by Jane New
Would he continue his exploration? Or would he gently, but firmly, push her back down onto the massage table, as her usual masseur did?
He knew what she wanted. Using both hands, he manipulated one side of her rib cage, his fingers slowly moving to the sides of her breasts. Eventually one large hand encased her breast entirely, kneading and squeezing, fingertips tugging on her nipple.
Tracy groaned.
He stopped, and for one dreadful moment she thought perhaps she’d given the impression of being in pain. But he transferred his attentions to the other side of her rib cage, and his delightful ministrations concentrated on the other breast.
“Mmm.” She sighed, feeling the slow burn of arousal start deep inside her.
He stopped, and this time he indicated by pressing on her shoulders that she should lie flat again. Warm, scented oil trickled down her spine, and he used his hands to spread it all over her body.
All the way down to her toes.
She missed the touch of his hands on her breasts, but the sensation of having her toes manipulated almost made up for it.
She’d never realized how many individual muscles she had in her feet. The masseur didn’t neglect a single one. After that it was her calf muscles, and then—blissfully—he nudged her thighs apart.
This masseur could truly relieve her aching body.
He didn’t disappoint. He worked on the long muscles of her thighs, all the way from her arse to her knees and back up again. Each time he approached her sex she waited, tense, only to feel him move away again. Until the back of one hand brushed—intentionally or by accident, she couldn’t be sure—her pussy lips.
She gasped as a shock raced through her body.
He moved his hands to her arse cheeks, which he treated much as he had her breasts, kneading, squeezing, separating. His touch became rougher, more intense. More sexual.
Is he as turned on as I am?
The masseur slid one slippery finger down her spine, past her tailbone, between her oiled arse cheeks, to her arsehole. There he paused. Tracy froze, relishing the heat of his fingertip resting on one of the most sensitive parts of her body.
What will he do now?
More warm oil trickled between her buttocks.
He circled the tiny, puckered orifice with his finger. Using the oil as lubricant, he slid the very tip of it inside her.
Tracy quivered.
He withdrew his finger and circled her arsehole again.
More oil splashed onto her and trickled over her pussy lips.
He massaged everywhere the oil ran, in all the secret crevices and grooves of her sex.
Tracy needed to roll over. She needed to open her thighs even further. She needed the masseur to bury his cock in her cunt.
Her entire existence was defined by need.
But she lay, passive, eyes closed, allowing the masseur do whatever he wanted to her body.
He pushed her thighs even further apart.
Fuck me, please!
She wanted to shout out the words, but she was too far gone in her arousal.
When he found her clit, all the pent-up frustration of the previous days burst forth. She screamed, her body convulsing.
He didn’t stop. He slipped several fingers into her cunt, used his thumb on her clit, and slid a finger into her arsehole. Tracy howled. Her orgasm went on and on, every nerve and muscle of her body on fire. She collapsed back onto the massage table, exhausted, but aching for more. Aching for cock. She opened her eyes and rolled over. He must be as aroused as she was, surely.
The room was empty.
* * * * *
Tracy sat on a deck chair tucked in the shade of a convenient palm tree on the beach and let her thoughts wander.
Her days had taken on a new pattern. She still swam, ate delicious food, watched movies, and read paperbacks as she had before. Her masseur would arrive every afternoon, the same masseur as she had since she came to the island.
But every afternoon he would be replaced by the anonymous masseur, who would bring her to orgasm, then disappear before she opened her eyes.
At first she’d adored the release. She thought she had what she wanted. She had a man’s hands on her and sexual release every day.
But she still lacked the one thing she wanted more than anything else.
It was true, the anonymous masseur’s hands did incredible things to her body. It was as though he knew her, knew her responses, knew everything she enjoyed.
If she had any sense at all, she would be satisfied with that.
But who was he? Didn’t she excite him as much as he excited her?
Didn’t he want to fuck her?
What if ‘he’ were a woman? Someone too shy to make her attraction for Tracy known?
While she was mainly straight in her preferences, an attractive women could get her there. Phillip’s friend Jasmine was model-beautiful but a demon in bed, and they’d had a lot of fun together. A woman wouldn’t be a problem.
But no, Tracy knew instinctively that the second masseur was a man. His breathing perhaps, or the sound of his footsteps on the polished wood floor, or the strength in his large hands.
What if he were disfigured, or disabled? Phillip had lost the use of his legs, but he was still a very sexy man.
And now that Phillip had appeared in her thoughts, where the hell was he?
No doubt he will appear in his own good time, just as he always does.
Right now, the problem of the mystery masseur was far more important. She had no idea why he didn’t want her to see him. Somehow, she had found herself in an implied agreement to never open her eyes while he was there.
It was about time she did.
She devised a very simple plan.
To start with, she had to be on her back.
* * * * *
Communication with her masseur had always been limited by the language barrier. She tried to find out who the second masseur was by asking the man, but got nowhere. She even tried sign language, which in the end only confused both of them.
But when she held up a silk scarf and demonstrated using it as a blindfold, he understood exactly what she meant.
By now their massage had become a ritual, a charade. The masseur waited until she was comfortably lying on her stomach with her eyes closed before admitting the second masseur to the room and leaving. Tracy wondered if he was using his suddenly spare time to be with the young housemaid.
She decided to amend their ritual a little. This time, the first masseur helped her tie the scarf over her eyes, led her to the massage table, and helped her lie down upon it. This time, she was on her back.
She heard his footsteps recede into the distance, and other, heavier footsteps approach.
Her cunt was wet already, merely anticipating the stranger’s touch.
He stopped, she suspected only a few feet away from the table where she lay, like a banquet spread out for him to feast upon.
Tracy felt his gaze upon every inch of her naked body.
Why doesn’t he come closer?
She brought her hands to her breasts, pushing them upwards, using thumbs and forefingers to pinch her nipples. Her legs wide apart, she moved one hand to explore where his had gone so many times before. She drove her fingers into her dripping cunt, and used the moisture she found there to lubricate her clit.
He whispered a curse. His breathing went ragged.
Footsteps, and she felt his hands on her thighs, the hands of a lover now, no longer the masseur. He pushed her hand away, almost rough in his haste. His mouth took the place of her fingers, sucking, licking, drinking in her juices before concentrating on her clit.
Tracy buried her fingers in his thick, wavy hair and held his head to her while she lost herself in the exquisite sensations.
Only one man. Only one man is this good. Only one man knows me this well.
She screamed his name as her orgasm overtook her.
“Phillip!”
This time he st
ayed with her. This time he held her as she drifted back to earth. He undid her blindfold, and she gazed into the face she knew so well.
She reached up and stroked his cheek. Could it really be him, after all this time? But why hadn’t he fucked her? Didn’t he want her any more? Perhaps he couldn’t?
“Phillip,” she whispered. “Why? How?”
“My sweet girl,” he answered. Leaning down, he brushed his lips across hers. He’d rarely kissed her before, despite their active sex life. She’d always assumed he preferred not to.
“I can explain. I will explain everything. But first, let’s make ourselves a little more comfortable.”
He held her hand as she climbed off the massage table, then led her to the huge bed.
“This bed,” Tracy said, “those carvings. This room. It’s all so amazing, so erotic. Everything’s to do with sex, somehow. I’ve been surrounded by sex.”
“I know. I derived a great deal of pleasure from decorating it especially for you.”
“For me? But I thought... Doesn’t the resort own it?”
“No, it’s mine. The resort manages it for me when I’m not using it. All of this will go into storage when we leave.” His wave encompassed the entire contents of the pavilion. “If you like the bed, or anything else for that matter, I’ll ship it home. Now lie on the bed for me, please, Tracy. I’ve pictured you there so often.”
She willingly obeyed, lying on her side and propping herself up with a few big, soft pillows. She watched him as he slipped out of loose trousers and a plain, cotton shirt. His body was lean and hard, his shoulders and biceps massive from years of using a manually powered wheelchair. His legs had always been slender—now the muscles showed were fully developed. His erection stirred in its nest of iron gray pubes. He showed little sign of his true age, which Tracy suspected was in his early sixties.
“You’re the fisherman I saw.”
“Yes,” he replied. “You gave me quite a scare that night. Everything I’d so carefully planned almost unraveled. All because I decided to celebrate with a Scotch.”
“What were you celebrating?” she asked.
“You saw me, and you didn’t recognize me.”
“You’re right, I didn’t, I’m ashamed to say,” she said.
“Don’t be ashamed. You had no reason to think it was me.” He lay down on his side, facing her.
“Apart from the ticket you sent me?” She raised one eyebrow.
“I relied on your looking for an invalid. Or someone still in a wheelchair.”
She wanted to touch him. She wanted to feel him again. It had been so long, and now he was here, in the flesh. Bigger and better and far larger than life.
And on the bed with her.
“Tracy, there are things I need to tell you before anything else can happen between us.”
He rarely called her by her first name, usually preferring the formality of Mrs. Jones. She was, after all, his cook-housekeeper when they were at home in London. But now they were separated by less than two feet of white cotton sheeting. Tracy’s body still hummed with the aftereffects of her last orgasm, and she knew she could reach out and touch him whenever she wanted to. His tone stopped her. Whatever it was he had to tell her, it was important to him.
For a few, long moments they lay there in silence. His wonderful deep brown eyes gazed into hers. She thought she could see the sparkle of tears gathering in their corners.
“Tracy, I killed my wife.”
She stared at him, open-mouthed.
For a moment Tracy’s mind refused to function, refused to absorb his words. She knew what a killer was like far too well. She’d been married to one for almost twenty years.
“No,” she protested, “I don’t believe you. I’ve known you for how long? I’ve lived in your house, I’ve shared your bed. You’re not that sort of person.”
She trembled as though a chill London wind had found its way to this tropical paradise.
“Tracy, Tracy.” Phillip took her hand. “Hear me out, please.”
“You couldn’t, you just couldn’t. I know you.”
“I loved Claire with all my heart and soul. We met when we were both students at Oxford, and we were together for over thirty years. The only sadness in our marriage was our inability to have children together, but we made up for it in other ways.”
Phillip swallowed. He rolled onto his back and looked up at the ceiling, gently squeezing her hand.
“We’d been to a party. Old friends of ours. We’d been invited to stay the night and join in the usual fun.”
He paused.
“You know me well enough to know what I mean by ‘the usual fun’. A new couple had just joined our small group of friends. The wife was a pretty little thing, and fit in well with the rest of us. The husband was another cup of tea altogether. He was a big man, with a rough edge to him. There was something about him I didn’t like and didn’t trust…I saw the way he looked at Claire.”
He passed his free hand over his eyes. Tracy waited for him to continue, sensing anything she said would interrupt his flow.
“I told Claire I felt unwell. Of course, she agreed we should go home immediately.”
His tears trickled onto the pristine white pillow.
He didn’t need distance now. Tracy let go of his hand, slid across the bed, and tucked herself in next to him, wrapping one arm around his chest. He held her to him.
“I’d not had a lot to drink, but I’d had enough that I really shouldn’t have been driving. It was late, the streets were almost deserted. It had been raining earlier, but the rain stopped.”
Phillip paused, like a runner gathering strength for his final dash.
“He was drunk, the car was stolen, and he plowed into the passenger side of our car. They told me later Claire shouldn’t have survived, but she did, just. Jasmine nursed what was left of her when she came home from the hospital.”
She watched his chest heave with barely suppressed sobs.
“I was in a coma for ten days. I was badly injured, although Claire’s side of the car had absorbed most of the impact. When I came around, I lay in my hospital bed and re-enacted the accident, over and over again. Every. Single. Detail. And when I tried to get out of bed, I couldn’t walk.”
“It wasn’t your fault, Phillip. You can’t blame yourself for a drunk driver. It was a terrible accident, but it was an accident.”
“Tracy, you don’t understand. I saw him coming. I knew he was going too fast, but my reflexes were slow. I’d been drinking. If I’d been sober, she’d be alive today, but far more than that. My jealousy killed her. My denial of the fundamental principles of our marriage. We had agreed almost from the beginning that our marriage would be an open one. We were only in that place at that time because I didn’t like the way another man looked at her.”
Tracy held him as close as she could. She wanted to say something to heal him, to nurture him, but she lacked the right words.
“Oh, Phillip,” she murmured.
He rolled her over, and she cradled his head in her breasts and stroked his back as he wept. While he’d been talking, she’d become so involved in his story she almost forgot the sex she craved only a short time before.
“My wonderful Mrs. Jones, forgive me, please,” he whispered.
“Mr. Browne, what is there to forgive?”
“This.” His voice was low and rough, and then he couldn’t speak at all because he was devouring one of her nipples.
She gasped when he nipped her in exactly the right way.
How could he want sex at a time like this? Surely, he wanted comfort, not...
But he did. His erection was rock solid against her thigh, and the way he used his teeth on her nipples set her body on fire all over again.
Almost before she had time to work out what was happening, her legs were spread, and he was poised above her, positioned between her thighs with the hard, smooth head of his cock pressing at the gateway to her cunt. He grasped her h
ands, pulled them above her head, and pinned her to the bed.
“Fuck me, Mr. Browne!”
“You have no idea how much I’ve longed to, Mrs. Jones.”
His cock surged into her in one swift, fluid movement. She wrapped her legs around his thighs, holding him inside her, embracing him with her entire body.
“Fuck me,” she repeated. “I want everything you have.”
“Gladly.” He began to move.
Tracy opened her body, her heart and her soul to him, draining his pain as he thrust, harder and harder, his gaze locked onto hers.
Phillip’s sweat trickled down his face and chest, replacing his tears. All the tension of the days and weeks and months leading up to this moment went into their sex, this mutual striving to reach a place of unity, a place of bliss.
Tracy found herself chanting his name like a mantra, as though to convince herself that he was really there, with her, in the moment.
He answered by increasing the tempo and depth of his thrusts.
She clung to him, digging her fingers into his back, her legs entwined in his, holding him deep inside her. She matched his every move. The depth of her desire for him pushed her higher and higher.
Never had sex been so intense, so total an experience.
She screamed his name the same time he shouted hers.
Phillip held her while their heart beats slowed, and their breathing returned to normal. He brushed damp curls from her forehead.
“Phillip,” she said, when she could speak again. “Why? All this, the room, the secrecy?”
“To answer that question, darling girl, I need to tell you what happened when I arrived in Bangkok.”
Tracy nodded. “Go ahead.”
Tracing a random pattern on her damp skin, he spoke. “As you know, I came to Thailand expecting surgery. The doctors ran various tests, but not a lot seemed to be happening. I was beginning to think I’d wasted my time and money.
“One of the older doctors asked me to meet with him. I went to that meeting prepared to give him a piece of my mind.” Phillip laughed. “How wrong I was.”
