Victoria, part I:

I found the intersection, just as she had described it, with a liquor store on the corner, back in the days (not so long ago) when every such establishment had a pay phone next to it.

“Hi, Victoria? It’s Adam. I’m here.”

“Hi, Adam. I’m right next door, in the yellow house. Come to the upstairs door, and I’ll be waiting.”

The door opened to reveal a tiny brunette.

“Adam?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Come on in. I’m Victoria,” she smiled, and welcomed me with a hug and a kiss on the cheek. She was wearing a diaphanous, Morticia Addams-style dress.

The place was comfortably, but simply furnished. Someone was in the room to the left, but Victoria led me around through the room to the right, through the bathroom, and into another bedroom. Cheesy easy jazz was playing, with dim light. A bookcase ran along one wall, with a chair and end table on the other side, and a large bed filled the space.

She was adorable! Barely five feet tall, and really petite, rather Goth-looking, with pale skin, against which her dark hair and richly-colored lips stood out, framing a cute smile, made the cuter by her slightly-crooked teeth.

“Why don’t you get comfortable, and I’ll come back in? You can shower if you want.
And go ahead and leave the donation over here.”

I had come for a massage—not my first or last time, though it was my first with Victoria. My first was just after I turned 18, and over the intervening 13 years, I had gone to sex workers of various types, and they had mostly been good experiences—either good enough for the moment, or, at least, good enough to get me to do it again.

Victoria’s ad in the Massage section of the local weekly paper had caught my eye:
Petite, friendly brunette will massage your worries away.

Simple, but it stood out for its lack of pretension. As I called a few promising numbers, hers stood out: she was friendly, and knew how to carry on a conversation. She also described it as a “sensuous massage, with full body contact.” Sounded perfect.

None of my past experiences had described themselves that way. Mostly, they were simply massages with a “happy ending.” This one seemed like it would be a little different.

So as Victoria left, I disrobed, took a quick shower, and came back in. She opened the door, had a quick look at the stack of bills on the table, and slid out of her clothes, climbing into the bed with me.

“With me” is the operative phrase, and already I knew I had made the right choice.
She snuggled up next to me, and I took the measure of her body, which seemed even smaller than I had imagined, with tiny, barely-a-mouthful breasts, and a tattoo that made me think of nothing more than a Persian rug.

“So just what are we talking about?” I asked.

“Just what I said on the phone—a massage, and I’ll be using my entire body.”

“Just massage? No sex?”

“I don’t have sex, but I’ll take care of you, don’t worry. Should I start with your back, or your front?”

I rolled over onto my stomach, wanting to go gradually and enjoy my hour.

To my great delight, Victoria gave a surprisingly good massage. She had strong hands, and the warmed baby oil felt great. But unlike any other massage I’d ever had, her hands were complemented by her body, rubbing across me as she worked her way down toward my feet.

As she got near my ass, I pressed up toward her, opening this most vulnerable bit to her. She worked her hands up the insides of my thighs, brushing my balls, and lightly working all around my crack, with just the lightest, teasing touches of the hole. I wanted more, but wasn’t about to raise the issue.

She moved back up, laying down on top of me, where I could barely feel her weight. But I could feel her hair and her warm breath by my ear, her legs grasping mine, and her breasts moving against my back as she worked her way along the length of her torso, including her pussy.

After a leisurely time on my front, she asked me to turn over.

To be continued…