Making Piggy
I was asked to write down some recent experiences. I’m more than happy to do so. My life has changed a lot in the last couple of years, and if my story is of interest to others, well, I’ll leave them to draw their own conclusions.
One of my great pleasures had been a fully naked massage from a Thai woman named Alice. She was about 40 at the time. Medium build. But well toned and attractive in an unflashy way, with long dark hair she wore pinned up while she worked. She had great touch and magical way of knowing exactly where tension was in my body and exactly how much pressure was required to dissolve it.
The happy endings were, without qualification, superb.
In massage places these sessions so often end with something perfunctory—nice but mechanical. With Alice it was never perfunctory. I was a regular, I tipped generously, and Alice, I think, liked both me and the money I gave her. So she made a real effort.
What I loved most was the architecture of it — the slow, deliberate build that Alice constructed the same way every time. She had the confidence of someone who knows exactly where they’re taking you. She’d work my back and shoulders before her strokes grew longer and lazier, drifting south, her thumbs tracing and caressing my buttocks with feather-light es that blurred the line between therapy and something else entirely. Then the cool trickle of baby oil poured deliberately into my crack, her fingers following it down teasing gently.
Turned over, she’d trail butterfly kisses up the insides of my thighs, barely there, each one landing fractionally higher, before arriving, finally, at my balls. The attention she paid them—kissing, licking, sucking with unhurried expertise—was enough on its own to justify the journey.
By this stage Alice would have dispensed with her own clothing. She looked great naked with smooth skin, good sized and firm breasts with dark nipples and a slim, toned body. I enjoyed looking at her and she seemed to like me looking. She’d climb onto the table and straddle me, lifting herself slowly up and down, sliding my cock against the softness of her inner thighs, twisting her hands on the tip of my cock while I filled my hands with her breasts and her bottom and considered myself an exceptionally fortunate man.
It never went further than that. But there was real intimacy in it—her body above me, her eyes on mine, the flush spreading across her chest as she worked. Once I’d come she’d lean down and kiss me slowly, her breasts pushing against my chest, her hand stroking my hair.
After about a year of weekly visits Alice moved on, going to work with her friend Jane at a new place across the city. I knew Jane slightly from a single massage years before, briefly, at somewhere she’d worked in ing. The new clinic was ninety minutes away, which was inconvenient. I tried others in the meantime but none of them came remotely close.
So I made the drive.
Alice was delighted to see me and our first session was everything I’d ed. Jane wasn’t there that day.
On a subsequent visit she appeared near the end of the session.
Jane was slightly smaller, but strongly built with a figure she kept entirely concealed beneath a shapeless medical top. She had a real stillness and authority to her. Dark eyes that held a quality of cool assessment. She moved with brisk purpose and spoke as though what she said was obvious. She didn’t waste words.
She got to work on my buttocks without ceremony, and I noticed immediately that she was extraordinary at it. Even more skilled than Alice, with a deliberate, invasive thoroughness that was somewhat startling. Her thumbs worked deep into the muscle, spreading, pressing, and her fingers traced lower with a confidence that was fantastically erotic.
Then, without any change in tone whatsoever, she began working a finger carefully inward.
“If you like, we can bum fuck you,” she said. Perfectly conversational. The voice of someone suggesting a different massage oil. “Only if you want, of course.”
I said no — possibly at a pitch that revealed more agitation than I’d intended.
“Hmm. Well okay,” she said. Entirely unbothered. “No problem.”
She left. Alice and I finished the session in our usual fashion — her warm and gentle above me, my hands full of her shoulders and breasts, her technique as exquisite as ever. Afterward, when I asked what that had been about, Alice looked embarrassed.
“Don’t listen to her,” she said, patting the towel across my lap with a proprietorial little pat. “She’s got a new idea. It’s not for you.”
She kissed my forehead and changed the subject.
Things continued for several months. I visited every couple of weeks and thought nothing had changed. Occasionally Jane would appear during a session—never announced, always purposeful—and resume her campaign with calm persistence. Thumbs spreading, fingers probing, a measured application of lube applied as though my objections were a minor logistical obstacle rather than a firm position.
“Sure I can’t persuade you?” she’d ask. See how nice it feels she said working one finger in to the knuckle.
Alice would laugh, flustered, from the other side of the table.
After several minutes of teasing that was—I’ll be honest—Jane would leave, usually giving my bum some painful squeezes and one big slap before she left. I must it it. I found that strangely exciting too.
I told myself I found this annoying.
One afternoon Alice was running over with a client. Jane made tea and we sat in the small reception room—me with my cup, Jane perched on the desk, watching me with that steady appraising gaze.
The tea was good. Fragrant, slightly unusual, warming in a way that spread outward from my chest and settled into something loose and very pleasant. I thinking I must ask what blend it was.
Jane watched me drink it with an expression of quiet satisfaction.
The silence stretched out comfortably. I felt my thoughts soften at the edges. Jane tilted her head and looked at me the way a jeweller regards a stone — not unkindly, but with cool professional interest, turning it over, considering its properties.
After a while she said simply: “Okay. You’re ready. Let’s go upstairs.”
I didn’t even know there was an upstairs!
I followed her down the corridor and up a steep narrow staircase. Jane’s skirt was short and the stairs were steep and she had magnificent legs. I was aware that I was being led somewhere and found I didn’t mind at all.
The room at the top held a large low bed and not much else besides several mirrors, positioned with evident forethought. Jane gestured at the bed.
“Okay. Take your clothes off. Lie down. I’ll be back in a moment.”
She left before I could respond. I did as I was told, well of course I did.
A few minutes later the door opened and both of them came in. Alice wore a loose robe, Jane still in her white medical top.
“Now baby,” said Jane “Here’s your big moment. Alice is going to give you the bum fuck of your life. The tea should have done its job by now so you’re ready.” The smirk she’d been containing escaped briefly as she said it.
“The tea,” I said slowly.
“Mild relaxant. Nothing dramatic. Just enough to make you sensible.”
“Sensible,” I repeated.
“About what you actually want,” she said, with a patience that suggested she found my resistance mildly tedious. “So. Shall we?” Her eyes looked me up and down in a way that was frankly predatory.
Behind her Alice watched me with bright, anxious eyes.
“Wait, what no!,” I said. “I’m sorry. It’s still no.” It came out almost as a squeak but I meant it. This was a bit too much for me.
Alice’s face fell. “See,” she said to Jane. “I told you.”
Jane was silent for a moment, looking at me with an expression I couldn’t read. Then she said: “No worries darling. No worries at all. Just stay there,” and left the room.
Alice stood beside the bed looking down at me with an apologetic expression. I lay there naked and increasingly uncertain, turning over the question of whether to grab me clothes and leave. The tea made the question feel less urgent than it probably should have.
Jane came back. She was carrying a small dark jar.
She set it down and then she reached down, took the hem of her medical top in both hands, and pulled it over her head in one smooth movement.
What had been hidden beneath it stopped my train of thought entirely.
She unhooked her bra with matter-of-fact efficiency and let it drop.
I heard myself exhale. Full, heavy breasts with large brown nipples. Dear god—just perfect!
She opened the jar. Dipped two fingers. Applied a little of what was inside to her nipples with slow, deliberate circles, her eyes on my face the entire time, reading it.
Then she climbed onto the bed and straddled me.
“Well,” she said, looking down. “Here we are.” She reached behind her and wrapped her hand firmly around my cock, which had formed its own opinion on the situation without consulting me. “Now. You can suck my nipples.” She cupped her breasts in both hands and offered them forward. “Only if you want to, of course.”
The smirk was fully deployed now.
“I should mention,” she said pleasantly, “that once you’ve had a taste, things are going to move quite quickly. Alice is going to get the strap-on. You’re going to discover that you want it very much. And you’re going to be very, very grateful.” She circled her nipples with her thumbs, watching my face. “But only if you want to, of course.”
I knew exactly what was happening. I was clear-headed about it, or as clear-headed as the tea permitted, which was not entirely clear-headed. I should get up. Things were running out of control. The thought was fully formed and entirely reasonable.
Jane leaned down and put her lips to my ear. Her tongue traced the edge of it slowly, then she pulled back and looked straight at me, her hand moving on my cock with unhurried certainty.
“Okay, baby,” she said. “Time to suck.”
She pressed those magnificent breasts against my face and I stopped thinking about getting up.
I grabbed her and sucked greedily, pulling her closer, and the taste on her nipples was strange and sweet and faintly chemical and I didn’t care at all, working my mouth over her while she held my head in both hands and murmured above me in a low continuous voice — instructions or incantations, it was difficult to say, and I was past the point of caring about the distinction.
I surfaced slowly, as though coming up through warm water.
Jane was standing beside the bed, arms folded, looking down at me with Alice at her shoulder. Both of them were watching me with the focused attention of people waiting for a result.
“Welcome back,” said Jane. “Now. You want Alice to bum fuck you.”
“I’m not sure I . . .”
“You want her to spread those cheeks and push her strap-on all the way in.”
My cock twitched hard against my stomach. Both of them saw it. Jane’s mouth curved.
“There it is,” she said quietly. “Well, baby. Tell Alice what you want.”
“I want . . .” I stopped, confused. Started again. “I want . . . I want . . . No wait, I, I I need . . . I need to be bum fucked. Now!
“Such a good boy. But ask nicely. Alice likes manners.”
“Please, Alice,” I said, and I meant it truly, madly deeply. “Please bum fuck me.”
Alice pressed her hands to her mouth. Jane turned to her with an expression of profound professional satisfaction. They did quick high five. “Well, well,” she said. “I think we’ve got our piggy.”
“Piggy?” I said.
Jane was already helping Alice with the strap-on, working the buckles with brisk efficiency, the two of them conferring quietly. Alice’s robe dropped to the floor—smooth warm skin, those perfect dark-nippled breasts. Jane adjusted the last strap and stepped back to appraise her work.
“Right,” said Jane. She got onto the bed and settled back against the headboard. “Head in my lap. All fours. Face down” she said briskly. I obeyed at once. Her hand came to rest on the back of my neck—not gripping, just present. “Good. Now breathe.”
Alice worked methodically behind me — the strap-on trailing across my buttocks, once, twice, three times. Teasing me. Then her hands got to work with the lube. Jane watched all this with quite satisfaction, stroking my hair and teasing my ears with her fingers.
“Lube. You can never use too much,” she remarked.
One finger. Two. Three. Each drawing a longer, less dignified sound from me than the last, my face pressed into Jane’s thighs.
Then the blunt pressure of the tip, pressing and retreating. Alice’s hand reaching round to stroke my cock in a slow, maddening rhythm. The pressure building . . . and then stopping. Hand stroking and strap on pushing. Then stopping. I started squirming pushing my bum back against the strap on and my cock against Alice’s fingers.
“Oh, not so fast,” said Jane pleasantly. Her thighs parted either side of my face. Her hand pressed my head down. “You’ve got work to do first.”
So it went. They kept me precisely at the edge—Alice advancing and retreating with expert timing, stroking and pausing while I served Jane with increasing desperation, her hand twisted in my hair, directing, correcting, in charge of the pace.
Finally, Jane exhaled with satisfaction and said: “All right, Alice. He’s ready. Time to make him your piggy.”
Alice bent low over my back. Lips at my ear — soft deliberate bites, the slow drag of her tongue. Her voice dropped to a murmur.
“Okay, baby. I need you to be my piggy now. So squeal for me.” Her hips drew back. “Squeal like the little piggy you are.”
She drove forward hard.
“Squee—”
“Louder.” Her hand wrapped around my cock and stroked in earnest.
“Squee! Squee! SQUEE!”
“LOUDER, piggy!”
“SQUEE! SQUEE! SQUEE!”
Jane looked down at me with magnificent composure and Alice laughed with pure triumphant delight as I came hard and the room came apart entirely.
Jane sat on the edge of the bed afterward and poured herself a glass of water from the nightstand with the calm of someone who has completed a satisfying piece of work.
“There,” she said to Alice, over my thoroughly undone form. “Told you.”
Alice, glowing, said nothing. But she ran her hand slowly up my back and left it resting between my shoulders, and even in my current condition I ed the particular quality of that touch — proprietary, warm, decided.
Coda
We married two months later. Jane was our only guest, the registrar a friend of Jane’s and perhaps knowing more than I would like. She certainly seemed to enjoy the ceremony and made some slightly pointed remarks. Well, so what?
And marriage, it turns out, has a clear structure.
Mornings begin the same way every morning without exception. Alice sits on the edge of the bed and I get on my knees on the floor. This is my favourite part of my mornings. She keeps her hand resting lightly on top of my head w and she takes as long as she likes, which is always quite a long time, and I have learned not to rush. Some mornings she comes quietly with her head tipped back. Other mornings she grips my hair and grinds against my face and comes loudly and without much concern for the neighbours.
But it is not all one way. I get my share of blow jobs and a couple of times a week we go upstairs early evening. Alice enjoys the beast in me she says. So I put her on her back, legs around me, my full weight driving into her while she rakes her nails down my back and I pound her into he mattress. So we take turns to be the boss is the way I see it.
And then again I suppose Alice is really the boss. I need to tell you about the first Sunday of every month. We have a ritual.
Alice lays everything out. The towels. The oils. The small dark jar.
She sits on the bed and opens the jar and takes her time applying it, watching my face while she does it with an expression of calm ownership. Then she crooks a finger.
I take her nipple into my mouth, and the taste is there again—sweet and faintly strange but somehow familiar—and something in me clicks into place. A sense of rightness.
We shower together after that, Alice leaning back against me under the hot water as I soap her and enjoy soaping her breasts, her thighs her whole body. I dry her off.
We head to the bedroom where she lets me put on a pair of frilly knickers. Decidedly feminine but Alice makes me to do it. “Reinforcement “ she explained once, giggling. “Anyway, I like it and Jane said to do it”.
Then she sits on the edge of the bed.
I kneel on the floor.
She makes me work for it this time, one hand twisted in my hair, riding my face with her thighs clamped either side of my head, taking what she wants at her own pace until she shudders and pulls me up by the hair and looks at me with those dark eyes, flushed and satisfied.
“Good boy,” she says. “Now. On the bed.”
I get on the bed. Pillow under my hips. Face down. The familiar position.
Alice takes her time with the buckles. Pulls my knickers down gently. She’s never rushed about this. I hear the snap of the lube cap, feel her hands working me open with patient thoroughness — one finger, two, three — while I moan and push back against her, past any pretence of reluctance.
“Listen to you,” she says, amused. She leans down and puts her lips to my ear. Her voice drops. “What are you?”
“Your piggy,” I say into the pillow.
“That’s right.” The tip of the strap-on presses against me, retreats, presses again. “And what do piggies do?”
She pushes home, steady and deep.
I squeal.
She starts to move: long, deliberate strokes, her hand reaching round to wrap around my cock, stroking in counterpoint, and I am absolutely nowhere else in the world but here, face down, entirely hers, exactly where she put me.
She drives harder. Her hand tightens.
“Louder,” she says.
SQUEE! SQUEE! SQUEE!
She laughs—low and delighted—and works me over until I’m done, utterly and completely, and then she does up her robe and goes downstairs to watch her favourite show. I her and we snuggle in together.