The Drip Table

I

People always ask me if it gets boring--rubbing down naked women all day. And I always answer the same way: only if you hate getting paid to be the human equivalent of a vibrator with a six-pack.

Name's John. I'm a licensed massage therapist. Officially. Unofficially? I'm the reason half the women in this city walk around with a little more bounce in their step and a lot less tension in their lower back.

I work at a place that caters exclusively to women. No dudes allowed. Not even for reception. The waiting room smells like lavender, soft jazz plays on a loop, and the lighting makes everyone look like a goddess. But the real magic happens behind my door.

My schedule is always full--booked solid, weeks in advance. And yeah, it's not because of the deep tissue work. It's because I know how to read a body. How to follow the trail of tension from the neck, down the spine, all the way to where stress knots up like a clenched fist between a woman's thighs. I fix that. Thoroughly. With focus, precision, and... let's call it "enthusiastic consent."

I've had CEOs melt on my table. Lonely housewives moaning into the face cradle. Brides-to-be getting one last pre-wedding shiver. They all come in with their stories, their aches and needs, their breathy little excuses--"Just curious," "Never done this before," "Don't tell my sister I came here." Sure, sweetheart. Your secret's safe with me.

And the best part? They always tip well. Especially if they cum more than once.

This job? It's not just cool--it's blessed. I'm not just giving massages. I'm restoring faith. I'm doing the Lord's work. With oil and fingers and sometimes a little help from battery-operated assistants.

People can judge all they want. Me? I wake up every day knowing I'm making the world a more relaxed, satisfied place. One moan at a time.

II

Yesterday, I had a client who practically broke the internet just by licking her lips in a music video.

Yeah. That one.

I can't name names--professional discretion and all that--but let's just say she's the reason half the planet's teenagers are failing math and every grown man's search history is a little sweatier than usual.

She came in under a fake name, hoodie up, sunglasses on, like I wasn't gonna recognize the most fuckable face on the Billboard charts. But the second she dropped her coat and lay face-down on my table, it was game on. No cameras. No entourage. Just her and me. And a whole lot of oil.

I started slow, like I always do--shoulders, lower back, light strokes to test her reactions. She gave me this little sigh, breath catching just a bit. That's when I knew: she wanted the full treatment. She just needed me to push it there.

So I did.

My hands moved lower, slipping under the towel, teasing the edges of that perfect ass the world's already seen twerk in hi-def. And when she didn't stop me--didn't flinch, didn't even breathe--I let the towel slide off. Bare skin. Tattoo just above her hipbone. A little hidden heart I bet only a lucky few have ever kissed.

I dipped my fingers in more oil and started massaging her thighs. Real slow. Real deep. She spread her legs without a word.

By the time I reached between them, she was soaked--no massage oil needed. Her hips lifted off the table on instinct when I pressed against her folds with my palm, like her body had been waiting for this all damn week. Maybe longer.

And I gave her everything. Fingers inside, thumb working her clit, pressure just right--firm but teasing. I worked her like I was scoring a goddamn symphony, and she hit every high note. Whispered my name like it was a lyric she was afraid to sing too loud.

She came hard. Twice. Maybe three times--honestly, I lost count when her thighs started shaking and she grabbed the table like it was the only thing keeping her in this dimension.

After, she didn't say much. Just lay there, eyes half-lidded, lips parted, like she'd just been exorcised. Then she sat up, looked me dead in the eye, and said, "I need you on tour."

I laughed. Told her I don't do road gigs.

But she left her number anyway.

III

Now, let me be real with you: not every session ends with a climax. But some... go further. And that's not in the brochure. That's not on the website. There's no menu, no wink-wink nudge-nudge bullshit. It has to be her idea. Always her request.

Consent isn't just sexy--it's policy.

And when it happens? When she asks? That's when I give her the real VIP treatment. Some want the condom. Some--very specifically--don't. No judgment from me. I'm clean, tested like clockwork, and if she wants it bare? Well, I'm not the type to deny a lady her fantasy.

Speaking of which--let me tell you about Cassandra.

Mid-40s. Blonde highlights, tight little yoga outfit that hadn't done a damn minute of yoga. Probably drove a Volvo. Definitely had a husband who hadn't made her come since Obama was in office.

She came in nervous, fidgeting, voice too cheerful like she was playing a role she didn't even believe in anymore. Said she'd been "curious for a while." Asked if the stories were true. I didn't answer. I just smiled and told her to undress and lie down. Let the truth speak through touch.

Ten minutes in and her legs were parting like instinct. She moaned like she was remembering how good it used to feel to be touched--really touched. The kind of touch that's not about obligation or marital routine. Just raw, greedy pleasure.

Then came the whisper. Hesitant, but loaded with need.

"Can you... go further?"

I asked what she meant--gently, casually, giving her space. She swallowed hard, then turned her head and said, "I want you to fuck me. No condom."

I paused, made sure she meant it. Looked her in the eye and told her exactly what that meant. She nodded. Practically begged.

So I dropped the professionalism and let the beast out.

Pulled her to the edge of the table, lifted her legs over my shoulders, and slid in slow. She gasped--more shock than pain--like her body had forgotten what it felt like to be filled. I stayed there, buried to the hilt, letting her feel every inch of me. Her walls clenched like she was trying to milk me dry from the start.

I started slow, deep strokes that made her toes curl, building pressure until her whole body was shuddering under me. Then I gave her what she really wanted--grabbed her hips and fucked. Hard. Deep. Unapologetic. Her breath went ragged, voice breaking, fingers digging into my back like she needed something solid to hold on to while she unraveled.

When she came, it was loud. Ungodly. If her husband was waiting in the car, he probably called a divorce lawyer halfway through.

I finished inside her. Her request. Her risk. Her reward.

Afterward, she just lay there, completely undone. Hair a mess, makeup smudged, thighs trembling. And she smiled. Not a fake smile. A real one. Like someone had finally remembered she was alive.

She tipped me way too much.

I told her I'd see her again next week.

IV

Next on my schedule was Ashley. 20 years old. College student. Fresh-faced, tight-bodied, and looking like she just came straight from a psych lecture where she spent the whole hour daydreaming about getting railed instead of taking notes.

She came in chewing gum, backpack slung over one shoulder, a hoodie two sizes too big and no bra underneath. I clocked that instantly.

She looked around the room like it was her first time in a hotel she knew she shouldn't afford. Nervous energy, but with that low-key, "I already know what I came here for" look. I could feel it pulsing off her--this barely-contained mix of curiosity and heat, like a girl who's read one too many spicy TikTok stories and finally wants to act one out.

She wiggled out of her jeans and peeled off her panties with this casual little oops-smirk. Laid down on the table on her stomach like a good girl, but every time I touched her, she'd lift her hips just a little higher. She was offering. Begging without saying it.

Fifteen minutes in, she turned over, looked at me with those big doe eyes, and said, "Can I ride you?"

Not "Do you want to?" Not "Is that okay?" Just straight to the point, like she was ordering off a secret menu. Bold as hell.

I smirked. "Why not?"

My clothes came off fast. She climbed into my lap, knees straddling my thighs, skin still slick from the oil. She grabbed my cock, guided it to her entrance, and--holy fuck--the way she sank down? Like her pussy missed me and we were just now getting reacquainted. Tight as hell, warm and wet, hugging every damn inch.

And the view?

Perfection. Perky tits bouncing with every grind, lips parted, blonde hair sticking to her neck. She rode like she was trying to prove something--hands on my chest, thighs flexing, hips rolling like she'd studied porn as an extracurricular. Every time she dropped down, her little gasp turned into a moan, and every time she came back up, I got a full, glorious view of where we were connected.

I didn't do a thing. Just sat back, hands on her waist, watching her fuck herself on me like her degree depended on it. Girl was starving for it.

"Faster," I growled.

She obeyed. Started bouncing. Slapping wet sounds filled the room. Her moans got higher, more desperate, until her whole body tensed and she came--legs shaking, back arched, a ragged, breathy little "oh my god" spilling out as she clenched around me.

I flipped her after that. My turn. Pounded her into the table until she was a moaning, twitching mess, legs wide, drool on her chin, and no thoughts left in her head except me.

I came deep inside her. She didn't ask for a condom, and I didn't offer. She just lay there after, legs spread, cum dripping out, smiling like she just won the lottery.

Before she left, she asked if she could bring a friend next time.

I told her: "Only if she rides too."

V

So next week rolls around, and like clockwork, Ashley's back--same time, same look, same horny little smirk. But this time? She's got company.

Tiffany.

Tall, tan, and stacked. I mean stacked. The kind of rack that makes you pause mid-sentence and forget your own damn name. She had that naturally confident strut--heels clicking, tits bouncing with every step, sunglasses indoors like she was starring in her own music video.

If Ashley was curious and cute, Tiffany was full-blown trouble.

She didn't even sit. Just looked me over like she was inspecting meat at the butcher's counter and said, "So you're the guy who made Ashley limp for two days?"

I laughed. "That depends. You looking to walk out the same way?"

She grinned--slow, dirty, delicious. "I was hoping not to walk out at all."

Ashley blushed, already stripping off her hoodie. Tiffany just dropped her top right there. No shame. No hesitation. Her tits bounced free like they were tired of being confined. Natural, heavy, high. Nipples already hard.

I barely got the oil bottle in my hand before Tiffany pushed Ashley onto the table and said, "Let me watch you fuck her first."

Not a request. A command.

Ashley spread for me like she'd been dreaming about this all week--which, let's be honest, she probably had. I got between her thighs, slid in raw, and started moving. Slow and deep at first, just to show off. Tiffany pulled up a chair and sat back, legs crossed, arms under her chest to lift that ridiculous rack even more. She didn't blink. Just watched me work--Ashley moaning under me, nails clawing at the table, sweat beading on her chest.

And when Ashley came? Tiffany was on her feet.

"My turn," she said. "I want it rough."

She didn't even need help getting on the table. She bent over it like she'd done this a hundred times, looking back at me with that cocky little grin over her shoulder.

I grabbed those hips--wide and firm--and drove in. Tight. Hot. But with a little give, like her pussy welcomed the stretch. She gasped, but didn't slow down. She pushed back against me, meeting every thrust with a snap of her hips. Her ass rippled with every slap of skin on skin, and those massive tits bounced against the table like they were trying to break free again.

She talked the entire time.

"Harder."

"Is that all you've got?"

"Make me feel it tomorrow."

So I did. I gave her everything. Bent over, one hand fisted in her hair, the other spanking that perfect ass until it bloomed red. She came loud and messy, gushing down my thighs, screaming into the table like she wanted the whole building to know she was getting ruined.

I came inside her too. She didn't even flinch. Just looked back, dripping, satisfied, and said, "Next time, I want to be first."

Ashley was still recovering on the couch, legs spread, watching like it was live porn.

And me?

I was already wondering if they had a third friend.