23 Ways to Get Laid 01

MISCHA

"I ordered a woman." I stand in the doorway of my hotel room glaring at a tall, blonde white guy. I tighten the belt of my terry cloth robe.

His full upper lip curls in a slight sneer. "You reserved an appointment with Abbi." I can't pinpoint the light accent. Nordic, maybe? "I'm Abbi."

Who names their son Abbi? "Obviously, I thought you were a woman." The perky clerk at the front desk failed to mention that Abbi, the only masseuse available today, was a man. For what I'm paying for this private massage, mistakes are unacceptable, especially after the day I've had.

"As you can see, I'm not a woman, Ma'am." He emphasizes that last bit. I openly examine him. He looks to be in his late 20s, likely only a few years younger than me. The white cotton t-shirt stretches across his broad shoulders and seems tight enough at the sleeves to cut off circulation to his bulging biceps. His blonde hair, short on the sides and longer on top, is parted at the side and neatly combed back, giving him the appearance of a business man more than a masseuse.

I start to shut the door. "Please have them send someone else."

Abbi holds the door open, not budging. "What you see is what you get, lady." He's dropped the formalities. "And if you cancel without notice, I'll still have to charge you the full amount."

I consider unleashing my pent up anger on him - I'm the one paying to be pampered here - but then I see his hands. Big. Like basketball player big. With an abundance of veins. Veiny, man hands are my weakness.

I swing the door open. I may as well partake in what I'm already paying for. "I only want a massage. Nothing extra." As he walks past me, I can't help but notice just how tall he is. I'm 5'11'' and he towers over me. I fear I may have spoken prematurely,

Abbi enters my room without a second glance, carrying a large massage table like it's as light as a lawn chair. "What the client wants, the client gets." His earthy cologne reminds me that this man's massive hands will be all over my naked body and I don't even know his last name. "Where would you like me to set up?" His tone is polite, but his deep brown eyes are impatient. He's one of those men who's broodingly handsome when he's pissed.

"On the balcony." The proximity to the clear blue ocean was the reason I spent my entire year-end bonus on this room. I plan to soak in as much of the view as possible.

I follow him onto the balcony, exhaling silently. We've started out on the wrong foot and he's not to blame. If my boss hadn't broken his promise to not contact me during my vacation, I may have been a little less hostile. I try to remedy my mishap. "Would you like anything to drink? Water? Juice?" I have a six-pack of beer, but it seems like offering him alcohol would be inappropriate.

"I'm fine," he responds, continuing to set up his table without looking my way. His white linen pants loosely caress his shapely buttocks as he spreads a white cotton sheet over the table. In the light of the afternoon sun, I spot the sharp curves of a runner's thighs and catch a flash in my mind of Abbi jogging bare-chested and barefoot on the beach.

I put my pride on hold. "Look, I apologize about before. My boss has been hounding me all day with useless requests and all I want is to enjoy my vacation. I shouldn't have taken my frustrations out on you. I'm sorry." It's been a while since I've owned up to a mistake. In the world of business, admitting a wrongdoing is the equivalent of tossing yourself to a pack of wolves. Oddly, Abbi gives me the impression he won't hold it against me.

He leans against the table, arms crossed over his expansive chest, the afternoon sun casting shadows on his biceps at the perfect angle to emphasize their solidity. This is exactly why I wanted a female masseuse, to avoid any feelings of...arousal.

"That's a first." His boyish smile lights up his face and my heartbeat kicks up a notch.

"What is?"

"A customer apologizing. It doesn't happen often."

I'm not sure if he's being smug or sincere. "Well, just don't think you can guilt me into giving you a bigger tip. You'll still have to earn it."

"Don't worry, I'll earn it." He returns to his preparations.

Yep, he's definitely being smug. "I'll leave you to it then," I say, before escaping to the kitchen.

I down a shot of coconut rum. He is the complete opposite of what I was expecting - male and hot as sin. How am I supposed to relax with that man's hands rubbing and stroking my needy body? If it hadn't been so long since I'd had some dick, I'd be less of a wreck right now.

I deal with men of all ilks on a regular basis - tall ones, short ones, handsome ones, aggressive ones. And I always manage to come out on top in the age-old battle of the sexes. So, why is it that this blonde Adonis is throwing me off my game?

Maybe it's all the rumors I read online about spa resort masseuses and the things they're willing to do for a good tip. I'm not the kind of person to request something like that. When I get laid on this vacation, it won't be because I'm paying for it. I'm not that desperate. Right?

It's not like anything will happen anyway. He's a professional. My attraction to him is the only thing making this awkward.

"Suck it up," I whisper to myself. "It's just a massage." I take another shot, before remembering how horny rum makes me. "Shit." And I realize just how naked I am beneath the robe I'll be shedding.

********

ABBI

I turn up the heat on the massage table to just below medium. Judging from how high-strung she is, my guess is this client runs a little hot.

I set up my smartphone along with a small speaker on the patio table, selecting a new-age playlist for now, hoping it will bring her anxiety down a notch. A massage is exactly what she needs. It might just relieve some of the tension she radiates like a nuclear bomb.

I've had customers like her before, ones who prefer a female masseuse. They tend to be easily excitable and fear embarrassment of being aroused. I'll have to lean more on the mechanical than sensual side for this one, though it doesn't help that she's so stunning.

When she first opened the door, I was thrown off balance. Black women are a rarity in these types of resorts, which cater to white, suburban housewives. Finding her on the other side of the door was a surprise. And the glare she sported did nothing to mask her natural beauty.

Her brown eyes, darker brown than my own, were almond-shaped and almost too large for her round face. Pouty lips belied her headstrong personality. And then there was her skin, the rich brown of freshly ground cacao beans and smooth as marble underneath her white robe. Even now, my hands are itching to get a feel of her.

She finally joins me on the balcony, looking a little unsure of how to proceed. "Should I just..." She begins to loosen the belt on her robe. The cheeky side of me wants to just stand there and let her strip down in all her feminine glory, but I suppress the impulse.

"Is this your first massage?" I ask in a gentle tone.

She pauses her movements. "Yes."

I stand between the rail of the balcony and the massage table. Grabbing a cotton sheet, I hold it up in front of me, everything below her neck shielded from my eyes and those of anyone passing by on the beach. "I would recommend going completely nude, but you can keep on whatever undergarments you prefer. Whatever makes you comfortable."

She hesitates before saying, "I'll go nude then."

I had expected her to at least leave on her panties. Most women do. I turn my head as she disrobes. I swallow, imagining how the sunlight must be illuminating her immaculate skin. "As you wish. You can rest your face down in the donut."

I hear the squeak of her climbing onto the table and give her a few seconds to settle in. I drop the sheet, covering her body up to her shoulder blades. I remain silent, hoping the swish of the swaying palm trees in the warm breeze, paired with the music, will begin to put her at ease. Me and her both.

"How do you like the heat of the table?"

"Just a little too warm."

I smile to myself as I turn it down. "It should take a minute or two to cool down, but just let me know if it's still too warm."

"I will." She seems like the type who's not afraid to be clear about what she wants. I briefly wonder if that translates to the bedroom before dismissing the thought.

I move to the head of the table, knowing her only view is of my bare feet. "What kind of massage would you like today?"

"What do you suggest?"

"Well, it depends on what you're looking for. Our deep tissue massage is great for targeting any problem areas, like neck and lower back pain. Our most popular is the Swedish massage, which is full body and more for relaxation. It's also my specialty." My unique technique, honed during various apprenticeships under the best in the business, is the reason I'm making a more than decent living as a masseuse and traveling the world for almost nothing. It's also the reason I'm the second-most requested masseuse at the resort. The most popular of the three of us has mastered "alternative" techniques I have no interest in trying out.

"Let's go with the Swedish." I like the sound of that last word on her tongue.

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Please, call me Mischa."

The name suits her - complex, with both a feminine and masculine energy to it. "Mischa." I move the sheet lower, to rest just above the crack in her cheeks. My cock stirs at the sight of the colorful butterfly tattooed in the middle of her hip bone. Part of it disappears beneath the sheet covering her ample bottom. "Beautiful name." For a beautiful woman.

"My mom was a ballerina and studied in Russia for a few years. She heard the name in a song and never forgot it. Most Americans I meet think it's just made up."

"I'm Scandinavian, so I know better." I squirt coconut oil into my hands. The raspy sound of my palms rubbing together fills the lull in our conversation. I place my hands onto her shoulder blades and she tenses slightly before finally exhaling, her back muscles relaxing.

The contrast of my pale hands against the deep brown of her smooth back is enough to get my dick twitching. The velvety softness of her firm skin, however, is what kicks my cock into full gear. I slide my hands over her back, warm and slippery. The oil on her skin glistens. The fragrance of coconut wafts around us. Good thing her view is obstructed, or she'd see my dick already standing at half mast.

"What part?" She breaks into my thoughts.

"Sweden." Even my pronunciation of my home country has become Americanized.

"Lovely country. And people. My business has taken me to Scandinavia more than once."

"I miss it." It's been over a year since I've seen my family and my mother regularly asks when I'll be coming home. The guilt has only grown with time, but I've fought hard not to let it distract me from my mission. I plan to set foot on every island in the Caribbean before returning to my homeland. I'm only halfway there.

Her upper back is tight and I don't hold back in working out the knots, taking care not to go too deep. Slowly, the tension in her shoulder blades releases. I move further south, kneading her lower back, and she moans, as though involuntarily. I release some of my own tension, gently bumping my stiffening cock against the table.

"Just let me know if anything feels too uncomfortable and I can adjust." What I really want is to make her moan again. I rub more massage oil into my hands and increase the pressure of my ministrations. Her muscles have no choice but to obey, succumbing to my movements.

"I've got a high tolerance for pain."

She sighs and my dick is now officially at full mast.

********

MISCHA

His movements hesitate, for just a moment, before continuing to my hip bones. I raise an eyebrow. He presses his thumbs into my flesh, the tenderness in that spot causing me to suck in a breath.

He pauses. "How are you doing?"

The mix of pain and pleasure is surprisingly arousing, a rush unlike anything I've felt before. My pussy clenches beneath the sheet and I hope he won't notice the slight rock of my hips. I've worked long hours to be here; I've been a star employee, at the beck and call of senior management for years, slowly rising the ranks of leadership. My first couple of days on the secluded island are proving to be worth all of it. And Abbi is fast becoming the decadent fondant on my chocolate cake.

"Fine. Just a little tender." In a good way.

"Ok, I'll do some work on your arms for now. We can come back to that later." His voice sounds lower, hungry even.

I almost protest - I'm enjoying the ache - but instead let him lead the way. It feels good to not be in control, a rarity in my position. He molds his long fingers across my tricep, squeezing as he runs his hand down my arm. He pauses at my wrist, engulfing the delicate bone in his monstrous hand, and I shudder. He does the same to my other arm.

I continue with the small talk to distract myself from the tingling between my thighs. "How long have you lived on the island?"

"Almost a year, but I usually don't stay in the same place for too long."

"Not a bad idea," I say, imagining how nice it would be to live a more nomadic life, going wherever the wind takes me.

"My mom would disagree with you."

"I'm sure she's just worried about you. Being a massage therapist doesn't offer the same security as a 9-to-5 job."

"I earn twice as much as my dad did when he retired. I wish it were just about the money."

That's impressive. "Maybe she just wants you to settle down. Start a family. Assuming you don't have kids..." I'm fishing and don't care if he realizes it. I'm on vacation, damnit. I can flirt with my hot, young masseuse.

"I don't. And don't plan to until I'm over 35. Gives me a good eight years to be selfish."

Okay, so he's a lot younger than me. "Same here. I like to spend my hard-earned money on me, myself and I." I grin. "And you, of course."

"Much appreciated, Ma-" he catches himself, "Mischa."

"You've already more than earned your tip, by the way."

"I'm just getting started." He moves the sheet up, exposing my thick thighs and calves to the island breeze. He grabs my calves and spreads my thighs a little wider apart. I'm thankful for the cloth covering my buttocks and moistening sex. "Being single is a state of mind, I always say." He presses the heel of his hand into the side of my ass cheek and then kneads it with both hands. I exhale. No one has ever massaged my ass. "I've learned to really savor the time I spend with people, as well as the time I spend alone."

"I completely agree. I was in a relationship for seven years that was going absolutely nowhere. I decided I could either force marriage on the both of us or go solo and become the person I've always wanted to be. I chose the latter."

"That seems to be working out nicely for you."

I smile. "It is."

We both remain silent as he focuses on one and then the other buttock. When his hands land on the backs of my thighs, I'm ready. He massages first the outer and then the inner thigh muscles, using both hands simultaneously. My thick thighs are no challenge for his strong hands and the muscles begin to loosen like all the other areas he's conquered. My inner thighs are especially sensitive from the constant friction of rubbing together. My pussy is all but dripping now.

He returns to the side of the table. "Do you mind if I remove the sheet completely?"

"Not at all." As far as I'm concerned, he won't see anything he hasn't already seen before. I doubt I'm the first woman he's aroused. I close my eyes, letting the tiny insecurities about my body drift away with the warm breeze.

The music has shifted from new age to more of a chill vibe. It creates the perfect ambience for this outdoor setting. I've surrendered to Abbi's hands and to the experience in general. I'm completely exposed and along for the ride.

Without the barrier of the sheet, his hands glide up and down my ass, the glorious sensation accentuated by the squelching sound of hands on oiled flesh. My cheeks jiggle in his pliant hands and I pray they don't make a clapping sound.

I adjust my right arm, lifting it slightly off the table. It comes into contact with something hard.

Oh shit, it's his dick. "Sorry," I say in a rush, my face growing hot.

He clears his throat. "I'm the one who should apologize. I'm usually a lot better at, um, controlling myself."

I'm thoroughly embarrassed but also deeply flattered. Stretch marks and all, my ass excites a man all the way from Sweden, from a world literally thousands of miles away from mine. "I'll just take it as a compliment."

He grips my hips and then slowly runs both hands from my waist to my feet. I curl my toes in response, fearing I'll soak the sheet beneath my drenched channel.

All hope of keeping my arousal under control flies out the window when he begins to work on my feet. I've long suspected the soles of my feet were an erogenous zone but had never left them in the hands of a skilled masseuse.

I moan with abandon when he presses his thumb into the arch of my foot, a spark shooting straight to my clitoris. He squeezes my foot and massages the same sensitive area. The image of his hard cock tenting his thin linen pants crosses my mind. Before I can stop myself, my arousal builds to a blinding crescendo and I come, crying out. My hips rise up from the table, ass in the air, as I ride out the orgasm, vaguely aware that I'm on full display. It's refreshingly liberating.

Without a word, Abbi gingerly moves to the other foot, repeating the same movements in the same order and like some on-demand orgasm machine, I come again, this time able to feel the juices leak from my pussy. I think I hear him emit a low, guttural growl.

I whimper, imagining how this must all look. "Oh God," I whisper, not at all sure how to break the silence.

"An unavoidable hazard of the job," Abbi says, his voice tinted with arousal. He moves the sheet back into place, covering my back and legs. At my shoulder blades, he raises the sheet up just a little. "I'm going to have you flip over now."

********

ABBI

I knew my little trick would work. She popped like a champagne bottle cork. Twice. I should feel guilty, but once I uncovered her soaking wet pussy, I couldn't help myself.

I resist the urge to press my cock against the table and rub my desire away. She's not the first woman I've made orgasm during a foot massage; she's just the first I've wanted to fuck. Mischa's release is phenomenal to witness. Her ass high in the air, as her juices dripped from her sweet pussy, made me want to bury my tongue in her leaking channel and suck away.

My pleasure is linked to hers. And I'm willing to risk it all just for a taste of what she has to give. I want to offer the highest form pleasure to this dazzling creature writhing beneath my hands, who makes me remember why I became a massage therapist in the first place.

Satisfying women has always satisfied me. Mischa has taken this experience to a new level and I'm curious to see how far we can go....together. She has to feel this connection between us.

Mischa rolls onto her back and our eyes meet. Her brown irises have gone black with desire. The sheet rests so that just the tops of her full breasts are exposed. Her pebbled nipples beneath the sheet call out to my tongue and I long to wrap my entire mouth around her peak. Mischa's gaze drops to the conspicuous bulge in my pants. Not only do her eyes burn a hole in my crotch, but she licks her lips. Those lips that are made for fucking.

I admit I've often towed the line between sensuality and sex in my career as a masseuse. It's unavoidable. As long as the arrangement is consensual, I don't sweat it. And most resorts turn a blind eye to whatever goes on behind closed doors. But I've only ever focused on the pleasure of my client, offering hand jobs by request, with all the work done on my part and the woman's orgasm my top priority. Although I've been offered all kinds of sex in return, I've never accepted.