Massage

A purr of perfect contentment eased from your soft lips as you drew the

lustrous green shawl around your shoulders and curled up on the Persian

carpet in front of the fire. The shawl hugged the top of your shoulders,

your back, your buttocks, your thighs and calves in a smooth relief 'S'

shape. S for sexy.

How long? Eighteen months? We split up---no, you split up, but I was still

tied to you emotionally and physically. I had to steel myself to hide all

this inside, not to let even a hint out, because the smallest sign, the

smallest slip would destroy all the independence I had so painstakingly

built. When I passed you a cup of chai and our hands accidentally brushed,

did you feel the quicksilver of longing that ran through my veins? When you

came to sit next to me in the staff dining room, did you feel my shiver of

delight or the tremble of my heart? I never knew, for your enigmatic smile,

seductive, uncertain, vulnerable never answered any question directly.

So, repressed and aching from it, I could caress the silky shape of your

body only with my mind. Under the shawl and the thin red cotton skirt I

imagined the soft, light hairs on your leg standing up in goose-bumps as my

fingernails teased the skin gently, softly, with barely the slightest of

pressures. Still asleep you would quiver imperceptibly, and then my hand

would move up to hold your round creamy white buttocks under---what? black

silk panties with lace trimmings, that you would wear because you knew that

their soft coolness touching my hot hard cock would be more than I could

bear? or small white linen panties with diminutive bears and flowers, the

underwear of a young girl, from when we played at brother and sister playing

at 'families' and you pouted innocence and lust? Any, I decided, and traced

my imaginary hand up your imaginary side and counted each imaginary rib with

my fingertips. Suddenly your hand covered mine. I started, opened my eyes,

and my hand was on your shoulder and you had moved yours to cover it with

the dreaminess of sleep, and I left it there and soaked in your closeness.

Seven months ago you had left for India and I devotedly had written every

Friday, and you had written back. Each word I would read and read again.

"Dear," "Darling," "L--, dearest," "From me," "Love," "Love always." How

much was standard form for letters and how much true sentiment? Sometimes

you hinted that you were lonely, and sometimes you recalled past times

together, and sometimes you planned what we would do when you came to visit

for a week: "I want to waltz in the snow under the stars"; "Would you give

me a massage when I come?" "Yes," I replied, and "yes," and "yes," but

always I took care to hide my feelings with little anecdotes and

descriptions. Now, at last, you had come.

I rubbed my thumb in small circles on your neck and must have triggered

latent memories, for you turned slightly in my direction, eyes still shut,

with the hint of an indulgent smile curling up the corners of your lips.

"Massage?" you mumbled. "Yes," I whispered wordlessly; but you already knew

the answer for you had turned onto your back, shawl underneath, and had

moved languorously to pull up your black top from your waist. With your

hands outstretched behind your head, surprised by their proximity to the

fire, I completed the motion---and softly gasped. Still not wearing a bra,

S--: your small and perfect breasts standing proud, half spheres like

pomegranates, dark brown aureoles and pink nipples.

First, without oil, one hand resting on your rib cage and the fingertips of

the other making small vibrating corkscrews over your rounded abdomen, I

rubbed your skin over your muscles and felt the tension in your belly slowly

relax into my hands. Then both hands starting in a dove at your navel pushed

forwards gently, between your breasts to your neck and then down to the

armpits and back along your sides. I made the rough wool of my sleeves brush

your nipples ever so slightly, so that by the second pass they were hard and

pink and I longed to feel their pertness under my palms, my cheek, my

tongue.

Now it was time for the oil---coconut oil with one drop of Attar of Roses--

-that I had fetched from the kitchen. Scooping some from the bowl, warming

it in my hands, I stroked it onto your belly, your breasts, your neck, all

of your body using the whole flat surface of my hands. You had always loved

the slickness of oil and now pressed your body up to me but I calmed you,

relaxed you, and marveled at the dancing red reflections of coals and fire

on the top of your taught round breasts and sides and at how in the dim

light the oil had changed your skin from alabaster milk to Persian

chocolate.

The final stroke I held at the top of your arm, and then I kneaded with my

fingertips the lymph notes in your armpits. Supporting your wrist on my

knees I encircled your shoulder with my hands and slid them over the oiled

skin, pulling up to your fingertips, willing that all the tension would be

drawn out with the motion. You sighed, and it was, and at the end your

fingertips curled into mine to delay the moment of separation. Now I

threaded my fingers into yours and took control of your arm, making your

shoulder and elbow joints bend without any muscle activity from you, and you

floated in the trance of movement without effort and surrended yourself to

me.

Finally I knelt by your head and cupped it in my hands. Your skin was smooth

and supple and I took small pinches of skin and kneaded them between my

fingers, past your high cheekbones, by your ears, back to your mouth and to

your soft moist kissable lips. I smiled as your mouth melted and your lips

and cheeks twisted into bizarre and unrecognizable shapes, and you in your

doze must have sensed my amusement for you smiled as well. Then my two

hands, fingers interlocked, compressed over your forehead which is the

source of headaches, and then my thumbs delicately pressed on top of each

eye while I rubbed small gentle circles over your temples. You miaowed this

time, like a cat, and I looked again at your delicious rose-petal lips which

had parted slightly to reveal a hint of your front teeth. Kneeling down,

drunk from the sight and from the smell of the musk that you wear and >from

the memories that came with it, I brushed your lips with mine---but pulled

away, knowing I could not tread further and savoring the sweet memory of

their touch.

One final stroke to finish the massage: a long fan stroke of the torso that

started at your shoulders, pushed over the chest to your abdomen and then

back by the sides. I was wanton at last, because I knew that this was the

end and that I could restrain myself after. Pressing over your breasts I

caught the still-firm nipples between my fingers and squeezed, and you

moaned, and I pushed my hands further down, under the skirt, fingertips just

under your panties; and then a second stroke cupping your breasts again and

reaching further to your pubic hair, to the top of your thighs; and a third

imperceptible stroke with my fingernails that pattered like rain-drops over

your skin and left it minutely sensitized. Then I undid my hair from its

clasp, shook it forward and let it play over your belly. You always said

that it felt like you were floating up in that final moment, as though your

feet and body had left the ground, as though your mind and body had merged.

I left you that way, draped the shawl over your body, admired the shape

underneath of your shoulders, round breasts, hips, thighs; and I sat and

stared into the red coals of the fire, and dreamed.