I press my thumbs hard into Andy’s trapeziuses and he groans, working out the knots in his legs. Andy is beautiful, a principal dancer for the ballet. He is tall for a dancer, broad-shouldered, and the very image of a manly man. He is strong because dancers are strong and totally fit. An unfit person cannot hold extreme body positions or make the incredible leaps required in modern dance. I love working on his body. He is fit and beautiful, and hopelessly gay.
“Clint has been driving me nuts lately,” Andy says between my efforts to stretch out his muscles. “I swear, Maria, I’m going to leave him one of these days. “
I say nothing. I have two jobs, one to work the kinks and stress out of the dancers’ hard-used bodies. The other is to listen. Many come to me because I’m good at both. I am a massotherapist, one of the few whose studio is near the ballet. They’re doing Rodeo, and Andy dances the role of the Champion Roper, the male lead, the man all the girls compete for. It is a demanding dance, made even more demanding by the traditional western garb which was designed for utility and never for dancing.
Andy needs to vent right now more than to dance. “I swear, I come home and he wants me to make dinner. As if I didn’t have enough to do already. He’s a much better cook than I am. Why can’t he cook?”
“I can’t answer that,” I say, trying to stay out of the fray. Andy alternates between complaining about Clint to being terrified that Clint will leave him. I’ve never seen Clint myself, but then I’m pretty sure he’s quite a handsome, well-endowed lad. Andy was never shy about sharing. Sometimes he makes me blush. But not today. He’s feeling bitchy. The big knot in his back might be part of the reason why. I identify it, then grind my elbow down on it to break it up. He groans, it hurts but then the spasms come, and finally, his body begins to relax. “Roll over,” I tell him, holding up the small blankets I use to cover people when I work on them. He rolls, too then I cover him noting the distinct bulge in his groin.
“Why do I do that,” he says. “I haven’t got a straight bone in my body but I get hard all the time when you work on me.”
I chuckle and repeat what I tell everyone. “Massage feels good. It’s normal to have erotic feelings during a massage. Ignore it, I do.”
“Is my cock that insignificant? Should be offended that you ignore it!” Andy feigns outrage but he is smiling. He is confident in his body, another thing about most dancers. I push up his legs thumbs working on the arch of his foot. Andy is beautiful, but his feet are ugly. All those jumps and landings take a toll. A dancer’s feet are full of callous, stubbed toes, small injuries, and scars. They leap so high in the air and land so hard, then go on to do it again and again. How could they not hurt? Their feet need attention, and I dare not baby them, even when it hurts a bit.
Andy groans as I work his feet. But he doesn’t stop me. He trusts me. He knows I’m almost done. Soon I leave the long caresses on his skin that mark the ‘cooling down’ period of a massage. As I finish with Andy, my mind shifts to Tara.
Tara is my next client, the company’s prima ballerina. And perhaps my favorite. Without looking I know what she is doing. She is in the next room icing her feet. Tara is as beautiful as Andy is handsome, but if anything her feet look worse than Andy’s. I hear her moving in the next room, softly letting out the sighs of pain as the ice helps calm he feet and reduce the swelling. She has an ankle sprain but dances through it. For the show must go on and for Rodeo she is our Cowgirl, the female center of the ballet.
I ignore Andy’s continued swings between love and disgust with his partner. My fingertips trace out circles on his belly, bringing on more spasms. And then I am done, covering him and stepping out. He thanks me, and I thank him for choosing my services. And I leave him to rest for a bit and dress before he leaves. Time to make my way to Tara.
I find her already nude, except for one of the bathrobes I keep for customers. Tara loves her massages, but she doesn’t like to take time undressing. And if Andy is beautiful, Tara is every bit his equal. Like me, she’s thirty-three but that’s where the resemblance ends. She is, like all ballerinas, very slim. I am tall and broad-built, not overweight but my hips and bust are substantial, and I don’t go anywhere without a heavy bra. Tara is graceful and feminine, her bottom small, her body all lean muscle, and her breasts small and set far apart. While my skin is olive and my hair dark brown and curly, Tara is a natural redhead, with soft, fair skin and an array of freckles. Were she not in the ballet she would be in the line at Riverdance, a natural Celt with auburn hair, fair beauty, and long legs. And unlike Andy, Tara is a woman of few words. She prefers to let her dancing talk for her. Often she is silent during our sessions. At first, I thought it was something I had done, but now I suspect she lacks confidence. I don’t get why, she has a fine mind and sweet voice, but people do not always see themselves clearly.
“Are you ready?” I ask. It’s not wise to hurry clients, particularly those who work as hard as Andy or Tara. She gives me a shy smile and nods, as I lead her into my second working room. It’s all laid out, everything cleaned and ready, the towels nearby and ready. “I’ll leave you a moment of privacy to cover yourself,” I say.
“No need,” she says head down a bit, as she peels off the bathrobe.
Nude, Tara is a vision of femininity. Constant training and diet have kept her body ripe and firm as a young girl’s. She’s waxed or shaved her mound. A sudden, unexpected change. I wonder if she has a new lover, that’s the usual reason for a girl to start shaving her pussy. I hope so, though it’s none of my business. Tara doesn’t talk about her love life, and I don’t ask. She’s wrapped tight, all tense and mound as she lays on her belly, resting her head upon the small pillow provided for her. I cover her, trying not to look too much. I sleep with both genders, and her fresh bare pussy is delectable. But I tell myself to be professional and remember this is my job, not just my pleasure. I uncover her right leg and covered my hands in warm oil, scented with just a touch of musk. Starting at her bottom, I slowly slide my fingers down her thigh, down her calves, down to those poor abused feet of hers, oiling her skin and getting her ready for my touch. This touch is to accustom her to being touched. Tara coos contentedly as my fingers glide over her so smooth skin.
“Do you remember my first time on your table?” she asks.
“I do,” I say. “You were so shy.” An eyebrow raised. Tara isn’t usually a talker. But maybe she has something on her mind. Maybe it’s time I got to perform the other part of my job.
“I was foolish,” she said as I press the heel of my hand into her thigh, working it against the other hand, stretching and parting the muscle “I’m . . well . . I’m not good on trust.”
Perhaps this is a breakthrough. “Well, I’m thankful you have chosen to put a little trust in me.” My fingers work lower and lower and she moans softly fingertips joining in to work her tired muscles.
“Me too,” she says, and I think I see her smile for just a moment. That too is a breakthrough. Tara is very serious, too focussed on her singular desire to become the best ballerina she can possibly be. She’s always talking lessons, always working on self-improvement, and she coos again as I begin to work on her calf.
I wonder again why she has trouble with trust. A broken heart? A sexual assault? Abuse? It’s not uncommon, even among talented dancers. Sometimes it comes from another dancer or director. Sometimes a parent. Or even a so-called friend. I hear some of that too. The stories haunt me and have sent me to the library to help me understand what my clients are going through. But I could be overthinking this. Tara could simply bet naturally shy. She could be one of those people who are only comfortable expressing themselves through her art? She’s generally cheerful, so that’s more likely. but I want to know. I like her– maybe too much! I gently touch the arches of her feet. Tara is tender there and this time her moan is not from pleasure, but I must do what I do, and my clients understand this. Slowly I slide my fingers so gently down her leg again letting her leg relax, let it come back to calm before I recover her limb and move to her left leg.
“Do you like Rodeo,” she asks.
“I’ve never seen it,” I said. “But I used to date a violist and she used to play the music for me. I found it beautiful and dramatic. My favorite part is the Saturday Night Waltz.”
Tara seemed to perk up when I mentioned my former girlfriend. Maybe she’s gay. Gay people are not uncommon in the arts. Sometimes I think we are drawn to art as a way to express our inner selves. “That’s sort of my high moment,” she said. “I’m dancing the Cowgirl, the tomboy who is boy crazy. She thinks being like a boy will bring her closer to the boys she craves, particularly the Champion Roper. And of course, it fails because in that world boys want girls. But for that waltz, I’m showing them all how feminine I truly am.”
There is nothing boyish about you, I think but concentrate on her trapeziums. Her muscles are taut and must be coaxed through pressure and repetition into relaxing. Tara’s body is always tense, sometimes just the muscles. Sometimes all of her, and suddenly sense her body tighten, and I wonder what I’ve done wrong. So slowly keep working, fingers and thumb stretching out her calves, then a slow glide of my oiled fingers down her limb, letting her relax. And I do it just one more time, in part for her, but in part, because I love the way her body feels beneath my fingers.
Tara says nothing as I uncover her left arm and run it through a range of motion. Dancers move like liquid oil, but injuries often mean their joints have hitches in them. I am patient but slow in stretching her limb, rotating it, feeling a bit of bind from an old injury, where it was suffered I know not. But she coos softly again, “Are you planning to attend the ballet?”
“I hope to, at least if I can find someone to go with,” I said. My thumbs stretching out her fingers, making the move their full length caught between fingers and thumb. And again I felt a bit of tension. But I keep on, rubbing my fingertips between the bones of her fingers, running my thumb into her palm. She is tight today, no doubt about it. Up her arms I go, fingers and thumbs working against each other, softening the muscles like mortar in a pestle.
“Oh, that feels so good.” She smiles as I work. I smile because it’s unusual for Tara to comment during a session.
Hearing her praise gives me a little tingle And energy A massage is a physical thing, it takes energy. Little rewards like this keep me going. That and I get to touch women like Tara. I squeeze out her triceps, working on her. “Thank you for saying that.” I’m grinning now as I caress her shoulders. And begin to take down the soft towels I use to cover her back. Fresh oil is called for, and so I coat my hands and begin to move my hands along her spine, up and down, letting Tara’s back get a bit moist, ready for caress. Then I pour oil upon the small of her back. I stretch it out, then lay my forearms upon her back and begin to roll them on her skin, as if I had a rolling pin rolling out dough. She coos again as I lift her scapula, stretching her, and finally, my fingers take command of her shoulders, giving some of the massage moves people think of first when the subject comes up.
“I could leave you a ticket,” Tara says abruptly, her body drawn tight. “A good seat. I can’t sit with you, but we could go to the after-party together.”
“Why that sounds wonderful.” I was truly pleased by the offer and even more by the way her body relaxes as she receives my answer. Clearly, this mattered to her. Clearly, she really wanted me to accept. And that makes me blush for a moment, and then start planning. I want to see Tara dance, I think I want to see her dance more than anything. I want to see the joy and beauty she suffers so much for.
“You’ll have a great time,” she says. “I’ll make certain of it.”
“You already have,” I say, working out the tension in her shoulders. I cover up her back and uncover her bottom.
Dancers carry no extra weight to make their jumps higher and landings softer. Tara’s curves are feminine, but restrained compared to my more lush body. But a dancer’s bottom is possibly the most perfect part of their body, so firm and tightly packed. Perfectly feminine in Tara’s case. Hers is the butt I dreamed of having when I was a girl, though my genetics made it impossible. It stirs me as I run my oiled fingers across her cheeks, oiling and warming her flesh. I see her pucker, pink and perfect, so clean and lovely and I want to bend over and run my tongue over it. And for a moment I imagine doing just that. I imagine that she loves my kisses and reaches back to guide my head to her star. And then I master myself. Tara is not paying me for sex. She’s paying for my work. Again my palms and fingers knead and stretch those so perfect cheeks. And this time Tara moans, softly but in a way that seems overtly sexual and makes my sex tingle. I wonder if she is coming on to me. The work is done and I cover her holding up the towels so she can discretely roll over. Her arms at her side, I uncover her right leg and begin to oil her skin to wake it before I bend it back to her chest to put her limb through a range of motion.
“Have you ever been to an after-party before,” she asks abruptly.
“Often, when I was in college. I was a theater major. I worked backstage, did scenery and preparations. They can get pretty wild.”
“A theater major would know,” she says. “Is that why you became an MT? Everyone knows it’s nigh impossible to make a career in show business of any kind.”
“Gotta eat somehow,” I reply, press her thigh against her belly, making her grunt just a little. “I wanted to do something healing and holistic. Massage therapy seemed the way.” I lay down her foot and began to bend back the arch of her foot. She cries out a little and I can feel some grind. Dancing is hard on the body. Don’t let anyone tell you differently.
“I’m glad you chose this.” Tara winces as I exercise her but then relaxes and sets her leg down and begins the relaxing caresses.
“I am too,” I say. But now it’s me that feels tense. She likes me, I know it. But where is she going with this? I want her, I admit it. I may have to end this and these sessions are among those I look forward to the most. But I can hold my ethical debate for later. Right now Tara is on my table and deserving of nothing less than my very best. I get a bit more oil for a pause then add a bit too much. Do I want her slick? I’m getting that way myself, I can feel my pussy seeping. And again I tell myself how wrong this is as I begin to work on her other leg.
“Did you think of doing any other kind of work?”
“I worked as a barmaid for a while. Made decent money too, but I got tired of wearing a tight bra under a low-cut top and giving men wrong phone numbers.”
Tara giggles a little. “I know what you mean. Seems like the right person never asks me out.”
“You’re better off asking yourself,” I say working on her thigh, so firm and muscular.
“I know,” she says. “I’m working on it.”
I lay the palm of her left hand on my belly as I began to work out the rest of her arm. Tara is breathing deeply. And a fresh scent entered the air. Musky, different from the musk I chose to infuse my massage oil with. Something fresh, something exciting. Could it be her? Or perhaps it’s me. I can feel my sex getting wet. I will need fresh panties after this session, that’s for sure. This time it’s me that can’t talk. I concentrate on her left arm, then the right, and then I peel the blanket from her chest and bare it.
Tara has always had prominent nipples. Now they’re hard, stiff, and extended. She is looking at me, and I feel flushed, a bit out of sorts. I want to run my tongue over them, and my pussy tightens as it argues for bad behavior. But I oil my hands and placing one over the other push them from her waist to belly, up between her breasts to break them just above her lovely bosom. Three times I repeat it and she moans and shifts softly. Her head lolls from side to side and I realize what I smell is neither her nor I but both of us combined. Calm yourself, this is normal!
My fingertips find her forehead and cheeks. Tara has green eyes, large and lovely and she watches me as I massage her cheeks and forehead. And then I slide my fingers down her belly, softly preparing to tease her skin to give her a final tingle. I take the tips of pens and softly inscribe concentric circles on her belly, one inside the other, and her body bucks a bit. It’s appealing and even more so is her sigh of release.
On impulse I reach down to take her right hand in mine, just to give it a little squeeze. And she squeezes me back and then, holding me, and her grip I strong. She is she takes my fingers and lifts them to her lips. Her tongue extends and she begins to lick my fingertips despite the oil. Her eyes are wide with hunger and fear and hope. She’s worried she has gone too far. She wants me. She wants me badly. And I . . . want her. I can feel my chest rising and falling, breathing deeply as my cunt tightens and my backside as well. She takes my index finger into her mouth to tease with her tongue and suck it deep. I am breathing now, breathing hard and deep. I fight with myself, the promises I made myself long ago. My cunt disagrees of course, and while she gets a vote she rarely overrules my brain. But my brain isn’t up for this struggle. My pussy rejoices as I lean over to run my tongue across her lips.
Tara releases me, her hands pulling my head down on her, her mouth open and liquid, tongue surging into my mouth. For all these months when I have been touching her, did she feel this way from the beginning? And does it matter when her mouth is so warm, soft, and welcoming? Her tongue swirls like a tornado about mine. And I feel her hands on my pants, undoing the drawstring, seeking out my flesh, seeking out me.
Long we kiss. My fingers find her nipples, pinching and rolling. Tara arches her back to press her breasts into me. Her fingers pull down my top, glide across my panties, working a fingertip inside to tug them down. She wants, she wants me, oh how she wants me and just as badly as I want her. The angle is tough, she can’t quite find my opening but Tara is trying. Oh God, how she’s trying! Her hunger fires me as I pinch her nipples and drive my tongue between her lips.
I stop. I need a break, I need a moment to think. Tara doesn’t hesitate. Her long, limber legs wrap around the back of my head and pull me down. Her fingers lift my blouse and I behold her pussy, shiny wet, and brilliant pink, bare and beautiful right before me. I am hungry, I am hungry for a meal only Tara can serve.
And now I am on her, my tongue gliding over her clit, two fingers pushing up inside her and she is begging and cooking and telling me how perfect this moment is. And then I add a third finger and Tara’s cries of joy fill the room. And with barely a touch I join her my full breasts bouncing as I fuck his perfect woman, this avatar of femininity.
This is our ballet, the music of our hearts, the rhythm of our loins Tara’s and mine and nobody else’s here in this perfect moment as her juices squirt onto my mouth.
Copyright © All stories are copright 2021 Stacy Rucker with all rights reserved.