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Morgan spread a fleece blanket on the floor, the kind of blanket you take to a college football game on a chilly evening. The floor was carpeted and soft enough and I lay face down for my massage. Morgan, in his black stretch Jockey briefs, began rubbing my back and legs. His touch was confident. He kneaded the muscles on my shoulders and rubbed between my thighs. I wanted to turn over so I could see his naked body as he touched me. Now I reached up to touch his face, beard, and hair. I asked him if he liked to kiss and he said sometimes.I stood up and asked Morgan to lie down on his back. I sat on him, pushed my butt against his cock, still in its Jockeys, and he reached his arms over his head. I licked his nipples and armpits and smelled his manliness there. I felt his cock through the cotton shorts with my hands and my mouth.He took off his shorts and revealed a lovely cock, erect and circumcised, pubic hair neatly trimmed and with smooth brown balls. His whole strong body was. I could feel his mouth searching for mine. But I don't kiss clients. It has always seemed to personal for me. I was fucking him, riding him, now only for the pure eroticism of it. I could see his lust for me burning in his eyes as if they were the crown jewels of an Egyptian pharaoh. But I was only his courtess and not his queen. It was wrong for him to take me there. It was wrong and I loved it. I wanted more.I turned to my side, barely still clinging to the narrow table. He faced me, holding me around the shoulders and swung one of my legs, lean and quivering, over his waist. His dick was in me again. I could do nothing but feel his hand dig into my wide, round ass, stare into his eyes, and melt in the warmth of the pleasure of our sex."Oh, Mr. Maxwell..."There was nothing but our sex. The time we had there on the massage table was like a passionate eternity. It lingered on, out of Time, and distorted by the pain that will be forgotten and the unending stimulation that numbs your.
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