Literotica from a New Jersey Massage Parlor Patron

Writings of a massage parlor patron: Part 1

I am a customer of massage parlors. I have been visiting massage parlors in New Jersey for several years, and now that I am a "massage parlor hobbyist" I know what I like and how to find it.

What I like, is a good massage from a beautiful young female masseuse.

So what makes a "good massage"? Let me try and describe my experience with my favorite New Jersey massage parlor. Let's start with just some consciousness....

I just opened my eyes and I realize I am on top of a massage table in a small room with low light. The walls are green - a light green that is very soothing on my eyes. I am not wearing my glasses, and I notice that I can still make out the stucco texture of the painted wall next to me. It is interesting how the low, angled light on soft green brings out the wall textures enough for even me to see. I don't usually get to appreciate such detail without my glasses. I am aware of things like that now, as my senses seem very keen. There is no noise. It is warm. It seems as though the air in the room is exactly the same temperature as my body. There is no breeze, yet plenty of air. It is not stifling in any way. There is a sheet over my naked body, but my skin has adapted to the sensations and I don't feel the sheet.

I think to myself I am high. Just like the good old days when I smoked a joint with my high school buddies and my sinus got heavy and my nose was buzzed and my ears were dampened and I felt emotionally relieved. That is how I feel now; emotionally relieved.

I just got a massage from a beautiful young Latina named Layla. I know it lasted about 45 minutes, because that is how long it always lasts. I buy an hour, and after about 45 minutes she completes the full body massage, wakes me from my trance-like state, and helps me to turn over onto my back as I am now. As always at this point in the massage, there is a very prominant protrusion from my body lifting the sheet, and I note a small wetspot. I am not at all embarassed, and I have no idea how long my body has been in such an obvious excited state. Nor do I care.

In the beginning, I would be nervous when I went to a massage parlor. In those days I really didn't know what I was looking for, but I knew that if I purchased an hour of massage I would be sequestered away in a small comfortable room with a lovely young lady who was expert in personal service delivery. I would enjoy an hour of independent, secret personal time. No one knows what happens inside the massage room, behind the closed door, between me and my lovely massage provider.

Over time I learned how it works, how to relate to the providers, and how to get what I want. I have "learned the ropes" as they say, and now I enjoy my hobby more than any other activity in my life. One might say I am addicted, and I guess as physical addictions go, I probably fit the clinical definition. But this addiction, for me, if it is one, is welcomed in my life. It is certainly better for me than any of the common vices such as smoking or gambling or drinking, and abolsutely more fun. I am addicted to erotic massage.

So here I am flat on my back, heavy with chemical euphoria from almost an hour of manual bodywork, slowing returning from my trance-like mental state with a prominant enlargement and a beautiful young Latina just inches away preparing hot towels. The wet spot is larger now, and I smile at the comedy that is human nature. For all the Hollywood drama of sexual tension, sexual violence, and sex as frenetic high energy climax, I have come to know and cherish a smooth, soothing, sensual and soft form of sexual activity for more natural. The "climax" is commonly known in the massage parlor world as "release". What I have come to love is not high energy, not frenetic, not spasmatic, and not violent nor exploitive in any way. It is natural, it is rhythmic. It seems as innocent as the nocturnal emission. I am about to experience a manual release;  a happy ending; a hand job.

Layla is about to finish what she started.

Layla is quiet today, but she was not always so elegant. I have been coming here for almost two years, and I was one of Layla's first customers when she started working in this massage parlor. She was heavy then, and obviously not very well-off economically. She was a good massager, but her English was very poor and she was in dire need of quality hair care. Her bleached blond hair clashed with her olive Latina skin and facial features. I learned from talking with her back then that she was an unmarried mother of a young daugher, recently transplanted to New Jersey without proper citizenship papers. She had started working the massage parlor because a friend told her it was good money. It is not as risky as prostition, drugs, or the various credit card scams that were available. Layla needs to care for her daughter, and the massage parlor hours are flexible. I have always known her to love to dance, and as I look over at her fine slender figure in this soft light today, I am sure she is a very sexy hot-blooded handful on the club floor for whomever is lucky enough to be with her on a date.

Layla sees me admiring her from across the room, and comes over to me. She smiles, and moves her body up against the edge of the massage table. Her fit but undeniably feminine abdomen brushes against my right shoulder. She slowly arches to bring her head over my chest, her long hair flowing down around her neck to lightly tickle my face and chest. She is impeccably clean. I enjoy the smell of her hair, and the silkiness of it as it glides across my cheek. She is very close to me, and I feel her warmth. At this point her breast is hovering within inches of my right hand. If I lift my hand up from the table, my palm would fit perfectly around her breast, as it has so many times before. Naturally, I lift my warm palm slowly, and I place it where it seems to so naturally belong, and is so obviously welcome.

As my hand makes contact with Layla I can feel she has nothing on beneath her knit top. Had she been bra-less at the start of our session I certainly would have noticed, so I am pleased by her professionalism. She must have removed the undergamrnets without my awareness; it is a signal that I am welcome to explore. Her chest Layla is merely inches from my face, and without  my glasses I see her perfectly, in all her fine detail. Within seconds, at my touch, her nipple begins to strain against the soft fabric, and I see the silouette of her seemingly erect breast backlit by the soft light at the end of the room. Layla turns her face towards me. Her eyes are closed. Her lips are parted slightly; her face fully relaxed. She sits on the edge of the table, her hips pressed against mine, my hand gentle caressing her breast. There is no doubt in my mind that this clean, fit, and beautiful young Latina whose breast is in my palm, whose engorged nipple is toyed between my gentle finger tips, is enjoying my touch.

I will continue this story, and clean it up, tomorrow.

Send Missy an email if you want to encourage me to write more.

Here is a list of Massage therapy in New Jersey.