Pressure Points
"She's a massage therapist making house calls. He's her last appointment of the day. Some tensions can't be worked out with hands alone."
She arrives at 7 PM with a folding table and a bag of oils.
"Mr. Patterson? I'm Yolanda. Your wife scheduled the appointment."
My wife. Who's currently in Denver on business. Who scheduled this massage as an apology for missing our anniversary. Who has no idea that Yolanda is not what I expected.
"Come in," I manage. "Please."
Yolanda is maybe fifty. Dominican, if I had to guess—warm brown skin, dark curly hair pulled back in a practical bun. She's wearing loose linen pants and a flowing top that does nothing to hide her size.
She's big. Round and soft in every direction. Hips that sway when she walks. Breasts that shift beneath her top like tides. A belly that curves out proud and full.
She catches me looking and smiles.
"Living room okay? I need a flat surface."
"Living room is fine."
She sets up with practiced efficiency.
Table unfolded. Sheets laid out. Oils warming in her hands. The whole room fills with the scent of eucalyptus and something deeper—sandalwood, maybe.
"Undress to your comfort level," she says. "I'll step out for a minute. Lie face down when you're ready."
She disappears into the hallway. I strip to my boxers, lie on the table, try to remember the last time anyone touched me with intention.
It's been a while.
Her hands find my shoulders like they were made for them.
Strong. Warm. Knowing exactly where the knots are hiding.
"You carry tension here," she murmurs. "And here. And—" She presses a spot that makes me gasp. "Definitely here."
"Work's been stressful."
"It always is." She works her thumbs into the muscle. "But this is old tension. Years of it. You don't take care of yourself."
"I don't have time."
"No one does. That's why they call me."
She moves down my back. Long, smooth strokes, oil slicking my skin. Her hands are everywhere—finding pain I didn't know I had, releasing it with patient pressure.
"Turn over."
I hesitate. The massage has... affected me.
"It's natural," she says, reading my silence. "Don't be embarrassed. Bodies respond."
I turn over. My cock is half-hard beneath the sheet. She doesn't comment—just starts on my chest, my shoulders, my arms.
But she's looking.
"Your wife," she says. "She's not here often."
"She travels for work."
"And you're alone."
"Most of the time."
Her hands move to my stomach. Lower. Skirting the edge of the sheet.
"That kind of loneliness builds up. Like tension." She meets my eyes. "It needs release too."
"Yolanda—"
"I'm not offering anything you don't want." Her voice is calm. Professional. "But I can feel what your body wants. It's written in every muscle."
Her hand slips beneath the sheet. Finds me. Wraps around me with the same practiced grip she used on my shoulders.
"Do you want me to stop?"
I should say yes.
"No."
She strokes me slowly.
The same rhythm as the massage. Deliberate. Patient. Her other hand continues working my chest, my shoulders, never breaking the flow.
"When's the last time someone touched you like this?"
"I don't—"
"The truth."
"Months. Maybe longer."
"That's what I thought." She increases the pressure. "You've been starving yourself. Of touch. Of pleasure. Of being seen."
"My wife—"
"Isn't here." She leans closer. Her breasts brush my arm through her top. "I am."
She releases me suddenly. Steps back. And pulls her top over her head.
Her body is magnificent.
Breasts that hang heavy, dark nipples stiffening in the cool air. A belly that rolls and curves, soft as the hands that have been working my muscles. She unties her pants, lets them fall. No underwear.
"This isn't usually part of the service," she says. "But you need it. And I—" She hesitates. "I want to give it to you."
"Why?"
"Because you looked at me when I walked in like I was something worth looking at. Most men look away." She climbs onto the table, straddles me. The massage table groans but holds. "You didn't."
Her wetness presses against my cock through the sheet. She pulls it away. Positions me at her entrance.
"Tell me you want this."
"I want this. I want you."
She sinks onto me.
She's wet.
Hot. Gripping me like her hands gripped my muscles—knowing exactly how to work me.
"Yes," she breathes. "Oh, that's good. That's so good."
She rides me slowly at first. The massage rhythm, still—long strokes, patient pressure. Her breasts sway above me, and I reach up to cup them. Heavy. Warm. Perfect.
"You can touch," she says. "Touch all of me. I want you to."
I explore her while she moves. Her belly, soft beneath my hands. Her hips, wide and gripping. Her ass, round and bouncing with each thrust.
"Faster," I say.
"You don't give the orders here." She grinds down hard, makes me gasp. "I'm the professional."
She controls everything—the pace, the depth, the angle. She knows exactly what she's doing. She finds spots inside herself that make her moan, and she uses me to hit them.
"I'm close," she breathes. "You're going to make me come."
"Come for me."
"When I'm ready." She slows down. Edges herself. "When I decide."
The control is maddening. I try to thrust up, but she pins me down—all that weight, holding me still.
"Not yet. I'm not done with you."
She draws it out for what feels like hours.
Building to the edge and pulling back. Making me beg. Making herself beg. Until we're both trembling, both desperate.
"Now," she finally says. "Now you can."
She slams down and grinds, and I explode—
And she follows, her body convulsing around me, her moan filling the room. We come together, waves crashing into waves, until we're both empty and shaking.
She collapses onto my chest.
Her weight is solid. Warm. Comforting.
"That," she breathes, "was not in the job description."
"Best massage I've ever had."
She laughs against my skin.
She packs up her table like nothing happened.
I stand in the doorway, still dazed.
"Yolanda—"
"Same time next week?" She smiles over her shoulder. "Your wife has you booked for the whole month."
"The whole month?"
"She really feels bad about the anniversary." Yolanda crosses to me, cups my face, kisses me soft and slow. "I'll make sure you're well taken care of."
"And this—us—"
"Is between us." She picks up her bag. "Some pressures need regular attention. I'm very thorough."
She walks to her car.
I stand in the doorway, watching her go.
My wife calls an hour later, apologizing for missing another dinner.
"How was the massage?"
"Amazing," I say. "Really hit all the right spots."
"Good. I'm glad you liked her."
I think about Yolanda. About her hands. About next week.
"Yeah," I say. "I really did."