous", "Sexy" and "scintillating" leapt to his mind.

She was obviously of mixed ethnicity, one of which was certainly Asian, but she was not petite. She was tall, with broad shoulders, a dark tan, very athletic figure, and, as Harry noticed immediately, giant, firm breasts. She had the kind of body that defies the odds, thin, fit, and yet with a large, tight, full ass and bosom. She had long thick black hair, and her delicate Asian features looked intently at Harry, who stood stunned in the doorway.

"Hi, I'm Rosa... I'm the new Nanny," she announced, an adorable smile lighting up her baby-face. It took a moment for Harry to pull himself together and invite her in.

The next few weeks were not productive for Harry. Normally he'd kiss Sylvia goodbye as she left for her office, and then take a seat in front of his laptop to work on his novel, occasionally getting up to pace and think. But since the arrival of the tan, fit, part Asian nanny, he had found it difficult to concentrate. 

She obsessed him. Every time he made love to his wife, an image of Rosa, bending over to pick up toys, her breasts dangling, popped into his head. He found that after having his morning chat with Rosa, he'd have to close his study door, lie back on the couch and masturbate furiously, thinking of her soft brown skin, imagining fucking the living shit out of her.





One day, while chatting with the young statuesque Nanny, Harry happened to stretch his arm behind his back and winced a little, as he often did. 

"What's wrong? back pain?" Rosa asked. She wore a loose white tank top, a black bra just visible beneath it, and tight denim shorts, short enough to stop traffic. 

"Yeah, it's my damn posture" Harry said. "All day long sitting at that laptop hunched over... it's terrible for my back."

"You should get a massage!" Rosa said, playing with her ponytail. 

"Oh, I don't know... I feel weird about having a stranger squeezing and rubbing me..." Harry joked. 

Rosa giggled. "Then get your wife to give you a massage!" she suggested.

Harry blushed. "She's pretty busy..." he trailed off, his eyes taking in Rosa's long bare legs. 

"I'll give you one if you want!" Rosa offered, in a perky voice.

"Are you any good?" Harry asked, smiling. He didn't care if she was the worst masseuse ever- the idea of her hands on him made his cock twitch.

"Well, I'm no expert." she answered, "But I have a fun game on my phone. It's called 'Knead Me', and it's like an interactive massage guide, but with all these fun little challenges and stuff. My roommate and I play it all the time."

"Need me?" Harry repeated, lifting one eyebrow.

"Knead me! Like kneading someone's back." She said, and as she said it, she firmly pressed her hand to Harry's back to illustrate. Harry's balls rose and he felt himself becoming erect. 

"That... that sounds like fun..." Harry said, his marriage vows passing briefly through his conscience. 

"Let's try it!" Rosa said excitedly. "Oh wait..." she paused. "Well, actually it's a two person game, so you'd need to massage me too." She laughed. "I guess it's not quite what you're looking for." 

"Hey," Harry said, "If you massage me, the least I can do is return the pleasure". Inwardly Harry winced at his choice of words. "Let's try this game of yours out! Here, we can use the couch..." 

Harry and his Nanny had a seat on the edge of the backless leather couch, and Harry watched her fish her mobile phone out of her handbag. She opened an app called "Knead Me", and broke into a smile.

"So, how do you play?" Harry asked, noticing his hands slightly shaking with nervous anticipation. 

"Ok, well first it asks you to put in what you're wearing" Rosa said. "So, for me, I'm checking off 'short sleeve' for shirt, 'shorts", and then..." she trailed off.

"Then?" asked Harry, sitting close enough to smell the perfume in her long raven hair.

"Well, it asks about underwear," she laughed nervously, "So I'm putting in... um... panties and a bra. And socks." 

Harry noticed her blushing. He was rock hard. 

"Ok, then what?" Harry asked.

"Then you um... you select which items of clothing you are willing to have removed during the massage." Rosa said, shyly.

Harry moved closer to her on the couch and said, "Which will you select?"

"Well, I shouldn't go too far..." whispered the blushing nanny, "You're my boss and all," she giggled, "So I'll just put... my shirt."

Harry was too aroused to form complete thoughts. "Okay" was all he could manage to say.

"Now it's your turn." Rosa said, turning to him and offering the phone. "You want to enter your details?"

"No, it's okay. You can enter it for me."

"So for you I'll select that you're wearing a long sleeve shirt, long pants, socks... and... um..." she blushed again. 

"Briefs" whispered Harry. From beside her he could see down the front of her tanktop. Two perfect tan orbs, looking so soft and so firm, beckoned to be free. 

"Okay, good, and which would you be willing to... um..." She giggled again. 

"My shirt." Harry said. 

"Okay." 

"And..." Harry hesitated. "And my pants." Rosa looked at him. "What the heck, right?"

Rosa nodded, smiling, entering his choices into her phone. 

"Then" she continued, "You enter which body parts you are willing to massage, and which you are willing to HAVE massaged. Head and shoulders are automatic. So for instance," she cleared her throat, "I'm going to select that I will also massage stomach, legs and feet, and that I'm willing to have massaged my stomach, legs, feet... and... my buttocks."

Harry leaned in to peer at her phone, squinting. He took his glasses from his pocket and the screen came into focus. "I'll massage stomach and feet." He decided. "And allow my stomach, legs, and buttocks massaged. ...My feet are ticklish" he laughed. 

"Okay," Rosa said, making the selections. "Now you put in the massage time."

Harry looked at the clock above the door of the room where his child was sleeping. Sylvia would be home at four... but sometimes she came back for lunch unexpectedly. He decided on 30 minutes. 

"Thirty minutes. And now," Rosa continued, "You select which type of massage you'd like, Shiatsu, Esalan, Swedish or Sensual."

"I'm not much of an expert," Harry admitted. But I like the sound of "sensual."

"Ok, you first, lie down on your stomach."

Rosa stood, allowing Harry to position himself face down on the sofa, his erection pressing against the leather cushioning. Then she delicately descended, sitting beside him and leaning forward, her strong arms stretched out and her hands seizing Harry's head. On her phone was an avatar, and it's head was glowing, indicating the area she was to begin massaging. 

"So now I could ask the game for some massage instructions about your head, but I've already read all of the instructions, playing with my roommate. Isn't this great?"

"It's fabulous. I'm glad you thought of it." Harry's voice undulated each time Rosa pressed her hands to his skin. 

Rosa went to work on Harry's head, softly rubbing his temples and running her fingers through his hair. 

After an ecstatic head massage that sent endorphins swimming through Harry's brain, the game prompted Rosa to switch to Harry's shoulders. She began kneading and caressing them. releasing the built up tension in his bones. His back followed. Harry let out an occasional moan, feeling the younger woman's hands on his spine, through his shirt. 

"Is that okay?" she asked.

"God, yes, it feels great" he sighed.

When the game instructed her to switch, he next felt the young babysitter's hands on his buttocks, grasping the flesh and squeezing, pressing down so that his hardness rubbed against the leather. Was it his imagination, or was she purposefully pushing his butt with a certain rhythm, causing him to dry-hump the couch?

Harry's erection swelled. On the game's cue Rosa moved to his legs, fondling his calves through his pants. He wished he could see her, above and behind him, leaning over him. His wish was soon granted, for the avatar on Rosa's phone eventually flipped over onto its back.

"Now, turn face up." Rosa commanded, a little breathless. Harry knew his erection would be obvious, but was beyond the point of caring. He turned onto his back, and Rosa leaned over him, doing a double take when she observed his hard-on, but trying to pretend she hadn't noticed.

To be continued...