Massage Tales: Massaging Oliver

OLIVER

Any time that I hear the name `Oliver', it automatically brings back memories of the Lionel Bart's musical movie of that name.

I often imagined myself playing the role of Fagin, offering a secure and friendly home to a dozen or so vagrant youths, whether homeless by choice or through unfortunate circumstances. An imagined on‑stage performance manifests, firstly, as a fanciful reverie, and then, in more detail, while I'm asleep at night.

Amongst a lot of the movie scenes which are replayed in my mind, the words which return to my mind most prominently are, `Please, Sir, I want some more'.

It has crossed my mind, more than once, how amusing it would be if a massage client, named Oliver, was to pose that same wish to me after a session of pain and stress relief on my table.

The plausible improbable!

"Hello, this is Rob," I answer, to the previously un-stored number on the screen of my mobile phone.

"Hello Rob," I hear. "My name is Oliver Thompson. One of my friends gave me your number."

Have you ever wondered how many thoughts can pass through your mind in two seconds?

"How may I help you, Oliver?" my mouth asks, while my mind hurries to catch up.

I hear, "I've put my back out, and it's giving me hell!" It is said with discernible pain.

"I'd be happy to take a look at it for you, if you like". I reply, without giving him `the third degree' on the phone. "When would you like to come in?"

"Any chance that you can see me today?" he asks.

"I'm pretty busy until 4:30," I answer. "But, I have clear sailing after that. Will you be able to get here by then?"

He replies, "The time is OK. It will be a bit awkward getting into the car, but once I relax into the seat, it's not too bad. However, the worst part will be getting out!"

"Do you have somebody who could drive you?" I ask.

"I tried that yesterday," Oliver tells me, "and it was murder! At least, if I drive myself, I'll have the steering wheel to hang onto for a bit of extra support!"

"All right, Oliver," I say. "I have your phone number on screen. I'll SMS you all of my details, and see you at 4:30".

"Thank you, Rob," he replies. "I'll see you then."

I message Oliver my address, some directions regarding the side entrance, the cost, and I re-state the agreed appointment time.

My 3 o'clock appointment has just cancelled. So, with my room previously set up, it's ready for Oliver's bad back. I have time to fit in an afternoon snack. Actually, it's a very late lunch.

Slightly before 4:00 I hear him pull into the driveway. I can tell from the throaty growl, that it's not a small sedan. Also, I can always distinguish between a petrol engine and a diesel.

I wander out and see a late-model, dual-cab utility with `Oliver's Outdoors' emblazoned across the back and front doors, and his mobile phone number.

Quickly running my eyes over what I can see in the tray of the ute, I conclude that he's a builder of some description, but more likely, given the signage, a landscaper.

The door opens, partially.

"Rob?" he asks.

"Yes, you're in the right place, and you must be Oliver." I respond.

He nods.

I can tell that he is struggling, so I pull the driver's door fully open to allow him as much freedom as possible.

He swivels his legs, knees together, out of the door and gingerly edges his body forwards, using the seat for support. His hands emerge, grip the top of the door frame, and I see him use the strength of his arms to assist his very tentative movements.

"It's a good thing that the seat is up this high," he groans to me, while undergoing the painful transition. "I'd never be able to get out of anything lower."

"Do you need a hand?" I ask him.

"It's OK, thanks," he replies with a forced smile. "I've managed to get this down pat after half a dozen practices at home!"

While still holding on to the frame for support, he lowers both feet to the ground, ankles together.

Transferring his full weight from his hands to his feet is accompanied by a spasm, a grimace and a restrained groan. I watch as he huffs and puffs and slowly straightens his knees until he is fully upright.

"That wasn't so bad," he grins through gritted teeth. "They say that practice makes perfect. However, I'm not after perfection at doing this! Just relief."

"Come in, Oliver," I tell him, and begin to lead the way. As he shoves the door closed with his elbow, he winces. And groans.

"You OK?" I ask, turning and keeping close to him. "You sure that you don't need a hand, or a shoulder to lean on?"

"Thanks," he replies, shuffling forward, "but I can manage."

I hold the outside and inside doors open so that he only needs to concentrate on moving his feet and body forward.

I point towards the chair, but his face says, `NO', even though his mouth doesn't. I guess that it's the lowish height that worries him.

"Or you can just lean on the massage table, if you like," I say. "It's about backside-height."

He eases himself into a mostly-standing, partially-sitting position, and I can see the muscles, which had been holding his body in a taut position, begin to relax. It's like, in slow motion, letting go of the strings of a marionette.

"So, Oliver," I begin, "why don't you tell me a bit about yourself and what happened. And I'll make a few notes while you're talking. Is that OK?"

"Sure," he says, then takes a big breath. "I set up my own business, garden design and construction, about two years ago. It can be pretty heavy work at times, and I'm usually really careful to do things safely. You know, `bend the knees' and all that WHS stuff."

"So, did you forget to `bend zee knees'?" as I often heard my German ski instructor tell me.

That causes him to laugh once, spasm twice and groan loudly.

"No. And please don't make me laugh. It hurts," he pleads, with a wrinkled forehead. He continues, "Early yesterday, I was helping out at the local surf club. It was just a general clean-up. I volunteered to deal with one corner that seemed to have accumulated a whole lot of `old' stuff and too many miscellaneous bits and pieces."

He pauses, takes a few deep breaths, groans at the effort, and continues, "I was doing pretty well until I got to one of our old surf reels that they don't use any more for general life-saving duties, and I thought that I would just move it a little out of the way so that I could get behind it and sweep. There was nobody else nearby to help me so I bent down, grabbed it on both edges and went to lift it to the side. It was heavier than I had anticipated, and bingo! I felt my back give way, with the most excruciating pain."

I'm tempted to make some smart-alec comment about him knowing better than to bend, lift and twist all at the same time, given the work that he does. However, I can tell that he would not be in the mood for a professional rebuke, even a mild one.

"To cut a long story short," he says, "I had to get one of my friends to drive me home, which is when I discovered that being a passenger was absolute torture! He assisted me inside the house, got me to stretch out on the carpet, and applied a packet of frozen peas in a tea towel to my back to help reduce any inflammation. Getting down wasn't easy, even with him taking most of my weight. Another guy drove my car back from the surf club and the two of them went back to the club together. They said that they'd look in on me later."

"And they just left you there?" I ask, displaying a measure of sympathy for the situation.

"After about two hours I was feeling very comfortable and mostly relaxed, until I needed to take a leak," Oliver says. "And it was only then that I realised that lying down with a bag of defrosting peas on my back wasn't going to make the pain go away. And, that I definitely should think about chucking away my Superman T-shirt."

I comment, "Well, Superman T-shirt or not, I can tell from the tone of your muscles that you are still in pretty good shape."

"Yeah, well, a fat lot of good that did me yesterday!" he groans, and tells me the incredible and painful saga of getting his body to the bathroom. Just in time! He crawled back to his bedroom next door to the toilet and that's where his friends found him when they returned.

We complete the `formalities' on paper, and then I tell him, "OK, the hard bit is going to be getting you onto the table, face down."

The expression on his face isn't one of terror, but it's far from expressing pleasure either.

"I'll need your shirt and trackies off, so I can work into the bad boys," I tell him.

His shoes come off relatively easily, one foot assisted by the other, stability provided by his claw-like grip on the massage table.

He takes hold of the bottom of his shirt and makes tentative moves to pull it over his head.

"Would you mind helping?" he asks. "It's a bit restrictive."

I help him to lose the shirt in a matter of seconds.

"What about the trackies?" I ask. "Need a hand?"

"Do you mind helping with them too?" he says, tentatively.

I reply, "If you undo any cords, I do the rest for you."

He unties the cord and eases them down his thighs as far as his fingers are able to push them. I can see the limit of his capability, when he winces and groans.

"That'll do!" I say. "I'll take over from here."

They are reasonably tight, the opposite of my oversized ones. I kneel in front of him and pull them to the floor.

"How on earth did you get these on?" I ask him.

He grins. "I held the left side with my left hand and managed to get my right foot in the right leg because it was so close to the ground. Then I dropped them onto the floor and worked my left toes and foot into the position inside the leg. Next, I used a wire coat hanger which I had bent out of shape so that the hook was at the end. I gradually pulled them up, alternating between sides, to the point where I could reach them with my hands. The Polo shirt was easier."

"No socks?" I put to him.

"I tried it every which way," he tells me. "Talk about mission impossible!"

He is standing, totally undressed, except for his red Speedos, and it's hard to ignore the bulges that I see up front, and which perfectly complement the rest of his muscled body.

"Well, that was painless!" I say.

"Maybe for you," he grins back at me, then begins to laugh until he is reminded of the effect which that has on his back.

"OK. Now for the hard bit," I tell him. "And, from experience it's going to hurt!"

"Great!" he groans.

"I'll help," I tell him and explain the process to him.

He sits on the edge of the massage table and, from behind him, I use the towel to pull as much of his body as possible back towards the middle – until his knees are against the edge of the table.

Then, helping him to rigidly maintain right angles at his hips and knees, I lower him sideways onto the table and the pillow waiting for his head. There is only minimal discomfort.

"Now, Oliver," I tell him, "I want you to totally relax in that position and I will straighten your legs. Don't help me! OK?"

In slow motion, supporting his weight, with only two reminders not to help, I get him straightened out, albeit, resting on his side.

This last bit is tricky!

"OK, we now have to get you onto your stomach, with your face in the hole and your feet over the bolster. Relax! Let me do it!"

Again, I adjust the position of his body, using the towel, then roll him onto his face.

There is some spasming, lots of groaning and a final "Aargh!" of relief, as all of his muscles `let go'.

I attempt to tuck a hand towel into the back of his Speedos.

"Can we loosen these?" I put to him.

He reaches under his stomach with one hand. Then tries to use two. However, getting both hands under his stomach means raising his hips, and... he gives up.

"More help, please, Rob, if you don't mind," he pleads, as if he is causing me to go beyond my normal duty. "We should have done that while I was on my side."

My first attempt at sliding one hand underneath him to locate the long, straight end from the tight bow which I saw, results in me getting a handful of his dick and balls.

"Oops! Really sorry about that, Chief!" I apologise.

"No harm done! It's OK," he reassures me. "I've had a number of the `comedians' down at the surf club check that I wasn't smuggling budgies, more than once! I'm beginning to think that it's a dare which is going around!"

He laughs at his own joke, then greatly regrets it, as his back complains.

"OK," I tell him. "Now that we've got the cord of your red `budgie smuggler' Speedos sorted, I want you to totally relax."

He mutters something and I see an attempt to comply with my instruction.

The towel-tucking is completed and, Speedos too, pulled down to expose his hairless glutes.

"You could just as easily have taken the `smugglers' off altogether!" I hear emanate from beneath the table.

"Yes, I could have done that. Still could, I suppose," I reply. "But I wouldn't do it unless you tell me that's what you want me to do."

There is no further comment, so I begin.

Having seen his extreme reactions to some basic body movements, I try to be as gentle as possible in taking my time and encouraging his back muscles to relax. And his glutes.

I'm tempted to sing, `the backbone's connected to the hip bone..." but am able to restrain myself, at least out loud!

It's when I get around to his QLs that I get the strongest reaction.

"Holy shit!" he yells, spasms almost up off the table and then collapses into a painful heap. "What was that?" he gasps.

"These little buggers," I tell him, "on each side, connect your top half and your bottom half. Your ribs to the pelvis. They stabilise you and help keep you all together, even though you've tried your hardest to rearrange things!"

"Can you go easy, mate?" he pleads.

I take it easy, but it's impossible to avoid causing Oliver some pain as I release and stretch those muscles that are pulling tightly in the wrong directions.

"I'm going to need you on your side," I tell him, "to do a couple of small manipulations to correct some alignments. It shouldn't hurt much, now that I've released a lot of the necessary muscles."

I lied. It's going to hurt! But I need him to be as relaxed as possible. And I pull up his Speedos.

I get him into position and do the manipulation. It hurts. He yells, and mumbles an expletive.

The other side is easier, and we both hear an audible `click'.

"Aha!" I tell him. "I think we've got it. Now I need you to relax, on your back."

"That bloody `r...' word, again," he comments through gritted teeth. However, he manages, with only minimal help, to lie flat, and I adjust the pillow and bolster to make him comfortable.

"Breathe deeply, then let it all out," I say, "and keep going until you are satisfied that you are fully... resting." I grin at him. "See! I didn't use the other `r...' word."

With each breath, I see him settle.

"What I'll do now," I say, "in order to balance your muscle tension front and back, is massage your body, shoulders, arms and legs, to loosen any tightness on the front and to help you stay rel... You know! Then we'll get you on your feet to see the result. Rest your arms by your sides."

I massage the tops of his shoulders and under his neck. Then each arm, right to his fingers.

His upper body is hairless, and I comment on it to him as I massage his pecs and abs. "Like I said before, Oliver, you have a great muscle tone. I can tell that you work them hard."

I'm relishing working on such a great specimen of a man, and I enjoy tracing the lines of his muscles and feeling their firmness.

"Yeah, well these are real, honest work muscles," he replies, smiling for the first time, without pain. "Not one has been artificially manufactured in a gym."

I get him talking about his work, while I progress to his lightly-haired quads, kneading them both down and up. Each time that I work upwards, I notice some movement in his Speedos. At first, it looks like just a somewhat clearer definition of his `budgie'. Then, it starts to swell, slightly, and lengthen, slowly.

I move my hands back to his abdomen and comment, riskily, "How often do you shave your pubes? I can see a light stubble."

With no hesitation, he answers, "Maybe once a week."

Dealing with some pelvic muscles, I work back and forth across the remnant of hair, right at the extreme edge of his Speedos. Actually, I allow my finger tips to dip just below the thin waist band.

There is further movement inside. Sideways.

Leaving my hand resting in this position, I ask, "And do you stop here with the razor, or go further?"

He looks directly at my eyes, perhaps for the first time, and replies, "All the way down to the top of my legs."

"And is that because it looks good, or feels good?" I put to him, cheekily, not knowing how he will respond.

Maintaining his focus on me, and grins, "What? Do you want to find out?"

I'm mildly excited by his comment, and ask, "How?" wondering what he's thinking,

"I think it's time that the Speedos came off," he replies. "Like you said before. Anyway, things seem to be getting somewhat cramped in there."

"Yeah. I noticed," is all that I say, and grin at him.

"You may as well do it," he tells me. "It will be easier than me trying to get them down."

I don't need to prolong any discussion about intent or permission! "OK, if that's what you want," I say.

"Yep. Rip `em off!" he tells me, then grins, "Actually, you'd better not rip them."

I focus on his face while I take hold of the waist band and ease the material over his hips and down to his thighs, adjusting the position of my hands to ease them under his glutes.

"All the way," he tells me.

I take them down his legs and over his feet, then put the rumple of red with his other clothes.

His eyes haven't left my own, as though he is a computerised humanoid, scanning me for any reaction. He's waiting for me to look down. To check him out. I know that he is! And, I'm trying to resist.

"Well, what do you think?" he asks, virtually insisting that I change my focus.

He wins. And, therefore, so do I.

"Nice budgerigar!" I grin. "Actually, more like a rosella, now. And the rest looks good too!"

"Well, that answers your first question!" he says, smirking. "What about the second one?"

I'm almost embarrassed to recall my `looks good or feels good?' words.

I stare at his face.

"Well, you've massaged everything else," he says, "so why stop now? Didn't you hint at wanting to see how everything feels?"

It almost sounds like an apology when I reply, "What I actually intended Oliver was, do you like to look at yourself, shaved, or do you like to feel yourself, hairless?"

"Both! And frequently," he replies. "So, it won't worry me if you want to have a feel too."

I look at his face. He's serious. I didn't actually hear, `Please sir, I want some more,' but the inference was there!

I take some more massage oil, rub both hands together and spread it across his pelvis to the top of his quads. Then I massage his thighs, downwards and upwards, and make no pretence about even trying to avoid his hairless balls.

At first, the backs of my hands brush them. Then I hold them `out of the way' with one palm while I massage the tops of his quads with the other. Both sides. His dick is hard and lying almost straight up to his navel, yet, slightly skewed to one side.

I stand by his hip, reach to his knee and draw my hand up the inside of his thigh. I don't stop when I get to his silky balls and my right hand encompasses them before continuing upwards, wrapping around his firmness, only stopping at the top.

"Hmm," I say. "OK. Looks good AND feels good."

Then, raising his head to look, he just grins.

In good massaging custom, I complete a trio of repetitions.

Then, moving, `to prevent the other side from getting jealous', as I tell him that I sometimes joke with clients, I performing three more similar strokes with my left hand.

He lays his head back, even tilts it farther, and says, "OK, seeing that you've gone that far, you may as well massage the stiffness out of that muscle too!"

"You mean that you want a `happy ending'," I put to him.

He replies, "I'll be happy if the pain in my back has gone. It feels OK at the moment. But you want me to be absolutely relaxed, don't you, Rob?"

"You mean that you want me to jack you off," I say, looking at him.

"Haven't you ever done that for anyone before?" he asks.

I'm hoping that his `friend', whoever it is, hasn't broken my `House Rule' and blabbed about something that I did for him!

"I have a House Rule," I tell him. "What happens in the room, stays in the room. I don't tell and you don't tell! Do you agree?"

"Of course!" he replies. "As if I would tell the guys at the surf club that I let another man stroke the budgie!"

I take the oil and ensure that his entire, hairless crotch, is well drizzled. Then I begin. Slowly. I spread it all around. Balls. Dick. Surrounding shaved skin.

I employ a combination of lightly-tickling and firmly-smoothing.

I ensure that my hand has plenty of oil when I wrap it around the rosella and begin to stroke it. Lightly up. Firmly down.

He groans, although the tone now is different to all of the earlier ones. Occasionally he actually throws in a few words. "Oh, yeah!" "Fuck!" "That's great." "Nice!"

While I'm concentrating on him, his hand locates my own firmness. He says nothing, but his hand becomes quite active. He doesn't comment. He doesn't ask if I'd like him to do this. He doesn't ask whether it's OK. My hard dick is a sufficient answer to any question!

"Happy?" I ask him, without clarifying whether I mean his dick or his hand.

"Soon!" he responds. His eyes are closed.

I work faster until I sense his closeness to the ending. Then I back right off. I resume slowly then gradually build up to a frenzy of jerking. More than once.

I know what is about to happen when his grip on my dick suddenly tightens. Then his hand, and the rest of his body, freezes.

Like the rumbling of the earth before an imminent volcanic eruption, his body begins to quiver. Then he thrusts his hips upwards, launching multiple spurts that land in blobs and streaks, predominantly on his abdomen, but as far away as his neck and shoulder.

The after-shocks continue for some seconds, then he finally achieves the `r...' word; he relaxes.

"Happy now?" I ask him.

"Mmmmmmmm," I hear in a full exhalation of his breath.

"I'll take that as a `yes' then," I tell him.

While I clean him up with a hand towel, he says nothing, but keeps fondling my stiffness. Then I hear, "What about you?"

I know what he's suggesting, but I answer instead with a question, "How's the back, Oliver? Do you remember why you came here?"

He pauses, flexes his hips left and right, up and down, then says, "A double happy ending! Thanks very much, Rob!"

His hand resumes rubbing my erection outside my track suit pants which have allowed sufficient room for its full expansion.

"Want to make it a triple?" he asks.

"You want to do it?" I put to him.

"Of course," he replies. "Just to repay the pleasure." Then he adds, "There's only one thing that you were wrong about, Rob."

"And what would that be, Oliver?" I ask.

"It's not a rosella, it's a rainbow lorikeet." He smirks at his cryptic confession of being gay.

I feel his hand move to inside my tracksuit pants. I think, `Please sir, I want some more'.

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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', `Marco' and `Nate'.
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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