The Berkeley Coed s Assault
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From the moment she walked in, I knew this was an appointment I wouldn’t soon forget. Her presence commanded my attention immediately, and I stood dazed for a minute with my mouth slightly agape. It wasn’t just her looks, although she was undoubtedly beautiful; she exuded confidence and power, and damn, was it sexy. She stood in the doorway eyeing me for a moment and smirked as our eyes locked briefly before sashaying her way into the room, letting her handbag drop from her shoulder to the floor.
“Welcome, Mrs Waltham,” I said, snapping back into professional mode.
“Ms,” she quickly corrected, casting an inscrutable glance at me as she removed her long coat.
“Apologies.” I forced a polite smile in an attempt to disguise the inexplicably nervous state she had put me in. “Please, let me hang that up for you,” I added, almost tripping over my own feet as I rushed around the table to take her coat.
I hesitated in front of her as she seemed to tower over me in stilettos, hands placed firmly on her hips and that disarming smirk still lingering around the corner of her mouth. She made me feel like a schoolboy again, stammering in front of the stern headmistress. Her eyes followed me as I walked to and returned from the coat rack in the corner. Our eyes met again and I gulped, painfully aware of what was to follow.
Just as I opened my mouth to speak, she interjected, “Am I supposed to get naked for this or what?” The very thought elicited a deep pang of lust in my core.
“Many people do,” I replied, resisting the urge to mentally undress her, “But some keep their underwear on. It’s really whatever you’re comfortable with, Ms Waltham.” I retrieved a towel and handed it to her, momentarily allowing my eyes to drop to her tantalising cleavage, then directed her to the small changing room.
It was impossible to tear my eyes away from her as she strode away. The protuberant curve of her ass, accentuated by the tight black pencil skirt, drew my gaze, which then wandered down the backs of her thighs to her shapely calves. My cock began to stir and I chastised myself, pushing the many inappropriate thoughts that had manifested from my mind.
She emerged shortly after with the towel wrapped around her, her cleavage still prominently on display and her wavy dark locks collected in a loose bun. I stood on the other side of the table, fussing with the arrangement of my various oils and implements so as to avoid eye contact. There was a slight tremble in my hands which I fought to temper.
I averted my eyes as she positioned herself on the table and draped the towel over her buttocks and upper thighs. When I turned to begin the massage, I gulped again, beads of sweat forming on my forehead. Her body was a work of art, from the definition of every toned muscle to the even golden tan that glazed her unblemished skin. She was not slender and fragile, but strong like an Amazon, and clearly someone who took great care of their body.
The gentle, generic relaxation music floated through the room as I drizzled oil between her shoulder blades and began to spread it across her back. Almost at once I could feel the tension she carried that must have brought her here; the muscles were taut and often knotted. As the scent of jasmine and bergamot filled the air, I began to rub and knead, applying pressure where I could feel her stress.
I pressed down hard between her shoulders and asked, “Does that feel okay?”
She did not reply in words, but gave a long, sensual moan of approval. The noise was almost sexual, and I could feel the familiar stirring in my underwear again. I pressed again, untwisting the knot, and I felt her entire body relax beneath my hands as though she were now putty for me to mould to my will. Another low moan escaped her lips and a surge of blood made my cock twitch imperceptibly.
I shook my head as though to shake out all the incredibly unprofessional thoughts that were now running through my mind. I had given hundreds of massages to incredibly attractive people, but none had made me yearn in quite the way Ms Waltham did. Unconsciously, I bit down on my lip as my hands glided down her body to massage her lower back. Her soft skin, glistening with oil, was irresistible.
The towel concealed her from her hips to halfway down her thighs, stretched tight over her round rump. Despite my harshest self-scolding, I was semi-erect and the bulge in my loose shorts was becoming increasingly noticeable. As I poured more oil over her legs, I forced myself to think unsexy thoughts, praying I would be soft by the time the hour was up. I couldn’t help but laugh as I conjured up mental images of old, ugly naked people, wrinkly and saggy, flashing me gummy smiles—it was an effective strategy as my arousal began to subside.
I worked the ball of my thumbs into her sinewy calves and asked, “Are you a runner, Ms Waltham?” I had originally trained as a sports massage therapist and knew a runner’s legs when I had my hands wrapped around them. I guessed from her physique that it was no idle hobby either.
“I am,” came the muffled reply, “I’m training for the Edinburgh Marathon.” This was followed by another low groan that caused my hand to slip from her leg momentarily.
“Is it your first?” I was keen to keep talking to stop my mind from wandering further up her legs than my hands were permitted. Her thick thighs were all muscle and I had to really work hard to knead the tissue.
“I…” She faltered for a moment, purring her approval as I went to town on her legs. “I did London when I was young, but I’ve only gotten back into running in the last two years.”
To get as deep as I wanted, I had to bear over her—it would have actually been easier to get on the table with her—and I let out a small grunt as I applied the pressure through my fingertips. When I reached the point where her thighs met, she readily parted them to allow my hands to encircle her leg.
As she shifted, the towel rode up a little to just below the cleft where her buttocks met her legs. Noticing this in my peripheral vision, I gulped once more, but dared not redirect my stare from the muscles in my hands. I moved further up her leg and again felt the slight tremble in my hands.
She went on, seemingly oblivious to the battle between arousal and professionalism that raged inside my head. “I got pretty caught up in my career and stopped taking care of my body; I got pretty fat actually.” There was no trace of it now, I observed, my fingers lightly brushing the skin just under the edge of the towel.
“So, I just decided.” She became loud and firm, and I lifted my hands from her to readjust my shorts. “I wanted to get in shape, and run another marathon before I turned forty.”
“Well, you’re certainly in great shape,” I said, moving to the other leg, “But forty must still be a wee way off.”
At that, she lifted her head from the table and laughed. I had genuinely not meant to flatter—I couldn’t have put her at a day over thirty-four. Her body shook in my hands as she chuckled and the towel rose another few millimetres.
“I’m five months away, you charmer,” she said, trying to turn her head towards me without moving her body. Her body vibrated with another laugh and my oily fingers grazed the underside of her rear, just for a second. She seemed not to notice.
“You look excellent for your age…” The words slipped out before I could catch myself and I cringed, turning away to wipe my hands clean. I tried to recover with, “I hope you don’t mind me saying so.”
She lifted herself up onto her side, catching my eye with that intense stare, smiling almost wickedly as she covered her breasts with one arm. “Do I mind a handsome young man telling me how attractive I am? What do you think?”
My face went red hot as I blushed from the neck up. I opened my mouth to reply but quickly closed it again when I realised no words were forthcoming. All I could do was stand with a meagre smile on my face, hoping beyond hope that her eyes would not drop to my obvious bulge. She flashed a most definitely wicked grin before lying back down on the table.
I took two deep breaths, before resuming. “I’ll do your arms now, if you could just lay—““Actually,” she interrupted, “Could you spend some time on my glutes? I do a lot of sitting at work.” She reached down to lift the towel onto her lower back, exposing her bare bottom. My cock positively jumped at the confirmation that she had not kept her underwear on—if she had been wearing any in the first place.
Her perfectly round ass had the same golden gleam as the rest of her body, with not a tan line in sight. I gulped down a large swig of water, my eyes glued to the delicious rump she had just exposed to me, and tried to compose myself before responding. Alas, there was still a discernible tremor in my voice as I croaked, “Yes, of course… Ms Waltham.”
It wasn’t part of the standard massage, but I had rubbed many an athlete’s rear end. Never, though, had doing so made my cock throb with lust. Gone from my mind were the saggy old men and women, forced from my thoughts by the taut, ripe arse of this gorgeous woman. I spread the oil over her cheeks, hyper aware of exactly where each of my fingers were at any given time.
The massage began in earnest, my thumbs pressing deep to relax the muscles, and she hummed her satisfaction, driving me absolutely wild with desire. I worked on one cheek at a time, drawing the tension out with my expert fingers, my hard dick aching to be released from its restraint. She moaned louder and more consistently, as though she knew the effect she was having on me.
Just as I was almost done, sweat dripping down my face and neck, she moved her legs apart again, wider this time, revealing her clean-shaven pussy, glistening with beads of what I could only assume was her own arousal. “Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look,” I repeated in my head, trying to look anywhere but her mouth-watering opening. But no matter where I looked, my eyes were magnetically drawn back to her moist entrance.
Then, quite suddenly, she pushed her arm beneath her body only for her hand to reappear between her legs. I was mesmerised, the massage all but forgotten, as one of her long fingers slid along her slit, gently easing her lips apart. Her manicured nail sank slowly into her, followed by the rest of the finger, and she let out a throaty grumble of pleasure. She started to draw it out and push it back in, painfully slowly, as her thumb pressed down on her clit, making small circular movements.
I had removed my hands from her completely at this point and stood awestruck, hardly able to comprehend the reality of the situation. My mouth hung agape as I stared at the stunning woman, more than ten years my senior, now masturbating on my table, drowning out the relaxation music with the sound of her erotic moans. I could feel the ache between my own legs; I could feel the wet spot on my shorts formed by the pre-ejaculate leaking from my cock. I didn’t touch it though; I didn’t even think about it. The scene before me was hypnotic—I was paralysed by desire.
She let the towel drop to the floor as she rolled onto her back, raising her knees and spreading herself open as far as the table would permit. There was fire in her eyes now. They roved over my body, lingering on the strained, damp fabric of my shorts, then locked onto mine, communicating a thirst—a need. Her hand slithered to her mound, the tip of her middle finger just touching her protruding clit, and she mouthed the words, “Eat me.”
Gulp.
I automatically moved to the end of the table, tightly gripping the back of her thighs and pulling her down the table so her ass and pussy were right at the edge. Emboldened by the passionate heat of the moment, I leaned down between her legs and took an erect nipple in my mouth, gently biting down as my tongue danced in circles over it. I moved to the other, grinding my pulsating erection against her wetness, eliciting an, “Oh, fuck!” and causing her to lift her hips towards me, pressing the tip of my cock against her sensitive nub.
Her fingers pushed their way into my hair and gripped tight, pulling me up to her mouth into a sloppy, fevered kiss. Then she pushed me back down, reiterating her one command, and I crouched at the end of the table, my mouth level with her sodden cunt. I ran my hands up the back of her thighs, holding her legs steady as buried my face in her.
My tongue delved between her folds, lapping up her sweet nectar and seeking out her entrance. I pushed in deep and her strong thighs clamped around my head, muffling the obscenities she now uttered. I explored her as deftly as I could, sometimes licking slowly along the length of her slit, sometimes darting rapidly in and out of her wanton hole. Her legs shook as I devoured her; she urged me on with her squeals of delight, and pushed me deeper with her firm hand.
My lips closed around her swollen clit and I held it in my mouth, sucking gently as I looked up to lock eyes with my delectable massage client once more. Her eyes were still full of that power and confidence, but now tinged with a deep need. Her chest heaving as she breathed deeply, she mouthed her second command: “Make me cum.”
Freeing one leg from my tight grasp, I brought two fingers to her now frothy entrance and quickly entered her. I began to thrust my thick fingers in and out of her, and my tongue relentlessly thrashed on her quivering clit. Her whole body squirmed under the double assault and her pelvis gyrated to match the rhythm of my mouth and hand. It was only a matter of seconds before she grabbed my hair with both hands, violently shaking as her climax erupted, contracting around my fingers and saturating my beard with her juices.
I removed my fingers, holding her legs steady again, but continued to slowly lick her until her last convulsion subsided. When I stood, her arms and legs hung limply over the edge of the table like a rag doll. Her eyes were closed, her mouth open as she gradually regulated her breathing. Her radiant body glistened with sweat. I picked up the towel and started to pat her down, making her laugh before she reached up behind my head and pulled me down into our second kiss, softer this time but no less heated. She took the towel from me and stood, finishing the pat down herself.
With a playful wink, she disappeared into the changing room, leaving me trembling from head to toe, clutching the edge of the table to stop my legs from giving way. She emerged very shortly after, straightening her blouse and looking every bit as breathtaking as she did when she walked in. But for the few stray hairs and a slight flushing of her cheeks, there was no evidence that she had had anything but a perfectly ordinary massage. She crossed the room to retrieve her coat and bag and I thought she might leave without a word, but she paused, then came towards me.
She drew close to me, towering over me again in stilettos, and brought her face close to mine, that disarming smirk less subtle now. Without saying a word, she lifted a crisp fifty pound note into the narrow gap between our faces, just long enough for me to see what it was, then slipped the generous tip into the pocket of my shorts. Her fingertips traced the outline of my still hard cock, making it ache and throb all the more, as she pressed her lips firmly against mine. As she broke our kiss, she grasped my length tightly in her hand and I gasped. She leaned into my ear, the smell of jasmine and bergamot strong on her skin, and whispered, “Next time, I want this.”
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