Cherry Blossom Massage

This erotic story of lesbian love was inspired by a recent trip to Japan. I bumped into her in my ryokan in Kyoto. I smelled her exotic scent just milliseconds before my sleep-fogged brain registered the ledge I was supposed to step over in order to leave my suite, too late, of course. I fell to my knees like a penitent worshiper, one hand clutching the hem of her kimono, the other pressing down onto her foot.

“Gomen nasai. Daijoubu desu ka?” I stammered. I’m sorry. Are you alright?

My boyfriend had taught me that phrase early on in the trip, after he tired of apologizing on my behalf to all the people I bumped into. And I bumped into a lot of people as I was constantly staring upwards in astonishment at the cherry blossoms that seemed to adorn all of Japan.

Cool hands cupped my cheeks and tilted my head backward. Dark eyes peered into mine, eyes so dark I could not distinguish the pupils from the iris.

“Are you hurt?” she asked me. Her voice was typically girlish Japanese, but her accent was pure Queen’s English.

I gaped stupidly at her, a slow blush creeping up my torso and flagging my cheeks. Humiliation burned through me, but so did a peculiar excitement. I lifted my hand off her sandaled foot, the foot clad in those white socks with the split toe that had fascinated me since I’d first spotted them. I’d hoped to get a close-up view one day, but this was hardly what I’d had in mind.

I released my hold on her yukata, a simple blue and white yukata similar to the one I was wearing, and with her help, I stood up.

“Are you certain you’re not hurt?” she asked again in her fluent English.

I watched her rosebud mouth shape the words, saw her fine brows knit in that perfect oval face. Her skin was lovely, creamy and golden, like custard. She smelled of flowers and herbs, a concoction that was pungent enough to penetrate my daze. I wanted to gather her up and press my nose to her skin, smelling her everywhere. I was shocked with a fleeting mental image of her splayed on the low table that our kaiseki feasts were served on, and then my stomach rumbled, reminding me of why I’d been stumbling out of my room.


“I’m fine, really. There is nothing wrong with me that a cup of tea won’t fix. I need some caffeine. Too much sake last night, you know…” I babbled groggily and blushed again.

My voice was so husky that I barely recognized it as my own. Too much sake indeed. The Gion District offered many late night pleasures in addition to the geisha and their maiko, and my lover and I had partaken of them until nearly dawn. Thankfully, our ryokan did not have a curfew.

I smoothed my yukata over my pajamas and tucked a lock of hair back behind my ear, then smiled hesitantly at the woman I’d unintentionally accosted.

“Thank you for your help. I’m Sophie MacRae.” I bowed slightly and withheld my hand, having noticed that the Japanese had thing about hands. They washed them compulsively, especially before meals, and rarely touched hands if it could be avoided.

“Miyuki Futohara,” she said, and bowed to me, her eyes downcast.

I was struck again by her beauty, by the music of her voice, the perfection of her skin and the symmetry of her features. I wanted to photograph her. I wanted to kiss her. But most of all I wanted to pull the decorative clips from her hair and run my fingers through it.

At that moment a young woman shuffled up to us. I recognized her as being the inn-keeper’s daughter. She was homely compared to the other woman, but she looked serene in her traditional Japanese dress, including a pale pink obi that bound her from breasts to hips. She bowed to me and gestured.

“Your breakfast is ready, Miss,” she spoke in halting English.

I blushed, again, horrified. I wanted to groan, but I breathed out slowly instead. I was late, and the Japanese were sticklers about being prompt. Tardiness was considered disrespectful.

I bowed to the beautiful Miyuki. “Arigato gozaimasu.”

She bowed in acknowledgment of my gratitude, her poise enviable.

I bowed to the housegirl. “Gomen nasai.”

As I followed the girl I wondered if it was wishful thinking on my part that Miyuki’s eyes were following me. I stumbled again, feeling unsettled and breathless. My morning had gotten off to a rough start, but it wasn’t anything that breakfast and a long soak in the onsen wouldn’t fix.

My traditional breakfast was a filling mixture of a half-dozen small dishes that in many ways were indistinguishable from any other Japanese meal: boiled rice, steamed fish, miso soup and nori. The difference was mostly in the presentation, I think, with the ceramic dishes being more simple and rustic in appearance. When I finished, I walked across the tatami mats, slipped into my sandals, and did my best to glide gracefully down the cobbled walkway to the bathhouse. I desperately needed a soak, and the o-furo tub in my room was a bit small for what I had in mind.

I entered the ante-room to the women’s onsen and stripped down, placing my clothing in a basket. There was a woman there with her child, but I scarcely noticed them. In Japan, there is no such thing as body-modesty, or at least, not in a form that Westerners would recognize. Entire families bathe together, and businessmen often soak together, enjoying the naked communion, the sense of sharing that comes when there is no possibility of concealment. But as casual as they are about nudity, the Japanese are sticklers about cleanliness, and those using the communal baths must follow a strict code of hygiene. A Japanese friend of mine made sure to educate me on the bathing customs, so that I would not embarrass the attendants with the need to explain to the gaikokujin why she had to leave the sento.

There is something meditative to the bathing ritual, something as deeply sensuous as it is cleansing. I stepped under a showerhead and soaked myself, then sat on a little stool and slowly scrubbed from head to toe with a brush and soapy fingers. When every inch of me was pink and gleaming I rinsed off, making sure there was no soap or shampoo residue. My skin tingled from the bristles of the brush, a tingle that bordered on pain but was a precursor of tingling to come. The water in the onsen would be very, very hot.

Yukata wrapped back around me, I stepped into a pair of wooden sandals used exclusively by bath house patrons and passed through the doorway to the open-air onsen, or hot-spring pool. It was bordered by a high bamboo fence, tightly woven together, and surrounded with plants and stones that formed a garden I had meticulously cataloged in my mind for possible reproduction back home. I stepped out of my wooden sandals, then removed my yukata and folded it neatly, placing it atop the sandals. I stood for a long moment with my face upturned to the sky, enjoying the feel of the sun and the air on my skin. And then I stepped into the onsen.

I was prepared for the heat and still I gasped. It seemed to sear my skin. A wave of goose flesh washed over me, making my nipples impossibly hard. Slowly, ever so slowly, I worked my way down into the pool, until water lapped at my collarbones and the bubbles of air trapped around my hair follicles danced toward the surface like hundreds of tiny, teasing fingers. I fantasized about sharing the bath with Miyuki, my mind filled with images of small breasts bobbing in the water and tendrils of damp hair clinging to her slender neck. I wanted to touch myself, wanted to slide my fingers into the slippery wetness of my pussy, and would have, if I hadn’t known how it would have defiled the water in the eyes of its Japanese patrons.

I had the pool to myself and I enjoyed it fully, letting the images and sensations play over me and through me, allowing my imagination free rein with my impossible girl crush. Eventually the hot water sapped my desire from me, and I floated on my back for a long while, staring blankly up into the blue sky. The sounds of Kyoto wafted in, but it was pleasant, non-invasive, almost surreal. It wasn’t until I felt light-headed that I moved to leave, and I had to do it by inches. I was so thoroughly relaxed, so limp and languid, that I felt like seaweed struggling to crawl up out of the primordial sea.

A brisk shower under cold water soon cleared my head and firmed up my muscles. I put my pajamas back on and the yukata over them and was in the ante-room slipping into my sandals when a door opened. The sign on it had kanji symbols and the English word “massage”. A Japaneses woman stepped out, bowed to someone inside, and then left. The door swung completely open and there was Miyuki. Seeing her standing there, my heart tripped over itself and landed at my feet. I had to walk past her in order to leave the bath house, and I wasn’t sure my legs were steady enough.

“Would you like a massage, Miss MacRae?” she asked me in that girlish voice that plucked some invisible strings inside me, making me quiver.

A massage? Dear god. I nearly swooned at the thought of her hands on my bare flesh. My knees forgot to support me for a split second, and I grabbed for the wall. “Here, let me help you,” she said, and wrapped an arm around my waist. My skin tingled where she touched. “Did you stay too long in the pool?”

I nodded, grateful for the proffered excuse for my weak knees. Her scent wove around me again, that potent herbal and floral scent, and I found it more intoxicating than sake. She guided me through the door and into the room, stopping before a shoji screen.

“Would you like an invigorating massage to give you energy?” she asked.

I struggled to find an excuse that would release me from the exquisite torture I knew I would experience under her hands, but the words did not rise to my lips. “Uhm… sure, I guess. Yes.”

Uncertain as to what I should do, I began undressing while she slid the shoji screen aside. Beyond lay a massage table and a window overlooking a lovely little pocket garden. She slipped off her yukata, revealing a plain cotton tunic and long bare legs. I nearly choked on the sudden flood of mouth water. Miyuki waited patiently by the table until I approached, naked as the day I was born, and then she guided me to lay on my front.

Warm hands spread even warmer oil over my skin. Wave after wave of goose flesh followed in the wake of her fingertips. As her hands slid over my shoulder I smelled that tantalizing scent and realized it was the oil. Mmmm. I definitely wanted some of that to take back home.

Large quantities of oil were poured onto my skin and she spread it around with long broad strokes of her hands. It felt like she was an artist and the oil was paint and I was her canvas, longing for the brushes of her imagination.

“You have beautiful skin,” she said. “So white, like milk.”

As she leaned into me, pressing her palms along my spine, her upper thigh brushed rhythmically against my fingers, making them tingle. I found that I was holding my breath, wondering if it was intentional or not. Soon her hands glided down my back to my hips, to the largest erogenous zone on my body. She kneaded me there, making me delirious with the pleasure of her fingers sliding along my pelvis, her thumbs pressing deep into the muscles of my ass.

A long, low moan escaped me as her hands lifted and separated my buttocks. Cool air touched my secret parts, making me aware of how aroused I was. I felt a blush creep up my neck, burning my cheeks. I moaned again as she worked my thighs, her fingertips occasionally brushing my outer labia with fleeting touches. I was spared further mortification as her hands worked down my legs, squeezing and pumping my calves.

“Roll over please,” she said, and I did so.

She placed a scented cloth over my eyes and draped another over my hips, and then she began working my feet. It felt wonderful. My poor feet had been pounding the pavement all over Kyoto as I made my way from one shrine to the next, and the feel of her fingers on the pressure points had me moaning and sighing within moments. Eventually her hands slipped up over my ankles, and with a few soothing strokes she soon passed my shins. When her fingers touched my thighs I was torn between spreading my thighs wide and fleeing the room. To my embarrassment I was so aroused I could smell myself, even over the potent herbal oil that she dribbled on my skin from her cupped hands. It was exquisite, the hot droplets of oil hitting my skin, as erotic as wax-play, and I heard myself moaning involuntarily.

Her hands glided up my quadriceps to my hip, then curved down over my inner and outer thigh on the down-stroke. As her fingers fluttered against my outer labia I gasped and jolted and moaned shamelessly. I opened my eyes to see Miyuki looking down at me, a slight smile on her face. Her dark eyes seemed particularly intent. As she met and held my gaze, she slid her fingers deliberately along my labia until she was cupping my mound.

“Do you want G-spot massage?” she asked me in her perfect Queen’s English.

It took a moment for what she was saying to sink in, and then I realized what she was asking. I blushed. The tell-tale redness started at my breasts and crept up my neck to my cheeks. I suddenly felt funny inside, all fluttery and tense. I’d heard about “happy ending” massages, but I’d never gotten one, and it certainly wouldn’t have occurred to me to ask her for one. But since she was offering… Oh no, I couldn’t… Well, maybe…

My thoughts vacillated wildly, and then it occurred to me that I would always wonder what it would have been like to have this exquisite woman bring me to orgasm in this setting. I knew that I would kick myself for the rest of my life if I said no. So I nodded.

Miyuki’s smile deepened and then she turned away from me, only to return a moment later with cupped hands full of oil. Again, she dribbled oil over my skin, this time over my lower belly, mound, and labia. It was a delicious sensation, and the slow slide of the oil droplets down my skin were maddening.

Slowly, almost languidly, she spread the oil along my skin, and when she reached my bare mound her fingers probed gently, curling into me. I moaned, and to my embarrassment my hips bounced. She smiled at me and put a hand over my mouth, and then with a deft move, slipped her fingers into me.

I do not know what she felt when she slid between the folds and into my aching pussy, but what I felt was so intense, I wanted to scream. And I did. I lifted my hands and pressed hers across my mouth and screamed into it as she worked her other hand into me.

Those deft little fingers wiggled and massaged until she worked them into me far enough to find my G-spot. When she curled those fingers up against that place and started rocking against it, I released her hand and grabbed the sides of the massage table instead.

Fuck! It felt so good! She knew what she was doing, jabbing her fingers up against my G-spot in a compelling rhythm that had me bucking and rocking. I felt the orgasm building, felt my pelvic muscles contracting, and she must have known I was close because her free hand tangled in my hair and my eyes opened to see her face lowering toward me.

When her lips touched mine I came, came hard, ejaculating my breath into her, my body undulating like sea kelp in a stormy sea.

When the kiss ended she looked into my eyes and smiled, and then took her hands away. I made a disappointed noise that was followed shortly by a gasp as she pulled her tunic over her head and shucked off her white panties.

I only had time to notice that her pubic hair was straight before she was climbing onto the table with me and fitting herself between my thighs. And then she began the most insidious movements of her body, rubbing her hairy mound against my bare one, pricking my clit. She lay fully on top of me and used the oil on my skin to slide herself back and forth, capturing my mouth for a kiss each time her incredibly pleasurable upward glide ended.

Her tongue probed at my lips and they seemed to part of their own accord. Her tongue thrust into my mouth and her arm curled under my head, trapping me in a kiss that seemed to go on forever as our bodies rubbed together more and more frantically.

Seared by her kisses, I panted to catch my breath as she reared over me and started bucking her hips against mine. Jagged bolts of pleasure pierced me with each thrust of her mound. I grabbed her hips, digging my fingernails into her as my mind flew apart like paper cranes in a breeze.Every thought, every sensation focused on the pleasure pulsing through me as Miyuki jogged her hips against mine in a frenzy.

Her hair came free and fell around us like a curtain of black silk. It tickled and teased my face and chest as she pounded herself into me, and it was the feel of her hair flogging my nipples that pushed me over.

Every muscle in my body tightened. A massive orgasm roared through me. In a burst of euphoria my fingers dug into her ass and pulled her up into me. I wrapped my legs around her thighs and bucked upwards, grinding myself against her. She whimpered and cried out, her dark eyes wide and her mouth opened in a perfect “o” as she, too climaxed with a staccato wail.

Sharp spikes of pleasure continued to jolt me as we lay tangled together on the massage table. I explored her body with my fingers, gently, as if she was the most delicate of cherry blossoms. Sliding my fingers through her hair, silken and heavy and impossibly thick, felt even better than I’d imagined. I cupped one of her breasts in my hand and played with the tiny nipple, making her gasp and rock against me. Which sent even more jolts through me. I wanted more. I wanted a taste of her. I wanted to oil her up and explore her body as she’d explored mine. I wanted to… My euphoric thoughts were interrupted by a chiming sound.

Miyuki swung herself off the table. She grabbed a hand towel and started rubbing the oil off her skin. I sat up and looked at her.

“I have a massage in 10 minutes,” she said. “You will need to leave soon.”

I felt her words like a blow to my stomach.

I must have made some pained noise because she stopped what she was doing and took my hand.

“This was not normal massage hour. This was special,” Miyuki said, giving my hand a slippery squeeze.

I smiled tremulously at her, aching for her, aching for the chance to make love with her again.

She must have read my mind, because she looked me in the eye and said words that made my heart soar, “I’ll come to your room tonight, please.”

I nodded through the tears that floated in my eyes like the petals of cherry blossoms drifting in a pond.

I wanted to get back to my room and ready it. There would be no need to venture out into Kyoto today. I was going to have my own personal cherry blossom viewing in my bed that night.