by David Cain

Another transatlantic flight, another messed-up, jet-lagged schedule.

I’d been awake for seventeen hours but it was still only six-thirty pm. The team and I shared a light dinner and a beer and everyone was obviously ready to get some sleep before we started work bright and early in the morning.

“What’s the plan,” asked Stephanie as we began the slow trudge toward the elevators.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “I don’t have the energy to go out but I don’t really want to go to bed yet. I dread waking up at three am but that’s what will happen if I go down now.”

“Me, too,” she said with a yawn. “I think we should try to stay awake until at least ten pm, so we can normalize the jet lag.”

“Want to watch a movie or something?”

“Yeah, but staying awake isn’t going to be easy.”

“Let’s get some coffee and see what’s on the tube.”

“You know what, I would kill for a massage. That flight did me in.”

“I can massage, trained and everything.”


I held up my hands. “Twenty years of guitar gave me strong hands.”

“Well, then, your room or mine?”

“Come to my room. I think I brought some oil.”

“Okay but this has to stay professional. No hanky panky.”

“Of course. Nothing like that. Co-worker courtesy and all that.”

Stephanie looked at me with a sly grin. “So I can trust you? I’m dead serious.”

“How long have we worked together, Steph? In all those years, all those trips, have I ever done anything even slightly unprofessional? Have I ever made advances, spoke crudely, made you uncomfortable?”

“No, I guess that’s true. Okay, I’ll trust you.”

Now, honestly, I wasn’t entirely certain I could lay hands on this lovely woman without suffering serious pangs of desire but I was willing to give it a try and at least pretend I was strong enough. It was certainly worth a try. She went back to her room to freshen up and I went to my room to make preparations.

A quick, quiet rap on the door announced her arrival. I opened the door and she slipped inside, eager to remain unseen by our coworkers. Stephanie wore a thick robe and carried an armful of thick, white towels.

“So what’s to watch?”


I found the remote control and began flipping through the channels. When a show about guys making swords came on, Stephanie stopped me. Good enough. She sat down on the second bed.

“This is weird, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Weird?” I asked as I picked up the bottle of oil and waited for her to lay down.

“Massage is almost sexual and I’ve never thought of you that way.”

“Purely professional. I need you to be ready for tomorrow and a bit of muscle rub will help clear your mind.”

“Yeah,” she said, as she pulled off her robe, revealing a tantalizing body clad in a lacy bra and panties. “I need this badly.” She laid down, her arms spread wide and her face turned to lie on a big soft pillow.

“I’ll start with your arms, focus on your neck, work down your spine and then massage your legs.”

“Perfect,” she mumbled.

“No sleeping,” I said as I picked up her left arm. “That would defeat the whole purpose.”

“Nope,” she muttered. “No chance of that.”

I set to work, plying my trade, or my avocation anyway. I started with her left hand, kneading my way past her wrist to her forearm. I tried not to look at the thin fabric stretched taut over her bottom, tried to stay true to my promise to keep things professional but at the same time, I knew I would probably never have another chance to admire her body, so I stole a few peeks, memorized the vision and kept on rubbing through her biceps and triceps. Moving to the other side, I worked my way up her right arm and finally wrapped my strong hand around her neck, squeezing and releasing the tension built up there.

Her shoulders were tense and she groaned as I dug into the meat of her muscles.

“You okay?”

“Mmmm,” she intoned. “So okay.”

Knots littered her back and I rubbed, pushed and prodded them away. Stephanie squirmed slightly as I passed the valley of the small of her back, feeling the freedom my massage gave her torso. Part of me considered pushing down past the elastic border between flesh and panty but the rest of me moved on, not wanting to stray into private territory without express invitation. I picked up her left foot and rubbed hard from toe to ball to arch to heel. Lifting her leg slightly, I found myself staring at the thin strip of cloth barely covering the space between her thighs. I averted my gaze, when I could tear myself away from the vision, and worked over strong calves and dug into meaty thighs.

I kept on, moving slowly closer to her uppermost thigh, less than an inch away from the panty barrier. Everything about me was sorely tempted to brush the fabric, to stroke the cunny within but I refrained with herculean effort and returned to start again with the right foot. I could barely swallow but I pushed forward to the very limit of her upper thigh.


“Okay,” I said. “You want to roll over.”

“My pleasure,” she said as she turned. “You’re very good at this.”

“Strong hands,” I said as I looked over the beauty revealed by her new position.

“Would you mind,” she started with a smile. “I know I said no funny business but would you mind massaging my breasts. They need to be rubbed and I’ll bet your strong hands will give them just what I need.”

I finally swallowed. I wasn’t sure I was strong enough for this. She reached behind her and unclasped her brassiere.  Beautiful white mounds topped with tightly contracted darkened nipples fell slightly toward her sides as gravity pulled their perkiness off center.

I decided to play it cool and started with her calves, moving steadily toward her upper thighs again while trying not to stare at her breasts. I moved to the other calf and began the slow crawl past her knee and over the meaty muscle of her right thigh. Her mons pubis filled the triangle of thin cloth at her center. She spread her thighs slightly as I pulled fingers to thumb along the wide upper thigh. I felt a heat, a humidity, a developing aroma coming from her pantied crotch. I cursed under my breath.

“What?” she murmured.

“Nothing,” I said.

Soon I had my hands wrapped around her breasts, squeezing and kneading like an athletic trainer just doing his job. I decided that if I avoided her nipples, I would still be professional. She moaned with every pull and tug. I began to fear for my zipper. A few more minutes and I declared she was done.

“Wow,” she said. “You could make a living doing that.”

“I did for a while. I couldn’t hack it. Massaging someone like you is a joy. Massaging ordinary big fat pigs is not surprisingly less fun.”

“Ooh, I hadn’t thought about that.”

“All kinds of ugly.

“Well, then,” she said, sitting up, bare breasts posed more naturally and simply splendid, reflective with their thin layer of massage oil. “Your turn.”


“Only fair. You’re tense and I’d love to help.”

“Okay,” I said, suddenly concerned about how I was going to hide my erection. Stephanie noticed my reluctant discomfort and grinned.

“Slip those bad boys off and lie down.” She commanded. I obeyed, pressing my too hard cock into the soft bed.

Stephanie covered her hands in oil, moved behind me and suddenly yanked down my jockeys, placing both hands firmly on my ass cheeks. A hard squeeze came with laughter.

“I can’t believe you stayed so professional. I did everything I could to tempt you to cross the line but you were so strong. You certainly proved I could trust you.”

“I tried,” I said, my cock growing even more uncomfortable.

“But I made no promises. I’m no professional. Let’s get down to  nasty.”

Her massage was anything but skilled, in no way professional. But I relaxed. Boy, did I relax.

About David Cain

David Cain, literary author, bon vivant, rogue romantic poet - author of Witch, Song of Songs, Journals of Lord Malinov, Erotic Romances and others ...
This entry was posted in books, erotica, fiction, literature, literotica, nsfw, personal, reading, short stories, writing and tagged , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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