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Chapter 10
What with losing my job, ruining my chances with the woman of my dreams just to save James’s bacon and being traumatised by the local female testicle inspecting team I decided to make use of a massage voucher which my thoughtful Mother had bought me the previous Christmas. I’d only ever had a massage from my Nan before, just a tickly one on the back like, nothing professional, so to have the full blown oily shebang with whale music and incense sticks thrown in was something of an experience. Of course, I felt for the poor girl who was lumbered with me, after all my body wasn’t up to much, especially my feet which had hard black skin dangling from them, but I guess you don’t get into massage therapy if you’ve got a phobia of putrid body parts. I’m sure Caroline, my masseur for the hour, had seen worse than a few dead skin cells teetering on the end of hairy toes but if she hadn’t then I figured she was in the wrong job.
On entering Caroline’s tranquil chambers she sat me down to discuss what kind of massage I required. I wrongly presumed there was only ever one type, where the masseur basically went to town on your back, leaving sore red blotches where the skin once was but Caroline kindly informed me there were a whole variety of choices and that the world was my massaging oyster. I didn’t want anything too fancy though, I mean it was my first time and I was trying to be as manly as I could about visiting a masseur so I simply informed Caroline that I’d been a bit stressed lately and really just wanted her to work my aches and pains. We agreed on a Swedish massage which felt more suited to my masculine needs and required the use of only one bottle of oil instead of being coated in several types of goo.
If I’m honest, I was nervous at the thought of some stranger man-handling me but I wasn’t totally unprepared for it. Even I knew I would have to strip down to my kegs at some point so when she informed me she was leaving to grease up and asked that I take everything off bar my briefs and then slide under the warm towels strategically placed on the table, I did so without too much trepidation. However, when she came back into the room and began slowly sliding my boxers down, exposing the butt cheeks, I was somewhat taken aback but rather intrigued at the same time.
I wasn’t entirely sure if I should have been jumping for joy when she carefully placed them under the cusp of my buttocks but, at the same time, I was fairly mortified at the thought poor Caroline had to stare squarely into my posterior. I could count on one hand the women who’d had a real good look at my butt cheeks over the years, the list sadly including my Mother and Grandmother, so to have this slightly podgy, red headed masseur get a good eyeful was simultaneously unnerving and exciting. I’ve never managed to get a good look myself but I’m sure it isn’t pleasant what with all the hair and spots, not to mention the possibility of some old brown residue, so I didn’t envy Caroline, not by any means.
If she’d given me a running commentary on what she was up to I might have had a clearer picture of her thoughts on the situation but instead she chose to rub my bare ass in silence. Pathetically, her reluctance to talk not only added to the suspense but to my growing arousal as well. I did think it was morally wrong to get a stiffy on a masseurs table but, sadly, whilst I was weighing up my options she left my butt cheeks and began working her oily magic on my mole ridden back.
It wasn’t the most soothing of experiences initially. Her fingers were so deep into my skin it was as if she was digging for treasure and when she started using her elbows to ‘get the knots out’ I had to grip the bed and fight the urge to squeal like a girl. I did wonder if we’d met in a previous life and this was Caroline’s way of getting her revenge but after five minutes of kneading my back like dough she moved again, this time to my shoulders, nestling her breasts on my elbow in the process. Of course, at that point things started to perk up again.
“How’s that for you?” she gently asked.
I lethargically mumbled a “good thanks” but it was more than good because I was getting a real kick from her bangers rubbing up and down my right elbow. Realistically, a nipple or two resting on any part of a limb shouldn’t be the most erotic scenario in the world but when you’re deprived of sex it’s difficult to control your natural urges so when she moved to massage my neck and her breasts moved with her, dangling over my head, I had to try and think of those mushrooms again. Many aspects of a woman arouse a man but his senses are even more tuned in when he’s been months without action which is why the mere inkling of a breast was sending mine wild.
Worryingly, I could feel the little fella slowly rising, battling the moralistic instinct not to be a pervert but being slightly led astray by uncontrollable nerve cells as they readied me for action. I knew that if Terence Junior stood to attention I could have been scuttled off to prison for a violation of the masseurs code of conduct but, much to my relief, she explored my neck and shoulders for such a long time that not only did Terence Junior go to sleep but I did as well. My slumber was the result of a combination of her therapeutic hands, the hippy incense which burnt away in the corner of the room and the melodic tones of a pod of whales. I was in such a catatonic state that when I did lift my lids I was rather taken aback to see her tiny white pumps directly underneath me, swimming in a pool of my saliva which had accumulated at her feet. My drool stretched from the floor, past her hairy knee caps and up to my mouth which, at the time, was wide open and rather moist. This, of course, provided a fresh dilemma which was how to get rid of the swimming pool of spit without drawing attention to it.
I couldn’t really wipe it away with my hands, not when they were rigidly positioned by my side so instead I was left to cringe as my attempts to quietly and strategically suck my saliva up did not come to fruition, both of our ears damaged by the long and stomach churning drainage noise as a good metre of drool returned to my muculent throat. I froze, body rigid; feeling her hands lift from my shoulders. My guess was that she moved them to her mouth, in an attempt to stop her vomit from being deposited onto my moley, but now relaxed, back. An awkward few seconds ensued where clearly neither of us knew what to do or say but both understood the hideousness of my actions. I have always hated long silences however and feeling compelled to say anything, no matter how stupid, broke the ice by uttering “I’m sorry” before burying my face further into the table to hide my beaming red cranium.
Still, a simple ‘that’s okay’ would have eased my embarrassment but she gave me the cold shoulder and remained silent, no doubt awaiting the moment I would leave before she rang her other masseur buddies to share hideous story of today’s hideous clients. I would be forever known in the industry as Sir Slurps-A-Lot. Needless to say, I decided right there and then it would be my final massage session, a session which Caroline ended not long after. I had gone from being a nipple away from consensual sex to making some young professional, trying to earn an honest living, question why she massaged drooling young men for an occupation. Sir Slurps-A-Lot had struck for the first and very last time.