#3033: Lake Balaton, Hungary
Original photo: @pinkypromise.world
When Gellert walks into a lavender shop in Tihany, he doesn’t expect to be seduced—let alone converted. But one hands-on massage later, he learns that lavender isn’t overwhelming… it’s intoxicating when it comes with the right touch.
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Transcript
I opened the shop early, long before the hour posted on the door. In a place like Tihany—a sleepy lakeside village steeped in lavender—it wasn’t typical. But I loved the quiet mornings. It gave me time to clean, check stock, and ease into the day before tourists filled the streets.
Like most families here, mine lived and breathed lavender. We grew it, harvested it, crafted with it. My shop sold everything from tea and candy to jewelry and sachets. But my passion was in self-care—soaps, oils, creams—all laced with the flower’s calming scent. And today, my first task was to make a new batch of soap with the fresh oil I’d received.
As I worked, the shop filled with the familiar scent—floral, warm, like being wrapped in a memory. Some said it was overwhelming, but not for me. Lavender felt like a gentle hand on the shoulder. A kiss on the forehead. It was home.
The bell over the door chimed. It was still early, but I never turned away a customer. A young man had entered, standing awkwardly near the entrance, clearly a little out of place.
He was searching for a souvenir—for his mother, as it turned out. I guided him through the store, showing him the shelves, helping him select the right gift. His name was Gellert, and before long, he was holding a bundle of soap and a tin of lavender tea.
When I offered him something for himself, he hesitated, admitting lavender wasn’t really his thing. I was surprised—most people visiting here loved it. But I saw it as a challenge. Maybe he just hadn’t experienced it the right way.
He agreed to let me try. I locked the shop door and led him to the back room, where the massage table waited. Still uncertain, he followed. I handed him a clean sheet and stepped out to give him privacy.
When I returned, he was lying face down, the sheet draped across his lower half. His back was bare and inviting. I poured oil into my palms, warming it before placing my hands on his shoulders. Lavender mixed with the heat of his skin as I kneaded gently into the tension of his muscles. He sighed, body softening under my touch.
My hands traveled lower, exploring the contours of his back. As I worked, I asked again about the lavender. His response was breathy, uncertain—something was shifting.
Eventually, it was time to turn him over. I shielded his modesty as he rolled onto his back. But modesty quickly faded. His eyes followed every motion of mine as I massaged his chest. My fingers teased lower, just to the edge of the sheet.
He responded. The desire in his gaze was unmistakable. When I pulled the sheet away, his cock was already hardening under my touch. I wrapped my hand around him, stroking slowly. His breath caught, his body tensed, surrendering to sensation.
As I leaned closer, the neckline of my dress dipped, and his cock pulsed harder in my hand. I stroked him with increasing pressure, edging him skillfully. He lasted until control shattered—his climax pulsing over his thighs.
I cleaned him gently, his chest still rising and falling with aftershocks of release.
Then it was my turn.
I slid my panties off beneath my dress and climbed onto the table, positioning myself above his face. As I lowered my hips, his mouth met me with eager devotion. I rocked against his tongue, pulling the dress off, needing bare skin and nothing else between us. I grabbed his hair and rolled my hips, the scent of lavender mingling with heat and lust.
He licked and sucked with practiced skill, each stroke of his tongue drawing louder moans. When release came, it crashed over me—tightening, pulsing, wave after wave.
I lifted off him slowly, looked down to see his face glistening, his lips curved in a dazed smile. The lavender clung to both of us.
His cock was hard again.
I reached for a condom and guided him inside me, sinking down with a moan as I stretched around him. My hips moved slow, deliberate, teasing both of us with the rhythm. He watched, groaned, begged.
I rode him harder, the wet slap of skin echoing through the room. I was soaked, dripping over him, lost in the rhythm and heat. His hands gripped my thighs as I moved, and when release came again, it was raw, full, impossible to hold back.
I collapsed on his chest, both of us breathless and flushed, lavender still heavy in the air.
He left with more than he came for—soap, tea, and a bottle of massage oil.
I smiled as he walked away.
Lavender had never smelled sweeter.