Massaging Nate

NATE

Have you ever noticed that things seem to go wrong at the most inconvenient times?

Like discovering that you have a flat tyre when you're heading home after a night out? And it's raining!

Or that your credit card is `somehow' maxed out when you go to pay for a trolley load of groceries at the check-out?

Recently, I was about to leave home for an early game of golf, when I discovered that my ensuite floor was wet.

And, it wasn't just a small puddle of water; the whole floor was `covered'. Well, almost. Water wasn't flowing out into my massage room. Yet. Thankfully, the sloping floor was inclined in my favour and water was pooling over the drain in the tiled floor, which seemed partially clogged.

I didn't panic. My immediate reaction was to grab some towels from my shelf, roll them and lay them like a dam between the ensuite and my massage room, preventing any leakage onto the carpet. Then, I ran to shut off the water at the meter.

I ran back and using another towel, and, after removing a leaf and some hair, I began assisting the water on the floor towards the drain, like herding sheep.

With that under control, and no new water obviously flowing, the next step was to call a plumber. Where would I find a plumber? The refrigerator!

I was glad that I had stuck the magnetised flyer from the letter box on there, instead of binning it one day with all of the other unsolicited paraphernalia!

"Not until 3pm?" I asked, having explained my problem and what action I had already taken. "All right. Thank you."

I gave him my address and my phone number. And my name.

"I'll ring you, Rob" he told me, "when I'm about 15 minutes away."

And it was agreed.

And with nothing else to be done, I headed off for golf. And, I wasn't going to be late!

I was back by 2:15, and in a good mood after taking out my frustrations on the golf ball.

I set about mopping up, as best as I could, by squeezing out all of the wet towels and putting them into the washing machine.

2:45 and 2:50 passed and I started to worry that my `tradie' was not going to show up. Some tradesmen promise a time and then don't front. Or ring. I was becoming, not nervous, a little angry!

At 2:55 my phone rings. "Yes. Yes. Oh, that's fine. Thank you, Dave. See you then."

He will only be another 10 minutes!

Time for a coffee.

I wait outside, so that there is no chance that he will miss me.

I see a van slowing and, reading the signage on the side, I wave and direct him to pull up my driveway beside the house.

"Dave?" I ask as he gets out.

"Yes," he answers with a cheerful smile. "And you're Rob?"

As we shake hands, a second person alights from the passenger's side and joins us. "This is Nate, my apprentice," Dave tells me.

I shake his hand. Unlike his boss, Nate is young, not overweight, and is sporting a very short haircut; maybe a number 2 or 3 clip, all over, and the stubble that remains is blonde.

I automatically glance to check out his body. However, with a loose shirt and oversized shorts, there is not much to ogle. I settle for admiring the excellent muscle tone of his visible arms and legs. Blonde, fine-haired legs.

Dave, ready for action, asks, "So, where is the problem, Rob?"

I lead them both through my side entrance to the ensuite.

"It's not as bad now as it was earlier," I comment. "Before I mopped it up, this whole area was covered in water, and I'm glad that the floor slopes towards the drain."

"Any idea where the water was coming from?" Dave asks me.

"Well, I don't think that it was the shower," I reply. "The floor in the shower wasn't wet, and there were no drips from the shower head or the taps. So that only leaves the basin or the toilet."

Dave suggests, "Why don't you go and turn the water back on, while I watch here to see what happens."

I head out to the front of the house, turn the tap fully anti-clockwise and wait.

"Stop!" I hear, loudly relayed by Nate from the driveway.

I tighten the tap off, and hurry to see what Dave has found.

I discover a wet floor, with water disappearing into the drain.

"The good news," Dave tells me, "is that it's not a major problem. The plastic toilet fill valve nut at the base of the tank is fractured."

"That still sounds bad," I comment. "Can you fix it?"

"There are two possible solutions," Dave tells me. "I can silicon around it and seal it, but there is no guarantee as to how long it will last, seeing that the whole seal seems rather brittle. Or I can duck down to the local plumbing supplies and get one, seeing that I don't have any of that type in the van. Sorry about that! Probably about 15 minutes there and back."

"What would you do if it was yours?" I ask. (My Nan had taught me to ask that question.)

"New one from the supplier," Dave answers.

"Then, let's do it!" I tell him.

Dave turns to Nate and tells him, "Mate, if you disconnect everything, it will be ready to go as soon as I get back."

"Sure, Dave," Nate replies. "I'll get the tools from the van."

They both leave together.

I hear Dave's van drive off. Nate returns.

"This shouldn't take me more than a couple of minutes, Mr Armstrong," Nate tells me.

"Call me Rob, please Nate," I tell him.

He replies, "Dave told me not to call clients by their first name; that it wasn't polite for somebody my age."

"It's OK," I tell him. "I'll tell Dave that I asked you to call me `Rob'. Don't be concerned about it!" And I ask, "How old are you, by the way?"

He smiles at me, "Seventeen. Last month."

He looks younger.

As Nate begins to remove and undo the relevant pieces of the toilet suite, and taking evasive action from a single surge of water, we have a brief conversation.

"So, do you drive?" I ask, casually.

"Well, I've had my licence for a month. Got it on my birthday," he replies. I can see the excitement on his face. "But I don't have my own car yet. My mum lets me use hers. Sometimes."

"Brothers or sisters?"

"One sister."

"Play any sport?"

"Cricket in the summer. Footy in the winter. But I like tennis and golf too."

"Nate is an interesting name," I say. "Where does that come from?"

"It's actually `Nathanial', but one of my uncles used to always say, `Great Nate'. It seemed to catch on. Family and friends. Even the teachers at school started to call me that."

"That's great, Nate!" I say, and then realise what has come out of my mouth. I look at him. He grins, and I laugh, "I see what you mean!"

"Finished!" he tells me, carefully arranging the `good' pieces to one side for Dave to re-use. He shows me the brittle piece of plastic then comments, "It's a wonder that it's lasted so long. It looks as though it's about to crumble."

I invite him through to my massage room to take a seat. He removes his boots. I offer him a coffee or a soft drink. "Thank you, but I'm good," he tells me.

He scans my framed qualifications on the wall. I can see him putting some big pieces of a very simple puzzle together.

"Ever had a massage?" I ask.

"No, but I've seen massage places advertised in the local paper," he comments, with some apparent reserve.

"And what do you think about them?" I ask him.

"I'm not sure. I think that I'd like to try a massage, but..." He pauses.

"But what, Nate?" I ask. I can tell that he has something on his mind which is having trouble finding its way out through his mouth.

"Well, most of the ads say something like `young, sexy woman for your pleasure'."

"And...?" I ask. "As a matter of interest, do they tell you how much they charge?"

"No. How much do you charge, Mr... I mean, Rob?"

I answer, with a smile, "For a one-hour massage? Fifty. Cash."

There is a moment of silence. He can't be doing any maths. It's simple.

However, I suppose that now Nate has begun talking, it's easier for him to keep going. He asks, "What do they do, exactly when they massage you?"

I'm starting to tune in to the reason for his hesitancy.

"Nate, so, you've never had a massage before?" I repeat his earlier information.

"No," is his simple answer again, and I sense some hesitancy. Maybe he's just sailing in uncharted waters.

He turns from me and focuses again on my qualifications, more closely, as if looking for an answer to a question that he is unable to ask.

I help out. "That one," I say, following his gaze, "is to help people who have sports injuries. You know, corked thigh, twisted ankle, dislocated shoulder, and the like. Usually incurred playing football or in some other game. Also to help athletes before and after any strenuous exercise."

"Uh-huh," he hums more than using actual words.

"And the one next to it," I continue, "is about helping people who have specific muscular aches and pains. `Remedial' really means to `help make it better', to help fix whatever the problem is."

"What about this one?" he asks pointing to the `Swedish Massage'. "What's that word?"

"Swedish Massage," I say. "It's the adjective from `Sweden', the country."

"Is it massaging people the way that they do it in Sweden? What does that mean?" he asks.

"It's actually more for relaxation and stress relief," I say. "Sometimes people just like to feel another person easing away their tension and helping their whole body to relax. Maybe they do it a lot in Sweden. I don't know, really."

"I think that's what I need," he says, showing me the semblance of a smile. Then, he nervously asks, "Did you say their `whole body'?"

"Yes," I answer. "Except for the parts that you don't want massaged. For example, professionally, there are parts of a woman's body that I wouldn't massage unless she specifically asked me to."

"What about a guy?" he asks. "Would you do his whole body if he asked you to?"

Interesting question!

"What a person wants is one of the things that we discuss before I begin, Nate, so that there is no misunderstanding. Apart from specific needs, as a general rule, I say, `If I can see it, I can massage it' and then leave it to them as to how much clothing they leave on or take off, or what they want covered with a towel.

"OK," he says, thoughtfully.

I have an amusing suspicion of where this could be going, so I tell him, "So, if a guy leaves his undies or Speedos on, that tells me something. But, if he takes everything off, for me to see, that tells me something else, which I would need to confirm. Does that make sense?"

"Yes. Got it. Thank you, Rob. That tells me a lot." He's now smiling and relaxed.

He continues to look around and spots my business cards, and points. "May I have one of those, please, Rob?"

"Sure," I say. "Take a few, if you like. One of your footy mates might need one sometime. And, you can call me anytime if you have any questions."

Nate smiles and thanks me.

We hear Dave's van pull up in the driveway, and we return to the ensuite. Nate pulls his boots on, then heads outside.

The repairs are effected quickly. The water flow is restored. The toilet-flushing is tested. No leaks. All good.

"I'll send you an invoice if you give me your email address," Dave tells me.

"Would you take cash now?" I ask.

He apologises for the cost for such a small job. I negotiate. He's happy. I pay. I'm happy. And, I suspect that Nate is happy. He smiles and extends his hand. We bump fists.

"Hello, this is Rob," I answer my phone to an unknown number.

"Hello Rob. This is Nate, Dave the plumber's apprentice." I hear.

"Great Nate!" I reply, and I hear him laugh. "It seems like only yesterday that you were here talking with me."

"That's because it was only yesterday, Rob," he chuckles.

"So, what's on your mind Nate, mate?" I ask, ensuring that the rhyming is obvious.

"Yeah, I've heard that one too," he says, and I can almost hear him smiling. He goes on, "Rob, Dave told me that we will finish tomorrow at lunchtime and I wonder whether you would have time to give me a Swedish massage, sometime in the afternoon?"

I check. No afternoon bookings, which is common for a Friday. "How would 3:00 suit you? Would that give you time to get home and have a shower and get back to my place?"

"Perfect!" he replies. "Thanks, Rob. See you tomorrow."

Friday. Three o'clock. On the dot. A car pulls into my driveway.

I'm expecting somebody to drop Nate off, so I go out to greet whoever is there.

The older Holden has red `P' plates on the front. I point at them as Nate clambers out. "It's my mum's," he tells me. "She said that I could borrow it, seeing that we don't live too far from here."

I look at Nate. What I see today more than makes up for what his baggy clothes covered yesterday. Everything that he is wearing shows off his slimness. And his defined torso. Not to mention the round lump in his groin area.

His plain white T-shirt, with a surf motif in pastel colours clings to his torso. It shows off his firm, but not overly-large pecs, and also his flat stomach, with discernible indentations indicating that he has abs.

His mottled pale blue jeans, far from hanging on him like his baggy work shorts, cling to him. His apparently-muscled-without-being-bulky thighs are supporting above them everything that comprises his manhood. Nothing is overly big, but still large enough to form the distinguishable roundness. It's almost as though there is a pouch in front, holding everything in place.

When my eyes make it back to his face, he is watching me. He smiles. Actually, he grins. Or, to be more precise, it's more of a smirk.

He's caught me, checking him out!

Instead of embarrassing myself further by making some stupid comment to cover up or absolve myself, I say, "Come in mate, ..." I am about to add `...Nate', but consider that it would sound too cheesy!

We go through the ensuite and I point out that there is no water on the floor. "Good job!" I tell him.

"I'm glad that we were able to fix it for you," he tells me.

I invite him to sit while we `do the paperwork'. He looks scared.

From the moment that he begins with filling in his name, I can tell that literacy is not one of his strong points. He labours over the misshapen letters.

I don't offer to help, allowing him the self-respect and satisfaction of completing the basics; name, address, mobile phone number and date of birth.

"Thanks, Nate," I tell him, then, putting out my hand for the sheet of paper, I ask him the other questions, making notes as he responds, as though it is my normal practice.

He relaxes. I can tell that `paper work' has been a real problem for him in the past, and I decide not to dodge `the elephant in the room', hopefully to relieve him of any potential embarrassment that he might feel by me avoiding it.

"So, how was school for you?" I put to him. "Tough?"

"Yes, very," he replies. "Actually, I hated it and I left as soon as I was old enough."

I don't comment, and the silence almost compels him to continue.

"I was always the class dummy. The boys used to bully me and the girls used to laugh at me. I don't know which was worse," he says. There is a slight misting in his eyes.

"Well, look at you now," I say, trying to be as encouraging as possible. "You have a job, you speak well, you are polite, and obviously very intelligent from what I saw and heard yesterday, and you are a handsome young man who has looked after your body and who can play a variety of sports. Well done!"

I think that he wants to respond, but appears restrained by emotion. The mistiness in his eyes thickens and a tear overflows, which he quickly removes with a finger.

"So, at seventeen," I comment, "you must be nearly finished your TAFE course. How have you found that?"

"I make do, but don't read and write to well," he confesses, taking a huge breath, filling his lungs with air and his heart with a measure of confidence, "but I have an excellent memory and can repeat almost everything that I hear. The TAFE teachers give me exams orally, and Dave helps me with anything that I have to do on paper. It's pretty embarrassing if I have to get my little sister to help me at home, but she's good about it. I like to look at the local newspaper and see what words I can make out and understand. I'm getting better."

I don't ask about his parents, but during a getting-to-know-you conversation, I discover that he and his 9-year old sister had different fathers and that his mother works long hours as a cleaner and that she is raising them alone. Her money pays the rent, and what he contributes buys the food and pays the other bills.

"So, what do you do with friends?" I ask him. "Do you go out and do stuff together?"

"I don't have any friends," Nate tells me, with sad eyes. "Even the guys in my footy and cricket teams don't want me to hang out with them."

"Girlfriends?" I ask, smiling.

"Don't even go there!" he says, as though that's another sore point, or a `can of worms'.

Before this becomes too morbid, I ask, "So life can be pretty stressful, eh? Enough to need a good Swedish massage? Maybe regularly?"

"That would be nice," Nate replies. "But I couldn't afford anything regular. Once, though, will be enough for me to remember."

"So, what part of your body is the most stressed?" I ask him. "What would you like me to work on the most?"

"What about my `whole body'?" he asks coyly. "You did say, yesterday, that you would do the `whole body' for someone if they wanted you to."

"Yes, I did," I tell him. "And I also said that if I can see it, I'll massage it."

"You promise?" he asks.

"Of course!" I tell him. "But, I have one rule."

His face changes instantly from grinning to expressionless. "What's that?"

"What happens in the room, stays in the room. You don't tell; I don't tell." I say to him. "Do you understand? And do you agree?"

"So, nobody will know?" he asks, expectantly and brightening. "Not ever?"

"You agree not to tell anyone, and I can assure you that I won't." I say. "I don't talk about my clients to anybody. I call it my `House Rule'."

I exchange his grin with a smile.

"Ready?" I put to him. "Take off what you want to, then your face goes in the hole at that end of the table, and you rest your feet over the bolster at this end."

He removes his well-worn sneakers. No socks. Then he strips off his T-shirt, revealing defined muscles on his slim frame.

He stands, unzips his jeans – with no belt – then sits again and begins to peel them from his legs, pushing the waist to below his knees and then tugging from the bottoms, over his feet.

He stands and steps away from them. He is left standing in his boyish-sized briefs with blue and white horizontal bars, the variations in which identify very clearly what they are concealing. Then, when he hooks his thumbs into the waistband, I know instantly what he is about to do, and what he wants. He looks at my eyes and repeats, "House Rule?"

I nod.

"It's not very big," he adds, nervously, almost apologetically.

"Size doesn't matter," I reassure him, admiring the near-perfection of his youthful body. Despite being seventeen and `of legal age', he could easily be taken for a fourteen-year old.

I see him take a deep breath before his thumbs push his underpants to his ankles. Then he straightens up. He stares at me, grinning. "You did say the whole body, Rob, didn't you?"

"It's OK, mate," I say, "I'll do that for you. Just relax."

I observe his crayon-thickish penis begin to lengthen then rise. It isn't large, as he told me, but it's not small either. It's a `grower'. It perfectly complements his slim body, with any lack of bulk being compensated by his pair of ample, hairless balls. Overall, a very handsome body.

He takes up his position on the massage bed, and reaches underneath him to make a comfort adjustment, then allows both arms to dangle over the edge of the bed.

I rest one hand on his upper back, and the other on his glutes. "Relax, Nate!" I say again.

"I am relaxed," I hear from under the table, where his mouth is exposed.

"You're not!" I tell him. "I can tell from your glutes. They are contracted. Let go!"

Now, I'm not complaining about his glutes! They are firm, round and smallish, like two good-sized and plump grapefruit-halves attached to his body. I give them a friendly slap.

"Hey!" Nate complains. "What was that for?"

"It had the desired effect," I tell him. "At first you tightened them, and then you relaxed them. Can't you feel the difference?"

"Yes, actually," Nate says, then says, "I hope that you didn't leave a hand print!"

"Of course I did!" I say. "Not!" Then I add, "OK. Let's practise contracting and relaxing, so that you know how to do it."

<<Slap!>> Contract. Then relax.

"Now do it without the handprint," I tell him, laughing.

He does.

"Perfect," I compliment him. "Let's try to stay relaxed, eh?"

"Isn't that what the Swedish massage is actually for?" he asks. "To help me relax?"

"It's not my normal routine to slap people to help them relax," I say. "You have to help too! Now, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly."

He does, and I see a general un-tensing across his whole body.

"Great, Nate!" I say, smiling at my rhyme. "Do it again."

Finally, with none of his muscles visibly taut, I stand by his hip, and begin to lightly rub his body, with long strokes from his shoulders to his calves. Multiple times. Moving to do both sides of his body. His back is hairless. His glutes are covered in short, blond fuzz which turns into hair the lower down my hands reach. There is fine, blond hair on his calves.

With his body now accustomed to the feel of my hands, I drizzle some massage oil the length of his body and lightly spread it. All over. And I begin to increase the pressure. Not to perform any remediation, but to soften and relax Nate's muscles.

"How are you going?" I ask him.

"That feels really nice," he replies.

"Just remember to keep breathing. OK?" I remind him.

"Sure thing," he tells me, and takes another deep breath and exhales.

I move towards his feet, massage them and include some reflexology.

"That feels so good," me mumbles.

Taking one foot in each hand, I set his legs farther apart and begin to massage up his calves, up his thighs, across his glutes and up his back. Doing each thigh separately, I allow my fingers to dip deeply and make light contact with his balls as I go.

He shudders.

"You relaxing?" I ask. "We did agree on `whole body', remember?"

"Haha. All good," he tells me, which is a `green light'.

So, his balls come in for some light caressing, and his hard perineum receives some firmer stroking.

As I move towards his head, I trail a single finger between his glutes, running it across the indentation.

He shudders but says nothing.

"Whole body!" I remind him.

I hear a giggle from beneath the table.

Standing at his head, I massage firmly down his back, across his glutes then run my palms lightly up his sides, under his armpits, over his shoulders and then up to the base of his skull, ready to start again.

The second time, I add a little variation. As I massage his glutes, I stretch them sideways which separates them. I know that this feels good.

I repeat this routine, but, at the top, this third time, I continue stretching into his scalp. This is also a feel-good.

His faint moans send me a signal that he likes this, so I repeat the whole action a few more times.

And he finally seems to have relaxed.

"If your arms get tired, it's OK to move them from dangling to somewhere else," I tell him. "Either by your sides or up near your head."

He tries them by his sides but settles for them lightly gripping the end of the table above his head.

I move around his body, rubbing, feeling, pressing, squeezing and stroking, all of which is to help him relax. His glutes come in for a bit of extra attention. I enjoy the feel of their relaxed firmness.

Before I get him to turn over, I want to try something, to see how he reacts.

I move back to behind his head. As I stroke down his back towards his glutes, my body comes to rest against his hands. Well, that part of my body which is at the same level as the table, does. It's not stiff, but chunky. I enclose his glutes in my hands, squeeze them and then pull back towards his lower back.

When I do it again, I think he realises exactly what is resting against his hands, which he moves slightly from side to side and flexes his fingers, as if to confirm what he is thinking.

"House rule!" I tell him.

"You don't tell, and I don't tell, right?" I hear him respond.

Ostensibly to massage his upper and lower back and glutes, I remain at the head of the table and continue stroking. This also allows him some freedom with his hands. His tentativeness soon becomes confidence. And I stay a little longer.

"OK, ready for the big reveal?" I ask him, jovially. "Time to turn over."

"I don't know about `big'!" he says. "But it's OK. I'm not worried any more. Thanks."

He rotates onto his back and I adjust the bolster to under his knees and I give him a rolled towel on which to rest his head.

"Hands by your side, so that I can do your chest," I tell him. "Then you can put them wherever they're comfortable."

His penis is rigid. So much so, that it is standing to attention off his abdomen. I can't imagine it being any stiffer.

I remain behind his head and give his shoulders and pecs and abs a light, oil-less caress. Lightly down, lightly up, lightly down, lightly up, firmly down. The light strokes are like tickling which highly sensitises the skin. The final firm stroke releases the tension. And I repeat it.

I repeat it all with a little oil.

"Oh, that feels really good," Nate groans.

As I push down his body, my hands come into contact, lightly and briefly, with the head of his penis, which twitches at my touch. His balls gyrate in their sacs.

I move to stand by his knees and massage his thighs. Upwards. I avoid his balls by diverting my hands from the inside of his thighs onto his upper quads at the last moment. Both sides.

I have deliberately avoided full contact with his cock and balls, leaving them until last.

He can sense that has been missed. Obviously. He raises his head to me and says, "Whole body, Rob. You promised."

"I'm getting there, Nate," I say. "Don't worry!"

He smiles at me, lays his head down and closes his eyes.

I don't want to tease him, so I run the palm of my hand up the inside of his thigh and allow my fingers to cradle his balls.

He groans. And a large bead of pre-cum appears.

I repeat my action. His groaning is repeated. The emergence of pre-cum is repeated and a long thread drips onto his lower abs.

Again. This time I hold his balls in the palm of my hand and deliberately have a good feel of them. I finish by tickling them. His cock releases more oiliness.

Again, except, this time, I continue up the length of his stiffness, using whatever pre-cum is still on his cock head and spread it downwards. Firmly. Slippery.

"Shit!" he exclaims, then apologises.

I focus on his cock, using new releases of pre-cum to massage down and up.

His body shivers.

I massage. He shivers.

I speed up, then back off to a stimulating slowness.

I use my other hand to raise his flagpole to vertical, then rub it, varying my speed and grip.

"Faaark!" come out of his mouth. "That feels so amazing."

Whether it is accidental or purposeful, his hand, touching the front of my track pants, discovers my own rigidity.

He doesn't look. He doesn't ask. He doesn't hesitate. He grasps it, at which he groans with pleasure and I feel his cock begin to throb.

"You want to come now or wait?" I say to him softly.

"Do it," he groans.

I feel his hand tighten on my cock, as if gripping a hand rail for stability.

I begin to jerk him rapidly, then slowly. Then again.

His body begins to quiver and shake and tremble. He raises his hips and he freezes. I hold my fist still and his cock, almost fully enveloped, erupts as he emits a loud "Aaargh!"

Four massive spurts! His body relaxes back onto the bed, but shivers with each subsequent, diminishing release.

Then, he totally collapses into a post-euphoric serenity.

His grip on my cock relaxes. I take his hand and lay it across his body.

"Don't speak. Don't move," I say, softly. "Rest and relax. And breathe so that I know you are alive."

He smiles, takes a deep breath and lets it out.

I clean up his streaks of pleasure, then ensure that both hands are resting on his chest.

I cover his body with a large towel and tell him to "Rest now."

I wash my hands, then sit and synchronise my breathing with the rise and fall of his chest.

After many minutes, his eyes open.

I stand and move to where he can see me.

"So, was that OK for a first massage?" I ask him, smiling. "Whole body."

I see tears escape from the external corners of both eyes.

"Aou all right?" I ask, somewhat concerned.

"Thank you," he whispers. He takes another deep breath and smiles. "I had no idea that it could feel as good as that! OMG!"

"Anybody ever done that for you before?" I ask.

"Nobody!" he answers, tentatively. "Like I said, I've never had a friend."

"Would you like a friend?" I put to him, and I watch his face.

"What kind of friend?" He replies.

"Maybe one who could give you a massage, and even help you with your reading? And play golf with you?"

"Are you serious?" he asks, and I see more tears form in his eyes. "Do you mean you?"

"You don't have to answer now," I tell him. "You can think about it."

"Why?" he asks.

"Why not?" I reply.

"What could I give you in return?" he manages, emotionally, probably thinking `nothing'.

"How about the pleasure of making you happy and helping you?" I answer.

"What about you?" Nate asks. "Wouldn't you want me to help you too? Like before. I know that you were hard too, but you didn't get off."

"You could always help me, if wanted to," I smile at him. "If it would make you happy to do it. Of course I would enjoy it, but not if you didn't really want to do it."

He is silent. For a while. "Would you teach me to massage you, like you did to me?"

"So, it's about the technique, is it? And size doesn't matter?" I ask, smiling.

"Not any more it doesn't!" he reacts, grinning at me. "Thank you so much!"

I help him off the table. His first action, with his feet on the floor, is to give me a hug. No matter that he is still naked and we are pressing groin on groin.

He starts to put on his clothes and reaches into his jeans pocket, retrieves his wallet and pulls out $50. He hands it to me and says, "Thank you so much. Could we really be friends?"

"There are rules," I tell him, grinning. "House Rules!"

"Oh, yes," he replies, also grinning, broadly. "I don't tell; you don't tell. I could handle that. Secret friends!"

I hand him back his $50.

"What's wrong with the money? he asks. "You did tell me $50."

"I would never allow a friend of mine to pay for a massage," I tell him, putting an arm over his shoulder. "Why don't you buy your mother some chocolates, and tell her that you love her?"

I walk him to his mother's car. He has tears in his eyes.

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.

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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' and `Marco'.
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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