PAULO

 

I wouldn't describe myself as an avid gardener. My next-door neighbour, a widow of sixty or seventy (I'm guessing) would fit that description. Mrs Natale.

It seems that she's always out there, front and back yards, trimming, watering, weeding, fertilizing, planting, transplanting, manicuring her lawn. I can get exhausted watching her, and the result of her efforts is amazing. Her house could win a local garden competition.

I sometimes chat with her about her flowers and multi-coloured shrubbery. She knows the botanical and common names of everything, knows whether they like full or partial-sun and she advises me how best to tend them. In case I might be interested.

I'm more of a trim-the-edges and cut-the-grass type of person. Despite not being mechanically minded, I can handle the edger and the two-stroke mower, and there is a garden centre not far from me where they also service the equipment if it `plays up', usually because I've neglected for too long to have them checked over.

Mrs Natale and I have a good neighbourly relationship. I do some heavy lifting for her, order things from the garden centre for her or fetch what she wants if it's only one or two items, and I generally `look out' for her, since Vince passed away, suddenly, two years ago.

In return, she likes to feed me her Italian delicacies, tell me that my toned body is actually too thin, and offer me her grandmotherly advice about my unmarried status. Frequently.

I know, now, when I see her planting bulbs, that the whole winter-into-spring-into-summer frenzy has started!

 

It's Saturday morning and I have no massage clients today. I've deliberately avoided booking people in so that I can mow the lawn and do a general clean-up.

"Buongiorno, Roberto," I hear as I wheel out the mower, fuelled and ready to go. She is standing at our property-dividing murraya hedge which is neatly trimmed to waist height.

"Good morning, Mrs Natale," I reply. "Come stai?"

Now I could attempt to exaggerate her Italian accent, like `sheesa nota speeka da Englisha tooa gooda'. You get the idea! But I won't. You'll just have to imagine it. I have been learning Italian from a close friend, but I try not to use my imperfect rendition of it to her too often, even though she encourages me. We make do with her broken English and strong accent. My ears are attuned to it now.

"Roberto," she asks, "Could you please help me with something?

"Of course, Mrs Natale," I say. "What would you like me to do?"

"I like for you to find a nice girl and to have lots of beautiful children," she starts, smiling.

That's a little game that she likes to play. She knows what the resulting expression on my face will be. She's seen it dozens of times. Or are we up to hundreds?

She grins. "Roberto, I like for you to ring for me the garden centre for many things today."

"Of course, Mrs Natale," I reply. "Do you have a list?"

She hands me a piece of folded paper from her apron pocket. I have learned to decipher her handwriting, but I always read it back to her so that there is no misunderstanding.

"And you tell them I pay cash," she reminds me. "So, they must give me good price."

I note today that she wants `dirt', which I clarify to be both potting mix and top dressing. When I get down to some of the plant foods, bug sprays and other bits and pieces, I recognise most of them. However, I need her to translate the botanical names of plants that she wants into their common names. That will be easier when I ring through her order. Maybe for them as well as me.

"I need to get a pen," I tell her, "to write down the other names."

Smiling, she produces one from her pocket. We've done this previously, more than once.

I take out my phone, call the Centre and read down her list. She nods at each item as though she has memorised everything.

I know better than to order things away from her sight and hearing. If something did not arrive correctly, I would cop the blame!

"When can you deliver all of that?" I ask the female voice on the phone. She puts me on hold to that annoying `ding-dong' music while she checks. Then, relief. "Two hours?" I repeat aloud, looking at Mrs Natale for her acknowledgment.

She nods, and reminds me about the cash.

"And that will be a COD payment," I say into the phone. "No. Not a credit card. Cash. It's for Mrs Natale. You have her address in your system." The `penny drops' at the other end. Mrs Natale is known to all of the staff. "Thank you, and can you please tell me the total?"

Mrs Natale is about to remind me about them charging her a `good price', so I say, "And Mrs Natale expects your best price for everything!"

She smiles at me.

"OK. Thank you," I say.

More ding-dong music.

"Yes? Thank you." I tell the voice. "Mrs Natale will have the cash ready. And she requires a receipt. Please ensure that the driver brings it with him."

I convey to Mrs Natale the price. I anticipate her usual fist-raising response, `Pirates!' And I am not disappointed. I have to smile. That's another of her games.

"Grazie, Roberto. Thank you," she says, and I hand her back her pen and paper.

"I'll come and help you when the truck arrives," I tell her.

She repeats, "Grazie, Roberto" then heads off inside.

I decide to do the backyard first today, take a break and then do the front. That way, I should see the truck when it turns up.

 

Perfect timing! Edges done. Lawns done. I'm using the blower/vac to tidy up when I see the truck. It slows, stops, then begins reversing into Mrs Natale's driveway.

That's my signal to go and help. And maybe translate Mrs Natale's English into English for the driver. I put the blower onto my verandah.

The loud `beep-beep' reversing noise brings Mrs Natale out of the house, although I'll bet that she was already standing at the front window, watching the clock, to ensure that the delivery time was no later than what had been stated.

A young driver jumps out of the cabin and says, "Delivery for a Mrs Natale?"

He's new.

"Hi, I'm Rob, from next door," I tell him. "I help Mrs Natale with things. You're in the right place."

"Paulo," he introduces himself, extending his hand. "Where would you like the topsoil?" There is a hint of a pleasant accent in his voice.

Mrs Natale joins us and I ask her, "Mrs Natale, this is Paulo. He wants to know where to tip the topsoil."

Her response is not what I, nor probably Paulo, expected. "Paulo!" she exclaims, almost excitedly, then launches into an outpouring of lilting Italian, much of which I actually catch.

"What did she say?" Paulo asks, turning to me.

I reply, "I believe that she thinks you are Italian, because of your name. She has a grandson who is also `Paulo', and she says that you are very handsome."

"Si, molto bello," she repeats. "Very handsome." Then she stuns me with "Like Roberto."

Somewhat embarrassed, I turn to Paulo and say quietly, "Be warned, if you mention that you don't have a girlfriend, then she'll start trying to marry you off. Probably to one of her granddaughters."

Paulo responds to Mrs Natale, "I'm not Italian. My parents are from Denmark and Sweden."

Then, to me, he confides, "And, I'm not the marrying kind, either." And he winks.

"That's something else we have in common," I tell him. "Apart from being handsome."

We both share a grin of mutual acknowledgment and amusement. And there is an undisguised but quick checking-out of each other's body.

Paulo says, for both Mrs Natale and me to hear, "I have all of the smaller things in the truck, and the topsoil in the tipper. What do you want me to unload first?"

I suggest to the decision-maker, "Mrs Natale, do you want all of the smaller things there?" and I point to her verandah, "and the big load of dirt here?" and I point to her driveway.

"Si, yes," she acknowledges and moves to stand on the spot where she wants the topsoil. "Big dirt here."

Paulo backs up the truck a little farther.

"Need a hand?" I ask him.

"Sure, thanks, Rob," he replies and begins to transfer things from the truck to my waiting hands and arms.

Mrs Natale is standing on the verandah and directs where every single item should be placed. "That one here. That one there." Etc. She has her list, and crosses off everything that I put down.

Paulo follows me and is similarly micro-managed.

With the small items all accounted for, Paulo unhooks the tailgate to the tipper, starts the mechanism and, with the raising of the tray, dumps a mound of earth onto the driveway. Checking that there is none left in the tray, he lowers and secures it.

He collects the paperwork from the cab and presents it to Mrs Natale, who scrutinises it and then says, "OK. Uno momento per favore." She disappears into the house.

While she is gone, I ask smiling, "So, handsome, would you have time for a coffee?"

He looks at his watch. "Thank you, handsome," he grins. "Maybe just fifteen minutes."

We continue smiling at our light-hearted continuation of Mrs Natale's assessment of us both. Except, as far as I'm concerned, she is spot on about Paulo!

She returns with cash in hand and proceeds to count it out. Meticulously. "You sign," she tells Paulo, handing him back the invoice. "Paid."

He signs.

Then he presents her with another piece of paper. "Please sign that you have received it all."

She signs.

Then Mrs Natale hands Paulo a small container of what I recognise to be some of her Italian pastries. "For your girlfriend," she says, grinning.

Paulo looks at me. I touch my nose as if to say, `Told you so!'

"Maybe for my mother," he replies to her.

Mrs Natale smiles. "You are good boy," she says, and shakes his hand with both of hers.

"Thank you," Paulo says and scrambles into the cabin, starts the truck and begins to drive away slowly.

"Pirates!" Mrs Natale grumbles, then says, "but Paulo is good boy. He can give his mamma many beautiful grandchildren."

"Everything OK now, Mrs Natale?" I ask.

She responds, "Thank you, Roberto. Grazie mille."

 

I return to my own yard, wondering where Paulo went with the truck. Then I see it heading back in my direction and Paulo stops a half-dozen houses away. He must have driven around the block. He jumps out and walks towards me.

"Come down this way," I tell him. "It's my `professional' entrance."

We head through the side door off the driveway, away from neighbourhood eyes, past the ensuite, through my massage room, and into the kitchen.

"How do you like your coffee?" I ask him.

He replies, "My grandmother always complains that I spoil her coffee by adding milk and sugar, but that's the way I like it. White and one, please, Rob."

While we are waiting for the jug to boil, he asks, "Was that a massage table I saw in there as we came through?"

"Yes," I reply. "That's what I do. When I'm not helping old ladies."

I'm hoping that his next comment will be about him having a massage.

"What do you charge?" he asks.

That's close enough! I grin, more inwardly than outwardly.

"Fifty dollars cash for an hour," I reply. "Whatever you need. Remedial massage for aches and pains. Swedish massage for relaxation." Then I recall him saying that one of his parents was from Sweden. "You know about Swedish massages?"

"Of course!" he replies." But the fat women who have given me one in the past are always too heavy-handed."

He grins.

"I could be gentle, if you like," I say to him. "And this week I have a special add-on for handsome men. No extra charge."

I grin.

We drink our coffee and I offer some of my stash of Mrs Natale's delicious, fatten-you-up delicacies. I also share about her husband's heart attack and how she and I have a mutual understanding about doing things for each other. "I accept her pastries, but decline her match-making."

"Why is that, can I ask you?" Paulo says, seriously but politely.

"Let's just say," I confess, "that I would find her grandsons more attractive than her granddaughters."

Paulo nods. Then smirks. Then adds, "Me too."

"So, would you like a gentle Swedish massage with a special add-on?" I put to him.

"Not now," he says, looking at his watch and standing, "but definitely some time! And thanks for the coffee."

I hand him a business card. "Call me, and we can work out a time that suits us both," I tell him. "Some days I can be quite busy. Other days, I just leave free to do things around the house. Like today."

He reads it and tucks it into his shirt pocket. "Thanks, Rob," he says. "Talk to you soon!"

I watch Paulo's taut backside, all of the way down the driveway, then he turns towards the parked truck; in the opposite direction to Mrs Natale's house.

I hear the truck start but it doesn't come past my place. I hear the fading sound of the engine. He must have done a U-turn. Smart as well as handsome! And gay.

I pour myself another coffee and select a vanilla-cream cannolo to go with it, while I contemplate giving Paulo the `full treatment'. I take a second one and think `two cannolis are better than one'. It gives me a hard-on.

 

I finish the tidying-up and return the blower/vac and the mower to the garage.

When I check my phone, I see that I've missed a call from a number that I don't recognise, and that I have a voice message.

`Hello handsome Rob. This is handsome Paulo,' I hear with a chuckle. `I would like to organise a time for you to show me how a gentle Swedish massage should feel. Thanks.'

I immediately add his number to my contacts. Then I ring him.

"Hi Rob," he answers. Obviously, he has already stored my number in his phone!

"Hey, Paulo," I reply. "What's happening?"

"Did I understand from what you told me, that you have no clients today?" he asks.

"Yes. And I'm totally free for the rest of the day, now that the yard is finished." I reply.

He asks, "I don't suppose that you could fit me in for a Swedish about 4:00?"

"Sure," I say. Drive up the driveway. Will you be in the truck?"

"No," he replies, "I'll have my own car. And 4:00 will just give me enough time to go home, shower and change clothes."

"OK. See you at 4:00," I tell him and disconnect.

The massage table was already set up and ready for another client anyway. I turn on the air conditioner and ensure that the music is ready. No candles! LOL.

I shower, shave, blow dry my hair, and use my favourite deodorant.

While I dress in my grey, light-weight track pants and white polo shirt, I contemplate Mrs Natale's assessment of Paulo, with his blond, medium-cropped hair; blue/grey eyes; prominent cheek bones; strong jaw and a set of dazzling white teeth.

And that's just the top 20% of him! His slim frame supports well-defined pec muscles and the front of his shorts exhibits an obvious and enticing roundness, accentuated by his ultra-flat stomach, narrow hips and long legs.

Right now, thinking of giving Paulo's body an oily Swedish massage, my trackies start to exhibit their own obvious bulge.

It eventually goes down. But as 4:00 approaches, it's back.

I'm giving my face, hands and arms the cold-water treatment to help reduce the prominence when I hear a well-tuned car growl into the driveway so I head out to greet him.

I don't need to comment on the older-style, red Alpha Romeo, because, catching my scrutiny of it, Paulo says, "Hi Rob. My uncle found it. He's a bit of a car enthusiast and thought that it was a bargain. He `did it up' and gave it to me as an eighteenth birthday present."

"Very handsome," I say.

He looks at me and I add, "The car too."

We both laugh.

"Come in, Paulo," I tell him, and lead the way.

"It's nice and cosy in here," he comments. "You've turned up the temperature."

And I think that it could get a lot hotter.

"OK. Let's get the paper work out of the way," I tell him. "The insurance company requires that I do it. Actually, your name, address and phone number will do."

"Fair swap!" Paulo smiles. "I already have yours. For future reference."

I look at what he has written. "I know where you are," I tell him. "I go up your street when I'm out jogging of a morning about seven o'clock."

"That would be after my parents have gone to work," he says, "and about the time that I would be getting into the shower." He raises and lowers his eyebrows, as if hinting at something. Then he adds, "It would be really nice to have somebody to wash my back."

"What time do your parents leave?" I ask.

"They're both gone by six-thirty," he replies.

I raise and lower my eyebrows.

 

"All right. Let's get started," I say. "First thing is clothes off. Then, face in the hole this end and feet over the bolster at that end."

I stare into his eager eyes. "It's OK," he tells me. "Swedish massages are best done naked." Then he adds, "The masseur too."

"Do the fat women take all their clothes off when they massage you?" I ask.

"Not usually," he replies. "But, with them, it's not hard to keep my eyes closed anyway."

"So, it's lucky that I'm not a fat woman, then, eh?" I smirk.

"Exactly!" he replies.

"OK. You first," I tell him.

I watch every movement of his body and delight as his more and more of his smooth, bronze-toned skin appears. He stops at his underpants and I admire both the roundness of two things pressing downwards and the chunkiness of one thing lying sideways.

I remove my sneakers, socks, shirt and trackies.

He looks and grins; my own excitement is obvious.

"Both together!" Paulo says.

We drop the last of our clothing and briefly gaze upon each other's cluster of manhood.

"No touching!" I tell him. "Not yet."

"Awww!" Paulo complains, like a child deprived of a treat. Well, maybe that's not too far from the truth.

"You're here for a massage. Remember?" I tell him and indicate the massage table. "Face in the hole. Now."

He pulls a reluctant, disappointed face, but his cheeky grin then indicates his compliance.

He positions himself comfortably, including a relieving adjustment beneath his body which results in his hard, handsome penis protruding downwards between his parted legs, partially obscured, all bar its head, by his ample testicles.

To `desensitise' his body, I lightly run the palms of my hands from his shoulders to his feet. Right side, then left side. I repeat the action but, this time, allow my cupped palms to slowly envelop and embrace his firm glutes. Right side then left. I repeat everything more firmly, this time gripping and squeezing his glutes as my hands pass over them.

"Hey! Unfair," Paulo complains. "I want to feel your body too."

"I'm in the driver's seat. Be patient and relax," I tell him.

I squeeze a quantity of massage oil the length of his body and then lightly spread it around.

Initially, working on Paulo's flawless back probably excites me more than it does him. Then, I progress to lightly touching his visible cock head and balls on upstrokes from his inner thighs to his glutes and back. He shudders and groans.

I also discover that Paulo has very sensitive feet. LOL. "Ticklish?" I ask.

"Only in certain places," he says, momentarily lifting his face out of the hole.

I spend the next ten minutes, ostensibly progressing with the full Swedish massage, while searching out and stimulating those `certain' places. Between his legs is an obvious one, but I also discover that his sides, above his hips, and under his arms produce similar shudders and squeals.

"OK," I tell him. "Turn over. Let's see what we can find on the front."

"About time too, Rob," Paulo jokes. "At least now I can watch you. And, maybe even..."

"Just don't interrupt the massage. OK?" I say, and realise that I've just given him permission to touch my body, when I'm within his reach.

"Yeah!" he grins and immediately reaches for my firming, but not rigid, cock.

I let him have a reasonable play with it, while I oil him up from chest to knee, which is as far as I can reach without shifting my feet.

Then I move, depriving his right hand of its pleasure. He looks up at me, pouts and I grin back at him.

I stand at his ankles from where I can reach up as far as the top of his quads and I give his full legs a good massage.

I move to his left side and stand at his hip. While I'm working on his thighs, pecs and everything in between, his left hand brings me to full stiffness.

He is grinning, and purring, especially when my left hand is busy with his balls – holding them, assessing their firmness and roundness, weighing them, rolling them and anything else I can creatively do with them. My right hand focusses on massaging his handsome young cock, bigger than mine, which is very responsive to stimulation, jerking and exuding precum.

This has progressed from a Swedish massage to mutual masturbation, and I tell him so.

"No problem," he says. "You've earned your fifty bucks. I'm just happy that we've finally made it to the add-ons."

"So, are you happy to be doing this?" I put to him, expecting nothing more than a positive answer.

"I'd be even happier if we could swap places for a while," he says, and removes his hand from my erection.

Paulo sits up, swings his legs off the table and stands. Chuckling, he gives me a friendly grope, then stands aside and indicates the empty table. For me. "Face down first," he commands.

I slowly lower my body onto the table. The hard part, literally, is getting my erection to point downwards.

Paulo uses the oil to cover me, shoulder to knee, then begins to rub his hands over me. His massage of my back and thighs is very amateurish; but of my glutes, somewhat less so. He lingers; touching, feeling, rubbing, massaging, grasping, parting.

"What are you doing?" I ask.

"Now I'm in the driver's seat," he tells me, echoing my earlier words. "Just relax."

I'm a little hesitant to let him go where I think that he might be heading, but I can stop him at any time. I take a deep breath and try to absorb the pleasure that I feel building.

He copies my previous actions in massaging from my thighs, to my glutes, not forgetting my cock head and balls on the way. However, instead of simply returning to my thighs to start again, he runs his fingers back down there by way of between my glutes, touching my hole.

When I feel like he wants to do more, as he begins to linger there, I say, "OK. Time to turn over!" and I push-up onto my knees. I turn onto my back and tell him, "Try this side!"

Forget the preliminaries! He gets straight to work with the oil on my stiffness.

I put out my hand for some oil, to which he obliges, then stands within easy reach.

Our mutual masturbation resumes, and I have to wonder, from the noises that each of us is making, who is going to cum first.

With the feeling of his oily hand working its magic, and the sensation of his hardness in my right hand, I relax and let it happen! Fantastic orgasm! Multiple spurts up my body.

"Ugh. Ugh. Aargh!" he groans, and adds his streaks to mine.

"The hand towel!" I tell him, pointing.

He lays it on my body and then I feel the weight of his chest, sideways on mine.

"Man!" he mutters. "Best fucking Swedish massage that I've had for... forever. Thank you."

When he leans off me, I clean up and go to the ensuite, where a hot face washer completes the task.

He hugs me and we both get dressed.

Then, putting his hand into his pocket, he says, "Rob, I have a confession to make."

I wonder what it could be. All manner of things flash through my head.

He says, sheepishly, "In my rush to shower and change clothes, I've left my wallet at home, in my work pants. I'm really sorry." He appears genuinely embarrassed. Then he adds, "Any chance that you could drop in on Monday morning while you are out jogging, and I'll pay you then?"

Hmm.

 

----

 

If you like these stories, please take a couple of minutes to email me at
rob.zz@hotmail.com

I do try to reply to everyone. Please be patient.

-----

It is my intention to write a `massaging' story for each letter of the alphabet.
Nifty has already posted `Adam', `Brock', `Callum', `Dylan', `Evan', `Flynn', `Gino' `Hayden', `Isaac', `Josh', `Karl', `Liam', `Marco', `Nate' and `Oliver'.
I think that `Gino' is one of my better works; however, it's in a different location: http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/

 

-----

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