SIMON

 

What the hell am I doing here?

OK, I confess. I've looked at pics of variously-aged, nameless guys at `Naturalist Camps' and I have wished that I could share their apparent lack of inhibition. And I'd be lying if I denied ogling the photos of their bodies!

All naked.

I've also coveted the fun that they seem to be having, playing `normal' games, like soccer, volleyball and tennis. And swimming. But, hey, I also understand why they don't play cricket with anything other than a tennis ball!

But, me going to a `clothing optional' (meaning `nudist') beach? Really?

How did I let myself get talked into this?

As I tentatively tread the sandy track that winds down through the bush from the car park, with my backpack ready to stash my clothes or to cover my body, my anxieties continue to plague me. What if somebody recognises me? Am I carrying more than a couple of extra kilos? What if I spring a boner? What if I'm accused of being a perv or, even worse, a paedophile if there are pre-adolescent boys and twinks hanging around?

However, I did manage to resurrect a pair of dark sunglasses to help me be more incognito!

Thinking! I'm tempted to take the easy option – to turn around and go home. Very tempted! My pace slows while I give it serious consideration. Again.

My senses are heightened. The sun is warm. The smell of the salt water is invigorating. The sound of cheerful voices is enticing. Many voices. Many bodies. Many naked guys!

I stop. So does the squeaking sound of the sand under my bare feet.

Other sounds become more intense: the sea gulls, and the breaking of the waves, the voices. And my heartbeat.

Decision made! I take a deep breath and turn back ... only to be confronted with the reason that I'm here in the first place. Walking down the track towards me.

"Hiya, Rob!" he greets me, all too cheerily. "I didn't think that you would actually come."

My "Hi Brad" doesn't quite match his enthusiasm.

"What's up?" he asks. "Having second thoughts?"

"Way past second," I reply.

"Well, you've come this far," he answers, "so you may as well go through with it now. Come on."

He puts a hand on my shoulder and steers me in the direction where I was originally heading.

"I'm feeling really uncomfortable about this," I tell him. "Maybe another time."

"Rubbish!" he tells me. "You'll be fine. Do you want me to hold your hand, for security?"

He laughs.

"That's the last thing that I need!" I say. "I don't want to draw any attention to myself."

"Well then, you'd better lose those sunnies too!" he says. "Or people will think that you're some kind of weirdo. Besides, tomorrow you could end up looking like a panda bear in negative – white eyes on a tanned face."

I can see that there is no escape! If I back out now, I'll never live it down.

"Just act naturally," Brad tells me. "We'll just walk down together, talking, as though we've done this a hundred times before, until we find a spot for the towels, then go in for a swim."

At least, I think, that if I get too excited, and make a bee-line for the surf before anybody sees it, then the cool water should help things `settle down'.

"OK," I concede, reluctantly.

And we continue down the track. Towards the attractions.

 

We emerge at the expanse of sand.

Entranced by my first view of the numerous naked bodies, I forget that I am still clothed. Until Brad reminds me.

"OK, Rob," he says. "Gear off." And he starts to strip, feeding his clothes into his bag. Shirt. Shorts. Speedos. Naked! Towel over one shoulder.

He can read the expression on my face.

"C'mon, do it quickly," he tells me, "as if you're about to jump into the shower."

I think, `more like out of the frying pan..."

I notice a few questioning eyes turn towards me. That's the second-last thing that I need! OK. Sunnies off. One deep breath, and my backpack is `clothed' and I am unclothed!

"So, who do you think will win the election?" Brad asks me, as he starts us walking directly through the midst of a lot of bodies. Some lying. Some standing. Some talking. Some glancing. One or two deliberately looking.

I'm about to reply, `What?' when I realise what he is doing. Distracting me.

"Thanks," I say. Then I join in with the diversion. "No idea. What are the polls saying?"

We continue with our hypotheticals and political criticisms, until...

"Hey, Brad!" I hear, and we both halt and turn our heads in the direction of the voice.

Brad acknowledges. "Simon! I didn't recognise you without your clothes!" And he laughs.

"I thought that you were just going to walk past and ignore me," his friend, Simon, tells him. Simon looks me up and down and then, addressing Brad, he asks, "Who's your handsome boyfriend? Aren't you going to introduce us?"

I feel myself blushing, sunburn red, for multiple reasons. Handsome? Boyfriend? Naked!

"Very funny, Simon," Brad says. "Handsome? Yes. Boyfriend? No. This is Rob, my massage therapist. Go easy on him, Simon. This is his first time here!"

"A virgin, eh?" Simon replies. He turns to me and extends his hand. "Pleased to meet you, Rob. I'm Simon."

I don't know what to say, but I bump fists with him, more as a matter of courtesy than being pleased to meet him. Great body though!

Brad gives Simon a withering stare.

"Sorry," Simon apologises, obviously conscious of the saying `If looks could kill..."!

"Come on, Rob," Brad says to me, ignoring Simon's failed attempt at humour, if that's all it was. "I see a spot over there, where we can spread the towels, soak up a bit of sun and then go in for a quick dip."

Brad and I walk on.

"I knew that this was a mistake," I say to Brad, as we claim an uninhabited patch of sand, closer to the dunes than to the water. "I'm seriously considering going home."

Sun tan bumped up a notch, Brad says, "Let's go for a swim and I'll tell you about Simon."

Leaving our bags covered, I'm surprised at my own calmness as we stroll towards the water. It's fairly easy to ignore those people who are sun-tanning, face-down, because I've seen plenty of bare glutes on my massage table.

However, watching two teenagers throwing, running and catching a frisbee is another matter! One is blond with a golden tan; the other has a darker tan with near-black hair. Almost subconsciously I watch their `bits' bouncing around and admire the bodies to which those things are attached – well-defined abs, pecs and glutes. Well, maybe it's not subconsciously.

The blond guy runs on a collision course with me, but jumps and catches the frisbee, less than a metre in front of my face. His momentum carries him into full contact with me.

"Sorry, mate," he apologises.

"No problem, buddy," I reply, smiling, as my hands on his torso avert a painful pile-up.

With a couple of glances, he takes in my naked body. He grins at me, and winks.

I return the favour.

Brad and I wade into the water and its coolness calms down the sudden stirrings in my groin. We face the beach as the successive swells ebb and flow over us, the water level rising from my hips to my shoulders. Occasionally, a larger wave raises my buoyant body and my feet lift off the sand.

"Still sorry that you came?" Brad asks.

"I might take up throwing a frisbee more seriously," I respond, watching the pair having so much fun.

Maybe it's my imagination, but every now and then I think that the blond teenager looks in my direction.

"So, about Simon," Brad says, bringing my attention back to his proposed topic for discussion. "Apart from having one of the most desirable bodies on the beach, he has a wicked sense of humour."

"Yes," I reply. "I've experienced that already. At my expense. `Handsome'. `Boyfriend'. `Virgin'. What was that all about?"

"I suspect," Brad comments, "that he'd like to get to know you."

"What?" I respond with a touch of cynicism. "In the Biblical sense?"

"It was probably easier for him to pretend to speak to me about you, rather than to talk to you directly," he tells me. "What would he have said to you? `Hello handsome. Do you have a boyfriend, and do you fuck?"

I ignore his comment.

"I agree with you about his body," I reply. "What does he do?"

"Apart from his IT job, he's a dancer in a theatre group," Brad replies. "And from what I know, he's on a strict diet and an even stricter exercise routine."

"There's not an ounce of fat on him," I comment. "I could use the well-defined muscles of his body as an anatomy study. A 3-D version of what's in the text book."

"In other words, you'd like to know him," Brad replies.

"Not in the Biblical sense," I respond. Then add, "At least, not yet."

Brad laughs, jumps onto my shoulders with the rising swell and pushes me under the water.

I come up spluttering: "You could have at least warned me, so that I could take a breath!"

"So, you would like me to introduce you, properly, would you?" Brad comments.

"He might be interesting to talk to," I tell him. "Besides, he could occasionally need the services of a massage therapist, if he were to overwork those leg muscles."

"It's a pity that you didn't bring your business cards," Brad jokes.

He stares at my straight face.

"In the backpack," I tell him.

He just grins.

As we leave the water, Brad warns, "Hey! Look out for the frisbee!"

I jump to intercept it, pluck it out of the air, and backhand it, straight to Mr Blond's waiting hand, without him having to take a step. He takes it, tucks it under his arm and applauds. I give him a thumbs-up.

As Brad and I head for our towels, I see that both of ours have been joined by another one. Next to mine. Simon's! How do I know that it's Simon's? Because Simon is seated on it, lounging back, propped up on his forearms, watching us.

"What are you doing?" Brad asks him.

"Just getting an all-over tan," Simon says.

"Is the sunshine better over here than where you were?" Brad puts to him.

"Sun and scenery, both" he replies, looking over my body, then up at my face.

"You're incorrigible!" Brad tells him.

"Give me a break," he replies. "It's not every day that I get to have some intelligent conversation. I thought that there might be more of that over here as well."

While Brad and Simon are carrying on their little exchange, I can't help but admire Simon's body. His muscles, so well defined, are not bulky like a weight lifter's, and his whole body is covered in blemish-free skin. His rounded balls are complemented by a healthy-sized (without being disproportionately large) sideways-lying penis, surrounded by a neatly-trimmed bush of pubic hair.

Simon notices me `checking him out' and winks at me.

Feeling a tad uncomfortable standing, hanging, naked in front of Simon, I kneel onto my towel and then lower myself onto my stomach and elbows, chin above my covered backpack, so that I can continue talking. Brad does the same.

It's Simon who opens up the discussion. "So, you're Brad's massage therapist? What does he usually have done?"

I don't need to look at Brad. I answer directly. "Sorry, Simon. I have a very simple `House Rule': `What happens in the massage room, stays in the massage room.' My clients don't tell, and I don't tell. Sometimes people open up about things that they don't want others to know. It can be very liberating for them. They trust me to keep my mouth shut. It's called `practitioner / client confidentiality'."

"It's all right," Simon replies. "Brad has already told me about his massage therapist."

Brad cuts in: "Ahem! Go on, Simon, tell Rob exactly what I told you about him!"

Simon's little `information fishing' game hasn't worked. He confesses, "Simon said that you were the best massage therapist that he has ever had. Knowledgeable. Proficient. And, that you don't charge the earth."

"What else?" Brad says. "Keep going, Simon. There was more."

Simon adds, "He said that one of the reasons he likes you is that whatever he discusses with you, he knows that it will not become the subject of gossip or end up on social media."

I ask, "So is there anything else that you want to know?"

He replies, "Yes. What could you do for me?"

"Well, that depends on what you need," I tell him. "And a public beach is hardly the place to tell me about it. You would need to come and see me."

"Brad wouldn't even tell me your name, or address or phone number," Simon replies.

I fish out a business card from my backpack and pass it to him. "Keep it in a safe place," I say.

Simon fishes out a small bum-bag from under his towel and zips my card inside it.

Then he stands and tells us, "OK, guys. I'd better be off. My skin has had enough Vitamin D and ultra-violet for today. Besides, I need to get home and prepare dinner. Baked salmon and salad tonight!"

I stand and shake his hand. Brad gives him a cursory "Later!" from his horizontal position, and I watch Simon's tight, round glutes on his trim hips meander away. He doesn't look back.

"Want to go for a walk?" Brad asks.

"Where? Why?" I respond.

"Oh, just along the beach a bit on the water's edge," he says. "Just to take in the scenery."

"You mean you want to parade your stuff up and down the beach and perv at all of the naked bodies," I put to him. I add, smiling, "Who knows, you might even find a real boyfriend."

I have to admit that I'm feeling a little more comfortable than I did when I stepped out of my car!

"OK," I say. "A short walk, then maybe a quick dip, and I'll be off home."

We stroll for a few hundred metres in one direction and then turn back. When the naked bodies come to an end.

We are almost back to our starting point when, suddenly, a frisbee lands at my feet. It has the name `Ty' written on it with a marker pen, plus a phone number. I look in the direction from which it came for the owner (Mr Blond or Mr Dark?) but can see neither, even among the diminishing numbers on the beach as the sun, lower in the sky, begins to lose its heat.

I pick it up, of course, and continue to look for a familiar body as Brad and I return to our towels. Actually, the owner could belong to any one of multiple tanning backsides that are visible.

"Somebody likes you," Brad says. "My bet is it's the blond guy. Interesting way to give somebody his name and phone number!"

I put the frisbee into my backpack and wonder what my opening line should be when I ring the number.

  `Hello, is that Ty? I think that you lost something at the beach this afternoon.' Or

  `Hi, I got your message. When would you like your frisbee back?' Or

  `Hi, your runaway frisbee is at my place if you want to come and collect it.'

Brad and I head towards the track. When we reach it, we pull on only our shorts in order to be `decent' in the public car park.

We reach my car first.

"OK, so it wasn't as bad as I had imagined," I tell him. "Thanks for inviting me."

"Quite a profitable couple of hours," he replies. "One potential new client and another person who obviously wants to make contact with you privately."

"Or neither," I joke, as we shake hands.

 

It's good to be home.

As the hot water showers off the residue of salt from my dip in the ocean, I reflect on my experiences of the afternoon: I `frequented' my first nudist beach, met a friend of one of my clients who may become a client himself, and `encountered' a handsome, blond frisbee-thrower who, perhaps, wants to meet.

Not everyone who takes one of my business cards actually makes an appointment, so I'm not necessarily anticipating a call from Simon any time soon.

On the other hand, the enigmatic Ty, who uses his rogue frisbee as a `business card', is about to get a call from me.

I make a cup of coffee, and settle myself into a comfy chair.

I pause. Should I ring, or just message him?

After another few mouthfuls of coffee, I press the numbers and wait, as the ring tone sounds.

I'm about to hang up when I hear, "Hello, this is Ty."

Well, there goes my opening line! I can't say, `Is that Ty?' after he's already told me, or I'll sound like an overseas telemarketer.

What comes out of my mouth was unplanned, but better than any of the other lines, anyway.

"Hello Ty, my name is Rob. I was at the beach this afternoon when something dropped near me that had your name and phone number on it. Are you missing anything?"

"Would that be a yellow frisbee?" he asks.

"That's the one," I answer. "Amazing how it just seemed to land right at my feet!"

"It has taken me years of practice to develop that accuracy," he laughs.

"Where did you throw it from?" I ask. "I looked around and couldn't see you anywhere."

"I was behind you, Rob, but in the water," he replies, "and I threw it so that it would go past you and then return to drop in front of you. My `boomerang throw'. Sorry if it startled you."

"Clever!" I reply, but unsure what to say next.

"It was great to run into you today," he adds.

I can detect a smile in his voice at his play on words, considering our bodily collision.

"Was that accidental? Or planned?" I put to him, now wondering.

"My friend is pretty good and accurate too," he chuckles. "We just had to position ourselves carefully, relative to where you were. His throw and my interception catch."

"Why me?" I ask.

He replies, "The simple answer, with your body, would be `why not you?' but, actually, it was your bright aura."

"My... aura?" I ask. "What do you mean?"

"I can explain it to you, if you like," he says, "the next time that I see you."

"Yes. About that," I tell him. "I can either bring the frisbee to you or you can come to my place to collect it. Or I could bring it to the beach next Saturday."

"How about next Saturday at the beach?" he suggests. "Would two o'clock be all right?"

"Deal, Ty," I say. "See you then."

"Thanks, Rob," I hear, and he disconnects.

My aura? I'll have to check with Google about that!

 

I'm washing up after a delicious rib-eye steak with vegetables followed by a freshly-made fruit salad and ice cream, when my phone rings on the kitchen bench.

I see a number on the screen but my hands are wet and detergenty. I'll call back. 20 seconds later I hear the message tone.

No rush. I finish washing everything, drying them and putting them away. I make myself a cappuccino and sit at the desk with my laptop and phone.

The smart thing to do is to listen to the voice message before making a phone call. I hear...

<<Hello Rob. This is Simon, Brad's friend. I was hoping to chat with you about arranging a massage. I'll try you again tomorrow. Thank you. Good night.>>

I create a new contact in my phone and add Simon's number but decide not to return his call. I'll wait for him to ring again, as he said.

I deal with my accumulated emails, shut down, and then hit the sack. Naked as usual.

My pre-dreaming visions are filled with the recollection of naked bodies. Two in particular. One is insanely handsome, forward, and a crudely amusing dancer. The other is also handsome - a younger, blond frisbee thrower, who, by comparison, is refreshingly polite. And teasingly mysterious.

My right hand does not need to exercise for very long and, after a huge release, I sleep well.

 

Sunday morning. Scrambled eggs and sausages. Coffee. Phone ringing. Simon's name on the screen.

"Hello? Simon?" I ask.

"Hi, Rob. Yes, it's me," he answers. "I rang last night, but I guess that you were busy or in bed, or both."

Very suggestive sense of humour!

"I had my hands in a sink full of dishes," I tell him. "Literally. And after I heard your message, I decided that talking to you today instead would be a good option."

"So, when can I come and see you?" he puts to me directly.

"Why? What's the problem?" I ask. "You looked pretty healthy yesterday."

"Oh, I'm in great health," he replies. "It's just that because of my dancing, I usually have regular massages to keep my muscles supple. I do a lot of work to keep them toned. Besides, I enjoy the experience of being massaged as well."

"So, Swedish massage instead of remedial?" I comment.

"Occasionally, my masseur finds some trigger points which need attention," he says, "but, as often as not, it's just relaxing and pleasurable."

"Well, when would you like to come? But, I don't usually massage on Sundays," I tell him. "Even I need to have a day of rest."

"Fair enough," he says, "I could come after rehearsal on Monday, if you have the time."

I don't need to check my calendar. I know that my last client is at 2:00.

"Any time after 3:30," I tell him. "What would suit you best?"

"Would 5:00 be too late?" he asks. "I'd like to go home and shower beforehand."

"That would be fine," I tell him. "I'll book you in. Do you need a reminder SMS?"

"Hardly!" he says. "I'm looking forward to it. See you at 5:00 on Monday."

I message him information about using the side entrance, and confirm that I've booked him in. Time. Cost. Address (even though it's on my card).

 

Monday rolls around quickly.

I have the room set up for 5:00. It's been a `light' day, so my hands and body are still fairly fresh. Some days, I'm the one feeling as though I need a massage, especially if I've done some deep tissue work on more than seven or eight `difficult' clients.

I hear the car, and greet Simon at the door. "Come through," I say, and usher him past the ensuite to the clinic room.

"Just a bit of paperwork first, Simon," I say, "and then we can get into it. So, any problem areas?"

He talks while he fills in my Client Information form. "Always the legs," he comments, but I enjoy a full body massage, just to ensure that everything is relaxed."

I check the form and say, "So, if you already have regular massages, you would know the routine. Let's start with your face in the hole at that end, and feet over the bolster, here."

Without asking any questions about clothing, he strips naked and lays himself on the table.

I rest my hands on his body to de-sensitise him to my touch. One on his upper back; the other on his firm glutes. Then I swap hands to his opposite side.

I run my hands from his shoulders to his feet, including the soles.

I do this on both sides of his body, which produces his first utterance of pleasure. Not a groan but not quite a `yeah' either. More of a `hmmm'.

I compliment him. "You certainly have excellent muscle tone. Especially here, and here," I say as I pat his glutes and lightly grip each of thighs / hamstrings.

"They get the most work," I hear from under the table. "My quads too, as you will see."

Using some massage oil, and standing at his hip, I massage his upper back, and lower back then through to his thighs. His glutes come in for a bit of `special' attention, in terms of the time that I spend on them. A few groans and winces invite me to massage them further.

I move to the head of the table so that I can massage both sides at once, down his back, across his glutes, up his sides and shoulders to his neck.

He moves his hands from beside his hips to near his head, gripping the end of the table.

I'm not sure whether this is just to relax his arms into a more comfortable position or a surreptitious move to `feel' my guy bits as I lean towards the table.

It only takes one pass of my hands down his back, and my question is answered.

Perhaps sensing the proximity of my body to his hands, he flexes his fingers, making tentative contact with my sports shorts and touching the bulk in the front of them.

I say nothing.

As he feels my hands reaching down his back again, he knows how close my body would be, and, this time, his hand movement is more deliberate. He pushes the back of one of his hands against my shorts, then moves his fingers from side to side and traces the tube of my flesh.

He leaves his hand against my shorts as I move, taking increasing liberty with his fingers.

"Are you enjoying this massage?" I ask him.

"Yes," I hear him reply. "Are you?"

"Maybe," I respond, and remove myself to work on his lower body. Glutes to heels.

As I begin to work to relax his lightly-oiled hamstrings, I comment, "Simon, you have the most well-defined legs that I think I've ever worked on. Congratulations!"

"Thanks," he replies. "It all feels terrific. Keep going."

I work down one leg, work into his calves and applying some reflexology to the sole of his foot. I repeat everything on the other side.

Then I begin to work upwards, stretching the individually-discernible muscles towards his pelvis. And I work into his glutes.

He parts his thighs somewhat to facilitate my work, at the same time revealing his ample balls, which I had noted on Saturday at the beach, plus an elongated penis.

Without deliberately touching them, I don't intentionally avoid them either.

Simon's verbal noises become definite sighs and moans of pleasure.

Having well-worked his back-side muscles (ie. dorsal as opposed to his bum, but that too), I announce, "OK, Simon. Let's do the front. Turn over."

There is none of the usual hesitation that I experience from guys who are somewhat shy about revealing their `woody'.

Simon rolls over, with a `generous' erection, and without embarrassment.

While I'm working on his upper-body muscles, and with his less-restricted arms and hands, Simon takes the liberty of applying his hand to the front my shorts and feeling my firming cock and my balls.

I don't pause what I'm doing, and neither does Simon.

"Want to take them off?" Simon asks, tugging on the fabric of my shorts.

"Why?" I ask. "That wouldn't be very professional."

"Come on," he replies. "Just pretend that you're at the beach."

"You're paying me to give you a massage, not to do a strip tease!" I answer.

"But, isn't the customer always right?" he asks. "Besides, by your own `House Rule', I won't tell and you won't tell."

I'm weakening.

"Well then, one further condition," I say. "Apart from insisting on my House Rule, I want to see you dance."

"Easy!" Simon replies. "When?"

"After I finish with you on the table," I reply. "OK?"

He gives me a `thumbs-up'.

I drop my shorts and undies to the floor.

"May as well lose the shirt too," Simon says, without looking at me.

I don't argue.

The anticipation of what may transpire between the touchy-feely dancer and the touchy-feely massage therapist has me almost at full mast.

Simon's roving hand stiffens my flagpole and I see his own bounce with excitement, perhaps anticipation.

However, I'm not prepared to give in to a mutual masturbation session, just yet!

I take a step towards his feet, just out of his reach.

He raises his head and looks at me. I shrug and say, "I have a professional job to finish!"

I take the opportunity, `unmolested', to work on his quads and massage towards his pelvis. His balls get in the way on multiple occasions, and he doesn't complain when I `adjust' them. Nor does he object when my massaging includes his very hard perineum.

He is becoming a little `antsy', probably because I have left his penis untouched.

It doesn't remain so.

On the next pass of my hands on his peritoneum, I cup his balls, give them a good feel and tickle, and continue upwards and envelop his penis, totally rigid, in my oily hand.

"Oh, look! I found a bit that I had missed!" I smirk. "I'd better massage it properly so that my client doesn't complain."

"About bloody time, you tease," he growls back.

I massage up and down a few times, and feel it throb within my fist.

I add a good quantity of massage oil and the slipperiness increases exponentially, while I maintain a firm grip.

"Ohhh, yes!" he moans.

When he recovers from the initial stimulation, he realises that both of his hands are idle.

"Come closer, where I can reach you," he almost pleads, flexing an empty, open palm.

I move, and lay my manhood on his waiting hand.

"Oil!" he says, and I squirt a quantity of oil the length of my rigidity and into his hand.

The feeling of his hand on my cock is heavenly, after I have spent so much time fondling every other muscle of his body, and getting progressively more and more horny.

The professional massage has ceased. The two-horny-guys massage is now in full swing. He is still lying. I am still standing.

We apply varying stroking techniques to each other and before long I sense that we are both getting close to erupting.

It's Simon who says, "Wait!"

He lifts his knees, swings his legs over the edge of the table and stands up.

"You wanted dancing?" he says, more than asks.

This little diversion will help me, and possibly him, to back off a bit.

He strikes a pose and runs through some ballet exercises. His body is exquisite, but his stand-out erection looks out of place on his slim body now.

Then he surprises me by saying, "How about some dirty dancing?"

Without waiting for a reply, he takes up a position behind me, takes my left hand in his and places his right hand around me onto my stomach. Then he commences some slow rocking and dipping.

With his body now pushed and held against mine, it is easy for my body to follow his lead. I can feel his cock pressed into the length of my crack. With some of his moves, it slides up and down.

I enjoy the slow-motion synchronisation, with his chin on my shoulder.

"Swap!" I tell him. He releases my hands, turns around and I get the chance to `lead'.

Somehow, as we sway and dip and rise, even with my body firmly pressed against his, he is able to contract his glutes to massage my stiffness.

"OMG." I growl at him. "How on earth can you have that degree of control? That feels amazing!"

We `dance' for a couple of minutes more until I feel the point of no return approaching.

"Enough!" I tell him.

I face the table and begin jacking myself above the towel.

"Wait," he tells me.

He stands alongside me, replaces my hand with his own, inviting me to do likewise to him.

The mutual wanking becomes more frenzied and then there are groans and moans, and streaks of white erupt onto the towel.

We cool down, clean up and pull on our shorts.

"Does your usual massage therapist have to put up with this pleasure?" I ask.

"Not at all," he replies. "I don't get naked and SHE doesn't get me excited like you just did. I think that it's time I swapped therapists. Permanently. Twice per week. What do you say? House Rule! Remember?"

"Can you afford me?" I put to him smiling.

He retrieves his wallet, lays his money on my table and says, "I think that we'd better block out some appointment times in your calendar."

 

-----

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', `Quade' and `Ronnie'.
(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/

Keep an eye out for `Ty' next.

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