I've
not seen Mrs Natale, my next-door neighbour, travel anywhere much since her
husband, Vince, passed away. However, she does like to regularly toddle down to
the local shops for a few things. `Garlic and exercise' is
her favourite `Italian' formula for staying healthy.
So,
I'm surprised when I see the large SUV in her driveway, with a suitcase and a
smaller bag being loaded.
"Ah,
Roberto," she calls, spotting me. "I will go with my daughter for a holiday, so
I am not here for three weeks."
"Is
there anything that I can do for you while you are away, Mrs Natale?" I ask, directing
my arm around her garden.
"Thank
you, Roberto," she replies. "One of my grandsons, Ronaldo, will stay and look
after everything. I have a list for him to do many things and I have told to him
everything last week."
"OK,
Mrs Natale," I reply. "I hope that you have a good holiday."
Then
she adds, "I tell Ronaldo no parties and no girls while I am not here. Please,
you watch for him and tell to me when I come back."
I
acknowledge, with a nod and a smile, that she actually wants me to snoop on her
grandson and report any fun that he might have in his nonna's house while she
is away.
So,
Mrs Natale reckons that her grandson is into girls and parties. Well, even if
he is close to my age, that might be all that we have in common!
I
exchange departing pleasantries with Mrs Natale and her daughter, Maria, whom I
have met previously, and they drive off.
I
farewell my final massage client for the day and, while checking the letterbox
for mail, I notice a late model, yellow Toyota in Mrs Natale's driveway. The
green `P' attached tells me that he has to be 18 or older.
I
may as well introduce myself to Ronaldo and share with him his grandmother's engagement
of me as her chief spy upon his activities. Better to alert him before he
commits any `indiscretions'. Forewarned is forearmed.
I
ring the bell. It's loud. I suppose that it's for Mrs Natale's benefit,
although I've not discerned any deficiency in her hearing when we have been
conversing. She doesn't miss much. Actually, I think that she misses nothing!
And remembers everything.
I
don't know what I was expecting. But definitely not the slim, bright-eyed,
black-haired beauty who greets me.
"Hello,"
he says jovially, opening the screen door instead of hiding behind it as I've
seen his grandmother do. He steps out.
"Hi,"
I say, extending my hand. "I'm Rob from next door."
He
grasps my hand firmly and shakes it. "Hi," he replies. "I'm Ronnie."
"So,
you're not `Ronaldo', as your grandmother told me?" I put to him.
"I'm
only that to Nonna, and a couple of my aunts," he replies. Then, as if needing
an explanation, he adds, "I got tired of the kids at school calling, "Hey,
Ronaldo, can you kick a soccer ball?" so I insisted on being `Ron' to my
friends, which turned into `Ronnie' somewhere along the line.
"And
can you?" I put to him, smirking. "Kick a football?"
"Of
course!" he grins back. "What Italian boy can't? Especially if you have three brothers
and a heap of cousins!"
"Well,"
I tell him. "If I can be honest, with your good looks, you remind me more of a
`Ronaldo' than a `Ronnie', which I associate with a British comedian and the
orange-haired friend of Harry Potter."
Anyway,
whatever his appearance, according to his grandmother, he is a girl-loving,
party animal. His name isn't all that important.
He
looks at me and grins weirdly. I'm suddenly very conscious of perhaps insulting
him. Or even worse, divulging my opinion of his attractiveness.
His
only response is, "Has anyone ever called you `Robbie'?"
"Only
my own grandmother, plus anyone who wanted a bleeding nose," I smirk.
"So,
let's agree to stick to `Ronnie' and `Rob', eh?" he puts to me. It's neither a
request nor a suggestion!
I'm
uncertain whether he's pissed off with me for inferring that `Ronnie' is for weirdos,
and I add, "Yeah. I reckon that it's all a matter of what sits comfortably with
the individual. Your grandmother calls me `Roberto' and I have a friend who's dubbed
me `Robbo'. And both seem appropriate, coming from each of them."
There
is a momentary pause in the conversation. The `name' thing seems to have had
the makings of a `barbecue stopper'!
I
break the silence. "I saw your car and thought that I'd better say hello," I
tell him.
"Glad
you did!" he replies. Then adds, "Please come in. How rude of me to leave you
standing at the door!"
"That's
OK, Ronnie" I reply. "I've never been inside your grandmother's house. We just normally
talk in the garden."
"I'm
into Italian hospitality," he tells me. "I insist, Rob. Please."
He
stands aside and waves me past him.
The
house seems generally dark. I walk down a short hallway, passing a sitting
room, to the right, furnished in Mediterranean-style lounge chairs,
beautifully-carved reddish timber with deep green material. A slight reference
to the red, white and green Italian flag does not escape me.
To
the left is a closed door, then another one, open, revealing a bright bedroom.
The curtains are pulled back and the blinds are up, exposing a large picture
window. "This is my room," Ronnie comments. "I had to let in some light. With
everything closed, it was too gloomy for my liking. The big benefit for me is
that it has its own ensuite."
It
is furnished in a more contemporary style. The head of the double bed is
against the hallway wall, facing the window. On the far side of the room is a
wardrobe and this side has a desk and a door, obviously to the ensuite.
"I
was just setting up my computer," Ronnie tells me, indicating the laptop and
printer on the desk, with a couple of unconnected leads. "I'll finish it
shortly. Hey, do you drink coffee? Would you like one?"
He
doesn't wait for an answer, probably anticipating that everyone drinks coffee.
"Sure,
Ronnie." I tell him. "Thank you."
"How
do you have it?" he asks, leading me a few extra paces into a large kitchen/dining
room.
I
reply, "White with one sugar, please."
"That's
my preference too," he tells me. "But I generally have to remember to bring my
own milk. Nonna has hers black and expects everyone else to have theirs the
same way. However, I was surprised when I came in today to find a small carton
in the fridge."
He
sets up the coffee pot on the gas stove, places two small cups on saucers on
the dining room table and retrieves the milk and sugar.
"Do
you mind if I just finish the computer," he asks, "while the coffee is
brewing?"
"Not
at all," I reply. "Sorry that I interrupted."
"No
problem," he says. "We can keep talking."
Ronnie
leads me back to his bedroom. I walk across to the window in order to keep out
of his way.
While
he fiddles with the cords, he asks, "What do you do, Rob? Most people are at
work today." He pauses just long enough to consider that the question might
have been inappropriate then adds, "I mean, are you on holidays or having a
rostered day off?"
"I
work from home, next door," I reply. "I'm a massage therapist, and I have a
clinic room set up on the other side of the house, just off the driveway."
In
order to make him feel not so bad, I repeat, "So, what do you do Ronnie? Most
people are at work today. Are you on holidays or having a rostered day off?"
He
turns, looks at me and grins, "Thanks for that. I hope that I wasn't being rude
by asking. I wouldn't want to meddle in your affairs."
"Hey,
no problem, Ronnie," I tell him. "I'm accustomed to being asked questions. Your
grandmother is an expert at it."
He
laughs, "Yeah. Her idea of having a conversation with me is a variation on the
Spanish Inquisition. She asks the questions and I provide the answers. That's
why I avoid coming over here if I can drum up a good excuse. The problem is
that my excuses only provoke more questions."
"Well,
if you can't escape visiting," I say, "you could always tell her that it would
be polite to come and say hello to me and chat for a while, now that we've
met."
"Excellent!"
he replies. "Thanks."
"So,
what do you do?" I ask. "Really."
"Oh,
sorry. Yeah. I'm studying physiotherapy at uni. I'm into my second year," he
replies. "Actually, I volunteered to `house sit' for Nonna while she and Aunt
Maria are on holidays. I thought that it would be quieter than at home. I have
some assignments to finish. Most work is on-line, except for the hands-on
practical stuff."
"Even
better reason to come and spend some time with me, when you are over here," I
tell him. "I might be able to help with something, or at least answer any
questions that you might have."
"Thanks,
Rob," he replies. "My greatest issue has been finding a partner to practise the
techniques with."
"Happy
to help, if you need it," I tell him.
"Thanks,
Rob," Ronnie says, then, responding to the change in sound from the kitchen,
adds, "Sounds like the coffee's ready. And so is the computer."
We
enjoy our coffee and chat over some of Mrs Natalie's `goodies' that appear to
have been freshly baked. Ronnie asks, "Rob, I noticed, when I opened the blinds
in my room, that all of the windows on your house have a reflective film on
them. How come? What's that for?"
"Those
windows face west," I reply. "In summer, the afternoon sun used to be
unbearable, so I had the reflective film applied to reduce the sunlight. I hope
that it doesn't reflect the sunlight into the rooms over here."
"I'll
find out this afternoon and let you know," he tells me. "Another coffee?"
"No
thanks, Ronnie. I'm fine," I tell him. "But, I almost
forgot something. I had to tell you that your grandmother said that she told
you `no parties and no girls' while she was away. And she asked me to let her
know if I see any of either. All I can say to you is, make sure that there is
no evidence of those when she returns. And, I will be able to tell her that I
didn't see anything unusual."
"Thanks,
Rob," he tells me. "Yes, I've had that instruction from her. More than once.
It's funny though, that Nonna often tells me that she hopes that I find a nice
Italian girl and get married and give her great grandchildren."
I
tell him, "I'm glad that I'm not the only one on her match-making list. She's
pretty persistent."
"You
don't have to tell me that," he replies. "Besides, I'm too busy with uni stuff
at the moment to worry about either."
"Anyway,
thanks for the coffee," I tell him. "I'll leave you to get on with your
assignments." Then I add, "I have some towels to wash, after having had a few
clients today."
As
I leave, I turn and ask, "What are you planning for dinner? Would you like to come
over and join me? About 6 o'clock?"
"Thanks,
neighbour!" Ronnie replies, grinning, and we bump fists.
I
set the washing machine to do its thing and set about wondering what to do for
dinner.
Normally,
for a quick meal I would prepare spaghetti Bolognese. However, maybe that's not
such a good idea, to present someone who has experienced years of the most
authentic Italian cuisine on a daily basis, with my amateur version.
I
decide on the Australian standard of lamb chops, with mashed potato, peas and
carrots. Plus, as my own personal touch, I like to add a little chopped onion
to the potato and a drizzle of honey over the onions. I do cheat a little,
using some mint jelly for the lamb, instead of making the mint sauce myself.
I
do all the preparation. Then, having showered, shaved and dressed comfortably
in grey tracksuit pants and a pale blue polo shirt, I set everything cooking at
5:30.
The
front door bell rings slightly before 6:00.
Perfect
timing! I switch off everything that is still cooking, set it aside, and answer
the door.
"Hi,
Ronnie," I greet him. "Come in."
"Thanks,
Rob," he replies, then hands me a plate, covered in cling-wrap, under which
there is a small collection of his grandmother's delicacies. "I thought that
coffee might taste better with these."
"Brilliant,"
I tell him. "Did your grandmother also tell you about my sweet tooth?"
"Haha.
No," he tells me. "It was just a hunch. I sense that we have a lot in common."
I
smile and reply, "And I always have milk in the fridge."
He
laughs, and I set `the goodies' aside for later.
We
have a terrific dinner. And coffee. And goodies.
"Where
did you learn to be such a great cook?" Ronnie asks me as he helps do the
dishes.
"You
learn to do a lot of things for yourself when you live alone," I reply, which
draws a curious look from him.
I
add, "I don't always cook. There is always Uber Eats, Menu Log and Deliveroo
when I'm feeling lazy or just want one of my favourites delivered so that I
don't have to go out."
"I
do some casual work for them," Ronnie tells me, causing me surprise. "A student
has to earn some pocket money."
"I
remember it well," I tell him. Then I add, "You've never delivered any meals
that I've ordered though, or I would have remembered you."
"Next
time that you want something," Ronnie smirks, "let me know in advance and I'll
make sure that I get the job."
When
I show him to the door, we say goodnight, shake hands and, as he thanks me for
dinner, he makes to kiss me on the cheek. "Oops. Sorry!" he says. "It's a
habit. Italians being Italian."
"That's
OK. No problem!" I tell him. "I have Italian friends. I know how it works!"
And
he leaves, jovially.
I
switch off all of the lights and, in darkness except for the various LEDs around
the house, head to my room at the other end of the house. I could find my way blindfolded.
I open the door, walk to the window and open the blinds, as I do every night.
I'm
totally surprised by what I see. According to what Ronnie told me, Mrs Natale has
always had both hers and the second bedroom's blinds shut and the curtains closed,
so I had no idea that I would be able to see into that room, and so clearly.
What
I do know is that nobody from over there would be able to see into my room
because of the reflective film on the glass; except, I was told when the
installer was here, if I had a bright light on in here at night, and then, not distinctly.
As
I begin to strip down ready for bed, I see Ronnie boot up his computer then
head into the ensuite. His slim, well-defined but not-overly-muscled body
returns, in only his underpants, and immediately sits at the desk, with slightly
more of his back to me than fully side-on.
By
the time I return from brushing my teeth, Ronnie is still looking at the
screen, which I can't quite make out because of the angle at which it is set.
Even though I can't see what he is looking at, I can tell from the motion of
his arm and hand near his lap exactly what he is doing.
With
reluctance, I force myself to stop perving and climb into bed.
I
wonder whether that is a nightly routine for him!
With
thoughts of what Ronnie is doing, my hand soon becomes as active as his.
"Good
morning, neighbour!" I call to Ronnie as I head out for some early shopping.
"Hard at it already?"
"Hi
Rob," he calls back. "Just following nonna's instructions. Watering everything
before the heat of the day. I'll deal with the back yard after breakfast, then
get back to my assignments."
"How
did you sleep, having your first night in a strange bed?" I ask.
"Like
a log," Ronnie replies. "I never have any trouble dropping off."
I
can't resist commenting, but keep it cryptic: "Well, however you manage it, I
suggest that you keep it up."
He
gives me a thumbs-up and returns to the things at the top of his grandmother's
list of tasks. I turn towards the shops.
When
I return, there is a note tucked into my screen door.
<<Hi
Rob, my turn to return the favour for dinner tonight. My place. Message me if
you don't like Chinese. Same time? Ronnie>> And he has included his
mobile phone number.
Ignoring
his use of `my place' instead of his `Nonna's place', I reply, <<Love
Chinese. How did you know? See you at 6. Thanks. Rob>>
After
doing one morning and three afternoon massages, I put the towels into the
washing machine and set up the room for my next client, (tomorrow).
Curious,
I open my blinds sufficiently to check what I can see of the room next-door.
Not much. Actually, hardly anything in this daylight.
I
sit at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and indulge my passion for
reading ancient Roman and Greek history, until the 5:00pm phone alarm alerts me
that it's time for a shower before visiting my new neighbour.
Ronnie
answers the doorbell, looking fresh and smelling spicey. Huge grin. Light grey
tracksuit pants and black shirt. His wavy hair has been combed back and he appears
to have over-indulged with after-shave or deodorant. There is a rounded
prominence in the front of his pulled-up track pants which does not escape my
notice.
"Hi
Rob. Come in," he chirps.
"How
are the assignments coming?" I pose as an ice-breaker.
"We're
into the anatomy and physiology of the lower back and abdomen," he replies.
"Plus, impingements and remediation techniques. Apart from the theory, there is
some practical work to be done. Either privately or in a uni workshop."
"My
offer of help still stands," I tell him.
"Thanks, Rob," Ronnie answers. "I might
just take you up on that. It would be a lot easier than travelling to the uni
at times specified by them."
"So,
where did you learn to cook Chinese?" I ask, raising my nose and smelling the
Asian aromas.
"Possibly
the same school as you," he replies, holding up his phone. "It's still hot."
He
lays out the containers of rice, sweet and sour pork, chicken with almonds,
honey prawns and beef with black bean sauce on the dining room table.
"Chopsticks
or spoon and fork?" he asks. Both are waiting on the table.
We
start reasonably well with chopsticks, but appetite dictates a swap after only
a few minutes.
We
talk about my work and his studies and the opportunity to connect them.
"Tomorrow afternoon after 2:30 I have totally clear," I tell him.
"Excellent.
Thank you," he replies. "I'll bring my assignment sheet so that I don't miss
anything."
Despite
the fact that green tea and lychees would have been a more appropriate ending
to dinner, we indulge in coffee and pastries instead.
Fewer
dishes to wash tonight. "Left-overs will make a nice lunch," Ronnie smiles as he
places the re-sealed containers into the fridge.
I
head home, keen to get ready for bed and to discover whether Ronnie will repeat
his sleep-encouraging actions from last night.
Very
similar! Boots up his computer. Visits the ensuite. Returns wearing red
underpants.
Tonight,
however, he doesn't sit at the desk. I observe him angle the computer screen
towards the head of his bed. Then he props himself up there with a couple of
pillows.
It
becomes obvious from the variations of the light in the room that a video is
playing.
He
is unknowingly facing me directly.
He
starts with his slightly-parted legs flat on the bed and with both hands
covering the bulge in his underpants.
As
his hands begin to move, rubbing and fondling, he progresses to alternating
hands on what is a growing, obvious prominence.
His
right hand disappears inside his underpants and fishes out his stiffness.
With
his eyes fixed on the computer screen, his closed fist continues to work up and
down.
His
hand action suddenly ceases, to allow the pushing down of his underpants with
both hands and then the shucking of them with one foot onto the floor, and I
get my first view of his fully naked body. Ample balls and a thatch of black
hair around the base of his rigid, horizontal penis. Handsome!
With
one hand cradling his balls, the other returns to its work.
He
parts his legs then his regular hand action suddenly becomes more animated.
He
raises his hips and his hand stops moving. With his eyes closed and his head
tilted back, I watch him blast streaks of cum onto his chest.
I
don't see how he finishes off, because I hurry to my own bed,
overly-stimulated, and, with a hand towel ready, for the second night in a row,
I copy Ronnie's actions.
I
sleep well.
I
have two early clients this morning and I miss the opportunity to say hello to
Ronnie outside.
Over
morning tea, I receive a message from Ronnie's mobile: <<Rob, there's
enough Chinese left over for lunch, if you like.>>
I
reply: <<My 1:15 has postponed until tomorrow. Bring leftovers and your
assignment sheet any time after 1:15. Thanks.>>
1:20.
The doorbell rings.
"Hi
neighbour," I greet him.
"Ciao,
Roberto. Come stai?" he replies.
I
love the lilt of Italian spoken by an Italian!
"I'm
great, thank you," I tell him. "Ready to get that assignment done?"
"Wok
before work," he says grinning, then corrects himself. "Or microwave."
I
reply, "Fantastic food delivery service. And on time!"
We
both laugh and joke about it.
I
think how wonderful it would have been to have had a brother; one like him
would have been even better. I envy his siblings.
The
food tastes almost as good as it did last night, even if the honey chicken is not
quite as crisp and tender.
I
tell Ronnie, "You can explain your assignment to me while we're having coffee, and
then let's see how we can fix you up."
The
first part is a diagram with muscles and bones to be identified and lines to
where each `answer' needs to be written. It includes more than the lower back
and abdomen as he first indicated to me. It is actually the pelvis and its
immediate vicinity, above and below.
"I
must have misread the question when I skimmed through it," he tells me almost
apologetically.
However,
I do note the words, `including the lower back and pelvis', so he wasn't
totally wrong. We work through everything methodically. He knows his stuff!
The
second part requires him to define `impingements' and state the cause and
effect of them. Again, he is pretty much on the ball and he thanks me for
clarifications that I offer.
The
third part gives a number of scenarios with which a client might present. For
each, he is to firstly describe in detail the remediation technique(s) that he
would employ and secondly to demonstrate on a live body how that remediation
would be undertaken, with the `client' to sign that the exercise was `walked
through and talked through' as described in the first part.
"How
should we do this, do you think, Rob?" Ronnie puts to me.
"I
do have a suggestion," I tell him. "What if we both strip
down to our underwear, then you can more easily work on me. If there is
anything about which you are uncertain, I can demonstrate on you first, and
then you can repeat it on me. What do you say?"
"Wow!
That's really generous of you Rob. Thanks heaps!" he says.
We
strip off and he looks at my grey Calvin Kleins and I take in his striped AussieBums.
Nothing
is said, but we both grin at each other.
Question
1 relates to a client complaining of lower back pains.
Ronnie
expresses to me his learned theory and I share the benefit of my practical
experience.
I
lie face-down on the massage table, tell Ronnie to tuck the towel into the top
of my undies, mainly to protect the clothing from oil, and to then to lower
them sufficiently to expose my glutes.
"Are
you sure that this is OK with you?" he asks.
"You'll
get used to it," I reply, "although some physio techniques that you learn could
be very different to what I do in a remedial massage. Minimal clothing may not
be necessary, although I find it provides me with more accurate access to
individual muscles and trigger points."
I
explain trigger points to him.
He
recites the physio technique, as instructed, and then walks through doing it
physically, albeit somewhat tentatively.
"Not
bad," I tell him. "Let me do it to you, so you can feel what it's like. I'll do
exactly what you told me from studies. Then I might add a bit from my own experience.
Is that all right?"
"Thanks,
Rob," he says, and we swap positions.
I
do the towel-tucking and glute-exposing bit, which elicits a bit of a giggle.
"What?
Never exposed your backside to anyone before?" I ask.
"Only
with family," he replies.
"What
about the girls and the parties that your grandmother wants me to keep an eye
out for and report back to her?" I ask.
"In
her dreams!" he chuckles, raising his head. "And mine."
I
repeat on his body what he did to me and spend a bit of time working more
deeply into the various muscles of his glutes.
"Feels
good, and I understand what you were telling me," he says.
He
gets up, and I overtly ignore the slightly increased bulk in the front of his
underpants. "Want to try it again on me?" I offer, which he readily accepts.
I
lay myself back on the table. He does the towel thing and repeats the exercise,
spending a lot more time in and around my glutes than even I took.
When
he pulls up the waistband of my undies and removes the towel, he asks, "How was
that? Any better?"
"Absolutely,"
I reply. "I was even beginning to enjoy it. Well done!"
During
scenarios 2 and 3, I can feel Ronnie's increased confidence in touching me, and
also the reduced tension in his fingers. And I tell him so, which he
appreciates.
Number
4, muscle strain, requires work from the front, including the adductor muscles,
high up in the groin. Ronnie looks suddenly very nervous.
"Are
you OK?" I ask. "You look worried."
He
replies, "It's only that I wouldn't want to offend you if I got too close to
anything."
"You
mean by touching my balls?" I put to him directly.
"Yeah,"
he replies. "That."
"Well,
just between us, it wouldn't worry me, so you shouldn't be concerned either," I
tell him. "Just concentrate on the exercise."
He
talks me through what he is supposed to do.
"OK.
Go for it," I tell him, and lie face up, ready.
He
starts tentatively. Hesitantly.
"Stop!"
I say. "Swap."
I
think that he is relieved to be on the receiving end, rather than actually
doing the work.
"Now,
I want you to relax," I tell hm. "Concentrate on what I do, then you can have a
turn." Then I suggest, "Why don't you prop yourself on your elbows and watch as
well?"
I
start above his knee and massage upwards. Stopping short of his balls. Multiple
times.
"You
will be able to tell," I say to him, "whether the client is nervous about you
being here. If he is, then you can have him use one hand to `protect his
gentlemen' and then massage right up to his hand. Give me your hand, and I'll
show you."
I
lay his offered hand into the crease of his thigh, and I hold his cupped
fingers in place over his substantial balls. Then, with both hands alternately,
I massage right up his inner thigh to his hand.
There
is a noticeable swelling within his underpants. The more I press to the
extremity of his adductors, the more obvious it becomes.
"Umm..."
Ronnie commences to express something about what is happening involuntarily.
I
look at the worried expression on his face, noting his numerous glances at his
growing erection.
"I
can see it," I tell him. "It's more normal than you might ever imagine. Focus
on your leg."
I
keep going. Then, he lays himself back down, appearing to absorb the feelings.
His rigidity is now very obvious, stretching the material away from his body.
"OK.
Your turn," I tell him.
He
lifts his head first, checking his erection and then looking at me. He sits up,
then stands.
"Stop
worrying!" I say, and give him a friendly pat on the backside.
I
lie down. My own dick isn't rigid, but it's getting chunky.
"Just
go through it, as you described to me before," I say to him.
I
place my hand on my balls, as I told him, to give him the confidence to start
working.
However,
as his confidence builds, I remove my hand. He looks at me questioningly.
I
smile back and tell him, "Keep going. Don't stop. If it helps, start with your
eyes closed."
He
shuts his eyes, feels for where to start and massages upwards until he
encounters what I had previously protected.
"Do
it again," I tell him.
He
does, less tentatively.
"Now
with your eyes open," I say.
Two
things greet his eyes. My smile and my full erection, concealed but very evident.
"It
looks as though we both have the same problem," I smile at him, and nudge his
erection with the back of my hand.
"Yeah,"
he grins back.
"Do
you know what technique to use to relieve this stiffness?" I ask.
"Yeah,"
he grins again.
"Want
to demonstrate your expertise?" I tease him.
"On
you or on myself?" he asks.
"On
me of course," I tell him. "Just like all of the other exercises."
"And
will you show me your technique too?" he continues to grin.
"Yeah,"
I use his previous responses. "That was the deal, wasn't it?"
"Yeah!"
LOL
He
tentatively lays his hand on my erection, which jerks. He looks at my face. I
nod and smile.
As
he gains in confidence, having received my approval, he really starts to play, dick
and balls.
"And
at what university did you learn this technique?" I put to him, restraining a
laugh.
"My
15-year old brother and 16-year old cousin," he grins. "one day when I was 13,
I walked in on them `educating each other' in my cousin's room."
"What
did they say?" I ask.
"At
first they were pissed off that they hadn't locked the door and that I didn't
knock anyway," Ronnie tells me, "but then Rocco, my cousin, reckoned that I was
old enough to learn, and they held me down and did it to me for the first
time."
"Did
they say anything else?" I ask again.
"Yeah.
My brother said that if I told anyone, he'd cut my balls off with his pocket
knife. But if I kept my mouth shut then he's let me do it to him whenever I
wanted to. And Rocco said, `me too if you like'."
"Stand
closer," I tell Ronnie, and reach out to cup his balls with my hand nearest
him.
I
wait for a response, but he pretends to ignore that I'm touching him, and keeps
going on me.
I
take that as a green light and move to begin manipulating him through his
underpants. However, after less than a minute, I take the initiative and pull
the front down to expose his dick and I keep playing with it.
He
looks at me.
I
grin, "You can copy my technique, if you like."
With
both hands, he pulls the front of my CKs down and begins to rub and squeeze my
dick.
"May
as well take them right off!" I say. "I'll feel more comfortable."
He
does. Then he drops his own to the floor. "More comfortable for me too," he
chuckles.
Ronnie
and I are both naked, and both playing with each other's man bits! He fits the
bill of a handsome Italian stallion
"You
wanna lie down?" I ask him. "It could be more comfortable."
He
laughs and says, "Yeah. OK. Swap places."
While
he's laying himself down, I retrieve the bottle of massage oil and give both of
our dicks a good dousing. "This will help," I smile.
"Wow!"
he says, shuddering, as I resume manipulating his stiffness, and occasionally
cupping his balls and oiling them too.
"Your
brother and cousin taught you well," I compliment him. "You feel like an
expert!"
He
grins back at me, "Well, I have had almost six years of practice!"
He
studies my face and then we both burst into laughter.
There
are a few minutes of silence, apart from some `ooh's and `aah's and the
occasional expletive of pleasure.
I
know, when his breathing becomes erratic, that he is getting close. "Want to cum
or hang on?" I put to him.
"Do
it!" he says. "I don't think that I can hang on. I'm too close."
I
give him a few quick pumps and then squeeze down on his shaft hard, hold it and
tease his head."
"Faark!"
he lets out, and spurts at the same time. Under his chin, on his chest and abs.
I
milk him and hand him a hand towel.
"What
about you?" he asks. "Are you close?"
"Yeah,"
I tell him. "Won't be long if you keep going."
He
looks intently at my dick while pumping it with the same frenzy that I saw him use
to finish himself off last night. Occasionally he glances at my face.
"Nearly
there!" I gasp.
He
keeps pumping until I erupt. All over him.
"OMG,"
I tell him. "That was fantastic. You have expert hands!"
He
cleans his body with the hand towel.
"Want
to clean up properly and wash the oil off my body in the shower?" I put to him.
"Fuck
yeah," he replies. Then he adds, "You won't forget to sign my assignment sheet
will you, Rob?"
"Only
if you don't include the last bit!" I tell him, grinning.
"Thanks
so much, Rob," he says, hugging me, ignoring or enjoying our naked bits
touching.
"I
don't suppose that you'd like a refresher practice sometime?" I ask.
"Frequently,
if you can spare the time," he grins. "And the oil."
-----
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', `Oliver', `Paulo'
and `Quade'.
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/
-----
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