University days were a blur of lectures and ramen noodles; cash, as always, was a scarce commodity. Like many of my peers, I juggled part-time jobs. One of my more interesting gigs was as a masseur at the local health and sports club, a place that primarily catered to the student population. It wasn’t exactly a high-end spa, and the pay was modest, but the work itself? I found a certain satisfaction in it.

I’ve always been tall – six-foot-two – with a lean, athletic build from regular workouts. Being in my early twenties, I was also a walking, talking embodiment of raw, insatiable horniness. It was a constant thrum beneath my skin, a state of being that wasn’t helped by the fact that many of my clients were female students, often blessed with the kind of toned, vibrant bodies that haunted my dreams. So, yes, despite the less-than-stellar wages, the job had its undeniable perks.

There’s one more detail crucial to setting the scene: our work uniform. We were issued thin, white cotton pants and a matching shirt – an attempt at professionalism, I suppose. The fabric, however, was practically translucent under the studio lights. To maintain a semblance of decorum and avoid any… undue embarrassment for my clients, I’d taken to wearing a thong underneath. On days I felt particularly audacious, I’d choose a black one, a stark, easily discernible shadow beneath the white. It’s worth remembering this was a time when thongs were far from mainstream, a rather risqué choice even for women, let alone a male masseur.

Alright, enough preamble. Susie had been a regular client for a while. She was dedicated to her workouts, a diligent student, and possessed a body that was both strong and exquisitely shaped. Initially, she’d been a touch shy, but over our sessions, she’d grown noticeably more relaxed. Today, there was a new level of ease about her. For the first time, she arrived for her massage already wearing a thong – a black lace confection that did little to hide her curves. She also mentioned a particularly bad case of muscle soreness plaguing the upper part of her legs. Her eyes met mine in the mirror, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “My glutes are killing me,” she’d added, a soft emphasis on the word.

With a nod, I prepared the oil, its scent subtly floral. I started the massage by working the tension from her neck and shoulders, my hands gliding over her warm skin. As I moved down her back, my gaze kept drifting to the gentle swell of her buttocks, barely contained by that scrap of black lace. When I reached the base of her spine, I shifted my approach, starting instead from her ankles and working my way slowly, deliberately upwards. Each stroke was a study in control, a careful exploration of muscle and sinew, and an exercise in appreciating the view. Seeing her stretched out before me, vulnerable and trusting in just that thong, sent a familiar heat coiling low in my belly.

I continued the rhythmic strokes for a while, feeling the knots in her calves and hamstrings begin to yield. Then, her voice, a little breathy, broke the silence. “Could you really focus on my glutes? They’re incredibly sore.”

“Of course,” I murmured, my voice a shade huskier than intended. I returned to her thighs, gently coaxing her legs slightly further apart to give me better access. My oiled hands began to knead the firm flesh of her buttocks, sinking deep into the muscle. I heard her breath catch, a soft, involuntary hiss of air. A low moan vibrated in her throat.

It was then, with the scent of her skin and the oil mingling in the air, that my control began to fray. I couldn’t resist letting my hands stray, venturing deeper into the valley between her thighs. The side of my hand, slick with oil, brushed ever so lightly against the delicate fabric covering her pussy. A distinct tremor ran through her. I felt her hips subtly shift, a small, almost imperceptible movement, pressing herself against my touch. That tiny, unspoken invitation was all it took. Any pretense of purely therapeutic touch dissolved.

My hands grew bolder, tracing the line of her thong from the slender T-back, down into the shadowed cleft of her buttocks. One hand cupped her cheek, kneading deeply, while the other, guided by instinct, found its way to the front, caressing her mound through the lace. Susie’s moans were louder now, a series of soft, guttural sounds that matched the rhythm of my hands on her body.

I could feel the damp heat blooming against my palm, her arousal seeping through the thin material. My fingers, slick with her wetness and the oil, slid beneath the lace edge, finding the tender, swollen lips of her pussy.

A sharp gasp escaped her.

“Yes… oh, more,” she breathed, the words a ragged whisper that ignited a firestorm within me.

With a surge of adrenaline, I hooked my fingers under the thong’s waistband and gently tugged it to the side, exposing her completely. Her pussy was beautiful – plump, pink, and glistening. I slid one finger, then two, into her slick heat, feeling her inner muscles clench around them. Her hips began to buck against my hand. Reaching for the oil bottle without breaking rhythm, I let a few more drops fall onto the rise of her buttocks, watching as the golden liquid traced a shimmering path down the crease, pooling at the entrance to her cunt.

I withdrew my fingers, slick with her essence, and brought them to my lips, tasting her for the first time – a sweet, musky flavor that was utterly intoxicating.

“Lift your hips a little for me, Susie,” I murmured, my voice thick. She complied, shifting further down the massage bench, her ass now perfectly positioned. I knelt behind her, the sight of her exposed, waiting pussy and the tight pucker of her rosebud making my own cock strain painfully against my thong.

I leaned in, my tongue tracing the line where her thong had been, then darting down into the valley of her ass, over the delicate skin of her perineum, and finally, to the swollen, waiting lips of her pussy. My tongue went to work, lapping at her clit, flicking and teasing, then plunging deeper, trying to mimic the thrust of a cock. My hands weren’t idle; they gripped her ass cheeks, kneading, squeezing, sometimes hard, sometimes with a feather-light touch. Every so often, my adventurous tongue would detour south, swirling around her tight little asshole, rewarded each time by a convulsive push of her hips against my face, before journeying back up to her dripping cunt.

It didn’t take long. Her moans escalated into a series of choked cries, her body arching and trembling. She was trying to stifle the sounds, but the intensity of her orgasm was undeniable. I held her steady, lapping at her furiously until the last shudders subsided.

I let her relax, draping a soft towel over her quivering back. The room was filled with the scent of sex and her release.

After a couple of minutes, she turned her head, her eyes hazy, a languid smile gracing her lips. “That,” she sighed, “was the best back and butt massage I have ever had. Even better than my boyfriend does.”

My own body was a raging inferno. Time was up; my next client would be arriving in minutes. There was no time to discuss what had just transpired, no time for anything but the urgent need to deal with the massive, throbbing erection straining in my pants and to clean the evidence of her pleasure from my face.

Susie gathered her things, her movements slow and sensual. As she left, she flashed me another knowing smile. “I’ll be back,” she promised, her voice a silken caress.

And I knew, with a certainty that made my cock pulse again, that she would