Massaging Flynn

FLYNN

"Are you sure that's where you want it?" Flynn asks me.

"Well, I thought that's where it should go," I tell him. "Why? Where would you put it, if not there?"

"Why don't you give me your reasons for that position first," he says. "then I'll tell you what I think."

"Well," I begin. "This used to be just a laundry. Then I turned it into an ensuite for my massage room by adding the toilet and the shower, as you can see. So, I thought of putting it over the toilet and being there, it would also catch the expelled air from the clothes dryer."

"OK," Flynn says. "Well, my suggestion would be to put it half over the shower, for the steam, and the other half would be in a direct line with the dryer."

"That makes sense," I tell him. "OK. Let's do it that way."

Flynn is not my usual electrician. He recently finished his apprenticeship with Paul, who kept him on as a valued employee, and allows him to take time off for his competitive swimming.

Flynn tells me that right now just happens to be a `down period' in his training regime, which means that he is able to assist Paul with more work than would otherwise be the case. And, for something as simple as installing an exhaust fan, he is quite capable of doing the work by himself, allowing Paul to focus on the construction-site job, assisted by his second-year apprentice.

I had met Flynn previously when he was an almost-15-year old. He was sexy then, but, with his swimming training during the past four years, he has turned from a good-looking teenager to a very attractive young man. With muscles! And, from the tightness of his short, khaki work pants, I reckon that he must not have bought a larger size during that entire time!

I think that he wants to show off the muscles of his wiry-haired legs – quads and hamstrings, and calves. Not to mention his solid glutes and whatever the mass is that he is now packing up front. I don't' remember him being so bold, or quite as bulky, previously, even though he did have an obvious bulge back then. In fact, I thought that he was rather timid and reserved. The earring is new too. Boy, has he changed!

He is definitely an even more striking specimen of manhood than in his apprenticeship days! Did I say `specimen'? That sounds more like something you would put into a bottle to be tested for bodily dysfunctions. How about a `model'? Yes, he could be one of those. And, he'd be pretty much perfect for a human anatomy art class too, I reckon.

"Back in a minute, Rob!" he says as I watch his glutes sashay through the doorway to fetch things from his truck.

That's another thing. Back then, he used to call me `Mr Armstrong'. Not that I mind the familiarity of `Rob' from him now!

He returns with a compact-but-extendable ladder over the crook of one arm at the end of which he is also clutching a bag of tools. Under his other arm is the box containing the fan. And, that hand is holding a torch.

He's fetched it all in one trip.

"Don't suppose you've got the time?" I ask him, smiling, wondering what he will say with his hands full.

"Yeah! Like, I haven't heard that one before!" he smiles back. "On worksites I usually get, `Hey, sparkie, got a light?' from guys holding a cigarette. I normally manage to find a spare finger, and give them that instead." He flashes me a smile.

I help by relieving him of the box containing the exhaust fan, which allows him to deposit everything else easily onto the floor. "Thanks," he grins.

He gives me a run-down of how he will do things.

First, he says, he will need to locate any beams in the ceiling so that he can avoid them.

He uses an electronic device and marks their position in pencil. When he's done, it's obvious, to even me, where the fan can and cannot be situated.

"You still giving massages?" he asks, out of the blue, as he focuses on opening the box. He takes out all of the pieces – fan, tubing and external vent – and locates the template for marking and cutting the hole so that everything fits properly.

"So, you do remember!" I put to him, "because you never did take up my previous offer!"

"Yeah, well, in those days," Flynn begins, "Even though you offered a couple of times, I had no idea what a massage was, and I didn't know what to expect and what you might do to me."

"And what do you think now?" I ask him, hoping for some clarification of what is in his mind about what I do.

"I've had the occasional massage in recent years; usually for shoulder and upper back muscle issues after a heavy session in the pool. Massages don't worry me anymore. I actually enjoy them."

He doesn't volunteer anything else, and I don't want to push him. He could reject outright any perceived over-sell!

I respond, "That's good. We could always chat about it later, if you like."

"Yes. OK. Good." he replies. "But first, let's get this fan installed."

"Do you want me to get out of your way?" I ask. "Or is it OK if I stay and watch?"

"Actually, you may be able to help," Flynn tells me. "There's a certain amount of work that I will need to do up the ladder and, in the ceiling, and I reckon that you could probably give me a hand."

"OK," I say. "But, if there is any technical jargon, you may have to tell me in simple English. OK?"

"Deal!" he replies. "Although there are not too many technical terms for things like `ladder' and `cable' and `torch' and a few other things that I might want."

"Excellent!" I tell him. "I might be able to handle that." We both chuckle.

"The first thing that I will need to do up there," he comments, "is locate the electrical wiring and lay the expandable tubing that goes from the fan to the exhaust vent. Can you show me where the manhole is to the ceiling?"

"It's just outside in the hallway," I tell him. "This way."

He brings his ladder and sets it up below the manhole.

The ladder is hinged in the middle, with extendable legs. So, obviously, it can be used at multiple heights, from just off the floor, up to beyond-ceiling height. The various clicks that I hear indicate locking positions. Neat! He climbs a few rungs, lifts the cover upwards and pushes it inwards.

He comes down, extends the ladder so that it reaches farther into the ceiling cavity and I hand him his torch. He climbs again, torch in one hand, to look inside. With his head and neck in the ceiling cavity, the rest of his body is all that is visible.

He asks me to assist by holding the fully-extended ladder, for security.

In order to have both hands free, he leans his weight against the ladder for extra stability, causing his front-of-shorts bulge to protrude between two rungs.At my eye level. In my face, literally.

"What do you see?" I call up to him.

"It's pretty clear up here," he replies. That's a good thing. Nice, uncluttered construction. Very clever! I've seen this style in a text book, but this is the first one that I've actually come across. Lots of room to move around, or even for extra storage if you need it. Have you ever been up here?"

"No," I tell him. "Never needed to."

Then, unexpectedly, he asks, "What's the view like from down there?"

I pause. Why would he ask me that?

So, his bulge being in my face is not an accident! I certainly get the impression that he has planned this, but I'm not sure why. How do I answer him?

"As a massage therapist," I reply, "I can see that your legs have terrific muscle tone."

There is no response, so I add, provocatively, "And, all I can say about the rest is that it's a good thing that you're wearing work shorts."

"Why is that?" he asks.

I feel like saying, `otherwise your cock would be right in front of my mouth' but, instead, he hears from me, "Well, it seems that there's quite a lot of you that they're hold in."

He laughs, then says, "All right. I'm coming down. I've seen everything that I need to see for the moment. No apparent safety issues with where the wiring is situated."

"OK. So, how else can I help?" I ask.

He descends and, looking into my eyes, gives his bulge a bit of a jiggle and smiles at me. "I did say that you might be able to give me a hand, didn't I?"

Now, if that's not an invitation to do something with him, I don't know what is! Or was he just making himself more comfortable?

I say to him, "You know, you should be careful with your choice of words. Somebody could interpret them wrong way."

"I don't think so!" he replies, smirks and then says, "OK. Let's go back to the other room."

He reduces the length of the ladder and carries it the half dozen steps back into the ensuite.

He sets it up so that he can reach the ceiling, and, while holding the template in one hand, so that it's not touching any of his markings of the beam locations, he firstly traces around it and then makes a hole with something sharp at the marked centre of the template. He asks me to hand him the drill. After drilling a hole at the marked spot, he hands the drill back to me.

"Screwdriver, please. The long one," he says. I look though his tools and find it. He pushes it up through the hole. "That's so that I know where the fan is going to be when I get up into the ceiling."

"OK. Back to the manhole, so that I can check everything around the screwdriver in the hole," he says, and takes the ladder and the expandable tubing.

Placing the tubing on the floor, he extends the ladder, pushes it up into the cavity and, again, he asks me to steady it for him.

I have a hunch!

This time, instead of holding both side rails, I put one of my hands on the rung closest to my face.

He looks at my hands, smiles, and begins to climb, then pauses exactly where he did previously. It doesn't seem to bother him that the front of his shorts is resting on my hand, or, to be more precise, the bulk of what is inside of his shorts is resting on my hand.

And, `resting' is probably the wrong choice of words. `Undeniably leaning' would better describe it.

He begins to give me instructions from up the ladder which, I think, he could just as easily have told to me before he climbed up there.

I'm taking them all in but, when he pauses for breath, I ask, "Would you like me to move my hand that seems to be `trapped' between your body and the ladder?"

"It's not bothering me," I hear from the ceiling.

Aha! I was right!

He backs away a bit, jiggles his gear and then leans back on my hand, which I haven't moved, although what's inside his shorts has! And hardened!

"Is this your idea of me giving you a hand?" I put to him.

"Not yet it's not," he replies and backs off, again.

I turn my hand palm upwards, which he must be able to see from his vantage point, then he carefully positions himself onto it. "Now, this is more like giving me a hand," he chuckles. "What about it?"

"How do you know that I'd be happy to do that?" I ask him.

"If my memory serves me correctly," he says, "the last time I was here, you spent a lot of time trying to convince me to come back sometime for a massage, even throwing in `some guys like to take all their gear off', and `some guys like a bit extra after their massage'. It sounded to me just like you wanted to get me naked and get your hands on my cock and balls, then jack me off."

"But you didn't come back," I tell him.

"I've told you why," he says. "But I certainly didn't forget what you said, which is why I told Paul that I would be happy to handle this job, alone, while he stayed on the construction site."

"Well, I just want my exhaust fan installed," I say. "What is it that you want?"

"How about," he says, "when I've finished with the fan, you can give me one of your special massages? I'll take all my gear off, then you can really give me a hand. With all of the extras. Just like I reckon you wanted to do a few years ago."

So, he read me pretty well back then. That's exactly what I had in mind!

I comment, "People normally pay for that particular treatment these days."

"Tell you what," he says. "If you don't charge me for the massage, I'll fix up Paul for the job and tell him that you gave me cash for it."

I hand the exhaust tubing up to him.

He manages, without me, to get the fan installed, tested and fully functional in less than 20 minutes. By the time that all of his equipment is packed back into his van, I have the massage table set up, heater on, music playing, massage oil warmed and hand towels at the ready.

"So, if you've had massages previously," I tell Flynn, "then you should know the routine – face-down in the hole at this end, and feet over the bolster at that end. And I'll give you a full professional treatment. What aches and pains do you have?"

"Around the shoulders has always been a problem, especially after a lot of butterfly work," he says, "but a few twinges around the hips and thighs, from the kicking."

He takes off everything except his red Speedos, and waits, ensuring that I see the pouch, up front, which is holding, and enhancing, everything.

He looks at me.

"What's up, Flynn?" I ask him. "You can't be nervous about getting your gear off, after everything that you've just shared with me!"

"Actually, I am nervous," he replies, "because I want to ask you something."

"Yes? What can I tell you?"

"It's not what you can tell me, but something that you can do," he tells me, looking and sounding progressively less secure.

"And, what would that be?" I answer, wondering whether he wants me to do something extreme or kinky to him, like tie him up and handcuff him to the table, while inflicting some sort of pain on his testicles.

I'm actually relieved when I hear his answer. "Would you, um, take your clothes off as well?" he asks. "I would feel a lot more comfortable knowing that we were evenly matched, that way."

My thoughts are, that once I take my clothes off, we will definitely not be evenly matched, from what I have seen, and briefly felt, of his body so far.

"I suppose I could manage to do that," I tell him. "On one condition."

"What?" he asks.

"That you promise not to tell anyone about this. I have a professional reputation to protect. It's only those guys who swear total secrecy that I will do anything extra for. What happens in the room, stays in the room. OK?"

"Promise!" he says, extending his fist for me to bump. Then he smiles and removes his red Speedos, liberating what I knew was going to be something large. His cock almost flops out. And I see that its largeness is matched by that of his balls, probably about the size that you would see on a billiard table, maybe larger. Firm, round and hairless. I can understand why his shorts were bulging.

As I begin to remove my own clothes I ask, "Have you been on hormone treatment, or something? I don't remember you packing gear like this when I last saw you."

"Just over three years ago, I believed that I was a bit `underdone' down there, even in the hairs department," he says. "And then, one day, not long after I last saw you, things started going haywire and I just kept getting longer and fatter. Maybe I'm one of those late bloomers. Or, maybe it was a change to a special diet for competitive swimming. I don't know. What was really fun though, was displaying my growing stuff to guys that had previously made fun of me, referring to me as `boy' in the change rooms. It wasn't that I was small to start with, but just that they had all begun to `man up' before I did."

"So, you're now a bit of an exhibitionist, are you?" I put to him, as my own undressing gets down to underpants.

"Well, they do say that some guys are `show-ers' and some are `grow-ers'.

Well, he's definitely a `show-er', I think!

"So how did the other guys react in the showers and change room when they saw the `late blooming' you?" I ask.

He chuckles, "What was funny was that some who hadn't seen me regularly enough as I developed, asked me where I had bought it, and how much it cost, and where could they get one like mine. Others wanted to feel it to make sure that it wasn't a fake which I had somehow attached. So, `for a small fee' I let them have a feel. The longer they held it, the more they paid. One guy insisted on jacking me off, to make sure that it was real and `fully functional'. That was good pocket money! I actually grew to like the attention and the regular extra `income'. I think that they looked forward to post-training sessions in the showers as much as I did."

He smiles sheepishly, as if his confession might incur my displeasure.

I grin back.

He adds, "And, even the coach wanted a turn. So, of course, I charged him double rates." He laughs. "But, I warned them all, definitely no photographs!"

I try to re-state what I find amusing. "So, while people pay me to get them off, in your situation, people pay you, so that they can jack you off. How Interesting!"

I remove the last remnant of my clothing.

He checks me out. Partially plumped. "Hey, that's nothing to be ashamed of!" he says, indicating my own `normal-sized' gear. "Definitely a show-er there."

I have to ask, "So do you make all the guys who want to feel yours, get naked too?"

"Of course! That's part of the cost." he replies, and lays himself face down on my massage table, displaying his toned, round, glutes to me, deliberately flexing them, I think. He adjusts his manhood downwards, between his legs which he parts sufficiently to ensure that I can see everything. He looks up at me and says, "I even make the coach get his gear off!"

"Right, Flynn," I tell him, "for my conscience, I have to give you a professional massage first. You said `around the shoulders'?"

"And maybe my lower back, and don't forget my hips and thighs," he reminds me.

"I'll get to those. Be patient!" I tell him, with a light slap to one of his firm, muscular glutes.

"Oh, yeah! Do that again!" he moans.

I do, but much harder. "Now behave yourself, and let me work," I add.

I massage Flynn's back, from the top of his spine to the bottom, working with more focus into spots that cause him to flinch. Then around his scapula on each side. Then his neck, and across his shoulders into his deltoids and down into his biceps and triceps. And, all of the other upper body muscles.

"Hey, you really do know what you're doing!" I hear from the face hole in the table.

For that, his backside receives another welcomed slap, with my comment, "Just like you know how to install an exhaust fan."

As I extend my oily muscle-stroking to his glutes, and give them extensive massaging, two things happen. He begins to emit pleasant hums, and I observe his downward-pointing cock slowly begin to lengthen and thicken.

I keep going, watching for it to stop its expansion any time soon. But, it doesn't. At least, not until I am about to ask him whether it is likely to reach his knees. Three quarters of the way is only as far as it gets. Only? OMG! Now that's a real `grow-er'!

I comment, "I can see why your friends are impressed. What hormone supplements did you say that you are taking? And, where can I get some?"

He just laughs, then replies, "You don't need any supplements. Yours is perfect. Sometimes I think that mine is grotesquely big in comparison to the rest of my body."

I reply, "I can see now why you might experience a sore back, trying to counter-balance all of that weight in the front. Anyway, just relax."

I move down to his legs, massaging firstly across the muscles and then along their length. Down and then up. On the upward strokes it is difficult to avoid touching his cock, or his balls, which are splayed out on either side of it. In the end, I give up trying to avoid them.

So then, I incorporate them. His pleased hums turn into a delighted groan when I take hold of that third leg, but I just give it a few strokes. Total stiffness!

"Man, I love that warm, soft, oily hand of yours!" he moans.

"Righto!" I say. "Time to turn over and give your face a rest."

"Not only my face," he chuckles, as he does a push-up off the table. "There are the other bits that were getting a bit squashed!"

He flips over and I move the bolster to under his knees, and I provide a smaller version as a support for his head so that I can more easily reach under his neck.

"That feels better," he says, giving everything down below a quick, relieving jiggle and rub.

Again, I avoid the lower half of his body as I work on his neck, shoulders and pec muscles. Lots of sore spots get extra attention.

His flawless manhood hasn't diminished noticeably. In fact, with it lying flat on his abdomen and covering his navel, I think that it figures out where I'm likely to head next, and I see it stiffen again, lifting off his stomach as much as its engorged weight will allow. After all, it will be virtually impossible to avoid when I start working across his abs.

So I don't go there. Yet.

I move down to his feet and legs and give them the full treatment, which I can do now with the major obstruction out of the way, lying in the opposite direction.

He lifts his head to see what I'm doing and looks a little disappointed at my position, way down here.

"Patience!" I encourage him.

He lays his head back down and closes his eyes. Relaxing? Or dreaming and wishing?

I work along the fibres of his quads and even into his pelvic depression, all the while avoiding his cock and balls.

Then, on an upstroke, and with the slightest brush against one of his balls, his cock jumps.

More brushing. More jumping. And, the previous emerging trace of pre-cum now becomes a slow but definite leak. Like a tap that you just can't quite manage to turn off fully.

I do both legs, tickle both of his balls, and the result excites both of us. He has opened his eyes to watch, and has noticed the condition of my body!

Without speaking, as I move to stand alongside his hip, he raises his hand and enfolds my erection.

I notice how his body react. His cock jerks. His pre-cum forms a small pool that, with his raised chest, edges its way into his navel indentation, slowly filling it.

I massage his abs, spreading his pre-cum and oiling my hand, which I slowly and deliberately apply to his cock head.

"Fuck!" he groans. "That's incredible."

I reach for the massage oil and apply more to his erection, and some to mine.

He takes the hint and begins jacking me.

"Take it easy!" I tell him. "You don't have to go fast, as if you are at the pool. It's not a race. Let's make it last as long as possible."

He slows right down, and I copy his actions on him.

Although I use two hands. In his current position he can't, and doesn't need to, on me.

I synchronise my massaging of his stiffness, with his of mine.

Without speaking, we both understand what is happening. When one slows even further, so does the other. When one gives a few quick jerks, it's reciprocated.

I run my oily hand down the full length of his shaft and cup his balls. They only just fit into my hand. Almost. I don't jiggle; I don't squeeze; I just fondle them. He reaches for mine as though he had been waiting for a signal, or permission.

With that, I feel a deep tingle, and know that the inevitable won't be long now.

Then, with my long, slow, firm strokes on his erection, he raises his hips, to counter my motion, thrusting into my enfolding hand.

"Gonna cum!" is all he says before he explodes.

Watching him spurt onto his face and under his chin, sets me off too. He can feel my cock stiffen and then deliver into his hand. Some white streams escape onto his body.

While I stifle my thrill, he is by no means quiet. I hear groans, grunts and expletives to accompany his diminishing shudders.

When he is done, his body totally relaxes, more like collapses, on the massage table.

He raises his head and watches as I drain him, and he milks the last from me.

With my free hand, I give him one of the hand towels, then use the other one myself.

Both towels end up very wet.

He looks at me, grins broadly and repeats his earlier words, "Hey, you really do know what you're doing, don't you?"

I reply, "It must be the practice that I get, and, hey, you didn't do too badly yourself! I normally last a lot longer, especially when I do it and edge myself."

"Well, it must be the practice that I get, too," he says, virtually parroting my words. "On other guys."

"So, how do you feel?" I ask, starting to put my clothes back on.

"Fan-fucking-tastic," he says. "That was better than anything that I've had after training. Those guys, including the coach, should come to you for instruction on how to do it better. And, I know a couple of them that I reckon would love that treatment themselves."

"Well, you've promised not to tell what we did in the room," I say, "but, I'll tell you what: for every new, paying, massage client that I get who mentions your name in conversation, I'll give you a freebie."

"Deal!" he says. "Well, then, you can expect to see a lot more of me!"

"So," I ask, "was that worth the price of an exhaust fan, for which you're going to pay to Paul?"

There are a few moments of silence. "Almost," he says, smirking. Then adds, "You could work off the rest of it on Friday night."

"Deal!" I tell him. "You have my number."

We bump fists, and I assist his firm glutes out of the door as he leaves. He turns and smirks.

If you like the stories, and haven't said 'hello' yet, please take a couple of minutes to email me.

I do try to reply to everyone. Please be patient.

-----

It is my intention to write a `massaging' story for each letter of the alphabet.
You will probably already have read `Adam', `Brock', `Callum', `Dylan' and `Evan'.
Watch for `Gino', one of my best works, I think.

I'm hoping to add it in Nifty's .../high-school section. The reason will become obvious!

-----

Please support the efforts at Nifty. Every little bit helps to ensure that

our stories are posted. Do it here: http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html