Massage Tales: Massaging Ronnie

RONNIE

I've not seen Mrs Natale, my next-door neighbour, travel anywhere much since her husband, Vince, passed away. However, she does like to regularly toddle down to the local shops for a few things. `Garlic and exercise' is her favourite `Italian' formula for staying healthy.

So, I'm surprised when I see the large SUV in her driveway, with a suitcase and a smaller bag being loaded.

"Ah, Roberto," she calls, spotting me. "I will go with my daughter for a holiday, so I am not here for three weeks."

"Is there anything that I can do for you while you are away, Mrs Natale?" I ask, directing my arm around her garden.

"Thank you, Roberto," she replies. "One of my grandsons, Ronaldo, will stay and look after everything. I have a list for him to do many things and I have told to him everything last week."

"OK, Mrs Natale," I reply. "I hope that you have a good holiday."

Then she adds, "I tell Ronaldo no parties and no girls while I am not here. Please, you watch for him and tell to me when I come back."

I acknowledge, with a nod and a smile, that she actually wants me to snoop on her grandson and report any fun that he might have in his nonna's house while she is away.

So, Mrs Natale reckons that her grandson is into girls and parties. Well, even if he is close to my age, that might be all that we have in common!

I exchange departing pleasantries with Mrs Natale and her daughter, Maria, whom I have met previously, and they drive off.

I farewell my final massage client for the day and, while checking the letterbox for mail, I notice a late model, yellow Toyota in Mrs Natale's driveway. The green `P' attached tells me that he has to be 18 or older.

I may as well introduce myself to Ronaldo and share with him his grandmother's engagement of me as her chief spy upon his activities. Better to alert him before he commits any `indiscretions'. Forewarned is forearmed.

I ring the bell. It's loud. I suppose that it's for Mrs Natale's benefit, although I've not discerned any deficiency in her hearing when we have been conversing. She doesn't miss much. Actually, I think that she misses nothing! And remembers everything.

I don't know what I was expecting. But definitely not the slim, bright-eyed, black-haired beauty who greets me.

"Hello," he says jovially, opening the screen door instead of hiding behind it as I've seen his grandmother do. He steps out.

"Hi," I say, extending my hand. "I'm Rob from next door."

He grasps my hand firmly and shakes it. "Hi," he replies. "I'm Ronnie."

"So, you're not `Ronaldo', as your grandmother told me?" I put to him.

"I'm only that to Nonna, and a couple of my aunts," he replies. Then, as if needing an explanation, he adds, "I got tired of the kids at school calling, "Hey, Ronaldo, can you kick a soccer ball?" so I insisted on being `Ron' to my friends, which turned into `Ronnie' somewhere along the line.

"And can you?" I put to him, smirking. "Kick a football?"

"Of course!" he grins back. "What Italian boy can't? Especially if you have three brothers and a heap of cousins!"

"Well," I tell him. "If I can be honest, with your good looks, you remind me more of a `Ronaldo' than a `Ronnie', which I associate with a British comedian and the orange-haired friend of Harry Potter."

Anyway, whatever his appearance, according to his grandmother, he is a girl-loving, party animal. His name isn't all that important.

He looks at me and grins weirdly. I'm suddenly very conscious of perhaps insulting him. Or even worse, divulging my opinion of his attractiveness.

His only response is, "Has anyone ever called you `Robbie'?"

"Only my own grandmother, plus anyone who wanted a bleeding nose," I smirk.

"So, let's agree to stick to `Ronnie' and `Rob', eh?" he puts to me. It's neither a request nor a suggestion!

I'm uncertain whether he's pissed off with me for inferring that `Ronnie' is for weirdos, and I add, "Yeah. I reckon that it's all a matter of what sits comfortably with the individual. Your grandmother calls me `Roberto' and I have a friend who's dubbed me `Robbo'. And both seem appropriate, coming from each of them."

There is a momentary pause in the conversation. The `name' thing seems to have had the makings of a `barbecue stopper'!

I break the silence. "I saw your car and thought that I'd better say hello," I tell him.

"Glad you did!" he replies. Then adds, "Please come in. How rude of me to leave you standing at the door!"

"That's OK, Ronnie" I reply. "I've never been inside your grandmother's house. We just normally talk in the garden."

"I'm into Italian hospitality," he tells me. "I insist, Rob. Please."

He stands aside and waves me past him.

The house seems generally dark. I walk down a short hallway, passing a sitting room, to the right, furnished in Mediterranean-style lounge chairs, beautifully-carved reddish timber with deep green material. A slight reference to the red, white and green Italian flag does not escape me.

To the left is a closed door, then another one, open, revealing a bright bedroom. The curtains are pulled back and the blinds are up, exposing a large picture window. "This is my room," Ronnie comments. "I had to let in some light. With everything closed, it was too gloomy for my liking. The big benefit for me is that it has its own ensuite."

It is furnished in a more contemporary style. The head of the double bed is against the hallway wall, facing the window. On the far side of the room is a wardrobe and this side has a desk and a door, obviously to the ensuite.

"I was just setting up my computer," Ronnie tells me, indicating the laptop and printer on the desk, with a couple of unconnected leads. "I'll finish it shortly. Hey, do you drink coffee? Would you like one?"

He doesn't wait for an answer, probably anticipating that everyone drinks coffee.

"Sure, Ronnie." I tell him. "Thank you."

"How do you have it?" he asks, leading me a few extra paces into a large kitchen/dining room.

I reply, "White with one sugar, please."

"That's my preference too," he tells me. "But I generally have to remember to bring my own milk. Nonna has hers black and expects everyone else to have theirs the same way. However, I was surprised when I came in today to find a small carton in the fridge."

He sets up the coffee pot on the gas stove, places two small cups on saucers on the dining room table and retrieves the milk and sugar.

"Do you mind if I just finish the computer," he asks, "while the coffee is brewing?"

"Not at all," I reply. "Sorry that I interrupted."

"No problem," he says. "We can keep talking."

Ronnie leads me back to his bedroom. I walk across to the window in order to keep out of his way.

While he fiddles with the cords, he asks, "What do you do, Rob? Most people are at work today." He pauses just long enough to consider that the question might have been inappropriate then adds, "I mean, are you on holidays or having a rostered day off?"

"I work from home, next door," I reply. "I'm a massage therapist, and I have a clinic room set up on the other side of the house, just off the driveway."

In order to make him feel not so bad, I repeat, "So, what do you do Ronnie? Most people are at work today. Are you on holidays or having a rostered day off?"

He turns, looks at me and grins, "Thanks for that. I hope that I wasn't being rude by asking. I wouldn't want to meddle in your affairs."

"Hey, no problem, Ronnie," I tell him. "I'm accustomed to being asked questions. Your grandmother is an expert at it."

He laughs, "Yeah. Her idea of having a conversation with me is a variation on the Spanish Inquisition. She asks the questions and I provide the answers. That's why I avoid coming over here if I can drum up a good excuse. The problem is that my excuses only provoke more questions."

"Well, if you can't escape visiting," I say, "you could always tell her that it would be polite to come and say hello to me and chat for a while, now that we've met."

"Excellent!" he replies. "Thanks."

"So, what do you do?" I ask. "Really."

"Oh, sorry. Yeah. I'm studying physiotherapy at uni. I'm into my second year," he replies. "Actually, I volunteered to `house sit' for Nonna while she and Aunt Maria are on holidays. I thought that it would be quieter than at home. I have some assignments to finish. Most work is on-line, except for the hands-on practical stuff."

"Even better reason to come and spend some time with me, when you are over here," I tell him. "I might be able to help with something, or at least answer any questions that you might have."

"Thanks, Rob," he replies. "My greatest issue has been finding a partner to practise the techniques with."

"Happy to help, if you need it," I tell him.

"Thanks, Rob," Ronnie says, then, responding to the change in sound from the kitchen, adds, "Sounds like the coffee's ready. And so is the computer."

We enjoy our coffee and chat over some of Mrs Natalie's `goodies' that appear to have been freshly baked. Ronnie asks, "Rob, I noticed, when I opened the blinds in my room, that all of the windows on your house have a reflective film on them. How come? What's that for?"

"Those windows face west," I reply. "In summer, the afternoon sun used to be unbearable, so I had the reflective film applied to reduce the sunlight. I hope that it doesn't reflect the sunlight into the rooms over here."

"I'll find out this afternoon and let you know," he tells me. "Another coffee?"

"No thanks, Ronnie. I'm fine," I tell him. "But, I almost forgot something. I had to tell you that your grandmother said that she told you `no parties and no girls' while she was away. And she asked me to let her know if I see any of either. All I can say to you is, make sure that there is no evidence of those when she returns. And, I will be able to tell her that I didn't see anything unusual."

"Thanks, Rob," he tells me. "Yes, I've had that instruction from her. More than once. It's funny though, that Nonna often tells me that she hopes that I find a nice Italian girl and get married and give her great grandchildren."

I tell him, "I'm glad that I'm not the only one on her match-making list. She's pretty persistent."

"You don't have to tell me that," he replies. "Besides, I'm too busy with uni stuff at the moment to worry about either."

"Anyway, thanks for the coffee," I tell him. "I'll leave you to get on with your assignments." Then I add, "I have some towels to wash, after having had a few clients today."

As I leave, I turn and ask, "What are you planning for dinner? Would you like to come over and join me? About 6 o'clock?"

"Thanks, neighbour!" Ronnie replies, grinning, and we bump fists.

I set the washing machine to do its thing and set about wondering what to do for dinner.

Normally, for a quick meal I would prepare spaghetti Bolognese. However, maybe that's not such a good idea, to present someone who has experienced years of the most authentic Italian cuisine on a daily basis, with my amateur version.

I decide on the Australian standard of lamb chops, with mashed potato, peas and carrots. Plus, as my own personal touch, I like to add a little chopped onion to the potato and a drizzle of honey over the onions. I do cheat a little, using some mint jelly for the lamb, instead of making the mint sauce myself.

I do all the preparation. Then, having showered, shaved and dressed comfortably in grey tracksuit pants and a pale blue polo shirt, I set everything cooking at 5:30.

The front door bell rings slightly before 6:00.

Perfect timing! I switch off everything that is still cooking, set it aside, and answer the door.

"Hi, Ronnie," I greet him. "Come in."

"Thanks, Rob," he replies, then hands me a plate, covered in cling-wrap, under which there is a small collection of his grandmother's delicacies. "I thought that coffee might taste better with these."

"Brilliant," I tell him. "Did your grandmother also tell you about my sweet tooth?"

"Haha. No," he tells me. "It was just a hunch. I sense that we have a lot in common."

I smile and reply, "And I always have milk in the fridge."

He laughs, and I set `the goodies' aside for later.

We have a terrific dinner. And coffee. And goodies.

"Where did you learn to be such a great cook?" Ronnie asks me as he helps do the dishes.

"You learn to do a lot of things for yourself when you live alone," I reply, which draws a curious look from him.

I add, "I don't always cook. There is always Uber Eats, Menu Log and Deliveroo when I'm feeling lazy or just want one of my favourites delivered so that I don't have to go out."

"I do some casual work for them," Ronnie tells me, causing me surprise. "A student has to earn some pocket money."

"I remember it well," I tell him. Then I add, "You've never delivered any meals that I've ordered though, or I would have remembered you."

"Next time that you want something," Ronnie smirks, "let me know in advance and I'll make sure that I get the job."

When I show him to the door, we say goodnight, shake hands and, as he thanks me for dinner, he makes to kiss me on the cheek. "Oops. Sorry!" he says. "It's a habit. Italians being Italian."

"That's OK. No problem!" I tell him. "I have Italian friends. I know how it works!"

And he leaves, jovially.

I switch off all of the lights and, in darkness except for the various LEDs around the house, head to my room at the other end of the house. I could find my way blindfolded. I open the door, walk to the window and open the blinds, as I do every night.

I'm totally surprised by what I see. According to what Ronnie told me, Mrs Natale has always had both hers and the second bedroom's blinds shut and the curtains closed, so I had no idea that I would be able to see into that room, and so clearly.

What I do know is that nobody from over there would be able to see into my room because of the reflective film on the glass; except, I was told when the installer was here, if I had a bright light on in here at night, and then, not distinctly.

As I begin to strip down ready for bed, I see Ronnie boot up his computer then head into the ensuite. His slim, well-defined but not-overly-muscled body returns, in only his underpants, and immediately sits at the desk, with slightly more of his back to me than fully side-on.

By the time I return from brushing my teeth, Ronnie is still looking at the screen, which I can't quite make out because of the angle at which it is set. Even though I can't see what he is looking at, I can tell from the motion of his arm and hand near his lap exactly what he is doing.

With reluctance, I force myself to stop perving and climb into bed.

I wonder whether that is a nightly routine for him!

With thoughts of what Ronnie is doing, my hand soon becomes as active as his.

"Good morning, neighbour!" I call to Ronnie as I head out for some early shopping. "Hard at it already?"

"Hi Rob," he calls back. "Just following nonna's instructions. Watering everything before the heat of the day. I'll deal with the back yard after breakfast, then get back to my assignments."

"How did you sleep, having your first night in a strange bed?" I ask.

"Like a log," Ronnie replies. "I never have any trouble dropping off."

I can't resist commenting, but keep it cryptic: "Well, however you manage it, I suggest that you keep it up."

He gives me a thumbs-up and returns to the things at the top of his grandmother's list of tasks. I turn towards the shops.

When I return, there is a note tucked into my screen door.

<<Hi Rob, my turn to return the favour for dinner tonight. My place. Message me if you don't like Chinese. Same time? Ronnie>> And he has included his mobile phone number.

Ignoring his use of `my place' instead of his `Nonna's place', I reply, <<Love Chinese. How did you know? See you at 6. Thanks. Rob>>

After doing one morning and three afternoon massages, I put the towels into the washing machine and set up the room for my next client, (tomorrow).

Curious, I open my blinds sufficiently to check what I can see of the room next-door. Not much. Actually, hardly anything in this daylight.

I sit at the dining room table with a cup of coffee and indulge my passion for reading ancient Roman and Greek history, until the 5:00pm phone alarm alerts me that it's time for a shower before visiting my new neighbour.

Ronnie answers the doorbell, looking fresh and smelling spicey. Huge grin. Light grey tracksuit pants and black shirt. His wavy hair has been combed back and he appears to have over-indulged with after-shave or deodorant. There is a rounded prominence in the front of his pulled-up track pants which does not escape my notice.

"Hi Rob. Come in," he chirps.

"How are the assignments coming?" I pose as an ice-breaker.

"We're into the anatomy and physiology of the lower back and abdomen," he replies. "Plus, impingements and remediation techniques. Apart from the theory, there is some practical work to be done. Either privately or in a uni workshop."

"My offer of help still stands," I tell him.

"Thanks, Rob," Ronnie answers. "I might just take you up on that. It would be a lot easier than travelling to the uni at times specified by them."

"So, where did you learn to cook Chinese?" I ask, raising my nose and smelling the Asian aromas.

"Possibly the same school as you," he replies, holding up his phone. "It's still hot."

He lays out the containers of rice, sweet and sour pork, chicken with almonds, honey prawns and beef with black bean sauce on the dining room table.

"Chopsticks or spoon and fork?" he asks. Both are waiting on the table.

We start reasonably well with chopsticks, but appetite dictates a swap after only a few minutes.

We talk about my work and his studies and the opportunity to connect them. "Tomorrow afternoon after 2:30 I have totally clear," I tell him.

"Excellent. Thank you," he replies. "I'll bring my assignment sheet so that I don't miss anything."

Despite the fact that green tea and lychees would have been a more appropriate ending to dinner, we indulge in coffee and pastries instead.

Fewer dishes to wash tonight. "Left-overs will make a nice lunch," Ronnie smiles as he places the re-sealed containers into the fridge.

I head home, keen to get ready for bed and to discover whether Ronnie will repeat his sleep-encouraging actions from last night.

Very similar! Boots up his computer. Visits the ensuite. Returns wearing red underpants.

Tonight, however, he doesn't sit at the desk. I observe him angle the computer screen towards the head of his bed. Then he props himself up there with a couple of pillows.

It becomes obvious from the variations of the light in the room that a video is playing.

He is unknowingly facing me directly.

He starts with his slightly-parted legs flat on the bed and with both hands covering the bulge in his underpants.

As his hands begin to move, rubbing and fondling, he progresses to alternating hands on what is a growing, obvious prominence.

His right hand disappears inside his underpants and fishes out his stiffness.

With his eyes fixed on the computer screen, his closed fist continues to work up and down.

His hand action suddenly ceases, to allow the pushing down of his underpants with both hands and then the shucking of them with one foot onto the floor, and I get my first view of his fully naked body. Ample balls and a thatch of black hair around the base of his rigid, horizontal penis. Handsome!

With one hand cradling his balls, the other returns to its work.

He parts his legs then his regular hand action suddenly becomes more animated.

He raises his hips and his hand stops moving. With his eyes closed and his head tilted back, I watch him blast streaks of cum onto his chest.

I don't see how he finishes off, because I hurry to my own bed, overly-stimulated, and, with a hand towel ready, for the second night in a row, I copy Ronnie's actions.

I sleep well.

I have two early clients this morning and I miss the opportunity to say hello to Ronnie outside.

Over morning tea, I receive a message from Ronnie's mobile: <<Rob, there's enough Chinese left over for lunch, if you like.>>

I reply: <<My 1:15 has postponed until tomorrow. Bring leftovers and your assignment sheet any time after 1:15. Thanks.>>

1:20. The doorbell rings.

"Hi neighbour," I greet him.

"Ciao, Roberto. Come stai?" he replies.

I love the lilt of Italian spoken by an Italian!

"I'm great, thank you," I tell him. "Ready to get that assignment done?"

"Wok before work," he says grinning, then corrects himself. "Or microwave."

I reply, "Fantastic food delivery service. And on time!"

We both laugh and joke about it.

I think how wonderful it would have been to have had a brother; one like him would have been even better. I envy his siblings.

The food tastes almost as good as it did last night, even if the honey chicken is not quite as crisp and tender.

I tell Ronnie, "You can explain your assignment to me while we're having coffee, and then let's see how we can fix you up."

The first part is a diagram with muscles and bones to be identified and lines to where each `answer' needs to be written. It includes more than the lower back and abdomen as he first indicated to me. It is actually the pelvis and its immediate vicinity, above and below.

"I must have misread the question when I skimmed through it," he tells me almost apologetically.

However, I do note the words, `including the lower back and pelvis', so he wasn't totally wrong. We work through everything methodically. He knows his stuff!

The second part requires him to define `impingements' and state the cause and effect of them. Again, he is pretty much on the ball and he thanks me for clarifications that I offer.

The third part gives a number of scenarios with which a client might present. For each, he is to firstly describe in detail the remediation technique(s) that he would employ and secondly to demonstrate on a live body how that remediation would be undertaken, with the `client' to sign that the exercise was `walked through and talked through' as described in the first part.

"How should we do this, do you think, Rob?" Ronnie puts to me.

"I do have a suggestion," I tell him. "What if we both strip down to our underwear, then you can more easily work on me. If there is anything about which you are uncertain, I can demonstrate on you first, and then you can repeat it on me. What do you say?"

"Wow! That's really generous of you Rob. Thanks heaps!" he says.

We strip off and he looks at my grey Calvin Kleins and I take in his striped AussieBums.

Nothing is said, but we both grin at each other.

Question 1 relates to a client complaining of lower back pains.

Ronnie expresses to me his learned theory and I share the benefit of my practical experience.

I lie face-down on the massage table, tell Ronnie to tuck the towel into the top of my undies, mainly to protect the clothing from oil, and to then to lower them sufficiently to expose my glutes.

"Are you sure that this is OK with you?" he asks.

"You'll get used to it," I reply, "although some physio techniques that you learn could be very different to what I do in a remedial massage. Minimal clothing may not be necessary, although I find it provides me with more accurate access to individual muscles and trigger points."

I explain trigger points to him.

He recites the physio technique, as instructed, and then walks through doing it physically, albeit somewhat tentatively.

"Not bad," I tell him. "Let me do it to you, so you can feel what it's like. I'll do exactly what you told me from studies. Then I might add a bit from my own experience. Is that all right?"

"Thanks, Rob," he says, and we swap positions.

I do the towel-tucking and glute-exposing bit, which elicits a bit of a giggle.

"What? Never exposed your backside to anyone before?" I ask.

"Only with family," he replies.

"What about the girls and the parties that your grandmother wants me to keep an eye out for and report back to her?" I ask.

"In her dreams!" he chuckles, raising his head. "And mine."

I repeat on his body what he did to me and spend a bit of time working more deeply into the various muscles of his glutes.

"Feels good, and I understand what you were telling me," he says.

He gets up, and I overtly ignore the slightly increased bulk in the front of his underpants. "Want to try it again on me?" I offer, which he readily accepts.

I lay myself back on the table. He does the towel thing and repeats the exercise, spending a lot more time in and around my glutes than even I took.

When he pulls up the waistband of my undies and removes the towel, he asks, "How was that? Any better?"

"Absolutely," I reply. "I was even beginning to enjoy it. Well done!"

During scenarios 2 and 3, I can feel Ronnie's increased confidence in touching me, and also the reduced tension in his fingers. And I tell him so, which he appreciates.

Number 4, muscle strain, requires work from the front, including the adductor muscles, high up in the groin. Ronnie looks suddenly very nervous.

"Are you OK?" I ask. "You look worried."

He replies, "It's only that I wouldn't want to offend you if I got too close to anything."

"You mean by touching my balls?" I put to him directly.

"Yeah," he replies. "That."

"Well, just between us, it wouldn't worry me, so you shouldn't be concerned either," I tell him. "Just concentrate on the exercise."

He talks me through what he is supposed to do.

"OK. Go for it," I tell him, and lie face up, ready.

He starts tentatively. Hesitantly.

"Stop!" I say. "Swap."

I think that he is relieved to be on the receiving end, rather than actually doing the work.

"Now, I want you to relax," I tell hm. "Concentrate on what I do, then you can have a turn." Then I suggest, "Why don't you prop yourself on your elbows and watch as well?"

I start above his knee and massage upwards. Stopping short of his balls. Multiple times.

"You will be able to tell," I say to him, "whether the client is nervous about you being here. If he is, then you can have him use one hand to `protect his gentlemen' and then massage right up to his hand. Give me your hand, and I'll show you."

I lay his offered hand into the crease of his thigh, and I hold his cupped fingers in place over his substantial balls. Then, with both hands alternately, I massage right up his inner thigh to his hand.

There is a noticeable swelling within his underpants. The more I press to the extremity of his adductors, the more obvious it becomes.

"Umm..." Ronnie commences to express something about what is happening involuntarily.

I look at the worried expression on his face, noting his numerous glances at his growing erection.

"I can see it," I tell him. "It's more normal than you might ever imagine. Focus on your leg."

I keep going. Then, he lays himself back down, appearing to absorb the feelings. His rigidity is now very obvious, stretching the material away from his body.

"OK. Your turn," I tell him.

He lifts his head first, checking his erection and then looking at me. He sits up, then stands.

"Stop worrying!" I say, and give him a friendly pat on the backside.

I lie down. My own dick isn't rigid, but it's getting chunky.

"Just go through it, as you described to me before," I say to him.

I place my hand on my balls, as I told him, to give him the confidence to start working.

However, as his confidence builds, I remove my hand. He looks at me questioningly.

I smile back and tell him, "Keep going. Don't stop. If it helps, start with your eyes closed."

He shuts his eyes, feels for where to start and massages upwards until he encounters what I had previously protected.

"Do it again," I tell him.

He does, less tentatively.

"Now with your eyes open," I say.

Two things greet his eyes. My smile and my full erection, concealed but very evident.

"It looks as though we both have the same problem," I smile at him, and nudge his erection with the back of my hand.

"Yeah," he grins back.

"Do you know what technique to use to relieve this stiffness?" I ask.

"Yeah," he grins again.

"Want to demonstrate your expertise?" I tease him.

"On you or on myself?" he asks.

"On me of course," I tell him. "Just like all of the other exercises."

"And will you show me your technique too?" he continues to grin.

"Yeah," I use his previous responses. "That was the deal, wasn't it?"

"Yeah!"

LOL

He tentatively lays his hand on my erection, which jerks. He looks at my face. I nod and smile.

As he gains in confidence, having received my approval, he really starts to play, dick and balls.

"And at what university did you learn this technique?" I put to him, restraining a laugh.

"My 15-year old brother and 16-year old cousin," he grins. "one day when I was 13, I walked in on them `educating each other' in my cousin's room."

"What did they say?" I ask.

"At first they were pissed off that they hadn't locked the door and that I didn't knock anyway," Ronnie tells me, "but then Rocco, my cousin, reckoned that I was old enough to learn, and they held me down and did it to me for the first time."

"Did they say anything else?" I ask again.

"Yeah. My brother said that if I told anyone, he'd cut my balls off with his pocket knife. But if I kept my mouth shut then he's let me do it to him whenever I wanted to. And Rocco said, `me too if you like'."

"Stand closer," I tell Ronnie, and reach out to cup his balls with my hand nearest him.

I wait for a response, but he pretends to ignore that I'm touching him, and keeps going on me.

I take that as a green light and move to begin manipulating him through his underpants. However, after less than a minute, I take the initiative and pull the front down to expose his dick and I keep playing with it.

He looks at me.

I grin, "You can copy my technique, if you like."

With both hands, he pulls the front of my CKs down and begins to rub and squeeze my dick.

"May as well take them right off!" I say. "I'll feel more comfortable."

He does. Then he drops his own to the floor. "More comfortable for me too," he chuckles.

Ronnie and I are both naked, and both playing with each other's man bits! He fits the bill of a handsome Italian stallion

"You wanna lie down?" I ask him. "It could be more comfortable."

He laughs and says, "Yeah. OK. Swap places."

While he's laying himself down, I retrieve the bottle of massage oil and give both of our dicks a good dousing. "This will help," I smile.

"Wow!" he says, shuddering, as I resume manipulating his stiffness, and occasionally cupping his balls and oiling them too.

"Your brother and cousin taught you well," I compliment him. "You feel like an expert!"

He grins back at me, "Well, I have had almost six years of practice!"

He studies my face and then we both burst into laughter.

There are a few minutes of silence, apart from some `ooh's and `aah's and the occasional expletive of pleasure.

I know, when his breathing becomes erratic, that he is getting close. "Want to cum or hang on?" I put to him.

"Do it!" he says. "I don't think that I can hang on. I'm too close."

I give him a few quick pumps and then squeeze down on his shaft hard, hold it and tease his head."

"Faark!" he lets out, and spurts at the same time. Under his chin, on his chest and abs.

I milk him and hand him a hand towel.

"What about you?" he asks. "Are you close?"

"Yeah," I tell him. "Won't be long if you keep going."

He looks intently at my dick while pumping it with the same frenzy that I saw him use to finish himself off last night. Occasionally he glances at my face.

"Nearly there!" I gasp.

He keeps pumping until I erupt. All over him.

"OMG," I tell him. "That was fantastic. You have expert hands!"

He cleans his body with the hand towel.

"Want to clean up properly and wash the oil off my body in the shower?" I put to him.

"Fuck yeah," he replies. Then he adds, "You won't forget to sign my assignment sheet will you, Rob?"

"Only if you don't include the last bit!" I tell him, grinning.

"Thanks so much, Rob," he says, hugging me, ignoring or enjoying our naked bits touching.

"I don't suppose that you'd like a refresher practice sometime?" I ask.

"Frequently, if you can spare the time," he grins. "And the oil."

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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', `Nate', `Oliver', `Paulo' and `Quade'.
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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