Deep Pressure
"His doctor recommended massage therapy for his back pain. She's a fifty-something therapist with magic hands and dangerous curves. When she asks if he wants 'full body work,' he discovers just how therapeutic touch can be."
The massage studio was in a converted Victorian on a quiet street.
Inside, it smelled like lavender and cedar. Soft music played from hidden speakers. A waterfall trickled in the corner.
And behind the counter stood Ingrid.
She was Scandinavian—tall, blonde hair gone silver, with eyes the pale blue of glacier ice. Fifty-five, maybe older. And built in a way that made her flowing massage attire look like wrapping on a present.
Wide hips that shifted under the fabric. Heavy breasts that moved when she breathed. A body that was soft and strong at the same time—like she could comfort you or overpower you, depending on her mood.
"Tyler?" She checked her schedule. "First time here?"
"My doctor recommended it. Back pain."
"We can help with that." She smiled, and something in my chest tightened. "Follow me."
The massage room was warm, dim, intimate.
"Undress to your comfort level," she said. "Most clients go completely nude under the sheet—it allows for better work—but whatever you prefer."
"Completely nude is fine."
"Good." Something flickered in her eyes. "I'll give you a moment."
She left. I stripped, lay face-down on the table, pulled the sheet over my body.
She returned. I heard her pouring oil, warming it between her palms.
"Tell me about your pain," she said, her hands coming to rest on my shoulders.
"Lower back mostly. From sitting at a desk all day."
"Common problem." She began to work—long strokes down my spine, fingers finding knots I didn't know I had. "The body stores tension. Physical. Emotional. Everything we don't process ends up lodged somewhere."
"That sounds like therapy."
"The body is honest in ways the mind isn't." Her hands moved lower. The sheet slipped to the small of my back. "We spend so much time ignoring what we feel. The body keeps score."
Her hands were on my lower back now. Deep pressure, working into the muscle. I groaned involuntarily.
"Good," she murmured. "Let it out. Don't hold back."
She worked on me for an hour.
My back. My shoulders. My arms. My legs. She was thorough, professional, and her touch was unlike anything I'd experienced.
But there were moments.
Her hands on my inner thighs, working the muscles, slipping higher than strictly necessary. Her breasts brushing my arm when she leaned across me. Her breath on my neck as she worked a particularly stubborn knot.
By the end, I was hard. Painfully, obviously hard. The sheet did nothing to hide it.
"I'm sorry," I said, mortified. "I didn't mean to—"
"Don't apologize." She stood beside the table, looking down at me with those ice-blue eyes. "It's a natural response. Blood flow increases during massage. Arousal is common."
"It's still embarrassing."
"Only if we let it be." She paused. "I offer additional services for clients who need... release. It's entirely optional. But it can be beneficial for chronic tension."
I blinked. "Additional services?"
"Full body work." Her hand came to rest on my thigh, just above the sheet. "Complete stress relief. Would you be interested?"
I knew I should say no. This was too fast, too strange, too much.
"Yes."
She pulled the sheet away.
I lay there, naked, exposed, achingly hard. She stood beside the table and began to undress.
The flowing shirt came off first, revealing a body that took my breath away. Heavy breasts in a simple bra. A soft stomach. Then the pants, and wide hips in plain cotton underwear.
"I don't usually do this," she said, unclasping her bra. Her breasts fell free—full, with pale pink nipples hardening in the warm air. "But there's something about you."
"What?"
"You're honest. You didn't try to hide your arousal. You didn't pretend you weren't attracted." She stepped out of her underwear. "That kind of openness is rare."
She climbed onto the table. Straddled me. Her wet heat pressed against my cock.
"This is about release," she said. "Yours and mine. No strings. No expectations. Just two bodies giving each other what they need."
She guided me inside her.
She was tight. Hot. Slick with arousal that had nothing to do with massage oil.
She rode me slowly at first, her thick body rising and falling, her breasts swaying inches from my face. Her hands pressed flat on my chest for balance.
"Yes," she breathed. "This is what I needed—"
"Ingrid—"
"Don't talk." She increased her pace. "Just feel. Let your body take over."
I grabbed her hips. Those wide, impossible hips. I thrust up into her, matching her rhythm.
"Harder," she demanded.
I gave her harder.
The massage table creaked beneath us. The waterfall sound was drowned out by her moans—low, guttural, animal. She threw her head back, her silver hair cascading down her back.
"Don't stop—don't stop—"
I didn't.
She came with a sound like a sob.
Her whole body clenched around me, and she collapsed forward, her breasts pressing against my chest. I wasn't done yet.
I rolled her over. The table wasn't meant for this, but we made it work. I pinned her down and fucked her hard—deep strokes that made her cry out with every thrust.
"Yes—yes—" Her legs wrapped around me. "Give me everything—"
I came inside her with a groan that echoed off the walls.
We lay there after, tangled and panting, the massage table groaning beneath our weight.
"That was..." she started.
"Therapeutic?"
She laughed. "Very." She traced a finger down my chest. "Same time next week?"
"For the massage or the..."
"Both." She kissed me. "The body needs regular maintenance."
Three Months Later
I see Ingrid every Thursday.
The first hour is professional. She works on my back, my shoulders, the tension I carry from another week of sitting at a desk.
The second hour is something else entirely.
We've moved from the table to the floor. To the chair. To the shower in the back room. Every session ends the same way—sweaty, satisfied, completely released.
"My back has never felt better," I tell her one night.
"The power of holistic treatment." She traces patterns on my chest. "Mind and body, working together."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"I have to call it something." She smiles. "Insurance doesn't cover what we actually do."
I pull her close.
Some therapies aren't covered.
Doesn't mean they don't work.