Ginger

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2015-07-15

During my single days in the early 90s, I could and often would spend an inordinate amount of time preparing myself for sex with prostitutes. Once I was fixated on having a sexual encounter, no amount of inconvenience could stop me. One evening after work, I scoured the free ads paper Loot and found an advert from a woman offering a massage in Maida Vale, North London. I didn’t know the area very well, and spent an age trying to find her flat. was in the days before mobile phones, and I recall marching into a puband calling her from the payphone after getting lost for the umpteenth time. Eventually, after what seemed like the best part of an hour trawling the dark and unfamiliar streets, I found my way to the second floor balcony of a huge Victorian mansion block.
In the dimly lit doorway was a small, red-haired, pale-skinned European woman. For the purposes of this story, I’ll call her Ginger. She was in her late twenties, maybe older, certainly a little older than me, not very pretty and clearly quite nervous. I did my best to put her at ease as she ushered me into her tiny studio flat. She’d set up a massage table in the kitchen, which was curtained off from the bed/sitting room. The flat itself was clean and quite homely. It was winter, it was dark outside, and it must have been 8:30 by the time I got there. The prospect of getting naked in front her with the possibility of masturbation was very appealing.

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I agreed to pay her for an hour’s massage; there was no mention of extras.
For someone quite shy in their working life, I was and still am unusually bold in situations like this.

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   I undressed fully in the kitchen, let her see me naked and lay face down on the table. If my funny ginger haired masseuse had wanted to establish some boundaries, she’d have put a towel over my waist or even asked me to put my boxer shorts back on. But she did neither. The massage was excellent. She used quite a strong smelling but not unpleasant oil called Wintergreen, I think. Eventually it was time for me to turn over. This was the part of any massage that I loved. I would never ever expose myself to a woman in the manner of a flasher. But I did enjoy being naked in front of a clothed woman if the circumstances made it acceptable.
Ginger proceeded to massage my legs and chest, but stayed away from my now hardening penis. The massage was superb and genuinely relaxing.

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But when it was over, it was over. There was clearly nothing extra on offer. Although I’d enjoyed being naked in front of her, I hadn’t been fully erect during the massage. But once she told me, we were done, I slowly sat upright on the table and almost immediately felt the blood rushing to my private parts.

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   In the meantime, Ginger had grabbed a handful of the paper sheet I’d been lying on and was mopping the excess oil from my back and chest. I sat there relishing the sensation of my erection, as she tried not to look, and became visibly flustered. I didn’t want her to feel uneasy, but I found it incredibly exciting.
Eventually I stood up in the kitchen, my cock fully perpendicular and positively throbbing, and proceeded to make small talk: thanking her for the massage, saying I’d visit again, etc. I remember she went and sat in the bed/sitting room and lit a cigarette, talking to me but trying not to look. She was clearly embarrassed but, at the same time, kept glancing at my cock. I wasn’t going to ask her if she’d wank me off; it was obvious that wasn’t on the agenda. But I found it incredibly thrilling and erotic to be naked – and fully erect – in front of her. I didn’t want her to feel threatened, which is why I chatted and smiled the whole time; determined to keep the mood light. But I did enjoy exposing myself. I got dressed, wedged my still swollen cock into my jeans and left the flat. I never saw Ginger again. Back at my flat later that night, I masturbated and experienced one of the most exquisite and intense orgasms of my life.


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