The Free-Edging Massage Therapist

I still get hard just thinking about the few months I was fucking around with that massage therapist back when I was 26 or so. This was years ago, but goddamn, it was filthy in the best way.

She was this hot, flaky little thing—always late, always “in her feels,” ghosting for days then blowing up my phone like nothing happened. But the second she texted “shop’s dead tonight, come get your tension worked out 😈” I’d drop everything and drive over. Small spa in a dead strip mall, lights off by 8, door locked behind me. Eucalyptus stink mixed with whatever cheap oil she used. She’d put me face-down first like it was legit, knead my back for maybe five minutes, then flip me over with that smirk and yank the sheet down.

No warm-up bullshit. She’d squirt oil straight on my cock, wrap those strong hands around it, and start pumping—slow, tight, twisting at the head until I was leaking all over her fingers. She loved watching me try not to groan loud enough for the parking lot to hear. I’d bite my fist, hips bucking, while she edged me stupid—stopping right when I was about to blow, giggling at how my balls would tighten up and twitch. Then she’d dive down and suck me sloppy—deep, wet, gagging just enough to make it nasty. Spit dripping down my shaft, her tongue flicking under the head, sucking hard on the upstroke like she was trying to pull my soul out through my dick.

Most nights she’d milk me twice. First load I’d shoot down her throat while she hummed around me; second one she’d jerk out all over her tits or her face if she was feeling extra dirty that day. She’d wipe her mouth with the back of her hand, lick her fingers clean, then go “See? All better now.” Never charged me a fucking cent. Said it was “just for fun” and she got off on the risk—her license, the security cameras she’d conveniently “forget” to turn on, the chance some late client might knock.

It was straight-up reckless. I’d leave there with my jeans sticking to my thighs from leftover oil and cum, head buzzing, barely able to drive straight. Twice a week minimum, sometimes three if she was horny after a long shift. The whole thing felt like I was starring in my own private sleazy porno—except it was real, and I never had to pay for the happy ending.

She eventually flaked so hard the hookups just stopped. No drama, no goodbye fuck. We faded out and that was that. I don’t miss the chaos or her personality. I miss walking into that dim room knowing I was about to get drained dry by a pro who loved doing it for free.

Still one of the nastiest, most selfish stretches of my life. Zero regrets.

Anyone else ever get spoiled like that by someone who should’ve known better?