People
wonder, and often ask me, why I choose to jog on the cement bike track or on
the road instead of along softer, impact-absorbing nature strips or around our local
parks.
I
didn't always exercise that way, but everything changed on the morning that my
right foot came down heavily onto the edge of a concealed, grass-covered hole
and I rolled my ankle.
The
good news, if you can call it that, was that I was no more than a few hundred
metres from home.
I
hobbled and hopped back there and immediately iced the ankle to minimise
swelling and propped myself, foot raised, in front of the TV. With food. And drink.
So,
my jogging routine came to an abrupt halt, as did working on my golf handicap, Saturday
afternoon tennis and the cessation of the Friday night soccer games with `the
boys'.
Being
appreciative of most sports, I spent the next few weeks, watching too many
programs, including sports that I would not normally have tuned into,
especially with preparations and qualifying events for the Olympics being
televised.
What
I didn't catch live, I recorded for viewing later.
Names
and faces of superb athletes became very familiar to me. Footballers of
different codes, tennis players, golfers, swimmers, runners, long and high
jumpers. And wrestlers. Even the sports commentators.
Whenever
I saw a face, I was able to name the person, nominate their sport and even cite
some of their statistics. Not to mention, mentally reviewing their physical
attributes.
Two
months later, and even though not all of my own sporting activities have resumed
to their pre-injury level, the ability to recognise sportsmen remains with me
to this day.
When
I see a phone number, which I don't recognise, appear on my mobile screen, my
usual response is, `Hello. This is Rob.'
And
that was the case last night, Friday. Late.
I
do find it amusing that some callers then immediately ask, `Is that Rob?' or,
even worse, "Hello. Is Rob there?' which sets off telemarketer alarm bells in
my brain!
However,
yesterday's call was different. I heard, "Hello. Is that Rob, the massage
therapist?"
Because
my English teacher had impregnated language `correctness' into all of our
brains, I should have replied, `Yes, this is he.' However, with common sense prevailing,
I answered, "Yes, it is."
"Hello
Rob," the voice answered, "I'm ringing on behalf of a friend who can't come to his
phone at the moment. Just now he caused himself an injury, and you come highly
recommended as the person who would be most able to assist him."
I
reply, "Well, I appreciate some anonymous person's vote of confidence. What's
the problem?"
"It's
kind of a delicate matter," the voice continued. "My friend was doing something
that his coach has warned everyone against, and the coach will be furious if one
of his star team members shows any sign of an injury to. Could you possibly see
him ASAP and help him?"
"See
him? Yes, I can. But not tonight," I reply. "Help? Well, that depends on the
injury."
"Well,
it's not as though he has broken an arm or a leg, or anything like that," I
hear. "He thinks that it's more like a corked thigh, or something similar
that's affecting his ability to walk properly. Possibly his hip. I don't know.
He has the weekend to get the problem fixed before his next team session on
Monday."
"Isn't
there a team doctor or physio that could work with your friend?" I asked.
"Then
the coach would find out about it!" the voice told me. "We are hoping to keep
it all hush-hush."
"So,
what happened?" I asked. "Was he in a pub brawl? Or fall off a ladder? Or did
he strain his glutes in bed?"
"No,
nothing like that," he answered, before adding, "At least, not that I know of."
I
could hear the grin in his voice, thankfully appreciating my sense of humorous
innuendo.
"I
can do early morning, tomorrow," I told him. "First thing. Six thirty, if
that's suitable."
Having
agreed on the time, I gave the voice my address and directions about the
entrance at the side of the building. "One final thing," I put to him, "What's
your friend's name?"
"Xavier,"
he said.
The
database of sportsmen in my brain didn't recognise a locally-based `Xavier'!
Let alone a `star'!
"OK,"
I finished off. "I'll see Xavier at 6:30 am tomorrow, Saturday. Thanks for
thinking of me. Oh, and can you make sure that he ices the affected area tonight
to help reduce any swelling."
"Sure
thing. He's already onto it while I'm using his phone. Thank you, Rob," he
said, and hung up.
Before
turning in, I set up the massage room in anticipation of Xavier's early arrival
and of hearing a confession about his forbidden activity.
Xavier?
That name really had me wondering who this `star' was and what team he was part
of. Had I missed a sport somewhere?
Curiosity
got the better of me. I Googled the name `Xavier' and found a handsome young footballer!
However, because he's not based in this state, he can't be the mystery `star'.
I
wake up a few minutes before the alarm goes off. That's really annoying!
I
shower, have breakfast and a Nespresso, strength 12.
It's
still a bit cool, so I set the aircon in the massage room to a pleasant
temperature, start the CD of relaxing music, have the `paperwork' ready, and treat
myself to a second caffeine hit.
At
6:28 a car pulls into my driveway. I can tell that it's not a 4-cylinder
cheapie because of its delicate growl!
I
go out to investigate the car and greet Xavier, totally unprepared for what,
and who, I see.
I'm
no car fanatic, but I do recognise a Ford Mustang when I see one. However, I
have never seen one this sleek, or of this colour. It looks like it has come
straight out of a motoring magazine. The paint is like a metallic royal blue,
with twin white racing stripes running the length of the bodywork, beginning on
the spoiler. It has to be a custom job. Duh!
Xavier
emerges, gently pushes the door, and it closes with a dull thud. He walks, with
a little difficulty, towards me, grinning.
I
recognise him! He IS famous! And his name isn't Xavier!
"Rob?"
he asks, extending his hand.
"Yes.
Hi," I greet him. "Come in. But, first, what is that?" I add, pointing at the
beast that is now gracing my driveway.
"My
new toy." He replies. "The latest Mustang, Shelby GT500, 5.2 litre supercharged
V8."
I
try not to drool, over the car or Xavier's body.
It's
difficult for a person to hide his physical attributes when his finely-tuned athletic
body is wearing a skin-tight T-shirt and grey track pants which appear to be one
size too small!
The
words "Very nice!" escape my mouth. Then my senses recover. "Come in."
We
pass the ensuite, enter my clinic room and I point to the chair alongside my
desk.
"Just
a bit of paperwork first," I tell him. "Then we'll get to the heart of the
problem."
He
looks concerned.
"Don't
worry," I tell him. "You can use `Xavier'. Nobody will know. And just for your
information, I have a `House Rule': what happens in the room, and what is said
in the room, stays in the room. In other words, you don't tell and I don't
tell. All right?"
"That's
probably one of the reasons my friend recommended you," Xavier smiles. He'd
heard about your `House Rule' and about your skilful hands."
His
last few words immediately have me wondering whether somebody has broken my
House Rule and shared too much of what I did for him. Or is his `friend' actually
one of my clients?
"If
you like, you can write `Xavier Smith' on the form and then fill in the rest,"
I tell him. "Nobody will see it except me."
In
my mind, I try to recall clients who might move in the same circles as `Xavier'.
However, after eliminating the obvious, I'm still left with far too many names.
Xavier or his friend could likely have had some professional interaction with many
of the successful sportsmen, aspiring stars and keen, dedicated athletes who
have become my clients. And some of them do get the `special' treatment. So, it's
pointless trying to work out who has told him of my `skilful hands'!
"How's
this?" Xavier asks, sliding the paperwork to me on my desk.
"Why
have you put your real name?" I ask, immediately noting that `Xavier Smith' isn't
there..
"Because
I trust you," he replies. "Anyway, I could tell from your expression outside
that you knew who I was. So, there's no point pretending to be somebody else."
"So,
is your friend one of my clients?" I put to him, curious.
"House
Rule!" he throws back at me. "Don't ask, and don't tell!"
"Touché,"
I reply. "So, what exactly did your friend say that I could do for you?"
"He
said that he has `a mate' who told him that your hands could fix any muscular
problem and relieve a person's inner tension like magic," he replies.
I
sense some variation on truth in this story. A sports star who has a friend who
has a mate who... Yeah! Right!
"OK,"
I tell him. "That's intriguing. But, I suppose, if your friend himself is one
of my clients, then a personal recommendation isn't exactly breaking the House
Rule. But, hey, I'm not asking!"
"And
he always seems happy after he's been to have a massage," Xavier says, but then
covers his mouth and mumbles, "Fuck! Big mouth!"
I
laugh. "It's OK. I won't tell him that you told me." If I ever figure out who
he is!
"What
I haven't been able to uncover," Xavier adds, "is why he seems so happy. Is it
just because you fix up his aches and pains, or is it something extra that you
do for him, at the end? We know that he's gay. He was able to hide it for a
while, but when you only go out with guys and hang out with one in particular,
including going camping regularly, eventually people do put two and two together
and somehow word gets out."
"I
can't tell you what treatments my clients have," I say. "Professional
integrity! All I can talk to you about is what I can do for you."
I
pause and he says nothing. So, I ask, "So, what is it that I can do for you,
`Xavier'? What's the problem exactly? And what coach-forbidden activity were
you indulging in at the time?"
"Well,
to start with the last bit," he says, "there's a whole lot of guys who have set
up an obstacle course in a warehouse that one of their fathers owns. And we
play a type of unofficial `extreme tag' in there. Sporting code against sporting
code, to see who is the fittest and fastest. Mostly just for bragging rights!
Somehow the coach found out about it. He was really pissed off that his guys
could potentially get injured, so he ranted on us that we couldn't participate,
OR ELSE! Without telling us exactly what that would be."
"Let
me guess," I cut in. "You were doing it, against his orders, and you got hurt.
And you don't want to find out what the `or else' is? Right?"
"Pretty
much!" he replies. "Actually, spot on! Last night. I was the chaser and was
about to grab the coloured tag of the runner, when he suddenly sidestepped and
I rolled over a barrel that I hadn't seen. I landed heavily on my thigh, and I won't
be able to disguise the pain unless, by some miracle, somebody with magic hands
can fix me. That would be you!"
"Hey!
No pressure!" I reply. "So, let's get you stripped down and onto the table, and
I'll see what act of wizardry I'm able to conjure up for you."
He
doesn't just strip down, he strips off. Completely. And I get my first view of
his shaved body. I mean, totally shaved! Which shows off his handsome manhood and
makes his balls look oversized.
"Undies
would have been OK," I tell him. "Sorry if I wasn't specific enough. I thought
that your friend would have clued you in. Do you strip naked with the team
physio?"
"Of
course not!" he replies. "We keep our Speedos on. Firstly, the physio is an
ugly brute, unlike you, and secondly, it's not done in private, unlike here.
And thirdly, people don't always end up happy, just because they have their problem
`fixed' up."
"Like
your friend?" I put to him.
"Hey,
I didn't tell you that! Or anything!" he says. "I just meant that your client,
whoever he is, is always happy at the end."
"Are
you implying that your friend gets a happy ending when he's here?" I ask.
"You've been hedging around those words ever since we started talking."
"I
didn't say that my friend gets a happy ending! He's never told me that," he
blurts out, followed by another "Fuck! I've done it again!"
"Xavier,"
I say slowly, looking at his worried expression. "You should really practise thinking
a bit more before you speak. Now, do you reckon that you will be able to keep
your mouth shut about being here?"
"Yes,
Rob," he smiles, sheepishly.
"And,
after I've worked on your hip, would you like a happy ending?"
"Yes,
Rob," he grins, broadly.
"OK.
Now that we're both on the same page," I tell him, "let's get started. Face in
the hole this end, feet over the bolster at that end, and you'd better tuck all
that gear of yours down between your legs, where it will be more comfortable."
"Yes,
Rob," he smirks, grasping everything.
I
know a lot about `Xavier', and not just from what he has filled in on the
paperwork.
He's
only a few years older than me but has already had a notable career, including
two Olympic Games. And, even though I have always admired his body from afar, I
never dreamed that I would get to see him `in the flesh'. Let alone give him a
`special' massage. Actually, I did dream at night once about doing that. Or
twice. At least. And, future dreams will now be much more based on reality!
I
begin with my usual light-touch desensitisation of his body, running my fingers
from his shoulders to his feet, unimpeded by any underwear. Multiple times.
Both sides and legs.
There
are some involuntary shivers.
"Hmm,"
he murmurs, exhaling deeply. "That's nice."
Then
I repeat everything, using my palms, and taking the opportunity to give firmer
attention to some areas, especially his tight glutes and thighs.
"Really
nice!" he comments, echoing my own thoughts.
I
continue and, at one point, near his right hip, he shudders and groans.
I
gently explore his individual muscles, so exquisitely obvious on his
ultra-tuned body.
"Aargh!"
he calls out, his body convulsing. "That's the spot!"
"Do
you want the good news, or the bad news?" I put to him.
He
lifts his head and turns his worried face towards me. "I could do with some
good news," he tells me. "What is it?"
"The
good news is that the problem should be fixable with a simple manipulation," I
reply.
"And
the bad news?"
"After
you rest tomorrow, the coach will probably push you hard on Monday."
"Go
for it!" he says, gritting his teeth, perhaps anticipating some painful remedy,
and he buries his face back into the hole.
"What
I'm going to do," I tell him, "is relax all of the surrounding muscles first,
before I attempt to manipulate anything. That will make the required movement a
lot easier."
I
spend a lot of time, with oil, loosening his back, thigh and glute muscles, eliciting
the occasional groan, but mainly moans of pleasure, from below the table, with
the growing elongation of his manhood visibly protruding downwards past his
balls.
"Just
a couple of more muscles to work on from the front," I tell him. "Roll over."
He
pauses and takes a deep breath, as if to inhale as much courage as possible.
"House
Rule!" I remind him. "Besides, you wouldn't be the first guy to spring a boner
on my massage table."
"Like
my friend?" he laughs, followed by a more sombre, "Fuck! I really do need to
learn to keep my big trap shut!"
He
makes himself comfortable while I move the bolster and provide a head rest.
Like
most guys, his automatic reaction is to adjust `the gentlemen' which, with him
face-down, must have been somewhat cramped. His manhood is lying, rigid,
towards his navel.
I
avoid any admonition of his `loose lips' but pay him a compliment instead.
"You've done a great job with the razor!"
"Thanks,"
he replies.
"How
do you get underneath, without nicking yourself?" I ask, taking the opportunity
to gently cup and lift his balls. "With a mirror?"
"With
a friend," he laughs. "It's easier and less painful."
I
have to remind myself of who I am working on! Whose naked body I have been rubbing!
Who would have thought? Him! And he wants me to give him a hand job! The hard
part for me is not being able to share this experience with anyone else! House
Rule!
"Yeah.
I know about the pain," I tell him. "From experience."
I
work specifically on the right-side adductors in his groin, his quads and into
the iliopsoas in his pelvis. We both ignore the brief brushes by my hands on
his genitals. Although, I do see some precum being exuded.
"OK.
I think we're ready," I tell him. "Roll onto your left side."
I
adjust the position of his leg and ready my hands on his body for a
manipulation. Then, unexpectedly, with no marked pressure from me, there is a
loud `click', followed by an intense sigh of relief from `Xavier'.
"What
did you just do?" he asks. "How did you do that? I hardly felt anything!"
"The
body knows exactly where all of the bits belong," I tell him. "With the muscles
all properly relaxed, they essentially did the work on their own. Teamwork!"
He
lays himself onto his back and flexes both legs, raising and lowering them, and
doing some simple rotations.
"Amazing!"
he lets out.
"Stand
up, and let's see how the body feels." I say.
He
swings his legs to the side of the table and stands. Walks up and down. Rotates
right and left. Squats.
"Definitely
magic hands!" he compliments me.
"So,"
I tell him. "We still have twenty minutes of your hour to fill in."
He
grins at me. His cock, which had begun to slacken somewhat, rises again and
stiffens.
"OK,"
I tell him, "Lie on your back and we'll see what other magic we can conjure
up!"
"I
reckon that it won't even take half of the remaining time to conjure up stuff,"
he says, making himself comfortable."
"Would
you like me to make you last longer?" I put to him. "Or do you want a quickie?"
"I
normally just go for it," he tells me. "How do you make it last more than a few
minutes?"
"Why
don't you just relax and let me see what I can do," I reply. "But, I will need you to cooperate. If you think that you're
getting close, tell me before it's too late. OK?"
"I'll
try," he says, and his body relaxes. All except one part, which twitches
stiffly in anticipation.
I
drizzle oil across his rounded pecs, into the gutters of his abs and onto his
quads. I let it run into the grooves of his body and then spread it all over,
cupping his generous, smooth balls and oiling the full length of his cock in
the process.
"Shit!"
he exclaims. "You reckon that's going to make me last longer? I don't think
so!"
"Just
getting started," I tell him. "Relax."
I
stand behind his head and massage his pecs and rub across his nipples to gauge
any reaction. Some guys respond to it and others don't. He does. His body
trembles briefly and precum oozes from his cock and trickles its way straight into
the shallow cavity of his navel.
I
massage down his sides then return to his pecs and nipples.
His
navel fills.
Working
across and down his abs, I use my middle finger to scoop out the precum and
apply it liberally to the organ which it was intended to lubricate. Down and
up. Firmly. Slippery!
He
groans. His eyes are closed and his head is partially tilted backwards.
I
move to his left thigh, rubbing upwards, firmly, finishing under his balls and
pressing into his perineum. His navel begins to re-fill.
Swapping
sides and applying a similar technique to his right thigh, his groans become
louder and his navel is at the point of overflowing.
I
stand his penis upright and press it in the nether direction, which causes its skin
to become shiny tight.
The
effect of rubbing the stretched head with precum from the pool has `Xavier'
moaning loudly.
"Ohhh!
Yes!" Then he adds, "You'd better stop. I can feel things happening."
I immediately back off and direct my attention
to his lower legs, feet, arms and hands.
Providing
sensual stimulation to these areas, with the occasional couching of his balls,
or grasping his cock, or tweaking his nipples, keeps him on edge, for another
five minutes.
His
body starts to become seriously antsy.
"You
want to hang on for longer?" I ask him, resting my palms on his thighs.
"Holding
back is starting to become painful," he groans. "Fantastic, but painful!"
I
don't need to hear any more!
I
massage up both of his thighs, running my thumbs under his balls and pressing
into his perineum. I move to the head of his cock and massage down. It jerks,
and I increase my pace up and down.
`Xavier'
raises his hips and starts to groan and growl. Then he freezes and lets out a howl,
"Aargh!"
Each
explosion is accompanied by a grunt, and the ejaculate is directed by me to his
upper body and abdomen.
When
the pumping dwindles to an oozing trickle, I release his manhood, which shrinks
rapidly, obviously exhausted.
I
pass him a hand towel so that he can clean up, however he prefers to do it. He
wipes the trickles from the side of his chest, then lays the towel on his body,
closes his eyes, exhales a breathy "Fuck! Incredible!" Then appears to go into
a state of near-suspended animation.
I
cover him with a full towel then sit, and open his new file. I make some coded
notes which nobody else will ever see nor could understand. I watch his
post-euphoric body, and grin. It's actually him! Who would have thought?
One
of his eyes is the first thing to move. Then the other. They open, and they
scan their surroundings, as if to confirm the reality of his whereabouts. Then,
as they locate and focus on me, he raises his head.
"You
know what's going to happen now, don't you, Rob?" he smiles at me.
I
grin and reply, "No, Xavier. What is going to happen now?"
"My
friend is going to ask me why I'm so happy! Regularly!"
-----
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', `Ronnie', `Simon', `Ty' `Ulysses', `Victor' and `Woody'.
(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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