I was wandering aimlessly around Pike Street Market in Seattle at about 3:30 on Saturday afternoon when my cellphone rang.
"Hi, this is Mark...what's up?"
A female voice, sounding a little flustered and confused, responded, "oh, ummm, hi, ahh, Mark. This is Danielle. I'm trying to reach Allison. But, unless you're her new lover or have stolen her cellphone, I think I must have the wrong number."
We spent a few seconds trying to sort out the confusion and eventually determined that she had dialed 9887 instead of 9778 and she apologized and started to hang up.
But she hesitated for a second and I said, "is anything wrong, Danielle?"
"No..." she said quietly, sounding slightly embarrassed. And then she just suddenly added, "it's just that, well, you have the most incredibly romantic and sensual voice. I've always loved men with deep voices."
I laughed and, right out of the blue, decided it would be fun to tease her so I dropped my voice a few octives lower and crooned, "thanks, Danielle. What's your most intimate and secret sexual desire and how can I make it come true?"
I expected her to gasp and hang up.
Which, of course, she immediately did as I chuckled to myself quietly and resumed my unguided tour through the fish market.
But about an hour later my cellphone rang again.
I answered it and this vaguely familiar female voice simply blurted out, "I've always wanted to have a man I didn't know give me a massage while I was completely naked and blindfolded."
And then she quickly hung up.
I walked around the streets of Seattle aimlessly for about the next twenty-two minutes with an erection that could trip a horse, muttering to myself, staring at the stupid cellphone and cursing the damn US West call-blocking feature.
About five o'clock in the evening the cellphone rang again.
A much more rational Danielle took a deep breath, apologized for what she had said earlier to me about her quirky massage fantasy, explained that she didn't know what had come over her and was highly embarrassed and asked me to forgive her since she didn't know me from Adam and she didn't want me to think that she was an incredibly rude person or a sex-crazed maniac.
I assumed that she had simply gone home and masturbated until she wasn't feeling as aroused as she was when she blurted out her fantasy to me and that now she was trying to make amends for her earlier indescretion. So I told her that I certainly understood, forgave her completely and then, when she was sufficiently off balance, changed stride suddenly on her by casually adding, "of course, I'd still be happy to make your secret little fantasy come true whenever you want."
Her reaction was simple.
She gasped "what!!??"
As dispassionately as it's possible to sound when you're about to explode, I explained that I'd always had the same fantasy. I'd always thought it would be fun to give a woman a massage under those exact circumstances, blindfolded, no conversation between us, everything she'd specified. Of course I was lying through my teeth to her because I'd never even thought of doing something like that but it did sound fun and, besides, the chances of it actually happening in this case were about five hundred gazillion to one so what the hell did I have to lose. I knew she'd never call my bluff even though, by now, we were clearly engaged in a game of Sexual Chicken that threatened to get gradually more serious.
But I'd misjudged her.
She raised my opening bet by giggling nervously and then taking a deep breath and asking coyly, "okay, Mister Smartypants, how would you go about it?"
I figured she was getting this brave because she knew she was still anonymous, so I said, "well, that depends on whether you live in a house or an apartment."
"A house. On Mercer Island."
"Well, then all you'd have to do," I whispered as seductively as possible, "is unlock your front door and put something yellow on it. That way, when I get there, I'll know that I'm at the right place. Then take off all your clothes, lay down on your bed and put on a blindfold. I'll walk in the door, lock it behind me, find the bedroom and without saying a thing give you a massage. It's just that simple."
There was sort of a stunned silence at her end for a few seconds.
Then I heard a few gasps and a very soft moan and she suddenly blurted out, "ohmygod, Mark, I'm so aroused that I'm actually thinking of doing this with you. There can't be any sex. No intercourse, no matter how wound up either one of us gets, okay? Oh, oh, ummm, that feels good. Unnn, unnnn. Umm, do you promise? No sex. And neither one of us can talk during the massage and you have to leave right after and we can never ever see each other ever again and that should be pretty easy for me since I'll have a blindfold on and never know what you look like anyway and, and, ummmm, but you have to promise...oh, oh, oh...ummm, no sex, okay? Absolutely no sex. Unnnnnn..."
I heard a few more gasps and then her voice just trailed off.
All negotiation, especially in sales, is a series of hurdles. One person sets up a hurdle ("it's too expensive") and the other person jumps over it ("but it will save you a lot of money in the long run").
Hurdle, jump, hurdle, jump.
This no sex thing was obviously her way of setting up a hurdle that was so great it would keep her from doing something she knew was a complete mistake and insanely dangerous. Because she'd read all the stories on Literotica she knew that the one immutable law of sex is that no man can give a naked woman a massage and not end up having intercourse with her. Especially if they're strangers. And, to complicate things even more, if the massage ever happened it would clearly be virtually impossible to muttle your way through it without talking, or at least screaming "oh, baby, oh, baby, oh, baby" or something like that five or six times. And, if that didn't completely shut the door on the whole idea, the final requirement about not seeing each other again certainly would. Of course they would see each other again. Or at least get married.
But, alas, now it was my turn to play.
"No problem. I do it all the time, Danielle, I touch naked women that I don't know all the time," I said with as much conviction and sincerity as I could muster. "That's what I do for a living, I'm a masseur. And if I ever accidentally run into one of those women on the street, I pretend not to know them. Besides, I'm good looking. I'm six six and handsome and I'm in perfect shape. I spend all day kayaking and mountain climbing and running through the forest with rabid dogs chasing at my heels. And I'm single. In fact, I'm so attractive and rugged and handsome that most of my female clients get so aroused when I'm giving them a massage that I have to leave the room while they masturbate. Almost all of them beg me to have intercourse with them. But I won't do it. I absolutely won't do it. And if you tried to turn a simple massage into intercourse, I'd leave your house immediately, too. So don't even think about it. I'm serious. If this is all a ruse so you can get me into bed, you're barking up the wrong tree."
Oh-oh.
I think that stunned her.
I know it sure stunned the hell out of me. Anyway, bye-bye hurdle. Of course, I just barely managed to get most of that diatribe out without choking on my tongue but this was definitely turning into an interesting conversation.
Obviously I wasn't going to go as quietly into that good night as she thought.
But, if anything, she was intense. After she recovered enough of her composure to talk again a machine gun volley of questions start flying from her.
"What's your real name?"
"Mark."
"You're really single?"
"Yes."
"Are you really six six and good looking and is your body absolutely perfect?"
"Yes, yes and yes. I look like one of those guys in the exercise machine videos."
"Oh, God, I can't believe I'm having this conversation. Are you, ummm, okay, well then, how big are your, you know, feet?"
"Huge. Size 14. But it doesn't matter because we're never going to make love anyway. I'll leave if you try anything fishy. And nothing you can do, screaming, shouting, gasping, moaning, begging, threatening to faint, even flopping around completely out of control on the bed from your six hundredth orgasm will convince me to have sex with you. Oh, and I can make it vibrate?"
"Make what vibrate?"
"My feet."
Suddenly there was a lot of uncontrollable giggling at the other end of the phone followed by, "six hundred orgasms, huh? Well, I've already had two while I've been talking to you, Mark, so...that means I have five hundred and ninety-eight left to go...okay, where are you right now, somewhere in Texas I hope...please, please be somewhere in Texas...please, please, please..."
"Nope, I'm on Mercer Island. In fact, I'm only a few blocks away from your house."
That sound you just heard in the distance was another hurdle falling. Of course, there were a couple slight complications. For one thing, Pike Street Market is nowhere near Mercer Island and I was in Pike Street Market. And, secondly, she hasn't told me exactly where on Mercer Island her house is yet, so how the hell could I be a couple blocks away?
But, by now, she was apparently so sexually intoxicated with the whole idea that none of that had dawned on her. Or she was ignoring it. All I can hear was some very deep breathing at the other end of the phone and a few low moans.
Finally she gasps, "five hundred and ninety-seven to go...unnnm, Mark, you've got me so aroused I can't think. Look, my name's Danielle but I think I already told you that. Anyway I live on Mercer Island Way. The street's only a block long. Now I'm going to hang up and, ummm, you know, masturbate or something. If I'm stupid enough to call you back in the next twenty or thirty minutes the only thing I'll be able to do is blurt out my street address. Otherwise, it's been fun talking to you."
Click.
Oh shit. I've got a half hour to get there and I know it's impossible. I hail a cab and almost scream "Mercer Island Way" at the driver as I jump in.
One minute, two minutes, three minutes.
"Run over the damn pedestrians," I shout. "I'll give you a hundred dollar tip if you make it there in less than thirty minutes."
The guy driving the cab spins his head around and looks at me. He knows where we are. He knows where we're going. He knows it's impossible. I might as well told him to start driving to the moon. But, what the hell, he decides that a hundred dollars off the books smells pretty good to him and he floors it.
Exactly twenty-eight minutes later we're sitting on Mercer Island Way and he says casually, "what house is she in, buddy? I figure it has to be a woman..."
"Damned if I know..." I mutter as I step out of the cab and hand him two hundred dollar bills. "Keep the change. You can probably use some of the money to get the blood off your fenders. Nice driving."
Okay. Now what?
I'm standing in the street in black Spandex bicycle shorts and a white T-shirt. This is a seriously upscale neighborhood. Guard dogs are barking and wealthy socialites and thier maids from Guatemala are staring out their windows trying to figure out if I look like a burglar. Or a rapist. Or just some idiot who's been foolish enough to think with his dick and now doesn't know what to do next.
The cellphone isn't ringing.
Another minute goes by. Nothing. Whew. Relief. I wasn't sure I had the guts to go through with this anyway so I start to leave.
Then suddenly the cellphone rings.
"4856. 4856. The brown house. I must be out of my mind...what am I doing...remember, no sex..."
Click.
Oh-oh. She just threw all her money into the pot and it's time to look at the cards. I've been bluffing with a pair of sevens. I figure she's got at least three of a kind or a straight. I look behind me and see the house. Am I really going to walk over there, open the door and give a massage to a naked, blindfolded woman that I don't know from Eve. She could weight five hundred pounds. She could have a wart the size of Texas on her butt or no teeth or a big boyfriend hiding in the closet ready to stomp me into the ground.
Besides, there's one other little problem: I'M NOT A MASSEUR!!!
I lied. I don't know hot oil from broiled fish. As far as I'm concerned, a Swedish massage is something you get in Stockholm. I'm so stupid about this stuff that I think a deep tissue massage somehow involves Kleenex.
"What the hell am I doing?", I scream quietly to myself.
Now it's my turn to take a deep breath.
I walk through the front gate and quickly move up to the porch.
"Oh shit, a yellow scarf's sticking out of the door," I mutter to myself as I panic and freeze. "What am I going to say if I don't go in and she calls my cellphone again? Sorry, I chickened out because I was afraid you were ugly. I'm not that cruel. I could pretend that I was color blind and couldn't tell which house was brown but she'd see right through that because she gave me the address. And then she'd be just as hurt. And I don't want to hurt her. Well, I guess I'm stuck. Me and my big mouth. Okay, here goes."
I smile and wave at the eight private security guards who are now staring at me from their beat-up 1975 Ford Escort as I open the front door and walk inside.
Great place.
Big.
She has to be a professional to live here, doctor, lawyer or a Microsoftie.
The whole house smells wonderful.
Like a woman.
I lock the deadbolt on the front door and move in the direction that seems most logical for bedrooms, trying to remember as much karate as I can in case her husband, her boyfriend or a big dog suddenly ambushes me. I can hear soft music playing upstairs.
"Hey, that's probably a clue," I think to myself as I quickly realize I'm totally clueless and begin walking up the stairs. When I'm at the top I turn right and glide through the first open door into a bedroom.
"OH MY GOD!!!"
The most incredibly beautiful, completely naked woman with a blindfold on that I have ever seen is laying very quietly in the middle of a massive round bed.
Well, okay, she's not totally naked.
And she is a little stiff.
In fact, she's trembling and there's a blue towel about the size of a postage stamp floating above her butt. Apparently she panicked somewhere between the last time she called me and now and realized that laying completely naked in front of a total stranger that you'd just invited into your house probably wasn't very smart. Of course, laying on your stomach with a blindfold on under an incredibly small towel somehow made everything better.
I think ostriches have already perfected that technique.
Anyway, I take a deep breath and, as I walk quietly across the carpet towards the bed, resist the temptation to stutter out, "hi, what's new, Danielle, and, oh, by the way, I'm scared, really, really scared because I've never done anything this overtly sexual before, especially with someone as gorgeous as you are and, besides, I really don't know what the hell I'm doing since I lied to you about being a masseur..."
But after all, rules are rules so I don't say a thing.
However, now that I think of it, once when I was 12 or 24, I forget which, I remember my Mom telling me something like, "okay, son, here's the only thing you'll ever need to know about sex. If a woman you don't know calls you up on your cellphone and asks you to give her a massage while she's naked and blindfolded, you probably shouldn't do it."
That was it. That was absolutely everything my parents ever told me about sex. And, at the time, it made absolutely no sense. In fact, I remember squirming around in my chair at the kitchen table after it was all over and muttering, "yeah, right, Mom. Like that's ever gonna happen. Can I go out and play now?"
The room has a few candles flickering and some sort of strange looking bottle is sitting on the nightstand by the bed. I figure it's a bomb.
She knows I'm here now.
And I know she knows I'm here now because I can hear her breathing change just before she tries to muffle the series of soft little screams she's now making by hiding her head completely under a pillow.
Too stupid to realize that she might be trying to send me a very subtle signal with her panicked shrieks, I pick up the plastic bottle, decide that it's not a bomb since I can't hear it ticking and quietly move a chair to the end of the bed by her feet.
And immediately discover that trying to sit down with an erection when you're wearing Spandex bicycle shorts is no simple task. It's like trying to fold up an umbrella in the dark with one hand.
But I finally manage to do it and suddenly realize that I'm just sitting there, shaking my head back and forth in amazement and staring at her body. She's about 5'8", 125 lbs, with tanned, athletic legs that are at least five hundred miles long. Her skin is flawless, her elbows are pressed against the side of her body, discretely hiding her breasts as she holds the pillow over her head with her hands. And her blonde hair is swept to one side, languishing across her bare shoulders. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen and her butt is so perfect that I want to just bend over and start biting it softly.
I notice her trembling slightly. I'm sure she's trying to control it but I'm positive she wants to jump up and scream and run out of the house as much as I want to jump up and scream and run out of there.
But it's too late for both of us now.
Besides, I have the advantage of being able to see her. I already know she's beautiful. As far as she knows, I could be the Hunchback of Notre Dame and have a twelve inch dagger in my hands. I want to start talking to her, telling her it's okay, telling her she can take off her blindfold, telling her how nervous I am, but the rules are the rules, no talking, no sex, just a massage and then goodbye.
I stare down at her and start to panic. Does a masseur pour the lotion in his hands first or does he pour it directly on the patient, err, victim, err whateverthehell this woman in front of me is? And do professional masseurs' hands always tremble like this? And sweat?
"Okay, try to settle down and just pretend she's your old girlfriend Kate," I think to myself. "Ooops, can't do that. Way too much baggage there. Okay, just pretend she's your Mom. Yikes! Sister? Ain't got none. Oh shit. I'm runnin' out of women. Ann Kelly. Yeah, that's it. Pretend she's Ann Kelly, the most beautiful woman in high school. Of course, that was more than ten years ago but...ummm, we just won the game, I threw four touchdown passes and Ann Kelly sprained all the muscles in her back yelling and desperately needs a backrub. So she took off her cheerleading outfit and plopped down on the bed. Okay, ummm, why the blindfold? Why would Ann Kelly be wearing the blindfold. Ummm, she's shy. Yeah, that's the ticket. She's shy."
Author's Note: Of course, why a shy 16 year old girl would be laying on a bed completely naked is another issue but you try and think with a hard-on sometime while you're writing. Nothing makes sense! Now back to the story...
I pour a little bit of whatever mysterious concoction is in the bottle onto her right calf and she stops shrieking and moans softly. I just about explode it's so erotic but I bite my lip and put both my hands on the back of her calf and start rubbing gently. She immediately moans again and moves her left foot about six miles away from her right foot.
OHMYGOD!!!
Suddenly my eyes are not watching my hands. In fact, I forget that I have hands. In fact, I forget where I am, what time of day it is and whether or not up is down and down is up. All the blood in my body that isn't already in my penis starts rushing to my head. I feel faint. My heart suddenly bursts out of my chest and I can see it stuck to the outside of my T-shirt going thump, thump, thump. I stop rubbing her leg and just stare for a few seconds.
She's obviously already aroused.
Very, very aroused.
Or else the lips of her vagina just swell up when she's frightened. Either way, I start rubbing again, aimlessly sliding my hands up and down the back of her calf as I watch her totally exposed lips slowly turn a light crimson red.
"Now what were the rules again?" I gasp to myself. "Settle down, Markl Think. Think. Think, damn you, think!! Okay, more warm walrus oil or whatever's in the bottle. Yeah, pour that on her other calf and then start sliding your hands up and down her legs from her calves to her thighs, Mark. Damn, am I glad she dialed the wrong number."
Another low moan.
I think it came from her that time but I'm not sure. At any rate, if it was her, this one sounds like she's a lioness in the jungle and she's getting ready to bite something.
But now I'm getting into this. Guess what? I'm a musician and she's a violin and I just discovered I can make wonderful sounds come out of her if I do everything right. Time to get serious. Really serious. A series of long, slow, strokes up the back of her legs from her ankles all the way up to the top of her thigh. Right hand on the right leg, left hand on the left leg. Caressing, teasing, first soft then a little harder then soft again. Producing a symphony of sexual melodies from the now suddenly expert manipulation of the muscles and skin on her legs.
Until I accidentally brush my thumbs against her vagina.
Just once.
I hear a small, very deep grunt, followed by a long gasp slip out from under the pillow. This time I'm sure it's her because my mouth is so dry I couldn't squeak if the roof of the house suddenly fell in. Another long stoke down her legs and back up and another accidentally intentional brush of my thumbs against the incredibly swollen lips of her vagina. The same sounds flow from her lips but she pushes the pillow off her head and I notice that her breathing is changing. Short, quick inhale. Longer exhale. Her fingers are moving slowly, expanding and contracting like a cat as I touch her. Five or ten more repetitions of this same thing and she suddenly folds her arms up under her head, arches her butt up slightly and spreads her legs as far apart on the bed as possible.
Wow, this is fun.
This is really fun. I can feel the power flowing through my hands.
"Hey, you guys. Look!!" I breath quietly to myself as I turn my head around to face the memory of the other ten players on our high school football team. "Look what I can do to Ann Kelly, you guys. Watch. Down the leg and then up and a gentle nudge here and a soft caress there and Ann Kelly starts to go nuts. Hmmm, this could get addictive. Let's take the towel completely off and try the butt. Wow, more soft little sexual sounds that I didn't know women could make. Now her back. Oh well, I guess everything can't be perfect. Oh-oh, she's moving."
I was about to learn Blindfolded Massage Lesson One: aroused women are not predictable creatures.
Suddenly this timid and heretofore completely placid woman just flips over on the bed. Flat on her back with her legs spread apart and smiles in my general direction.
"Okaaaaaaaayyyyy. Well, that makes sense. I guess I'd expect the world's most perfect breasts to be attached to her. Now for some fun," I mutter under my breath as I lean forward, reach down and put my hands behind her calves and pull her slowly across the bed towards me until the back of her calves are resting on my outstretched thighs. "Now lean forward a little more, Mark, reach out and massage just the very tip of her nipples and see what happens. Hey, funny sounds and an arched back. Wow!"
A few more minutes go by as she writhes gently under my touch. Caress and pull softly, caress and pull softly. Squeeze gently. And start all over again. By now her hips are moving slowly up and down almost in unison with my fingers. Pressing down with her calves on my thighs as the muscles in her stomach contract rhythmically and I witness the most beautiful sight in the world...a woman undulating slowly. Especially if she's doing it because you're the man touching her.
Less than four minutes later she bites down on her lip and groans. Suddenly a series of small electrical impulses rush from the right side of my brain to the left side and back again and, miraculously, a whole new world is in front of me and I can instantly read every subtle little signal her body is sending me.
I slide the tips of my fingers quietly off her nipples and put the palms of my hands on the inside of her thighs. Sliding them delicately up and down from her knees to her vagina. Teasing her as she squirms sensually beneath me. Pushing her thighs just slightly further apart each time until she gives in completely and takes her calves off my thighs, brings up her feet and flops her knees out and down so that the soles of her feet are almost together in front of me on the bed.
"Hmmm. She's not touching my legs anymore with her legs," I say to myself as I stand up and attempt to set a world's record for taking off a pair of bicycle shorts and a T-shirt.
Less than three seconds.
A new world's record.
Freedom.
Finally.
My erection is so intense that it feels like I could use it as a battering ram to knock down doors in a raid on a drug house as I sit back down on the chair and mutter, "okay, control. Stay under control. Play by the rules. Reach around your dick and put your hands on her feet and massage them gently."
She giggles because she's ticklish.
Somehow I knew that already.
But her giggles turn to moans once again as I slide the palms of my hands over her calves and up the inside of her thighs. Her body spasms slightly as I begin to gently caress the outer lips of her vagina with my thumbs. Exploring her delicately. Suddenly she's breathing through her nose, deep quick flashes of air, like an animal under attack, intertwined with groans so deep they feel like they're welling up from the floor.
"Ohhhh, don't stop..." she whispers and then instantly realizes that she's broken the rules.
I can see it in her face. A shy smile. A seductive pursing of her lips. She knows what she's done. But she's wild and her passion is controlling her now. I resist the temptation to reply to her transgression by leaning forward. Sliding my body down over her body.
Making love to her would be so easy now.
Instead I respond with the tips of my fingers. Caressing her delicately. Gliding my fingers over the sweet, damp mysteries beneath them as she begins to rhythmically contract the muscles in her stomach and thighs. After a few minutes I place the palm of my left hand on her stomach and begin massaging it gently as I position my right hand above her vagina. She's anticipating my touch because she begins to moan softly a few seconds before I start to delicately circle the tip of my finger around the base of her clitoris. So lightly that I can feel it swelling in response to my caress.
Her mouth is open now, gasping for air.
Two minutes more of this intensely wonderful stimulation and her head begins to tilt back. Another two minutes and she's begun to gently massage her own nipples as her tongue flicks rapidly out of her mouth and brushes her lips.
Then suddenly everything stops.
Her breathing.
The slow undulations of her stomach.
All movement.
Even time.
Until her entire body tightens up and I begin to brush the tip of my finger back and forth much quicker over the throbbing tip of her clitoris. She gasps, shutters and gasps again. And then makes a sound that I've only heard from one other woman in my life as she loses complete control of herself. Staccato like screams of arousal and relief blend into spontaneous convulsions as I continue to massage her clitoris right through her first orgasm and into what seems like a never ending crescendo of ensuing climaxes.
Until she's exhausted.
But smiling and completely relaxed. Even though she's still trembling slightly and blushing because I've witnessed something incredible. The power and depth of orgasms so intense that she's almost embarrassed by her reaction.
Suddenly I realize that I'm glad she's blindfolded.
Rules are rules.
I slowly slip back into my T-shirt and bicycle shorts, bend down and kiss her softly on her mouth and then walk out the door.
Ten minutes later my cellphone rings.
Breathing.
No words.
Finally she whispers, "thank you. I didn't think men like you existed anymore, Mark."
Click.
