[Author: With this story being posted, my journey through the alphabet is completed. (Maybe.) Please see my note at the end ** about the possibility of extending one of my stories.]
I'm pretty healthy!
I didn't have a cough, or a sneeze, or a sore throat, or even a `tickle'.
So, none of these was the reason that I decided to have a COVID test. And, I do live in a country that has one the lowest locally-transmitted infection rates in the world!
However, you know what mothers are like! Insistent! Consistent! Persistent!
Even though I have a life of my own and no longer live at home, I knew that I could no longer resist her constant `promptings'. And every conversation with her was beginning to commence with, `Hello darling. Have you had the test yet?'
The only benefit that I could see in having one was to get her off my back! The envisaged `negative' result would simply be a bonus.
I wonder what the next bee in her bonnet will be!
So, here I am, waiting for my test. Like everyone else in the room, for their own reasons, masked and socially distanced, even though I reckon that the chairs are only a little more than two-thirds of the prescribed spacing, to fit in more people.
The chair alongside me, perhaps the last unoccupied seat in the small waiting room, will be the obvious destination for the next `candidate' to be swabbed.
Here he comes!
Even before he turns around from completing the `paperwork' at the reception desk, he has arrested my attention. Or, at least, his body has!
With empty pockets of his skin-tight, pale-blue jeans, the contours of his slim body are perfectly outlined; mostly his long legs and narrow hips. His calf muscles! His thighs! And his high, round, ample glutes, like two lawn bowls, partially separated and cradled firmly by the jeans' high crotch! Everything is indicative of an active sportsman. Perhaps a runner, or a cyclist, or a track-and-field athlete. I can just imagine him dressed in lycra! I AM imagining him in lycra! Wow! Plus, I'm imagining him having a hip flexor or hamstring issue and seeking to have it `remediated' on my very own massage table.
I'm no less mesmerised when he turns around and heads in my direction, towards the vacant chair. I consciously force myself to look away, lest he take objection to my focus on the front of his jeans, and I hope that he is not an exponent of mixed martial arts.
Without looking at anyone else, he sits, reclines, and proceeds to scroll on his mobile phone.
We all wait.
When a `done' body leaves, he looks up. "At this rate, I could be phoning Uber Eats for lunch!" he comments, glancing in my direction.
I respond, which gives me a valid reason to turn towards him to check him out more closely. "I'm sure that they are doing their best. I heard that they are short-staffed this morning."
My initial observation of the bulk in the front of his jeans, highlighted by their tightness, as he walked from the reception desk, is confirmed. The high crotch has separated his bulk to both sides, forming two roundnesses. However, with only one momentary, courteous glance, it's difficult to discern what is a plump penis and what are ample balls.
Perhaps surprised by the fact that I actually replied to his comment, he continues, "I've scored number 27," showing me the laminated number given to him by the receptionist. "Where are you in the line-up?"
"Not much better," I tell him, and show him my 25.
"No point in requesting that we swap then," he grins at me.
"Not unless you want to become Rob Armstrong," I reply. "Which I do not recommend."
"Yeah. Well, you certainly wouldn't want to be saddled with `Zachariah Benowitz' either, but I prefer `Zac'" he says, extending a closed fist which I bump with my own, the physical interaction of which draws a cleared throat and a frown from the reception desk.
"Benowitz?" I ask. "You have the same surname as my GP!"
"Yeah. That would be my uncle Joseph," he replies. "He's part of the reason that I'm here. He got into my mother's ear about being tested, and my mother is very persuasive! Very! I'm sure that, in hindsight, my father would have chosen somebody less prone to nagging, if their marriage hadn't been arranged by my grandparents."
Mothers!
"Shalom!" I say, knowing that Dr Benowitz is Jewish.
"Yeah. Peace!" he replies. "The family wishes me that every time that they come and go. However, maybe it's just an expression of their empathy for their `black sheep'! I'm very tempted to move out of home and live on the uni campus." Then he asks, "Are you Jewish too?"
We receive a loud `Shhh!' from reception. I'll bet that she is an ex-librarian! So, I merely shake my head to him as a reply.
However, shhh-ing is not a deterrent, and Zac simply lowers his voice and looks around. "How come you are here at this time of the morning, in a room full of `oldies'? What kind of work do you do?"
"Massage therapist," I tell him. "No clients until this afternoon."
"Nice," he replies, and smiles. Above the mask, his happy eyes are two more of his handsome assets.
"What about you?" I ask. "What are you studying?"
"What would you reckon?" he asks, in a rhetorical tone. My uncle's a GP. My older brother is studying gynaecology. My sister is a paediatrician. I'm in my third year of medicine but am not inclined to follow the family's suggestions of ophthalmology, virology or cardiac surgery. I'm going to specialise in men's health."
"With all of that speciality, you could suggest that your family all work together. The `Benowitz Medical Centre' has a nice ring to it," I say.
"That possibility was discussed once," Zac replies. "Then realism set in, and the family agreed that it would be too difficult to work alongside of each other. Besides, I would much prefer to gain a lot of hands-on experience in an existing men's health clinic."
"All of my work is hands-on," I say. "Although, there are times when I reckon that I should add counselling to my existing qualifications. And there has been a number of occasions when I have suggested that some guys seek out a men's clinic for physical complaints that I'm not really able to deal with."
We see two medical staff arrive and shortly afterwards we hear, <<numbers 17 and 18>>.
Zac and I continue to chat and we discover that we both enjoy a game of golf, when time permits. And going to the beach. (I don't mention that my preference is a nudist beach.)
One woman leaves.
<<Number 19>>
Shortly followed by, <<Numbers 20, 21 and 22>>.
"Seems like they've finally got their act together!" Zac comments.
However, there are very few vacant seats because they are continually being re-filled as the door-keepers allow `screened' people to enter.
<<23 and 24>>
"Looks like you're next, Rob," Zac says, extending his fist to bump. "It's been great to chat with you. Maybe we could catch up for a game of golf sometime, if you'd like. I sense that you and I have a lot in common."
That's my cue to give him one of my business cards.
"I'd love to, Zac. Thanks. But, how would you feel about continuing our chat when we're done here, without the masks, over a cup of coffee?" I put to him. "At this rate, with the extra staff, we could both be finished about the same time."
"Excellent!" Zac says. There's a little patisserie just around the corner, with a terrific barista, who knows exactly how I like my coffee!"
"I know the one. So, you're a local, like me, are you?" I put to him.
He looks at my card. "Would you believe that I'm three streets over from you?" he says.
<<Number 25>>
"Meet you there, then," I say. We bump fists again. I don't need to look in the direction of the receptionist! I can actually feel her scowl penetrating the back of my head.
Unlike the medical centre, in the café there are various chairs and tables from which to choose. I select a table that faces the doorway so that I can see Zac when he comes. Hey, more especially, so that I can ogle the front of his jeans while he is walking. LOL.
I order a mocha for myself and ask the barista to make one of Zac's favourites, saying that he will be along shortly.
"Would Zac like a custard tart with his coffee? Or will it be the baklava today?" he asks.
"One of each, please," I reply, thinking I'll give Zac the choice and eat the other. I love both.
I pay, and wait.
But not for long. As if it is scripted, Zac appears in the doorway as soon as the coffees and pastries are placed on the table.
I watch him come nearer, focussing on his amorphous bulge, which is highlighted with each step.
He sees me, notes what is already on the table, thanks me and, turning to the barista, says, "Gracias, Miguel!", then takes the chair opposite mine, smiling.
Without his mask, he is even more handsome! Straight nose, full lips, perfect white teeth and strong jaw.
"Well, that was painful!" he comments. "I could tolerate her trying to dig out my tonsils with the swab, but mining for my brain through the back of my nose was nauseating! I was about to gag and throw up all over her! Was it that bad for you?"
"I obviously had a different nurse," I smile at him. "Adam, and he was very gentle."
"Lucky you!" he replies. "I don't seem to have any luck with women, not even a nurse!"
"How come? I put to him. "You're a handsome guy!"
"Well, my mother and the nurse don't count that as anything, but the girlfriend ended up being bad news!"
"You have a girlfriend?" I ask, striving to sound matter-of-fact and to not let my inner disappointment show.
"HAD a girlfriend," Zac emphasises, then he takes a big bite of the custard tart, chews and swallows. "And, in a way that is against all family traditions. So, I've given up on girls to concentrate on my studies."
"What happened, do you mind me asking?" And I bite off part of the large piece of baklava, savouring the sweetness of the honey.
"Long story," Zac replies. "She and I had a good thing going. Or so I thought. I was in love with her. And the sex a few times a week for eighteen months was fantastic."
I don't need to ask exactly what happened, which would be offensive, but he can read the question on my face.
"Everything changed one night when we were to meet for drinks before going back to her flat for some fun," Zac continues. "When I arrived, she was already there, chatting to a big guy at the bar and touching his arm. Man, he really was big. Well over six feet tall. Big muscles. Big chest. Big arms. Big legs. Big smile. I got the sense that she already knew him and she was clearly flirting with him. His big body was obviously more appealing to her than my slim one! I was shattered and, after some energetic sex later on, told her why I was breaking off the relationship."
"So, did she just want a big dick, do you think?" I ask, surprised at my own forwardness, but robotically following Zac's `big' theme.
"She already had that!" he responds tersely, without any hesitation.
Then, Zac and I look at each other, smirk and exchange knowing expressions regarding his self-disclosure of a more-than-average manhood.
Thinking primarily of Zac's potential broken heart and loneliness, I'm uncertain how to continue the `elephant-in-the-room' conversation from this point onwards, but my mouth opens before my brain is consulted. "So, how are you getting on now?"
I only realise the unintended implication of my question when Zac answers, "Well, my right hand doesn't cheat on me!"
"Sorry," I apologise. "That wasn't what I intended to ask. It came out all wrong."
"It's OK," he says matter-of-factly. I don't mind. Anyway, it's the truth. `Righty' had been my best friend since puberty. Years before I met her. Still is. Frequently!"
I swallow. "Yeah," I manage to get out, grinning reservedly. "I have one of those friends as well. Two actually. `Righty' and `Lefty' are twins. Both nice, but different."
"Well, now that we know we are both happy wankers," he says, smirking and apparently dismissive of any possible negative implications, "let's talk about some golf."
I'm happy to change the subject! To avoid any embarrassment. More mine than his, I reckon.
"Where do you play? I mean, golf?" I add the latter words so that he won't think that I'm probing on the previous subject.
"I'm a member at the local Country Club," he replies. "What about you?"
"Public courses mainly," I tell him. "Some of them are easy and others more challenging. It depends on how confident I'm feeling on the day."
"Would you like to play with me?" he asks. "Tuesdays are when I have no lectures, and if we start early, we will avoid the ladies' comp."
Thinking of his body, I'm tempted to say `I would love to play with you' but, instead, reply, "Thank you, Zac. I've not played at the Country Club before. Let me check my schedule."
I open my phone and check the calendar, knowing that I keep bookings on Tuesday to a minimum.
"Next Tuesday's totally free at this stage," I tell him. "If that suits you, I can block it out."
"Good. It's a date!" he smiles, "I'll make the booking and let you know the time. Is around 8:00 all right with you?"
"Perfect," I reply. "That will also leave the rest of the day free."
"I'll give you my number," Zac says. Then, "Better still, I'll just text you and you can add me to your contacts."
His rapid thumbs make quick work of a text and my phone beeps.
<<Looking forward to having more fun than a COVID test>> it says. He grins. I laugh.
"My treat next Tuesday," he says.
We finish our coffees and pastries, thank Miguel again, and step out.
"Really glad that we met, Zac," I tell him. "See you Tuesday."
I extend my fist for him to bump.
"Hey!" he says. "Godzilla the receptionist isn't here!" He shakes my hand and draws me into a man-hug. "Nice to meet a for-real guy," he tells me. "Tuesday is gonna be a great day!"
We head in opposite directions. I take a few steps, then turn around to check his jeans, only to discover that he's looking back at me. We grin and wave.
While I drive, my brain puts a whole lot of information together. Obviously wrongly! But... Zac is intelligent, sensual, has a perfect body, is well-endowed, loves sex, has `given up on girls', seems not at all inhibited about telling me that he masturbates, asked if I would like to play with him, and then described our intended golf game as `a date' and that he is `looking forward to having fun' with me. Then he gave me a hug instead of bumping my fist.
I know that it's a fantasy, but what is my one-track mind supposed to make of those snippets?
After an exciting day, before I fall asleep, `Righty' and `Lefty' both get a lot of exercise. `Righty' becomes me jacking Zac. `Lefty' is him doing me! And `Dicky' responds with multiple salvos of whiteness as a salute to a new friend! Fantasy! Maybe.
Zac is waiting for me in the Country Club car park, as we had arranged by text messages.
"Hey, mate!" he greets me. "Welcome." His grasping hand shake is more appropriate in this environment than a man-hug, but is no less encouraging for me.
"Hey, yourself, Zac," I reply. "Thank you again for inviting me."
His sky-blue golf trousers, aren't skin-tight like the jeans that he was wearing the other day, but are sufficiently well-tailored to still show off his body, back and front. You know what I mean!
I load my clubs next to his on the waiting golf cart.
In terms of the numbers, it appears that we are of similar skill levels, but his swing is much smoother than mine. What he gains in distance on the fairways, I make up for on the greens.
His body moves like a dancer! And I enjoy watching his choreographed swing action, both from the back as I see his glutes contract, and from the side so that, as he follows through, his pelvis thrusts his manly bulge forwards, and holds that position while he watches his golf ball sail down the centre of the fairway. I'm not sure whether I enjoy one view more than the other!
As we approach the 17th green, a long par 3, his drive has found the deep bunker, while my ball is shorter and not in any trouble. I play a wedge onto the green and it rolls close to the flag.
"Nice shot!" Zac encourages me, as he has done during the entire game, then selects his sand wedge and heads for `the beach'.
His first shot results in his plugged ball catching the bunker's lip and rolling back into his footprint. His second attempt is a frustrating repeat of the first. His third, with uncharacteristic forcefulness sees the ball emerge, just, but Zac groans, doubles in pain, clasping his hand to his lower back. "That hurt!" he tells me as he thumps his club into his bag in frustration or anger.
"Are you OK?" I ask, as he resumes the driver's seat and directs the cart to a position between the green and the 18th tee.
"I think so," Zac replies. "It should be all right."
However, as he walks onto the green, it's not quite with a limp, but the fluidity of his normal gait has gone. And I sense that he is using his putter as a pseudo walking stick.
Neither of us comments on my par or his triple bogie. However, I say to him, "Zac, perhaps we shouldn't play the last hole. You might aggravate any potential injury to your back and worsen the existing pain."
"Nothing a bit of heat gel can't fix, I'm sure," he replies with bravado, taking his driver and walking gingerly to the tee.
One practice swing is enough! He groans loudly and turns to me. "I hate to admit it, Rob, but I think that you are right. Do you mind if we give this one a miss?"
"If I was your doctor," I say, smiling and trying to make light of his profession in this situation, "I would prescribe doing exactly that, followed by a hot shower and a session with the club physio." I pause. "Or with an experienced massage therapist."
"Massage therapist?" he asks, looking at me, questioningly.
"MY treat!" I say, "considering that this golf game was yours."
"How can I resist?" he smiles. "Besides, in my family, all kindnesses are appreciated."
I take his golf clubs from the cart and put them into the late-model sedan for him. "Are you OK to drive?" I ask. "We could take my car and I could drop you back later."
"What about the hot shower?" He replies. The Club has excellent change rooms and facilities."
"My clinic room also has an ensuite shower," I say, "and the water is just as hot, I'm sure."
"OK," he concedes. "But I'm not totally incapacitated. I'll drive my car and follow you."
While I drive, periodically checking that Zac's black Audi is still behind me, I consider how providence has done me a huge favour. Just the kind of scenario that I was hoping for. Almost. And, without me having to contrive anything. Let's see how the rest of my recent night-time fantasies plays out in reality!
He follows me up the driveway to my clinic-room door. I beckon him straight through the ensuite, indicating the shower on the way.
"Ever had a massage before?" I ask.
"Nope," he replies. "I'm a virgin." Then, he adds, "At least in that regard."
We both laugh, given his previous disclosures.
I hand him a generous-sized towel. "There's a pump-container of shower gel in there," I say. "Just come out when you are ready."
I ensure that the music is playing and that the aircon is set appropriately, and I write what information that I know of Zac on a Client Form; his name, phone number and suburb.
I hear the shower stop and, after a minute or so, Zac emerges carrying his clothes, the thick towel lightly wrapped around his narrow hips.
"Put those on the chair," I tell him, "and can I please get you to fill in just a couple of blanks on this form, which is mainly for insurance purposes."
He drops his clothes onto the chair, takes the pen from me and begins to write: full address and birthdate, at which point his body, slightly inclined towards my desk, fails to maintain hold of the heavy towel, which unravels itself and drops to the floor.
He turns and looks at me, shocked, probably uncertain whether he should snatch it up again and perform an act of extreme modesty in re-securing it, or whether to grin because of the exposure of his `big'-ness.
What I had imagined to be monstrously huge is, in fact, only slightly larger than `normal', but is greatly emphasised by his slim frame, flattened pelvis and hairless duck-egg-sized balls.
"It's OK," I tell him. "I've encountered those things before! Now, why don't you lay yourself down, face in the hole, and I'll cover you with the towel. And, you can put your hands wherever they are most comfortable to start with."
"Thanks, Rob," he says, painfully struggling to take up the suggested position, and dangles his arms over the edge of the table. I lay the towel lengthwise over his legs and buttocks.
I explain, "I'll start by stroking my hands over your body so that it becomes used to my touch. Then I'll home in on the areas which I think are causing you the problem."
"Go for it!" I hear, his voice emanating from below the table.
I stand at one side of the table and work on the opposite side of his body, moving from his shoulder to his waist, pressing with open palms and pausing for any reactions.
Then the same from the opposite side.
I fold the top of the towel down onto his thighs, and repeat everything, except now, progressing further, to encompass his firm, rounded glutes.
I move to the head of the table and comment, "I can see where you are affected. One side is higher than the other. You have a rotated hip."
"Is it fixable?" I hear.
"Everything is fixable!" I respond. "Just relax."
He moves his arms to lie alongside his body on the table, even without me suggesting it.
I work down both sides of his spine and, at precisely the spot which I anticipated, I hear a loud groan from him and his body recoils in pain.
Returning to stand by his hip, I spread the warmed oil, shoulder to glutes, with firm strokes, but avoiding pressure on the sensitive area.
"I'm going to loosen all of the surrounding muscles," I say, "so that it will be easier to reposition the `offending' hip. It will `surrender' more easily that way.
"Be gentle with me," he begs, albeit with a humorous lilt.
"Yes, I know! You're a virgin," I tell him, and enjoy his response – a hearty laugh.
Working the length of his body and enjoying the excellent tone of his muscles, especially his firm glutes, is pleasurable for me, and as relaxing as I can make it for him. It becomes obvious very quickly to both of us precisely where the painful areas are, and I avoid direct pressure on them.
With his back muscles as fully relaxed as possible, I say, "OK, Zac, just a couple more to go in your pelvis. Can you turn over onto your back?"
"That could be a big problem," he replies.
"What? In rolling over?" I ask.
"No," he replies. "In... bigness. Your sensitive hands were more stimulating than foreplay with my ex-girlfriend."
"OK," I tell him. "Time for me to reveal something: my `House Rule'. What happens in the room, stays in the room. You don't tell and I don't tell! Nobody will ever know!"
"Except you and me?" he asks.
"Except you and me!" I reassure him.
I hold up the towel, more or less as a modesty screen and he turns over, still with some difficulty.
I lay the towel on his body. "I'll just adjust the headrest and the bolster so that you are more comfortable," I tell him.
He raises his head and observes his own erection, tenting the towel, then sighs and relaxes.
"You've got a real grower there!" I encourage him.
"Thanks!" is all that he says.
"Now, relax!" I tell him. "Try to ignore where my hands are, and focus on the muscles that I am working on, to take you mind off other things."
"That might be easier said than done," he replies.
It becomes obvious which psoas muscle is taut and I work to relax it. However, my gentleness is no guarantee of avoiding pain.
It also becomes difficult to evade his twitching `bigness' under the towel.
"That towel is becoming irritating," he says to me, raising his head. "Would you be offended if I asked you to remove it altogether?"
"Not at all," I reply, and I pull the towel from the bottom edge, drawing it over `everything'.
"Fuck!" he hisses. "That felt good. Can you do it again?"
His raised head is grinning at me. I nod and grin back.
I replace the towel and again, more slowly this time, pull it downwards, obviously stimulating his erection, which twitches numerous times in pleasure.
I try to ignore his excitement, and my own which is fortunately concealed, but straining for release.
"OK, onto your side," I say.
I help him to the proper side and position his legs and pelvis.
It only takes two manipulations, and we both hear the `magic' click.
"I think that was it!" I tell him. "Lie back down and we'll check."
Two things are obvious – the ease with which he lays onto his back, and the stiffness of his exposed erection.
"Fuck, that feels better," he exhales breathily, and shifting his pelvis from side to side to check his flexibility. "But now I'm as horny as hell!"
"Would you like to use some massage oil and give `Righty' a bit of exercise?" I ask, holding up the squeeze bottle.
"Fuck, yeah!" he answers. "Thanks."
I drizzle oil back and forth over his exposed cock and onto his balls, and his right hand begins an obviously well-rehearsed massage regime of its own.
His closed eyes, tilted-back head, and teeth encompassing his bottom lip, as well as his light moans, are all obvious indications of his sustained pleasure.
Then, as if he suddenly remembers that he has an `audience', he opens his eyes, looks at me and fixes upon my hand which has been fondling the front of my trousers.
"Sorry, Rob," he apologises. "Did I get you worked up as well?"
"What do you reckon, Zac?" I put to him, and frame my own strained and restrained cock.
"Why don't you join me?" he asks. "Take your gear off. Nobody will know. That's your house rule, isn't it?"
I'm not slow in stripping everything off and, standing next to him, liberally apply some oil to myself, plus a couple of extra squirts for him.
"Fuck!" he says again, and props himself onto his left arm, keenly watching our hands both perform their `ministrations'.
After visually exciting each other and having our right hands stimulate ourselves physically, Zac says, "Rob?"
"Yes, Zac," I reply.
"My right hand would like to be unfaithful to me," he grins, pointing in the direction of my highly-stimulated, oily cock. "What do you say? House Rule?"
"Has it ever been unfaithful before?" I ask, daringly.
"Never!" he replies. "But, right now, it really wants to be."
"I don't know," I tell him. "My `Mr Righty' was really enjoying himself. I need to consult with him!"
I make a show of simulating having a conversation with my hand, whispering and pretending to listen to its responses.
"He says that he doesn't want to give up having fun," I tell Zac. "But he is willing to compromise, by trading places with yours!"
I release my hand, to have it tentatively replaced by Zac's. My rock-hard cock jerks at Zac's gentle touch, encompassing it. As he begins to move his hand up and down, I shiver at the stimulation and at watching Zac's bigness bobbing in obvious excitement. I wrap my oily fingers around it. I feel the heat that it is emitting, and it jerks massively at my first touch.
"Fuck!" Zac hisses.
"I take that to mean that the compromise is satisfactory to both parties?" I smile at him, moving my hand up and down and around his length and girth."
"I had no idea that wanking could feel this good!" he says, looking from his cock to mine and then to my face. "I don't know whether it's your magic touch, or the sensation of my right hand being unfaithful. Fuck!"
"You mean that you like playing with my cock and having me play with yours," I tell him, translating his exhortation into simpler English."
We both laugh.
"I thought that I was totally straight," Zac says, looking into my eyes, "but now, I'm not so sure!"
"You don't have to be gay or bi, to enjoy a bit of alternative physical stimulation, you know!" I tell him.
"But I really like the feel and look of your naked body too," he says, as if trying to explain his enjoyment of this new-found, male-to-male pleasure. "And having you wanking me."
"But sex with your girlfriend was `fantastic', if I correctly remember your words in the coffee shop," I remind him.
"Yes, it was!" he replies, looking confused. "But so is this!" he says, fondling my balls and rubbing my cock.
I do the same to him.
"Yeah!" he rasps. "Different, but equally fantastic."
Suddenly his hand stops moving. Mine doesn't, and I sense that he is focussing on the pleasure that I'm providing for him.
"I'm getting close," he says. "This feels so good! Amazing!"
He lays his body flat onto his back and his hips begin to thrust upwards in synchronisation with the movement of my slippery hand.
I give his cock half a dozen rapid pumps, followed by continuous slow and tight movements to delay his ejaculation.
"Oh, man, Rob," he says, eyes closed. "Yes. Yes. Yes! I'm gonna cum and this feels... fantastic!"
I stop moving my hand momentarily, then pump once. Then stop. Then once more.
"Aargh!" he calls out. His hand tightens around my cock. His body tenses and he thrusts his hips off the table as his steely-hard bigness spurts and pumps loads of cum into the air and onto his chest. "Aargh!"
The sight and feel of his body enjoying itself, his `Righty' experiencing the fullness of another man's excitement for the first time, sets me off too! My cum is mostly retained by his hand, but some escapes onto his abdomen.
I have hand towels within reach. The first one I use to wipe his hand, my cock, and my own wet hand. Then I hand him the second one, which he immediately employs to clean himself.
He stares at me, with tears in his eyes. One escapes and runs towards his ear.
"Are you OK, Zac?" I ask. "Have I done anything to upset you."
"Not at all," he replies, wiping his face. "I just want to thank you, Rob. You have managed to press a pleasure button inside me that I wasn't even aware existed. I thought that fun with my girlfriend was the pinnacle of sensuality, but I was wrong. Today was up there with the best of it! I can see that life without my girlfriend is not the end of my world, as I had once contemplated! Thank you so much."
I tell him, somewhat cryptically, "Number 23 in the list of rules and pleasures in men's health is about having friends before the benefits." Then I add, "Wait until you get to three times that number!"
He automatically does the maths, and I watch his face show consecutive, altered expressions: Awareness. Surprise. Comprehension. Glee.
"Rob," he starts. "What would you think about a friendly game of golf next Tuesday, if you're free?"
"Why? Are you planning to have another on-course injury?" I ask, grinning.
"Do I need an injury to get one of your amazing massages afterwards?" he puts to me sheepishly.
"Not at all," I reply, smiling genuinely at his interest. "My friends don't need excuses."
"Then, can I make a permanent booking with you on Tuesdays for a massage?" he asks.
"Only if it includes playing golf first," I tell him.
"Definitely my treat," he says. "Hey, do you mind if I use your shower again?"
[**Author: Thank you for persevering with me through my alphabetic fantasy. Numerous readers have expressed the wish that I take a particular story further. If you have a favourite to which you would like to see me add more, please let me know. Popularity rules!]
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rob.zz@hotmail.com
I do try to reply to everyone. Please be patient.
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It was my original intention to write a `massaging' story for each
letter of the alphabet.
That has now been achieved, with Nifty having posted `Adam', `Brock', `Callum',
`Dylan', `Evan', `Flynn', `Gino', `Hayden', `Isaac', `Josh', `Karl', `Liam',
`Marco', `Nate', `Oliver', `Paulo', `Quade', `Ronnie', `Simon', `Ty' `Ulysses',
`Victor', `Woody', `Xavier', `Yuri', and `Zac'.
`Gino', as you know by now, is located at: http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/
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our stories are posted. Do it here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html