Indian Massage Sex Story: Her Mumbai Home Service

The doorbell rang twice, and as Vikram poured the first stream of warm oil into his palm, Natasha remembered the indian massage sex story she had once laughed at on her phone, and stopped laughing. The laugh died somewhere between the door and the mat.

She had answered the door in a thin cotton robe, hair damp from a quick shower, and he stood there with the rolled massage mat under one arm. He was twenty nine, maybe a year more, lean in a way that said he worked with his hands.

"Namaste, madam," he said, polite, eyes exactly where they should be. "Deep tissue, one hour. Living room is fine?"

Natasha stepped aside and let him in. Her husband Rohan was in Bengaluru for a week long client workshop, and the flat in Andheri West had been too quiet for three evenings in a row. She told herself the massage was for the knot between her shoulder blades, and almost believed it.

He unrolled the mat, arranged the oil bottles in a neat row, and laid out two fresh towels. "Madam, you can change inside. Towel is fine."

In the bedroom she dropped the robe and wrapped a towel tight around herself. In the mirror she saw a thirty six year old woman with restless eyes, and told the mirror to shut up.

When she walked out, Vikram did not look up from warming the oil between his palms. Professional. Good. She lay face down on the mat and felt the warm towel settle over the back of her thighs.

The first touch of oil on her back made her gasp. It was warmer than she expected, and his hands followed immediately, broad and sure, spreading heat from her neck to her waist. Nobody had touched her in days.

"Knot is here, no?" he said, his thumb finding the exact spot between her shoulder blades. He pressed in slow circles and the pain bloomed, then loosened.

"God," Natasha breathed into the mat. "Yes. Right there."

Each long stroke dragged the oil deeper, and her skin turned slick and hot under his palms. She felt her whole back unclenching, and with it something lower, something she had been ignoring all week, started to wake up.

He worked down her spine with his knuckles, slow and deliberate. She bit her lip. The room smelled of oil.

"You do this long?" she asked, her voice muffled. "Six years, madam," he said, his palms flattening across her lower back. "Your muscles are very tight. Stress?"

"My husband travels," she said, and immediately wondered why she had said it. "The house feels empty. I sleep badly."

His hands paused, then continued down to her hips, thumbs pressing into the dimples above her backside. "Then today we make you sleep well," he said quietly.

Something in his tone made her stomach flip. She turned her head and watched him kneel beside her, focused, forearms glistening with oil. He was good looking in an unpolished way.

He folded the towel higher and began on her thighs, kneading with a strength that made her toes curl. His fingers worked dangerously close to where the towel ended, and neither of them moved it.

"Turn your head this side, madam," he murmured, and she did. His thumb traced the inside of her thigh, professional, but his eyes flicked to her face and held there a second too long.

Natasha felt heat pooling between her legs, slow and undeniable. It had been four months since Rohan had touched her with any real hunger, and the drift of work trips and late nights had left her starving.

She had not planned this. That was the truth she kept repeating while her body made its own plans.

"Vikram," she said, lifting her head. "How long is your session really? The full hour?"

"One hour, madam. We have forty minutes left."

"And after that?" She met his eyes. "Do you ever stay longer?"

His hands slowed on her calf. "Sometimes, if the client asks. For extra time."

"I am asking," she said. She sat up slowly, holding the towel against her chest, and the movement brought her face close to his.

"Stay longer tonight. I want extra attention. The full attention."

He understood. She watched him understand, watched the professional mask crack into something warmer and hungrier. "Madam," he said carefully, "are you sure?"

"I have never been more sure of anything this week," she said, and let the towel drop. His breath caught. She stood naked before him, oil shining on her skin. He stared for a long moment, then set the oil bottle down with deliberate care.

"Then turn over," he said, his voice rougher now. She lay back and he poured fresh warm oil onto her stomach. It ran in rivulets down her sides and pooled in her navel. His hands followed, spreading it over her ribs and breasts.

"You are beautiful," he said, cupping her breasts in his oiled hands. His thumbs brushed her nipples and she arched off the mat with a sharp cry. He bent his head and took one nipple into his mouth.

Natasha moaned, loud and shameless, her fingers tangling in his hair. His tongue circled her nipple while his hand kneaded her other breast, sending jolts straight down between her thighs.

"Ahh, Vikram," she gasped. "Your mouth... don't stop."

He moved to her other breast, sucking harder, and slid one hand down her oiled stomach. His fingers found her wet and swollen. "You are so wet," he whispered.

"Natasha," she corrected, breathless. "Say my name."

"Natasha," he said, and pushed two fingers deep inside her. She cried out, hips bucking off the mat. His fingers curled inside her while his thumb circled her clit, and she was already shaking.

She reached for his kurta and yanked it upward. "Off. Everything off. Now."

He stripped fast, kurta over his head, trousers kicked aside. He was lean and hard all over, his cock thick and straining, glistening at the tip. Natasha licked her lips.

"Come here," she ordered, pulling him down by the wrist. She took his cock in her oiled hand and stroked it slowly. Then she guided it to her mouth.

She sucked him deep, tongue swirling around the head, tasting salt and skin. He groaned, hands buried in her damp hair, hips jerking forward. "Natasha... fuck."

She took him deeper, hollowing her cheeks, one hand cupping his balls and rolling them gently. His thighs trembled under her palms.

"Bas, bas," he panted, pulling back. "I will come. Not yet."

He pushed her back onto the mat and spread her legs wide. He looked at her for a long moment, spread and dripping, and the hunger in his face made her clench around nothing.

Then his mouth was on her. His tongue licked one long stripe up her slit and she screamed, back bowing off the mat. He ate her like he meant it, tongue circling her clit while two fingers pumped inside her.

"Vikram, oh god," she sobbed, her hands clawing at the mat. The pleasure built fast and brutal, and when it broke she came hard, her body convulsing, thighs clamping around his head.

He kept licking her through it, gentler now, until she was whimpering and pushing at his shoulders. Then he rose over her, his cock heavy against her thigh.

"Please," she whispered. "Inside me. Now."

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching her open. Natasha moaned long and low, her nails digging into his back. The stretch burned sweet.

"Fuck, you are tight," he groaned, bottoming out inside her. He held still for a moment, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed to hers.

Then he started to move, slow deep thrusts that dragged against every nerve inside her. The mat slid on the floor with each push. Oil, sweat, the slap of skin filled the quiet flat.

"Harder," she demanded, wrapping her legs around his waist. "Don't be gentle with me."

He obeyed, driving into her harder, hips snapping forward. He bent to suck her nipple without breaking rhythm, and Natasha screamed his name.

She flipped him suddenly and straddled him. She sank down onto his cock and rode him, grinding her clit against him with every roll of her hips. His hands gripped her waist, his eyes locked on her breasts.

"You are incredible," he panted. "So fucking sexy, Natasha."

She leaned forward and kissed him hard while she rode him. His tongue tangled with hers, their bodies moving together, wet and frantic.

"Turn," he growled, and she understood. She got on all fours, presenting herself, and he knelt behind her. He slid into her from behind in one deep stroke and they both cried out.

This position drove him impossibly deep. He grabbed her hips and pounded into her. Natasha buried her face in the mat and screamed into it, beyond caring who heard.

"I'm going to come," he warned, his thrusts turning wild and uneven. "Where...?"

"Inside," she gasped. "Come inside me. Fill me."

He slammed deep one final time and came with a roar, his cock pulsing inside her. The feeling of him emptying into her pushed her over too, and she came apart around him, shaking and sobbing his name.

They collapsed onto the mat in a tangle of oiled limbs, breathing hard. His cock slipped out slowly, his cum trickling down her thigh.

"That," Natasha said finally, staring at the ceiling fan, "was not in the service menu." Vikram laughed, a real laugh, and propped himself on one elbow. "No, madam. That was... extra."

She turned her head and smiled at him. "Natasha. And you are staying for dinner. That is not a request."

He stayed. They showered together, which took twice as long as it should have because his hands kept finding her under the water. She made dal and rice, and he ate like a man who had earned it.

Over dinner he told her about his village near Nashik and clients who fell asleep mid massage. She told him about Rohan's workshop and the empty flat. They laughed more than she had in weeks.

At eleven he stood to leave, rolling the mat with those efficient hands. Natasha watched from the bedroom doorway, wearing nothing but his kurta.

"Vikram," she said. He looked up, and she crooked one finger.

He left the mat half rolled and crossed the living room. She backed into the bedroom and he followed, kicking the door shut. The bedroom was dark except for streetlight glow.

This time there was no pretense. He pushed her back onto the bed and spread her legs, and she was already wet again from nothing more than the look on his face. He entered her slowly, and she wrapped herself around him.

They moved together in the dark, unhurried now. He kissed her neck and collarbone while his cock slid in and out in long strokes. She whispered filthy things in Hindi and he groaned and went harder.

"Aur tez," she breathed. "Haan, aise hi... mat rukna."

He lifted her leg over his shoulder, changing the angle, and hit a spot inside her that made her see white. "Vikram!" she cried, nails raking his back. "There, oh god, there."

He kept that rhythm, relentless, eyes on her face. She came with a silent scream, body locking around him, and he followed seconds later, burying himself deep.

Afterward they lay tangled in her sheets, her head on his chest. His cum was warm between her thighs, and the flat held a different kind of quiet.

Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, Rohan's name lighting up the screen. Natasha looked at it, looked at Vikram, and turned the phone face down.

"He will call back," Vikram said. "He always does," she answered, tracing a slow circle on his chest. "Same time tomorrow?"

Vikram smiled in the dark and pulled her closer. "Madam, for you, I will cancel everyone."