A late-night blog post about erotic massage draws Michael, a cautious man who weighs every decision, into an evening he never planned. This story follows him from his first message to the agency to a private evening in Knightsbridge with Angie.
This erotic story is fictional and intended for entertainment
A story from City Butterflies, a London escort agency.
A Post He Could Not Ignore
Michael never trusted anything on a first reading. In his work, he read every contract twice and every email three times. People called him cautious. He called it what made him good at his job.
So he was annoyed with himself for stopping to read the blog post.
It was late, and the office had emptied hours before. He had the City Butterflies site open for no reason he could defend. The post described erotic massage: slow hands, warm oil, and an evening arranged so carefully that a man had nothing to do but surrender to it. He read it twice, as he read everything. The second time, he could not look away.
Then he followed a link to the portfolio, and he saw Angie.
Her photographs were relaxed. She did not pose or pout. Her figure was lovely, and her quiet, private manner intrigued him, even through a screen.
He closed the laptop. He opened it again. By midnight he had stopped pretending he was only reading.
The Message
He wrote to the agency on WhatsApp the next morning, between two meetings. He kept it short. He gave his name, asked if Angie was available that week, and admitted that he had never done anything like this before.
The reply was calm and kind. Angie was available on Thursday evening. The agency would confirm everything in writing, and the address would follow once he was happy with the plan. If he wished to change anything, he only had to say so.
He read it in the back of a cab, and his shoulders dropped for the first time that week. He had expected to feel exposed. Instead, he felt looked after.
Her Door
On Thursday, the rain stopped just before he arrived. The street was quiet, a few minutes from Brompton Road, and the pavement shone under the streetlights. He found a white stucco house, a brass bell, and a lift that hushed as it rose.
The door opened before he could knock.
“Michael? Good evening,” she said, and held out her hand. Her voice was low and warm, and it reached him before he had really looked at her. “I hope the journey was easy.”
“Easy enough,” he said, and found that he meant it.
She led him into a warm, stylish living room. He stood a moment to admire the art on the walls. Antique pieces stood in every corner, and a thick carpet stretched from wall to wall.
A massage table stood in the corner, a folded towel at its end. It was the only thing out of place. He thought of asking about it, and decided to wait.
She poured two drinks and sat opposite him, close enough that he could smell her perfume, far enough to let him breathe. They talked about the rain, his work, and the city at that hour. It was the simplest conversation he had had all week.
“Is this your first time?” she asked.
“Here? Yes,” he said, and smiled.
“I meant a massage.”
“It is not my first. But it is the first with someone I fancy,” he said, a little under his breath.
“Then you should enjoy it,” she said, laughing, and he felt the last of his caution loosen.
She set down her glass. “Tell me if anything is too much, or not enough. You can stop me at any point, and so can I.”
He nodded. He liked that the evening would run by rules, and that they were hers.
It was the simplest conversation he had had all week.
The Massage
She sent him to freshen up. When he came back, she was waiting in a silky robe. She pointed to the table, and he knew what she meant. He lay face down, and only then noticed he was still fully dressed.
“Do you mind getting your clothes out of the way for me?” she said.
He laughed and stood up to undress. She passed him a towel to cover himself. He was noticeably aroused, and he had to shift to lie comfortably on the table.
Warm oil ran across his back, and her hands followed it.
She worked slowly and firmly. Her hands moved over his back, his shoulders and his neck without missing a spot. With every stroke, he felt a little more tension leave him.
After about twenty minutes she moved to his lower back and drew the towel aside. She added more oil. She took each leg in turn, moving in long, steady strokes from the thighs to the toes. He gave up pretending to himself that this was only a massage.
When he turned over, his arousal was plain. She glanced at it, and her mouth curved.
“That is quite a distraction,” she said, and carried on oiling his chest and arms.
He gave up pretending to himself that this was only a massage.
Through the silk of her robe he could see her nipples, hard and inviting, and not his to touch. She kept her hands away from his member, and that drove him mad.
When she finished, he sat up and asked if he could touch her.
Watch Only
“No,” she said. Then, gently: “But you can watch.”
She said it kindly, and she meant it. Michael understood at once that the line was hers to draw, and that she would not cross it. He nodded. He did not ask twice.
She walked to the sofa and sat. She held his eyes as she opened her robe and let her legs fall apart. She was wet, and did not hide it. She slid her right hand down and began to rub her clitoris, slowly, and let out a soft moan.
Michael could not take any more. She gave a small nod, and he began to stroke himself. The warm oil made it easy. She raised one leg onto the sofa and rubbed harder, her other hand moving to her nipples. He watched the colour rise in her face. He watched her feel it build.
Michael was close to release. He stroked faster, and in moments he came, his whole body tightening. Almost at once she began to tremble, and she cried out as her orgasm broke over her. It came in waves, and it lasted longer than his.
When it passed, she rose, crossed to him and kissed him softly.
“Next time, I want you inside me,” she said. “For now, I would call that a very good first evening.”
She brought him water. They talked for a while, and neither of them hurried. The rain had started again by the time he left.
In the cab, he wrote one message to the agency. Thursday again, if she is available.
The answer came quickly, as before. Of course. The details would follow in writing.
Michael looked out at the rain-blurred lights of Knightsbridge. In all his working life he had read every contract twice. This was the first thing he had ever agreed to on a single reading.
A note from City Butterflies
We arrange every booking from the first message to the evening itself, and confirm every one in writing. Our companions decide for themselves what they are happy to do, and we never pressure them.
If you enjoyed this erotic massage story, you may also like Anna Discovers Tantric Massage for the First Time and The Bordeaux Cellar. The rest of our collection is on the erotic stories page. If you want to know what respect looks like in practice, read our guide to consent.
