Chapter 1 — New York Massage Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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Andy: Daniel Kim! What kind of ad is this?

Me: Exactly what it says—free massages for you or your girlfriend.

Andy: Seriously? How much?

Me: Free.

Andy: For real? That doesn’t make sense. What do you want in return?

Me: Massaging is my hobby. I’m satisfied just stripping a woman bare and kneading her flesh. Anything beyond that? No thanks.

Andy: Really? Then can you massage my girlfriend?

Me: Is she hot? How old? Body type?

Andy: Even better than you’re thinking. Her name’s Isabelle—23, Italian-American, white.

Me: Alright. How about this Saturday? Can I come to your place?

Andy: Okay. But I’m not sure she’ll agree—she’s never had this kind of massage before.

Me: Don’t worry. I’ll handle that. Just have two towels ready.

After the call, I went to the gym. Every time I lifted a dumbbell, a faint excitement stirred deep inside me.

On Saturday afternoon, I drove for about an hour into New Jersey. When I rang the apartment bell, a white man in his fifties opened the door.

Me: Andy?

Andy: Yes. It’s me, huh?

Me: I thought you were around thirty.

Andy: Hmm… Daniel Kim, Isabelle’s my sugar baby.

Me: Sugar baby? What do you mean?

Andy: Exactly what it sounds like—I give her spending money, and she’s my lover.

Me: Damn. That’s enviable.

Andy: Actually, the reason I called you… I’ve been having trouble getting hard. I thought if I watched you undress and massage Isabelle, it might help turn me on.

Me: I see. So how far can I go?

Andy: Anything except fucking. But it won’t be easy—Isabelle thinks you’re just a regular therapist.

Me: Andy. Don’t worry about it.

As I stepped inside, a tall, brown-haired, glamorous girl walked out from the bedroom with a bright smile.

Andy: Isabelle. This is Mr. Kim. He’s a massage therapist.

Isabelle: Oh, Daniel Kim, nice to meet you. You’re even more handsome than I expected.

Me: Isabelle, you’re every bit as beautiful as I was told. It’s an honor to give you a massage.

East or West, women love compliments on their beauty. Isabelle smiled softly and led me into the room.

Inside, Isabelle lay facedown—truly a goddess with perfect proportions. The only disappointment? She was still fully dressed.

Slightly frustrated but now determined, I began gently kneading her back and shoulders.

Pressing both hands firmly over her hips, I heard a soft sigh escape her lips.

I swept my hands from her thighs down to her calves, touching her lightly, rhythmically.

Then I felt it—someone watching me. I turned my head and saw Andy standing there in nothing but his underwear, staring intently at the scene.

So there’s an audience, huh? I thought to myself, then spoke to Isabelle.

Me: Isabelle, is the massage feeling good?

Isabelle: Yes!

Me: But real massage is done completely naked.

Isabelle: Really? But I’m a little shy… I’ve never done this before. Can I keep my panties on?

Even that felt like progress, so I agreed without hesitation.

While she undressed, I turned away. There’s something about the sound of a woman taking off her clothes—it moves the ears more than any music.

When I turned back, she was lying facedown again. I draped a towel over her from hips to legs.

I poured aromatic oil onto her back and slowly spread it, spending about ten minutes massaging with soft, rhythmic motions, gradually moving toward her hips.

The only obstacle? Her panties.

Me: Isabelle, the oil will stain your panties. Mind if we take them off?

Isabelle: I don’t know… It’s a bit embarrassing.

Me: Don’t worry. I’ll keep you covered with the towel.

Isabelle: Okay… I trust you. Just cover me well.

Me: Yes. Yes!

As she slid the towel from her hips down between her legs, I caught a glimpse—her anus gently puckered, delicate folds closing like a shy flower.

Me: Isabelle, your ass is a work of art. You look just like a supermodel.

Isabelle: Really? Even if you’re lying, it feels nice.

I left the towel loosely draped over her hips and began circular motions on her buttocks, pressing and kneading.

Reluctantly, I moved down to her calves, then up her thighs, and back to her ass.

This time, boldly, I swept both hands from her buttocks up her waist, naturally sliding the towel away as I went.

I pretended not to notice. Isabelle’s face was flushed, but she didn’t protest—so I continued, the towel now on the floor.

I repeated the motions, carefully massaging from her ass to her back, and glanced between her cheeks.

Her anus twitched faintly, like a blooming chrysanthemum bun.

And her slit—long, smooth, slightly parted—seemed to smile up at me, saying “Hi?”
I wanted to touch it more than anything, but I held back, just a little longer.

I found the pressure points on her soles with my thumbs, pressing gently, then took each toe between my fingers and pulled with a soft pop.

This move releases tension and leaves a refreshing sensation—it’s essential.

I applied oil to her calves, slowly rubbing upward toward her thighs. When I gently pulled her left leg forward, the space between her buttocks opened.

Her legs naturally parted—her anus exposed, her pussy revealed.

Her slit was long and smooth, the opening slightly open.

Delicate pink folds layered like tender clam meat.

Now I understood what people meant by a “pretty pussy.”

I swallowed hard, eyes burning, clenched my fist, and rubbed the upper curve of her ass in slow circles.

Then I flattened my palm and slid it beneath her thigh, deep into the inner crease.

She’d shaved the back, but the front was rough with hair. Unsatisfied, I pushed deeper.

Soft, yielding flesh—every man’s fantasy: pussy meat.

My arousal spiked. I tapped her outer labia lightly with my middle finger, then slid it smoothly into her hole.

Slippery, warm, intoxicating. I stirred inside her, then added a second finger, pressing deep.

Oh! It was like holding a live octopus—squirming, pulsing. A wave of emotion surged from my fingers straight to my heart.

Isabelle twisted her body, letting out a soft moan.

"Mmm~ uuuhhh. Good… so… so… so good."

Andy had completely dropped his pants now, watching with bloodshot eyes.

His cock—thick, at least 20 centimeters if erect—hung lifelessly. Poor bastard couldn’t get hard.

Our eyes met. He gestured with a clenched fist—hurry up, do it faster.

I turned Isabelle onto her back and immediately grabbed her breast roughly. Her pupils dilated in shock.

Suddenly, she cried out.

“Daniel Kim. Come on~ You’re my baby.”

I slid my hand down her body and met a thick patch of hair.

The back was shaved, but the front was wild—I was secretly surprised. Parting the curls, my first encounter: her clitoris.

I began slow, careful circles. Isabelle’s nostrils flared, her breath hot against my skin.

I spread the lips of her pussy with both hands, leaned in, and licked up and down hungrily, pressing my thumb deep into her hole.

“Oh~ Oh yes, you’re amazing.”

"Fuck me. Fuck my wet pussy."

She grabbed my head, moaning desperately.

But what could I do? I’d promised Andy—no penetration. Just suck hard and let my poor fingers do the work.

Smack. Suck. Deep. Deeper.

I worked her for over ten minutes—her juices flowing down my throat.

I turned my head and looked at Andy.

His cock twitched, and thick white cum oozed out in thick pulses.