The Art of Indulgence
A Four-Handed Brazilian Fantasy Couples Massage
My legs still tremble when I think of her.
L.
My Brazilian masseuse, a vision of sun-kissed skin and dark, knowing eyes, sitting astride my hips on the massage table. She was wearing nothing but a film of glistening oil, and I mean nothing.
Her slender, knowing hands were moving in slow, agonizing circles just above my pubis, her touch a feathery-light torment, a stark, delicious contrast to the hard, demanding pulse of my erection. It was straining upwards, screaming for something far more than just a massage.
This was two weeks ago. After a brutally long work week, my partner and I decided to finally indulge—fitting, as the spa we’d chosen was called ‘Indulgence.’ A new sanctuary in the city we call home most of the time, and one that, as we would soon discover, lives up to its name in every sinful, conceivable way.
For any couple curious about ethical non-monogamy, a couples erotic massage is, in our opinion, the perfect gateway. It’s an exploration with built-in safety features. You are the architect of the experience; you set every single boundary.
The foundational rule is clear: penetration is off the table. This simple fact dissolves so much of the fear that holds novice couples back. You walk into that room with the comforting, and frankly, intoxicating, certainty that the ‘maximum’ outcome will be a wonderfully happy ending, nothing more.
Then, of course... there’s the human element. You have four naked, aroused bodies in one dimly-lit, sensual space. The air is warm, thick with the scent of oils and skin. Sometimes, passions ignite beyond the established script. But—and this is the critical part—the client always holds the remote control. This framework grants an incredible sense of power and safety to whichever partner feels more insecure (man or woman).
In our own journey, I won’t lie to you, there have been a couple of occasions where the massage went further—much further. But it was always consensual, always discussed in the heat of the moment, and completely free of pressure.
The first time this happened was at a spa in Southern Europe. It was our second visit, so we already had a warm connection with S, one of our two masseuses. We love to begin with a four-person shower; it’s such a... liquid way to let the passion flow, to wash away the outside world. The steam, the slick slide of soap and skin, the laughter—it’s a ritual of shedding inhibition. Later, deep into the massage, S paused and asked, in a soft whisper, for permission to trace the wet, swollen lips of my wife’s vagina with her tongue. We looked at each other, a silent, electric ‘yes’ passing between us. We couldn’t resist.
On another occasion, the script flipped. The sexual connection I felt with our friend was so tremendously powerful that I was the one who had to pause and ask for more. I simply couldn’t leave that room without being inside her. I looked at my wife, and she gave me her permission. It was, and continues to be, a fascinating and beautiful memory.
Which brings us back to two weeks ago. Back to Indulgence. Back to L and M, two incredible Brazilian women who had agreed to dedicate an hour of their afternoon to our naked, expectant bodies.
We lay side-by-side, my partner and I, on parallel tables in a room bathed in candlelight. M, a vision of lush curves and a warm, infectious smile, was already at work on her, her hands already making my wife sigh. And then there was L.
She was leaner, with a dancer’s grace and dark, soulful eyes that held a universe of secrets and zero judgment. She began with my back, but this was no ordinary massage. This was a true body-to-body experience.
Her oiled skin glided over mine, her breasts, her stomach, her thighs, all tracing every muscle with a deliberate, heated friction. Her hair, unbound, brushed my skin like silk. I could hear my wife let out a soft, low moan from the other table as M worked her own magic, a sound that sent a jolt of compersion straight to my groin. The air was thick with the scent of ylang-ylang and the salty, animal scent of our rising anticipation.
L softly instructed me to turn over. Her voice was a low purr. As I settled onto my back, my cock already rigid, she didn’t just stand beside the table. She climbed on, straddling my hips, her bare, wet-with-oil skin settling against mine with an electric warmth. Her sex, just inches from my own, was a furnace of heat. This was the moment that seared itself into my memory: L, perched above me, her dark hair cascading down to tickle my chest, her slender hands beginning that slow, maddeningly light exploration of my stomach, my inner thighs, and the tense, aching space around my pubis.
My erection was immediate and absolute, a salute to her mastery. She smiled, a slow, knowing, predatory smile that said she understood exactly what she was doing.
Her hands were a masterpiece of sensation—teasing, stroking, her nails lightly grazing my skin, never quite grasping the one thing I needed her to hold, keeping me on a knife’s edge of pure need. Across the room, I opened my eyes to see M doing the same for my partner, whose head was thrown back in raw pleasure, her own hand reaching down to cup one of M’s breasts.
Our eyes met—my wife’s and mine—a wild, ecstatic look passing between us: the joy, the heat, the incredible compersion of watching the other be so completely, blissfully cared for. L leaned down, her own small, hard nipple brushing my collarbone, her lips brushing my ear. “You like to watch her?” she whispered in her beautiful accent. “She likes to watch you too. Show her how much you want this.”
That was all it took. The playful separation vanished. L lowered herself, her full, oiled breasts pressing into my chest as her lips found mine. This wasn’t a tentative kiss; it was a deep, hungry, filthy claiming. Her tongue met mine with a confidence that left me breathless, plunging, tasting, demanding.
At the same time, her hand finally closed around the base of my shaft, a perfect, tight grip that sent a shockwave through my system. I kissed her back, my own hand finding her ass, pulling her down harder against me, all pretense of a ‘massage’ gone, replaced by a raw, urgent need. Her hand moved faster, a slick, relentless piston, her rhythm perfectly in sync with the deep, passionate strokes of her tongue, pulling me closer and closer to the edge.
I was losing control, my hips bucking off the table to meet her relentless hand. “Now,” I gasped against her mouth. “Please.” I couldn’t hold back. With a final, deep, animal groan that was muffled by her kiss, I exploded.
The release was overwhelming, a tidal wave of pure, illicit pleasure that left me blind. I felt my climax spray hot and thick across the smooth, oiled valley between her breasts, over her collarbone, even onto her chin.
She didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. She simply held my gaze, her own breathing heavy, her lips still wet from mine, a small, satisfied smile playing on her face. She allowed me to witness the art of my own release painting her skin, a profound, primal, sensual acceptance. It was the perfect, messy, non-penetrative conclusion to an hour of pure indulgence.
Hope to see you soon L.