by Rose Caraway
In my subsequent appointments with him, I tried to draw him out, asking about his weekend, trying to find out what his life was like. He was respectfully responsive, but did not elaborate. I mentioned this when I met Liz, the woman who had told me about Armand; she said that he chatted with her. When I questioned what she knew about him, she couldn’t remember anything specific.
The next time I saw Armand, wanting to know why he treated me differently, I asked, “I saw Liz and she said the two of you talked the whole time that you massaged her. Is there a reason you don’t speak much with me?”
I was facedown and turned my head slightly to listen. He deftly pressed my palms while contemplating. “She likes to hear herself talk so I suppose that she believes we are having a conversation. You and I communicate on a different level.”
Hmm. I pondered this as I let myself melt into his touch. My preference was for deep tissue massage, but I had been unsatisfied at other spas, feeling like I just paid someone to rub lotion on my body, and I could do that myself. When going to a professional, I wanted to feel someone’s fingers pressing me to the edge of pain, digging in to release the troubles buried there.
This facility is attached to the country club’s offsite gym. The massage rooms are remotely located in the back, with a separate entrance to avoid walking past the machines, aerobics classes and loud racquetball courts. By now I know the routine: I check in with the welcoming receptionist, and wander into the locker room to quickly strip off my clothes and snuggle into one of their plush white robes.
Armand uses Room 3; I wait inside on the bamboo bench, door open. He arrives, exactly on time, to greet me. “Good evening, Ms. Rollins. Please lie down on your stomach, under the sheet, I’ll be back in a few minutes.” When the door closes, I slide beneath the expensive linens, pressing my body into the heated massage table, and try to relax. I am accustomed to being in control and this part makes my heart race—surrendering my naked body to whomever chooses to open the door and walk in. Realistically, I know people are around, but for a moment I feel that spike of adrenaline when he knocks softly on the door, then enters. Armand’s familiar voice asks me if I want anything different this time. I reply that I am confident he will find my aches.
In those moments when he greets me, I admire the features of his attractive face, knowing that soon I will only be able to see his interesting, tattooed feet while he massages my back. His soft pants sway as he shifts his weight; they are always a natural color, setting off the darkness of his skin, like espresso and cream. Then I carefully roll over and see nothing more because he secures a luxurious silk sleep mask over my eyes. No one has done this before during a massage, but I willingly acquiesce, content to let my mind wander in the darkness as his hands dance across my body.
He is very predictable—the songs on the CD, the way he moves. Facedown for eight songs, then I turn over for three more songs while he finishes up by relieving any lingering tension in my jaw and scalp. When the music ends he chimes the smallest bell and exits quietly, telling me to take my time, to open the door when dressed. Armand returns with a glass of water, to wish me good night, reminding me to soak soon in a saltwater bath since he worked me thoroughly.
After a couple of appointments, when I arrive home, I amend my prescribed post-massage routine, heading directly to my bedroom instead, while the scent of his massage oil lingers. From my assortment of sex toys, I select the eight-inch realistic dildo. Setting the vibration low, sliding the phallus in and out of my wet pussy, I fantasize that Armand is above me, fucking me slowly with his hard cock.
As the days near for my next appointment, I begin to worry that I will be too turned on when he touches me now. Just the thought of his hands firmly rubbing my skin gets me wet because his image has permeated my erotically charged dreams. Will this man, who knows my body so well, notice the difference in me? Do I dare don my panties again—perhaps, feigning menstruation—to not have to worry that I will leave a wet spot on those posh sheets? But I don’t want to be untrue to him. After all, I trust this man with my deepest aches. I need to give my body to him honestly so that he can unravel my pain.
A decent hookup would help keep my horny mind in check. Unfortunately, my last date was another of the endless disappointments. I’ve given up on hoping for a soul mate. This encounter was another online dating disaster. We met at a bar— no points for originality there. He was too sexually aggressive for my taste, but I needed the touch of another human being. I went to his place and we had sex. Or at least we tried to. It was one of those embarrassing nights where his cock kept shriveling and sliding out of the condom. I shrugged it off as too many beers and kept sucking him until he was hard again. After we had three unused and sadly deflated condoms on the bed, I called it a night. And I did not return his texts, instead counting the days until my next massage.
When I arrive for my appointment, the receptionist seems a bit frazzled, telling me that Armand has not arrived, but that I should go ahead to the usual room. As I sit on the bench and relax, the minutes pass and I begin to wonder if my session has been canceled. Just as I am about to give up, a tall, handsome blonde man rushes up to me, out of breath, and introduces himself as Lance. I have seen him around the spa, working out of one of the other rooms. He apologizes and says that Armand is detained. I can either reschedule, or he will gladly take Armand’s place this evening.
Though the thought of not having Armand’s expertise tonight is disappointing, I am here and might as well get a massage even if it is abbreviated since the facility is closing shortly. I tell Lance that it’s fine; he nods and quickly exits. Since he has given me no instruction, I follow Armand’s routine, disrobing and waiting facedown, nude beneath the sheet.
Moments later the door opens and I hear fumbling as the CD player starts up. It is Armand’s music—or, maybe, this is standard issue for the spa. Either way, it relaxes me and I hope that Lance can soothe my body in a similar manner. I listen to his movements around the room, and finally his feet come into view below me—they are large, the skin pale.
“Relax,” he whispers while standing at the head of the massage table. And he begins. I’m surprised that he doesn’t ask about my aches and injuries. Perhaps he has conferred with Armand. Listening to the music, I can almost believe I am in Armand’s sure hands. Then I smell that same musky oil and I give my body to Lance, to do with what he pleases. As he is working the knots out of my shoulders and forging a steady path down to the base of my spine, the door opens abruptly and we both jump.
It’s Armand’s familiar voice. “I apologize, Ms. Rollins. I had a flat tire driving over here.”
Driving over here? I turn my head to try to read his face in this dimly lit room and ask, “Didn’t you have appointments before mine?”
“I was not scheduled to work today,” he explains, “but informed the club that I would come in for your appointment. I hope Lance was able to get you started sufficiently.”
Lance has moved to the side of the massage table, but his hands continue to rub my lower back. I can hear Armand moving around, out of my sight line, then he applies pressure to the balls of my feet. Being touched by both of them makes my libido rev up even more.
“He’s been great,” I respond, “This is amazing.”
“This?” repeats Armand. “You wish for Lance to remain?”
I laugh, embarrassed yet serious. “Two men rubbing me? Who could say no?”
So, instead of leaving, Lance begins to massage me intensely, moving lower on my back than Armand has before. The sheet had been pushed down and draped across my butt. Now Lance moves the sheet down farther, beginning to deeply knead my glutes. Most masseurs shy away from this area, but it contains powerful muscle groups and mine could use some release.
Meanwhile, Armand spreads massage oil on the backs of my legs and begins rubbing the muscles down there. He asks, “May I remove the sheet?”
“Yes,” is the only word I can summon in this state of bliss.
Hands slip between my thighs. Their steady rhythm causes my breath to quicken in anticipation. Time becomes fluid as I am lost in pleasure.
Normally the sheet is pulled up to my shoulders, then I discreetly roll onto my back for the final part of my massage. I feel hesitation from them. Someone starts the music again.
Armand asks me, “Would you like to continue?”
“Yes.”
He instructs, “Lance, the mask.” Lance’s hands carefully gather my shoulder-length brown locks as he slips the silky mask on, and helps me roll onto my back.
I wonder how my body must look, bared on the table before them, but don’t have much time to think about it because they both begin rubbing me again. I am so turned on, I fight the urge to spread my legs wide open to Armand, who is still at my feet.
Lance begins kneading a path across my shoulders, but soon is circling my breasts with his gentle hands, teasing each nipple with his slick fingers.
Armand asks from below, “Ms. Rollins, may I?”
May he what? I wonder, as I answer, “Yes!”
Hands are between my legs again, this time parting them as far as possible on the narrow table. My open pussy is fully on display to Armand. Deft fingers disappear into the folds of my labia, to probe my wet heat, revealing the strength of my desire.
Lance kisses my forehead, then my lips. His fingertips continue their amazing patterns on my breasts. My nipples are throbbing in sync with my crotch.
I hear rustling at the foot of the table, then Armand removes his hands. Lance stops kissing me, and I listen to the sounds of clothing being shed. My heart is thundering. I think that it must be as loud as my panting breath.
The table shifts slightly as a man climbs onto it, near my ankles. His bare skin brushes mine as he nestles between my legs. Again Armand asks, “May I?”
I arch my hips in response. His question gives life to my limbs, and I reach down to touch him for the first time. The pressure of my hands on his ass is the only consent that he needs. It is my turn to explore his body, finding it as solidly built as expected, defined with powerful muscles. I feel the tip of his cock probing, as he rubs it against my clit.
Now that I am awakened in all senses, I reach around for Lance. He is still near my side and seems to be naked as well, so I touch his cock, slowly exploring it. When Armand nudges his way inside of me, I gasp, and tighten my grip on Lance’s cock, running my hands along his length.
The motions we use are deliberate, delicious. Though I’m tempted to push the mask aside, I resist because without sight my sensations are heightened. Armand continues to slide in and out of me, while someone’s hand stimulates my clit. A mouth is on my nipple, then an eager tongue fills my mouth.
I cannot hold out much longer, the slow strokes tormenting me as I hang on the edge of orgasm. Lance lets go, shouting, “Oh!” as he erupts warmly across my stomach. Armand moans while I ride waves of pleasure, firmly holding his ass and urging him deeper, deeper.
When I pull Armand down on top of me, I can no longer distinguish where he ends and I begin. I only feel him thrusting inside of me and that sends me over the edge. Seconds later, Armand kisses me passionately and loses himself to me. My pussy clutches him tightly as his cock spasms within me.
Moments pass. The only sound is our collective heavy breathing.
As Lance leaves the room, Armand gives me one last kiss, then retreats from the table. He finishes the way he does in all the previous sessions, by applying firm pressure to the arches of my feet and telling me to take my time.
This has been an evening beyond belief. I remove the mask and use a nearby towel to clean up a bit. When I am fully dressed and seated, Armand enters, carrying a glass of water as usual. He smiles and asks, “Same time next month, Ms. Rollins?”
Full-Frontal Neighbor
Lynn Townsend
“My goodness!” My real estate agent, an enthusiastic little woman with the fading remains of her Eastern-European accent hanging around her too-loud voice like Christmas lights, exclaimed. “That young man is stark naked!”
Well, that wasn’t something I heard every day. I turned to look out the indicated window—a full bay enclosure situated in the dining room—and was nearly knocked over by the home inspector. Gee, Skip, I thought, straightening my tunic and glaring at his back, I didn’t know that was your thing. Next time, I’ll book the Chippendale Dancers when I get my new house inspected.
Technically, it wasn’t my house yet. But if there was nothing really awful on the home inspection, it might well be. I nudged Friedel with one shoulder and she relinquished her spot at the window. The show was probably over already—the house had been abandoned for several years and the neighbor could be easily forgiven for walking around with the curtains up, but surely he’d noticed the cluster of gawkers in the window opposite him. Surely.
He hadn’t.
The naked man—and Friedel was absolutely correct, he was just as naked as the day he was born—leaned against the gleaming counter in his kitchen. One leg was bent, the bare foot placed against the cabinet door. One arm supported him. In the other hand, he held a mug, from which he was sipping. He appeared to be gazing dreamily at something out the porthole window and I could only see his face in profile. Strawberry-blond hair, cut messy, spilled down his forehead. His nose was narrow and his mouth full and sensual.
I dropped my eyes lower. A sprinkle of cinnamon hair dusted his chest, drew a narrow line from his belly button to more interesting sights south of his waist. I smirked; if he was that interesting at half-mast, there was a squirming heat in my lower stomach that wouldn’t have any objections to a glance with full sails. The flames spread farther, heating my breasts, bound as they were by an eighteen-hour bra. Nipples chafed against the too-firm, too-tight satin.
“Well, it’s a nice view out the window,” I said, too abruptly. Skip jumped nearly two feet straight up, and I turned a laugh into a quick cough. “What else is on the list?” I glanced down at the clipboard. “We’ve checked the water, the gas line, the windows?”
Skip snatched the papers away from me. I hissed; the searing, unbelievable pain of a paper cut put out most of the remaining desire. I stuck my finger in my mouth, glaring at Skip from over the knuckle. He mumbled an apology and consulted the list.
I couldn’t help it. As real-estate agent and home inspector got back to the job at hand—which is to say, getting a fair chunk of money so that I could give an even larger chunk of money to a bank—I glanced over my shoulder.
Neighbor boy was still oblivious, mug still cradled in his hand, still just as naked and just as glorious as he’d been a few moments before.
Yep, I thought as I turned away, I have a great view.
“Jeez!” I exclaimed into the phone. “I need to get some curtains!” I fumbled the phone and almost dropped my coffee, but didn’t take my eyes off the window.
Claire, owner and operator of Merlin’s Pen Publishing, who happened to also be my best friend, laughed in my ear. “Seems like you shouldn’t fix what ain’t broke, Mal.”
“This conversation is over.” Despite that, I didn’t turn on the dining room lights and I didn’t move from the spot. Neighbor boy was fairly comfortable in his routine; apparently ritual nudity was somehow involved in his life. Like clockwork, every weeknight between seven and eight at night, he was in his kitchen, starkers, drinking coffee and daydreaming. “Tell me what you got for me.”
“Well, I have three covers. How’s your time? Can you do three in a month?”
“I have a couple in the drawer that I painted just for funsies. Maybe one of those would fit. Otherwise, I got time for two. I’m still knee-deep in the moving-in process. Stupid movers lost half my stuff and I’m just now getting it back.”
“So
unds like a blast. Which reminds me, I saw your ex. He said he still had some things of yours and was awaiting your apology before he’d give them back.”
“I can live without it. And him,” I grumbled. “I had to move back East to get away from him.” That wasn’t entirely true, but I wasn’t above blaming David for just about everything. It was one of my less attractive traits, but at the moment, I wasn’t worried about it. Claire hated him almost as much as I did. Neighbor boy stretched magnificently, and I stood there, silent in the darkness, watching him in all his masculine glory. There was a delicate, not quite unpleasant, ache between my legs. At least David had been good for one thing.
“…And I’ve got one collection of short stories about shape-changers,” Claire said. I drew my attention back to the conversation.
“Werewolves?” Great. I hated painting werewolves. Readers all had their own ideas of what lycanthropes should be, and inevitably, anything I painted would be all wrong for two-thirds of them.
“No, just shape-changers. Some of them turn into cats, or foxes. I think one of the stories has a guy who turns into a weasel.”
“All men turn into weasels, eventually.”
“You know it, girl,” Claire said. “So, how ’bout it? Can I send you the specs?”
“Go ahead.” Neighbor boy turned. He couldn’t possibly see me, and yet I thought he did. Between two layers of glass and the distance of our postage-stamp-sized yards, our eyes met. I couldn’t look away. I felt trapped, turned to stone, by that proud, knowing gaze. My breath caught in my throat, a rock-sized lump that I couldn’t swallow. My entire body went up in flames. By all that was holy, that was a fine man.
He finished his turn, put his cup in the sink and allowed me a lingering, longing look at his muscular buttocks and lithe back. A dark scar twined up his hip and across one shoulder, highly visible against his ginger-haired, pale complexion. Interesting.
