"He tells me that he needs a massage. He knows I’m good at giving therapeutic massages, good at finding all of his tension and his knots and kneading them out of his shoulders, neck, back, buttocks, thighs. He wants a massage, he’s said, that is all.

But me?

It is a dark Minneapolis night. I can hear laughter out in the street below from the bar hoppers and weekend partiers. Sex, and booze, and loud music are wafting up through the hazy air and mingling with my heady desires. He lays on the table, naked. Just a soft white sheet fluttering atop his butt and legs, his shoulders and back bare.

Laying face down, he can’t see me take off my top.  My hands, burning hot, approach his waiting form. I am gone the minute I touch him, lost in the trance of his magnetic attractiveness, and coming slowly alive by his response to my touch, to my breath on his skin, to my obvious wanting him.

He can sense my longing, the way my hands linger, the strokes gentle and soft, the way my hot breath scalds his inner ear and my tongue seems to lick his neck. My subtle hints are not lost on him and soon he is shifting his body. His hardness getting uncomfortable for him to stifle on the massage table.

I am relentless in my wanting. My breasts skim his back....."