Massage

sexless


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.