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I wonder if he’ll ever find my sweet spot or if I’m going to have to give him directions.

 This is what I was thinking about the man I was paying to rub the constellation of knots out of my stiff, sore back. To be fair, the massage had just begun and I am known to be impatient. I had expected those knots to be blasted into the atmosphere the moment he put his magical fingers on my skin. Maybe I just needed to relax and let the man do his job.

I had forgotten the therapist’s name immediately after he introduced himself — as you do with unfamiliar men you pay to feel you up – but his dark, manicured beard and mop of unruly hair made him look like a good run up a mountainside to a field of easily chewable grass was his idea of the perfect date. So let’s call him Billy.

Billy was at this moment doing me a small favour: I was booked in for the Lomi Lomi massage which I mistakenly thought was a brutal, no holds barred S&M style pounding on my obstinate muscles. It turns out the Lomi Lomi is a “soft and gentle, relaxing full body experience” using copious amounts of oil. Billy was kind enough to throw in a sports massage between my shoulders after seeing my clear disappointment when I learned he wouldn’t be attacking my back, cage fighting style.

Like all good men he eventually found the sweet spot, although like many of his kind, he gave it a mere rub or two in passing before frustratingly moving on. It was clear he was eager to get on to the real deal: the Lomi Lomi.

They weren’t kidding about the oil. Billy poured so much oil over my body that when I took a deep, relaxing breath in, I damn near slipped off the table. He steadied me with his firm hands and got to work.

Billy started rubbing me from tip to toe in the same way those slaves rowed the boat in Ben Hur. Like he was prostrating himself before the Lord, rearing back, and flinging himself downwards again, all dramatic-like. It was intense.

For a second I worried about the state of Billy’s own back, hoping that he had some sort of insurance. What if he threw his back out and wasn’t able to work? What if he threw his back out while giving me this massage? Would I have to lay him on the table and get to work? Would he expect his massage to have a happy ending? Wait, will this massage have a happy ending?

I felt a little drugged, like I had just come from the dentist. Was I asleep? Was I awake? All I knew for sure was that Billy was going at it like he needed to pay the rent and, with all this damn oil, it was getting harder to pull my mind away from increasingly dirty thoughts.

He was working on my butt. Pouring more and more oil over my body. At this rate I would be able to simply slide myself home. He moved down to my thighs, then pulled slowly on each leg, opening them wider on the table. Ahh, I thought. Here’s where it happens. I am going to be molested. But, am I going to mind? But Billy left my legs where they were and moved up to deal with my arms. I see how it is, I thought. Let’s play coy then, shall we?”

 Billy worked away, heaving and ho-ing from my sides to my fingertips for a while — first the left side, then the right side — before leaning in very close to my ear. Here it comes! I thought. He’s going to ask what turns me on.

 “Please turn over,” he whispered, sultrily. Billy, you naughty minx, I thought. You want me to see exactly what you’ll do to me. But when I opened my eyes I saw two hands holding a large towel between them, obscuring his face and preserving my decency. I knew what he was all about now though. He was going to work me into a frenzy before doing the deed. I was game.

He replaced the big towel with another, smaller one fashioned into a thong that barely covered my modesty. He lay yet another — folded so tightly it was approximately the width of a power cord — over my breasts. He squirted more oil on my stomach and got to work again.

Things got hotter when he placed his hands under my body and massaged me from the other side. Hoisting my body up, all the oil helping slide me under his strong hands. He put his massive forearm in my palm and worked it up and down. I was giving Billy’s hand a hand job. Was this the signal?

Once again, I felt him lean towards my ears. Finally! I shouted in my head. Enough of this game Billy! Tell me exactly what it is you’re going to do to me.

 “Miss Robinson,” he said. “Our time is up.”

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