I took a moment to look around the room. It was a nice room, decorated in soft blues and greens and the chair she had chosen, a massive recliner with padded armrests, stood in one corner beckoning. I could hear her in the bathroom, taking care of a few minor details as I opened my bag on the bed and began to get out my supplies. First came the candles. Scent is an important part of what I do and I’ve made a little bit of a study of aromatherapy. I can’t say for sure that it works, but most of the women I’ve serviced like the scents of the candles. I usually go with lemon, but have used lavender and Jasmine on occasion when a lady has made the request. During the Christmas season I usually go with either spiced apple or cinnamon.
I placed my half dozen candles around the room in various spots and lit them with a match. Lighters are easier, but the scent of a wooden match leaves an aroma of its own and adds a rich undertone to the scents I like. I’ve never had anyone complain yet. Next came my oil warmer. Aromatherapy isn’t just about candles. In fact, most real practitioners use a burner type setup, with a candle gently warming a small bowl of oil. I do that too, but only one bowl, and it usually is a similar scent as the candles.
I could hear the shower running and I smiled. Next I set my bottles out. I have several different oils I use, all of them completely natural and admittedly flavored. My favorite is the strawberry. For me, there is just something about women that I find most appealing when combined with sweet, fruity flavors. Strawberry, pomegranate, coconut (yes I know it’s technically not a fruit), all of these are tempting to me, whereas I have little taste for flowers. Rose in particular looks wonderful, and smells nice, but is a strange taste.
And taste is everything.
Admittedly, I prefer all natural. That would be my first choice, eschewing the oils altogether. But over the years I’ve perfected my system and the gentle massage I provide is now almost a requirement. As much as I wish my silver tongue could be enough, I’ve found that for the ultimate relaxation and best outcome, I have to use my hands.
A moment later Amanda emerged from the bathroom. She was in her late forties, with a full head of dark chocolate hair that was only now getting a touch of gray at the temples. Her face was plain, but she had an engaging smile. Blushing slightly in just her bathrobe, she walked over to me, my eyes enjoying the sight of her ankles and the curve of her insole.
“I.. I think I’m ready,” she said softly.
I smiled warmly at her, calm and peaceful. It helps women relax. I gestured at her easy chair and allowed her to seat herself. She sat down, the robe still tightly around her legs, her knees together, looking up at me like a sixteen year old girl about to be asked out for the first time onto the dance floor. I pulled a small, blue padded foam block from my bag and set it on the floor in front of the chair and then picked out one of my bottles. It was a simple mineral oil, non-flavored, and meant as a sort of easement into the session.
“Might I oil your feet?” I asked.
She blinked, totally surprised at the request, but she nodded quickly, obviously relieved that we were starting with something so acceptable. It’s a bit awkward rubbing the feet of a woman who is sitting in a chair, but I worked some of the oil into her soles and caressed from the heel toward the toe, working my fingers in circles on each foot in turn. There is method to my madness as well because as she relaxed, closing her eyes, breathing in the scents of lemon and lavender, I was able to loosen her up, moving her leg outward slightly. The robe came down almost midway down her shin, so I was unable to see anything, and instead concentrated on getting her to relax.
I moved up her right leg slightly, slipping my hands beneath the robe to her knee, rubbing up and down, working out any tiny kinks I found as she sighed in bliss. I found that she seemed to really like it when I ran a single fingertip across the arch of each foot and so I did it repeatedly, knowing that the sensation was between absolute bliss and being tickled. Eventually both of my hands were working her calves, sliding up her legs to her knees.
Moving higher meant loosening the robe but as I slid my hands over her knees and up to her thighs, she spread her legs herself. The belt of the robe, which hadn’t been tied, came apart and the first flashes of bare flesh, met my eye. But it wasn’t a distraction. Amanda was a beautiful woman, but much of that beauty came from her personality, her aura. Physically she was like most of us, needing to drop a few pounds. I’m certainly not immune from that statement. I exercise but the nature of our diets, the availability of fast food, and the processed crap we eat each day, loaded with chemicals that disrupt our body’s natural hormone balance make staying fit a virtual impossibility for some of us. Who am I to judge?
Still, she looked beautiful to me and I pulled at the edges of her robe, spreading the material even as I spread her legs. I caught sight of her sex and smiled. She had shaved herself clean, which wasn’t one of my requirements, but was certainly preferential. She stiffened for a moment, then relaxed as I continued to rub only her thighs, moving higher with my oiled fingers steadily. Finally she was ready, her breathing steady and slow, eyes closed, and from the tiny peek I got of her bosom, her nipples had hardened as well. I could see the glistening petals of her sex and with gentle pressure, I lifted her leg, draping it over the armrest, opening her up.
Amanda liked it and I knew what she was experiencing. The stretch of your legs spreading is itself an aphrodisiac. It is an unnatural position for anything other than sex and as I moved her right leg, she pulled her left leg up and draped it over the arm rest as well, spreading herself open for me. My hands slid up her thighs even higher and I quickly grabbed a new bottle and poured a liberal amount of flavored oil into my palm.
The next few minutes were essential for me. Gently, steadily, and very slowly, I began working my way higher, rubbing oil around her labia majora, caressing her with my fingertips and eliciting all sorts of sighs and quiet moans. I deliberately stayed away from her clit. She wasn’t ready for that and frankly, neither was I. That was the goal, the ultimate spot. To be honest, I wanted it. I wanted to taste her, to feel her shake beneath my lips, to cry out and press herself to my mouth. But I waited. She wasn’t ready yet.
And so I caressed her. A feather like touch. My fingers slipped up and down through her petals rubbing each one delicately between thumb and forefinger. My technique has been worked out through countless experiments and now I can send a woman spiraling upward into the orgasmic clouds as easily as a baker makes a pie. And as Amanda’s breathing intensified I knew she was beginning to get close. I put my knees on the blue foam pad, leaned in, and did what she wanted me to do. I licked her clit.
The tension the candles and scents and massage had driven from her was instantly replaced by a new type of stress, a hungry, needful thing that wanted something intangible. My tongue darted out, lapping at the sensitive little nodule at the top of her sex, the little hood retracting. I suckled her for a moment, tasting the first explosions of taste, of her delicious sauce, the lubrication her own body produced, combining with my oil, an entire pallet of flavors. I ran my tongue downward over her labia, driving it deep into her sex, moving back up a moment later to her clit and concentrating on that tender nub for what to her, seemed like forever.
She began thrusting her hips, pressing up into my mouth, arching her back and panting as the sexual stimulation drove her closer to both our goals. I could tell she wanted me to increase the pace, to drive my tongue against her clit, but that isn’t how I work. It might seem intuitively right to do that, to give into her demands, but I knew that the real path to her release came not from speeding up, but from driving her absolutely insane with the steady, non-stop swirling of my tongue against her clit.
Amanda let out a keening cry and grabbed my head, pulling it against her loins as her toes curled. I dove in, using the tip of my nose to rub at her clit even as I gave into temptation and again drank in the flavor of her need, the taste of the oil disappearing as she ripened, blossoming to fruition. There was another shudder and I her voice changed from longing to satisfaction, a cry that I love hearing from women. There was a burst of zest and my mouth filled with the fluids I so desperately sought, the delicate tartness of woman that I savored more than anything else.
I continued to taste her, to use my tongue on her body even as she came down from the state of sexual euphoria I had put her in. I avoided her clit at this point, knowing that she would no doubt be highly sensitive to my touch, and so I focused on her petals, running my tongue down and up the soft folds, slurping up the every bit of her cream I could find. Finally her breathing returned to something close to normal and I pulled away, lifting my towel from my bag, and quickly wiping away the excess moisture I had smeared across my face. The taste of her was still fresh on my tongue and when I looked at her face, she smiled softly, her eyes tired.
“That was… it was..” she started to say, but was unable to articulate her true feelings. I smiled and reached for my bag. I pulled out my smartphone, which had the camera and I held it up, questioning. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but then softened. She nodded at me and I pointed the camera lens of the phone at her swollen pink slit and took the picture. I showed it to her immediately. No face or identifying marks. That was the deal. Amanda smiled and blushed, which I thought was particularly fetching. Then she quickly closed her legs and wrapped her robe back around her as she stood.
“That was wonderful,” she said, moving away from me guiltily. I stood up and began putting my bottles back into my bag. My phone and the pad went there too and then I began snuffing the candles. Finally I doused the oil lamp, poured the excess lemon oil back into its bottle, and was finally ready to go.
“Amanda, I just want to thank you. That was elegant, exquisite, and perfect,” I said. She nodded and clearly didn’t know how to handle me at this point. I grabbed my bag and headed toward the door.
“Wait!” she exclaimed a moment later. “Are you sure I can’t… you know… give you something?” she asked.
I laughed cheerfully and shook my head. “You did. Thank you.”
She looked frustrated and then gestured down toward my pants. They were buttoned and firmly buckled. “But… how can you possibly get any pleasure from…” again her voice trailed off.
I gave her another warm smile. “Amanda, I did get pleasure from it. More than you could possibly believe.” Then I turned and walked to the front door. When I looked back to say goodbye her robe was open, her body, not model perfect yet still so appealing, the soft brown eyes that mixed both desire and pleasure and satisfaction and want stared into my soul. I gave her a little wave and left.
And that was that.