I've come to the conclusion that many people, when exercising, are creatures of habit. I have to count myself among them.
I'd like to admit that I go for a jog every day, at the same time of day but, to be honest, four days out of five is closer to the truth. However, the timing bit is still valid.
I always lay out my jogging clothes the night before, so that I don't have to hunt for them while I'm still partially asleep in the morning. Then, when the alarm goes off, there is a mandatory toilet stop before getting dressed and heading out of the door. The digits on my alarm clock are pretty much identical every day, give or take a minute or two.
Normally, I would jog between seven and ten kilometres each day, depending on the route that I choose. However, while recovering from a bout of heavy flu, I recently reduced the distance to whatever I could fit into one hour. Thirty minutes of brisk walking away from home, then I turn around and head back.
Walking instead of jogging has become one of my habits. A comfortable one. My challenge is to cover the return distance in no greater than the thirty minutes that I took to get there. No slacking off!
Walking the same, reasonably-flat route, I pass people who are the basis of my `habit hypothesis'. The middle-aged, over-dressed lady walking her yappy little off-white terrier. The older man with the walking stick, who appears more determined in his exercise than I am in mine. The office-type dad dropping off his young daughter at the day-care centre.
I pass them all at approximately the same time, and at their same place, each day. We always smile and exchange `good-morning' pleasantries. Occasionally, somebody is missing but, then, so am I when I have a slacked-off, sleep-in day.
Since I've recently started walking, I've begun to encounter a jogger, heading in the opposite direction. Young guy who looks as though he is fitness training by the lightweight Nike sports singlet that he wears, not to mention his slim figure with defined leg muscles. My guess is that we had not passed previously because, when I was jogging, I would have turned off onto my longer route before he would have reached the spot where I pass him now.
True to form, we both say `good morning' as we approach each other. And smile. That has recently progressed to adding a high-five as he slows down before continuing. Very friendly!
Today is different. Maybe he's taking a day off.
I keep walking and after another 10 minutes, I see somebody about 500m up ahead, who looks like the jogger, but he's walking. As we approach each other, we slow, then stop and face each other.
"Hi!" I say.
"G'day," he responds.
I ask, "You're walking this morning?"
"Yeah. Bit of an injury at training last night," he replies.
"What happened?" I ask.
"I was working hard," he starts. "We were practising tackling techniques when I fell heavily, twisting. My lower back just wouldn't let me jog this morning, but I thought that I'd see whether I could walk the muscles back into good health."
"Does it hurt when you walk?" I inquire.
"Not as much, now that I'm warmed up," he replies. "I think it's improving."
"I could have a look at it for you, if you like," I tell him. "I'm a massage therapist and live about fifteen minutes' walk from here. My name's Rob, by the way."
"Dylan," he says, extending his hand.
"Do you reckon you could make another fifteen minutes?" I ask.
"I'm on my way back home now. I started earlier than usual," he tells me.
"Do you live back that way?" I ask, indicating the direction from which I have just come.
"Yeah. About ten minutes, I reckon, at the pace that I've been walking," he tells me. "So, an extra five wouldn't hurt." Then he adds, "Are you sure that it's OK. I don't have any money with me to pay you."
"No charge!" I tell him. "Happy to help. My good deed for the day."
I turn, to head back alongside him. OK, so this morning's walk will be less than half of one of my `normal' days! But then, it's already a lot longer than if I'd stayed in bed, eh?
"Thanks, Rob," he says, managing a smile through a wince of pain as he turns from facing me to continue.
"That shudder didn't look good," I say. "What just happened?"
"As I turned, I had a shooting pain across my lower back, through my right glute and into my thigh. It felt like the lower half of my body couldn't support the top half. I was lucky not to fall over."
"OK, let's just take it easy," I say. "I already have a bit of a clue as to what's going on."
We walk slowly and deliberately and chat, avoiding any unevenness on the ground.
I establish that he's not married, nor does he have a serious girlfriend. "Not enough hours in the day, nor sufficient funds in the bank for that!" is his excuse.
"What do you do when you're not training and playing football?" I ask.
"Odd jobs," he tells me. "I wasn't the best student at school and didn't finish, especially after my parents got divorced. So, I've been doing labouring work for a couple of contractors. Good for strengthening too. It's great when the work's `on', but difficult if there's nothing going. My mother died of lung cancer two years ago and I live with my Nan, who is still working. She's a book keeper for a construction business. That's how come I got some work originally."
"I'm really sorry about your parents," I tell him. "My own story is not too different to yours. But I won't bore you with it now. Let's see what we can do with that back of yours. Maybe we'll have another opportunity to `compare notes' another time."
We pass the intersection of his street and he indicates where his Nan's place is. "Down there. 11a" he tells me. "She said that she would never live in a number 13."
"And I guess that she doesn't have a black cat, either," I say, attempting to lighten the mood a little.
"No black cat," he smiles, "but she often tells me that I'm her little black sheep, and wishes that I'd get a good job, meet a nice girl and settle down."
"Wow!" I say. "Is that all? That sounds like a pretty simple couple of tasks. Maybe if you got a job at a dating agency, you could kill two birds with one stone," I joke.
"Fat chance of that happening," he says. Then adds, "Do you mind if we drop those two subjects? I get enough of that from Nan at home. Not quite 24x7. She sleeps for part of that time."
"Sure. Sorry," I tell him. "Let's talk about something less painful, like your back!"
He chuckles. "Hey! I like you, Rob" he says, out of the blue, and making a fist for me to bump.
I'm not sure how to respond in words, being unsure of his focus. Is it my humour? Empathy? Willingness to listen? Surely not my physical appearance! So, I bump his fist and say nothing.
"Here we are," I tell him, reaching my driveway. "The front door is for visitors, relatives and sales people attempting to cajole me into changing either my electricity or phone provider. My clinic entrance is at the side."
We go in via the side entrance, through the ensuite. My massage table is set up, ready for the next client. "Take a seat," I tell him, indicating the one next to my desk.
He sits down very gingerly, using the arm rests for support as he lowers himself. He experiences a muscle spasm as his backside takes his weight from his hands.
His fine-featured, handsome face, relaxing, is enhanced by his white teeth and the bush of medium-length light brown hair, swept to one side.
"Do you mind if I get a few details from you?" I ask. "Standard practice."
"Sure. That's OK," he says.
I give him the usual form. "Just the basics, will do. You know, name address and phone number."
He laughs, "I'll bet that you ask everyone that."
"No, just the handsome ones!" I reply, and instantly regret my words!
He smiles and raises an eyebrow, but doesn't reply, and begins to write.
"Sorry," I say. "That came out wrongly. And yes, I ask everybody the same questions." Then I add, attempting to make up for my faux pas, "The handsome ones and the ugly ones."
Did that just make things worse, I wonder?
"It's OK," he says, sensing my embarrassment and seeing the colour that I have felt my face turn. "At least, I guess, I'm not at the ugly end of your continuum!"
"Far from it, Dylan," I reply. "Can we change this subject, before I put my foot in my mouth again?"
He laughs, then winces. "Ouch! Laughing hurts, like coughing and sneezing!" And he passes me the form.
"Right! Name, address and mobile number. Excellent!" I say. I add, again without thinking first, "And you're only nineteen? You look much more mature than that." I take a deep breath, "OK, so let's get down to business."
"Terrific!" he says, smirking at me. At my discomfort. Why does my mouth keep betraying me?
I say something sensible, "Let's take off the shirt and shoes. And how do you feel about losing the shorts as well? It will just make it easier to massage around where the trouble is."
"No problem," he replies. He struggles getting the shirt over his head, so I help. "It's hard to bend to get the shoes off, too. Do you mind?" he asks.
"It's OK," I tell him and I get those for him as well. Velcro straps are easier than laces.
"I'm happy to take off the shorts," Dylan says. "If you don't mind what you see. I'm only wearing a mesh jockstrap underneath. I like the feel of the freedom when I'm out in the morning. Plus, a bit of support up front. Nothing worse than having things bounce up and down while I'm jogging!" He smiles.
"Hey," I reply, "I know exactly what you mean, and I've seen more naked backsides than you could ever imagine." Then I add, "Oops, I didn't mean to imply that you imagine lots of naked backsides."
"You look nervous, Rob," he tells me. "Lighten up. It was only a figure of speech, wasn't it? At least, that's the way that I took it."
He eases his flimsy running shorts to the point where gravity does the rest, and he steps out of them, gingerly. "Well, at least it was easier getting them off than putting them on!" He's smiling.
Actually, he's wearing what some would call a thong.
"So, let's have a good look at you," I say. "Face away from me."
Ignoring the thin line of his support, all that I see is perfection. I deliberately put an index finger on each of his shoulders and compare their height. I feel down his spine to the top of his glutes. With one finger again, this time on his hips, I say, "You're a bit uneven. It looks as though one hip is rotated and lower than the other one which, I suggest, is the cause of your pain."
I press into each glute, one at a time, with my thumb, and I hit the spot. "Aaargh!" he calls out and almost crumples.
I catch him, and wrap my arms around him. "It's OK, I've got you," I tell him, not at all unhappy at being able to hold his flawless body close to me. "Just ease yourself back to standing upright, and I'll let you go."
I support him while he rebalances and stands by himself. "Thanks," he says.
"OK, turn around," I tell him. "Slowly."
He faces me, and I have difficulty in not focussing on the roundness of what his jockstrap is supporting, averting my eyes to his. Then to his shoulders, pecs, abs, and then his hips.
I touch the offending hip and tell him, "Here it is. Thought so. OK. Let's get you on the table. Face in the hole this end, and feet over the bolster at that end."
He moves very tentatively to the table, attempting to comply with my instruction. "This is hard," he says. "It hurts."
"Go slowly. Take your time, and manoeuvre however you best can," I tell him.
With various attempts and some groans, he collapses onto the table with a final cry of pain. "Aaargh!" he calls again as he relaxes his whole body.
"Take your time to get comfortable," I say.
He lets out some heavy sighs and I see his body progressively relax. One minor spasm.
"Firstly," I tell him, "your body looks as though it is in great shape. No fat, and I can see all of your muscles. You've put a lot of work into looking like this, haven't you?
"Thanks," he replies, "And you're not wrong!"
"Relax!" I tell him. "I'm going to start at your shoulders and work my way down, so that your body gets used to my touch."
"OK," is all that he says, and I start, drizzling oil from his neck to his waist.
I delight in spending about five minutes massaging his toned muscles and I loosen up the tenseness in his shoulders.
"Feels good!" he says.
"I need to get into your glutes," I tell him. "And, do you mind if I pull this strap down below them?"
"No problem," he replies. Then, as I take hold of the thin strap and begin to lower it, he says, "You can take the whole thing off, if it will make things easier. I don't care."
"If you're OK with that, yes, it will make it easier for some longer strokes," I tell him, and pull everything lower. With some difficulty, and pain, he raises his hips just sufficiently for me to get the rest. When I have it down to his thighs, he relaxes again, and I take the thin, bag-shaped piece of mesh right down over his feet, and add it to his shorts and shirt.
He reaches underneath himself to make a quick, comfort-adjustment.
I massage his glutes, one at a time, from different sides of the table, avoiding the problem area. "Just loosening everything up around where the issue is," I tell him. "I'll come back to it shortly."
"Do whatever you like," he replies.
I'm sure that he doesn't mean that literally. Pity!
I move to work on his thighs, "I'll loosen these up too," I tell him.
He makes some hums of approval, but says nothing.
I work back and forth across his left thigh, then from the knee upwards.
"Just a minor adjustment," I say, and lift first one of his legs, then the other, to separate them. "It lets me get right in there," I tell him, and demonstrate the full stroke from his inner thigh right back to the outside.
I go across and back, down and up.
From the lower angle, I get a good view of two ample testicles, naturally hairless or shaved. Working from both sides of his body, I get very close to them, without actually touching them. And I make a point of telling him, "I'm just going carefully in here, so that I leave the gentlemen undisturbed!"
He laughs and says, "Hey, it's not like they would object."
Despite this apparent licence, I continue to avoid them.
"OK," I say, "If I'm right, this next bit is going to hurt."
"All right!" he says. "Thanks for the warning."
From experience I know that there are various trigger points that need to be released. I work firmly but as gently as possible into various muscles, including the QLs that join his pelvis to his lowest ribs. Stretching, pressing, massaging. He moans, groans and exhales markedly multiple times with muffled cries.
Multiple times, I slap his backside and say, "Relax. Let go! You're tensing the muscles which I need to release. We manage to get through it without the four-letter words that I often hear when doing deep tissue work.
"Now the other side," I say. "It knows what's coming. So do you. Try to relax, OK?"
"OK," he replies.
I only have to slap him twice from this side!
I give the whole lower back area a good, relaxing rub, waist to thigh, both sides.
"How are we feeling?" I ask.
"Much better," Dylan tells me.
"We're not done yet," I say. "There's a bit that I have to do from the front.
There is a moment of silent contemplation.
"Whatever!" he says, "I don't care."
I assist him to turn over.
It's only now that I get a good look at all of his gear! Good breeding-stock balls and a perfectly-proportioned cock. Not hard. But not soft either! Not big. Not small. Perfect for his body. And his pubic hair has been shaved back to a good-looking curly patch.
He knows that I'm looking, so I comment, "Nice!"
"Thanks," he replies.
I tell him what I'm about to do. "I'm going to massage and loosen those quads, then work into the pelvis to loosen up the hip flexors on each side and, with a bit of luck, and a rocking of your hips, everything might go back into place. No need for a major manipulation. Hopefully."
"You're the boss," he says. "Whatever it takes."
I massage his quads on one side, working up very close to his balls. "You want to hold these out of the way?" I ask. "Just so I don't rub against them."
"It's OK," he says. "Just push them aside if they get in your way." He giggles.
"Fair enough!" I comment, and keep massaging.
As I move to the top of his inner quad muscles, the back of my hand comes into contact with one of the `gentlemen'. I reach into the crease of his thigh and focus on pressuring the muscle back across his thigh.
I do it again, and am aware of the firm contact with his testicle.
"You OK with this?" I ask.
"Yup. Whatever!" he replies.
I take a little more latitude and give up trying to avoid contact.
Both thighs.
His penis has swelled and lengthened somewhat but is still lying to one side.
I work into the pelvic depression on the opposite side. I feel the muscle respond.
I re-oil my hands.
On the right side now, with his penis lying directly on top of where I need to work, I don't ask him, I simply pick it up and hold it out of the way, then begin on the pelvic muscle with my free hand.
"You still OK?" I ask.
"Sure," he says, "Although, your oily hand is really a bit of a turn-on."
"It's all right. I'll put it back where it came from," I tell him. Having relaxed the pelvic muscle, I attempt to replace his now-firming penis back across his right thigh. It refuses to lay back down there. I try a couple times, but the only result is, with my handling, that it gets fully hard and, standing off his abdomen, wants to point towards his navel. "Looks like it has a mind of its own," I say.
"It often has a mind of its own," he replies. Then, smirking, he adds, "That's when I need to punish it."
I don't comment, but press on each hip alternately, with a firm rocking motion. We both hear a loud click.
"What was that?" he asks. "Something just felt different."
"Maybe it was part of your body being obedient, for fear of punishment" I say. "How do your hip and body feel?"
He moves tentatively, raising and lowering his hips, and turning his body from side to side. "Feels good," he says with a smile.
"Do you want to stand up and test it?" I put to him.
Supported firstly on his elbows and then with his hands behind him, I assist Dylan to sit. He slowly swings his body around and extends his feet downwards. "Need any more help?" I ask.
"Maybe. Can you just hold me to support my body weight while I stand?" he replies.
I position myself between his legs. "Put your arms around my neck," I tell him, "so that you can leverage yourself against me. I will put my arms under yours, around your body, and help you to raise yourself."
I really don't think that all of this is necessary, but he's not objecting. In fact, he seems to be playing along.
The double support works well. However, as his feet touch the floor, and as he leans forward, our groins also come together. He comments "So, yours has a mind of its own, too, eh?"
"Chain reaction, actually!" I say. "You started it!"
He laughs. Then he looks me directly in the eye.
"Do you think that we should punish them?" he growls.
My cock jumps, but I say, "Probably. But, first, tell me how your back feels."
I release him and he walks back and forth beside the length of my massage table, then around it. "Incredible!" he comments. "I would not have believed it possible. You have magic fingers."
Then he surprises me. He lays himself back on the table.
"Something wrong?" I ask.
"Just punishment time!" he says. "Can I use some of your massage oil?"
I hand him the bottle, and he covers his cock with oil, then hands the bottle back to me.
"Do you mind if I punish it while I'm here?" he asks.
"No, that's all right. Go for it," I tell him. I watch as he begins the punishment.
My own cock is now uncomfortably tight in its restrained confinement.
"What about you?" Dylan asks, looking at my bulge, while continuing his hand movements.
"Very unprofessional!" I tell him, then add, "But, seeing that you're not paying me for a professional massage, I guess that it's OK."
I remove my shirt, drop my tracksuit pants and liberate my stiffness from my underwear, dropping them to the floor.
I start by making a fist around my hard-on and drizzling oil into it.
Then Dylan and I coordinate our self-punishments. Fast-fast. Slow-slow. Smile-smile.
My eyes alternate between his face and our being-punished erections.
When we are both a fair way along, Dylan asks, "Wanna swap?"
Without questioning, I remove my hand. He replaces it with his own. I shudder at his touch. "Oh, yes! Nice!" I tell him.
I reach for his, and begin to demonstrate my expert massaging technique on him. "Fuck!" he says. "Yeah!"
Despite how good I'm feeling, I sense that he is going to blow first; the hip-thrusting, the groans and his balls retracting to big round lumps against his groin. Not subtle clues!
He warns me. "Cumming!" And he stops his hand movements on me while he spurts – chest stomach and, as I hold it upright, all over his cock, hair and balls.
He sighs. His whole body relaxes and he asks, "What about you?"
"I can take over, while you rest", I tell him.
It takes less than a minute and, groaning, I add my own whiteness to his.
I use a hand towel and clean him up.
"Need a shower?" I ask.
"I do, if you do," he smirks back.
"Then, I do," I tell him, and lead him back into the ensuite.
"Why don't you make the water warm, while I just make water?" Dylan says, and moves across to pee into the toilet.
With the temperature to my liking, I step in, make a final adjustment then turn to look at him. I nod my head for him to join me.
We wash each other's body, giving special attention to our fronts, and to our glutes.
With that done, he turns me around and hugs me, securely, from behind, with one hand across my chest and the other across my pelvis. He nuzzles his face against the side of my head. "This feels so good," he says.
"Unprofessional, Dylan! But very nice," I say, leaning hard back onto him, enjoying the feeling of his perfect body against mine, in multiple places, but especially his still-plump cock in the crack between my glutes.
"Any time, Rob!" he tells me.
"Will you be out walking again tomorrow?" I ask.
"Absolutely. Besides, a follow-up treatment will probably be necessary!" he smirks.
-----
If you like the stories, and haven't said 'hello' yet, please take a couple of minutes to email me. I try to reply to everyone.
-----
It is my intention to write a
`massaging' story for each letter of the alphabet. You will probably already have
read `Adam', `Brock' and `Callum'.
Watch for `Evan'.
-----
Please support the efforts at Nifty. Every little bit helps to ensure that
our stories are posted. Do it here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html