I walked into the room, noticing the dimmed light, candles and soft music, but before I had a chance to take it all in, she demanded I remove all my clothes.

“All of them?” I asked, unsure if I had misheard her.

She nodded, and I proceeded to slip off my jeans and top. She gestured toward my bra and pants too, and I self-consciously removed them, feeling awkward in my nakedness as I stood before her. How odd, I thought, that I should be so uncomfortable with my nudity in this situation; how ironic that the opposite is true when it’s a guy I am with.

She flattened the bed sheet and told me to lie down on my front. The clean crisp white cotton felt cool on my skin as I positioned myself onto the mattress; it smelt of lavender and geranium – lovely. She moved swiftly around me, her hands dancing on my back, circling my curves, her oiled fingers rhythmically flexing against my skin. It was lovely, so relaxing, so…hold on a minute: those are my breasts, what the hell…?

My breasts might be big and when I’m lying on my front I know they are liable to, er, spill out a bit at the sides, and I’m aware that if one runs their hands up from my hips to my underarms, they will inevitably meet my boobs on the way, but there was no denying it: this woman was purposefully stroking my tits.

Because I’ve never had a massage before, I thought it would be a great way to release the stress I’ve been under in recent months. So when I booked a full-body session at the hotel I was staying at, I had assumed that it would mean my back, legs and arms were rubbed. I didn’t for a minute think that some woman’s oiled up hands would be gently manipulating my mammaries.

I lay there, her slippery fingers circling the curves of my breasts and tried to think. Surely this was out of bounds? Shouldn’t she should be focusing on my back and shoulders, rather than letting her hands slide down my sides and under my tits? Didn’t she realise that doing such a thing was inappropriate? Or, maybe that was the point? Perhaps I had inadvertently stumbled across a masseuse who was getting a kick out of the fact that I was prostrate and therefore in a compromising position and she was, god forbid, taking advantage of me?

Clearly my neurosis was getting the better of me. She was a masseuse for fuck’s sake, not some randy bugger who was trying to have a quick grope. I was paying her to massage me, and massage me she was. Then it struck me. Maybe this was all part of the package; perhaps she was actually focusing on my breasts on purpose in order to elicit a response? OK so this wasn’t a Soho massage parlour, but maybe in my naivety I had somehow stumbled upon a masseuse who would, as they say, see me through to ‘completion’?

I became aware of her hands slowly sliding down my back, smoothing my buttocks tightly and then spreading the cheeks apart. Then she ran her fingers slickly over my hips, slipping them quickly beneath my breasts, pulling on them lightly as she made her way back down to my arse.

Oh god, she is clearly trying to turn me on. Fuck. What am I supposed to do here? Should I speak up?

“Look here,” I could say, in my poshest English voice. “That’s really uncalled for. I think you should stick to the neutral areas and stay well clear of my erogenous zones”.

But I didn’t. The problem was, you see, that I was enjoying it. I could feel my body respond to her touch; between my legs it was no longer a pulse, more a rampant throb. No matter how uncomfortable, or embarrassed, how prudish I felt, the fact is, that part of me also wanted her hands to somehow ‘accidentally’ slip between my legs: I longed for her fingers to glide as delicately there as they were doing over the rest of my body. I needed it. Thank god my arousal was hidden, or as hidden as it could be, being turned on and soaking wet; I thanked my lucky stars that I wasn’t a bloke - I can only imagine the equivalent erection a guy would have had from that level of stimulation…

Just as I was debating spreading my legs apart and hoping that she might take the hint, she told me to turn over onto my back. I was half relieved and half gutted: nothing would happen now. I laughed to myself as she laid the sheet over the front of my body. How stupid I was to think that the massage involved any ‘extras’; this was in a legitimate well-known hotel for fuck’s sake! No naughty freebies there. She laid a scented blindfold on my eyes and I relaxed back into the moment, chastising myself for being such a twat and for getting myself worked up.

Then she removed the sheet, poured warm oil onto my tits and began rubbing them with her hands. What the fuck?

Under the blindfold, my brain felt ready to explode. I have a strange woman caressing my breasts! She isn’t doing it accidentally!! Oh my god, what do I do? I lay there, immobile, and tried to think.

a) She might be some kind of pervert and I am being violated. Perhaps there is a camera filming this and afterwards all the masseuses will watch the footage and laugh at the stupid English client who laid back and let herself get felt up with no struggle.
b) This might just be part of the massage and I am being neurotic: why should breasts miss out on being rubbed? Men get their chests massaged; just because my female mammaries have been sexualised and objectified in society, it shouldn’t mean that they aren’t treated the same as their male counterparts. They are just another body part after all; my worry about their being touched says more about my hang-up, than the act itself.
c) Feeling my breasts might not be part of the massage but she reckons I look like the sort of woman who’d be up for a little ‘extra’ on the side and perhaps she’ll frig me off if I give her a good tip

I’m not ashamed to say I ended up hoping it was the latter. Fuck it, I thought, she must know how much she is turning me on: my breasts are very sensitive and with her deft touch, my nipples were like bullets in her fingers. Combined with my fast breathing, and minor body-wriggling, it was obvious, to my mind, that she had got me horny as hell.

So, blindfold still on my eyes, and breasts in her capable oily hands, I lay back and hoped for the best. Sadly the tit massage continued for only a short while; she then moved on to my stomach, legs and arms, in fact, gave me a ‘full-body massage’ as advertised. Gutted.

Still, she did miss out one part – in the obvious place. Maybe I should have asked for a refund, stating I didn’t receive the full service they offered. I doubt they would have included that in the price though. Even if I was providing my own oil.