Sacred Touch

A155 confessmassage

Written by Nafshi Cholat. Nafshi, a first-time Jewrotica writer, is a 39-year-old male from New York, NY.

Rated PG-13[Pre-story NOTE from the author: Tantric ritual power is rooted in the divine feminine, or shakti. Similarly, in Kabbalah, ritual power and magic are derived from the divine feminine, the shechina. Both Tantra and Kabbalah share this orientation toward the universal erotic power of the female divinity. Tantra is a nexus and confluence where Judaism merges with sacred universal erotic forces.]

It wasn’t the first time I’d paid someone to touch my body. All the pangs of guilt had faded long before. I needed it like I needed oxygen – and I couldn’t deny myself this any longer. It wasn’t simply weakness: it was compulsion. And what was guilt in the face of such need?

I’m a Jew. A really Jewy Jew. You know when you see me. It’s not that I don’t have sex with my wife; I love her, and I don’t want to have sex with anyone else, not really. I value marriage and its tenets, responsibilities and yes, its joys. But honestly, our marital bed is not terribly thrilling – and never has been. But what I wanted more of was not exactly sex. What I craved was touching: the light, feather-touch massage, with fingertips reaching just under my legs, touching that one spot, then still reaching further…

There is something so erotic in the transgression, going outside of the strictures of marriage to fulfill my desire for the sacred touch. My wife, who is a good woman, if not somewhat traditional, would balk at any special request. While I know she isn’t inhibited about touch – we do not keep the laws of niddah/[glossary] (restricting touch during menstruation) particularly strictly – to tell her exactly what I want, to speak my desires out loud, would humiliate her, implying that her own sexual initiative falls short… I opened to my beloved; but my beloved had turned away, and was gone. My soul failed me… ([glossary]Song of Songs)

Having first explored the massage parlors just far enough away from home and work, I had begun checking out the higher-end body rubs listed online. Crissy looked amazing in her ad, and “Tantric” massage was so intriguing, so sacred-sounding… More expensive than the massage parlors, but I’ve always believed, perhaps in part due to the work ethic instilled in me by immigrant parents, that you get what you pay for. And I was convinced that the regular massage parlors were actually fronts for trafficking; I couldn’t go back to those and I couldn’t wait any longer for that erotic touch. I found that it usually took about two weeks before the craving set in again, and that’s when I would start to frantically search the listings.

So, Crissy, and her enticing Tantric massage, it was.

I arrived, called the number so that she could meet me at the door. Wearing a soft, silky robe, she welcomed me in and hugged me. I was hard already. I was so glad I had already been initiated into the world of erotic massages, so that I could just stand there with my throbbing Jewish cock pressing through my pants into a beautiful stranger’s leg, knowing this was kosher. It felt amazing. And it was only going to get better.

She brought me upstairs. I put the money on the little table, and she asked if there was any part of my body that I didn’t want to be touched. When I told her no, she responded “Good. I intend to touch every part of you.” Crissy, the divine feminine, was just the balm I needed: I almost blew my load right then.

I couldn’t tell if it was her hand, her leg, her breasts, or her tongue, running up and down my legs, my thighs, my back – but every sensation coursing through my body was almost too much for me to bear.

She placed my hands on her ass, holding me to her, encouraging me to pull her closer. But it wasn’t about sex – not exactly. I wouldn’t have had sex with her even if she had offered. What brought me to her – and what made me so hard – was the pure eroticism of her heat, her hands on my body exploring sensation, connection, the sacred incredible energy that her touch generated within my body.

This was a religious experience. I was ecstatic, outside of my body. Crissy’s expert hands as a conduit for Prana – the energy of the universe flowing from her fingertips, coursing through my entire body. The spirit moved within me. Oh, Crissy, thou art a fountain of gardens, a well of living waters, and flowing streams from Lebanon. (Song of Songs, again)

I can’t say that when I came, and then when she showed me where the shower was, that I didn’t want to kiss her and whisper passionate promises and sweet nothings in her ear. It really was that intense a session, that intuitive and erotic and sensual and dizzying and and and…

I know I’ll call Crissy again. Her touch liberated me. Purified me. Made me a better man – and a better husband My body and soul crave, no, thrive on the sweet exaltation of this ritual, the rapture of her sacred touch.

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