THE CONFESSION OF A MAKE UP ARTIST
There is no spa in Lagos offering the service of sexual massage. I am going to introduce it in my spa and be ahead of the make up artistry business. Sexual massage is no big deal. The right touch, sufficient pressure to the right body points, the right strokes to nerve-endings and a little creativity. That’s all it should take. I know this already. I experimented with Kashif, an expatriate male client.
I commence with kneading his shoulders. Shoulder-kneading helps the whole body to relax. He relaxes. My amateurish touch and manipulation is working very well. Gently stroking his temples with my thumbs in the opposite direction of his blood flow from the head, and applying subtle pressure. He starts to tense again. This tension is in order to charge his libido. When men are tensed, they naturally want to get laid.
There is something sensual about a female finger stroking a man’s face. It never fails to get their testosterone flowing. My exploring warm fingers burns a sensual trail from his temples, down his chin through his neck. I am massaging his beafy chest, kneading the six-pack muscles of his flat abdomen. I let him have a full view of my boobs cleavage. I am sure the gauzy see-through blouse reveals my ample nipples creating bumps at the peak of the mound as I follow my squeezing finger with kisses. I can feel tremours after tremours vibrate his supple body as he lay there on the mat. I am down to his groin. A huge swelling has built up inside the towel wrapped around his nakedness. I am glad. It is so easy to get a grown male horny. Especially if is a long time they had sex. Ali Khazan is one horny stallion. He’s been away at sea for such a whale of a while. I hear the sea environment makes men as horny as hell. This is just my luck.
I shove my hand inside his garment, plowing through a thick bush of pubic hair to reach his pulsating shaft. It feels hard and warm in my grabbing hand. I am squeezing and stroking the huge banana, he starts to wriggle and buck his waist. His whimpering moans was a sign that he was receptive to my ministration. And I am encouraged
I peel off the towel from him, and there he is. He has the body work of Michelangelo’s David, but with a greater endowment in the lower region. A fitting flagpole to mount my “white flag” upon. Every sex-starved lady virtually carries a “white flag” which is unhoisted as soon as she’s had a good fuck. I haven’t. A more realistic sign that this hunk is a sexually healthy and ready male is the transparent viscous fluid emitting from the tip of the penis. It is the pre-cum. Very good for vaginal lubrication. I am sure KY jelly is made from pre-cum.
My hand wraps around the stiff cock, I smear the viscous fluid down the prick, stroking it up and down, up and down, up and down; every downward movement brings my wet lips and tongue closing around the stiff sugarstick. His hand are seizing my hair pulling my face down hard on his dick. That is not good, but I allow him. In a sexual massage, the subject should do nothing more that lay supine and pliant to kneading, touching, stroking and the general works. A great sex takes two, and he is doing his masculine part. I am doing feminine part. This is sex as much as a massage.
Soon he will shoot his hot juice down my throat. Spit or swallow won’t matter at all. I will suck him back to full erection before he goes limp. Then will I mount and ride upon him, and grind my clitoris hard along his turgid shaft. Just before I comes, I will shove the bulk of the dick into my hot coochy and keep moving up and down, back and forth, winding my waist round and round on him, driving the dick up, deep, inside me, and letting the tip of the prick caress my womb.
When I come, my warm honey will flood the whole place. I will lose control at that point ans scream the first thought that comes to my ecstatic mind. Exhausted with passion, I will fall on top of him. He will hug me tight and keep bucking if until he comes too. I will match his spasm with a the multiple climax that every female is capable of.
It will be his turn to take charge. He will come upon me like a predating beast. He will seize my breasts and strum them like acoustic guitar. He will nibble my clit so much I will cry out of sheer joy. Then I will be wet again, and ooze sweet nectar from between my thighs. He will be greedily sucking on my honeypot, lapping every drop of juice from my drooling pussy. I will roll over and let him mount me from behind. He will ride me like a rodeo. Hard, fast, ans rough. With perfect timing, we will both climax at the same time, and expire in a shimmering cascade of falling stars.
Oh my word. Not again. I am so sinfully wet now. My pussy tingles. I’m so horny I could burst in flames. Ali Khaazan is such a disappointment. I have been having erotic fantasies of him again. My sexual frustration remains un-assuaged. This must be remedied. I am going out to get laid tonight by all means. The subject of my cougar fantasy is such a whimp, rejecting the big bite I offered him of my fresh apple. Mtscheeww. I hate beautiful men now. Such spineless worms to shun me every time I make the first move. The more handsome they are, the more weak they are.
The moment a lady asks a guy out he lose his spine and go whimp. Big babies that men are, they never know what they want. They are just content to keep chasing and seeking. They find the chase more gratifying than the kill. Nonsense. Men are so lost. They never even seem to recognise what they have when they finally trap their query. Men will always be boys. Such little minds.
I am actually old enough to be Ali Khazan’s mother, but his boyish looks was what first struck me, and sparked off my lust for him- the almost round, clean face with a-day-old stubs of unshaven beard; those feminine dimples that belong in a beautiful face; the impish grin of one who is aware of his charms, and the infectious smile that make his face glow in a dark way. The unspoken invitation to kiss that plays around the supple pink lips. The beak-like arabian nose cannot be more fitting; and the deep, dark, pebbly asian eyes, twinkling from behind long lashes. And bushy brow. Oh My Cunt, Such, beautifully-yet-rugged look has that effect on women everywhere, every time.
Ali Khazan was a first time visitor in Lagos. He had patronised my Spa for a haircut, facial, manicure and sauna. He was speaking with my secretary about why she won’t accept dollars since that was the only currency he had. I was pretending not to notice as I observe from behind the Vogue Mag I was flipping though at my desk. I pretend not to hear when Mariah, my secretary said,
“please, hold and let me ask my madam. I don’t know if we can accept hard currency now for our services”.
“Your madam? Ok. Never mind, I will talk to her myself. He said and swaggered towards my desk. My pulse increased in beats. The foreigner is a vision os sexuality. The standing at about 2 meters tall.
Fresh out of the sauna, the husky is a beautiful man. The burly physique of the 2 metre height of him, the musky scent that hung in the around him, the exotic accent of his voice, the general aura of the man was so arresting. He bopped his head, subtly waving the silky tresses that frame his forehead and said “hi” and I just want to take him to bed on that spot a that moment. I lost my lady-like composure to reply his greeting
“Hello… hi… uh… welcome to Wyne Yansh Spa… Wyne Yansh Spa… Wyne Yansh Spa.. (gibberish, gibberish, gibberish, and more gibberish)
I really must have embarrassed myself, gushing all over myself having fell under his charms. I had that very overpowering impulse to tell him in an emotion-thickened voice how I am so wetting my pants for him. But I refrained somehow, and reeled out that I am Neyo, the CEO of Wyne Yansh Spa, and how I had taken over Terra Make Over Studio, the best in Lagos when they couldn’t compete With The House Of Wyne Yansh. And how he did well to be reckoning with the best. He said he was a the captain of a ship that had come into Lagos Port the previous night, and is in town looking to sample the delight of the famous Lasgidi. If I wasn’t so mesmerised by the charms of the Pakistani Sailor client, Ali Khazaan, I would have rewarded him with a hug and kisses for gracing my Spa. He is that attractive. The sexually-correct manner he introduced himself; how he pronounced “Lasgidi”, even, is a sexual come on for me. Shame, he had his mind on another.
I could have stabbed him to death, or knock him over the head to rivet his attention back to me, rather than my secretary, Mariah, the petite model serving as my secretary. How could he have preferred Mariah, the hirling over Neyo the Make Up Goddess and Spa Owner? Men are so unforgivingly blind. And stupid too. What a waste that the maker packs so much sex into those eels.
He was so ogling Mariah’s clivages, his desire to lay the girl was evident. The way he kept glancing at her every so often. His unconsciously grabs his crouch, and licking his lips, are the giveaway signs.
“I will give anything to take that chic to bed…” He said staring as she focused on her computer screen.
Shut up, and look at me, I screamed inaudibly
I’d initially greeted his comment with the most seductive smile I could muster, a heave of my ample bossom. I fiddled with the pendant of the necklace I had around my neck, so that his wandering eyes may notice the clivage of my breast where it is lodged. I was smiling so broadly my lips the corners of my mouth hurt like they were tearing up. I was practically wetting my panties, with desire to fuck this beautiful hunk of flesh and blings. I guess I overplayed the siren.
He had gone on chattering about my cashier, and how much dollar I would take to let him put his thing on her. Mtscheewww. I was almost hating his gut. And I made a mental note to fire the stupid Mariah as soon as he leaves. He even slipped Mariah his name card before he left my studio, but I snatched it away, and shut the girl down. Shameless, but a necessary move. Desperate situation demands desperate measures. I am a desperate spinster, and the sex-dripping hunk is a prize. My coquetish overtures went unreturned. He’d left that Monday with a solemn promise to come again for a massage session before his Ship sails away from Lagos.
It is Monday, a week today, since I first set my sex-starved eyes on the handsome Rake of a sailor, Ali Khazaan from Pakistan. All I have left of him is fantasy of a great sex. I am sure I overkilled it: Calling him on the phone every hour of the day, and telling him how I was available, and had not been with a man for 13 months since my last Lagos Gigolo dumped me for a older and richer sugar mummy, and how Naija Bachelors are wary
of successful young women, how I needed him for a good fuck. He stayed away. He stopped taking my calls until his number went out of reach.
Yesterday, I forgo church service to track down the rogue. I took an assertive. Like they say: “if the mountain won’t come to the prophet, the prophet must go to the mountain. I went down to the port, with the devilish intent to “rape” the shit out of the shy rake if he wouldn’t take me to bed, and put his beautiful hunk on me. I learned that at the port, that Khazaan’s ship, Zoza, had sailed with the morning tide. Now all I have for keepsakes is the sex-inspiring image of him, and these haunting fantasies. All I have left of my desire are phantom of a great sex never had.
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