Massaging Isaac

ISAAC

It has been years since I was here.

I remember, as an 11-year old on my first overnight school excursion, that The Caves, a grand tourist attraction even back then, was a magical place.

Maybe it was the freedom of being away from my parents for the first time that excited me, or possibly, being able to experience a `sleep over' with friends; yet another first.

And, we had been allowed to choose those with whom we would share a room, as a threesome or a foursome, not to mention our conspiracies as to which of our class mates' beds were targets for short-sheeting, who we would love to tip out of bed in the middle of the night, and how to boobytrap our own room against any guys who might want to practise their own creative sabotage upon the three of us.

In the classroom, we had researched The Caves, their history and their attractions, but the anticipation of being able to walk around them in situ had been thrilling.

Even now, driving down the long, narrow, winding road, memories come flooding back: the need for thirty sixth-grade boys to be quiet to allow the coach captain to concentrate on the narrow road for our own safety; the entrance to the caves, where the road disappears under the mountain; the musty smell; the historic building that was to accommodate us; and the formal dining room (in which we were required to wear our full school uniform including the tie) with its vast array of silver cutlery that confronted us, and confounded some of us. It had been an intentional social experience as well as one which tangibly incorporated the local geography and history.

I was especially entranced by the fact that bushrangers had used The Caves as their hideout from the police, and I had many dreams prior to our trip, about being a bushranger one night, and a policeman on another, their confrontation always ending in a `shootout'.

That was when I was introduced to the terms `geology' and `speleology'. And, on our night tour of one cave, our research-learned `stalactites', `stalagmites', `columns' and `shawls' were also `brought to life'. Plus, heaps of new words from our guide that our teacher hadn't included in the classroom. To this day, I can still picture the twisted, gravity-defying mystery of `helictites'.

It was also the time and place when I was introduced to dick-grabbing games, especially when the guide turned out all of the lights. During that first cave inspection, I was grabbed a few times before I plucked up the courage to reciprocate. I had been able tell who had grabbed me first by the expressions on their faces when the lights came back on. My retaliation was quick but gentle. I don't think that anybody objected. I didn't. It was just part of our schoolboy, away-from-home fun. Boys being boys.

Even today, I recall that pre-adolescent merriment as vividly as I do the limestone formations and the creative lighting effects.

What brings me here today is not only a touch of nostalgia, but curiosity regarding any changes that may have been made since my school days. And, because it was only a short detour on the way to visiting family in Sydney, I decided that a stopover could be worthwhile.

The road appears little different, except that there are now guard rails to prevent a car or coach from dropping off the edge into the valley. The road still disappears into the cavernous entrance, and the historic House appears well-preserved, exactly as I remember it.

The parking spaces opposite the House, well-defined by reflectors set into the crushed stone, are new. I avail myself of one, not too far from the entrance, then carry my overnight bag into the reception area. The oak panelling is exactly as it was back then. The greetings from the new receptionists are just as friendly.

I inquire about cave tours.

"There is one beginning in thirty minutes, Mr Armstrong," I am informed by one of the young staff on duty. "This Friday afternoon tour was specifically planned for a social group that is staying with us. Everyone is a few years older than yourself, if I may say so, but there are some extra places available, if you'd like to join them. It will be a little longer than some of our other tours, but it's one that won't be very demanding physically."

Do I look as though I need something that isn't `very demanding physically'? Group of old fogies, eh?

"Does that particular tour show all of the limestone formations with a full variety of lighting effects?" I ask.

"Yes, indeed," she answers. "I've done that tour myself, and it's well worth it. Would you like me to book it for you?"

"Yes please," I reply. Then I add, in attempt to retract what my face may have initially expressed, "I don't mind sharing with some more mature people. I've found that their accumulated knowledge and experience, generally, is very enlightening."

"Very well, Mr Armstrong," she tells me. "Please be here in the reception area in twenty minutes. We like to allow ten minutes to check off the names of all who have registered for the tour to ensure that we have the same number exit the cave who entered it."

"Do people ever get lost?" I ask, recalling the plight of Tom and Becky in Mark Twain's Tom Sawyer.

"Not really," she replies. "That's why we have a senior guide leading the group and a junior guide bringing up the rear. With the well-defined paths, nobody ever gets left behind. Anyway, it's a Health and Safety requirement that we count numbers at various `check points'. The senior today is Mike and his assistant will be Isaac." She indicates the board on the wall directly behind her which lists the tour times, the caves to be toured, the names of each pair of guides and the cost.

The other receptionist, maybe a year or two older than the first, giggles, "Isaac has just finished his training. We all think that he's rather cute, even though he is quite shy. Some ladies have even checked the board to see which tours he will be taking so that they can book onto one of those."

I immediately wonder what other charms Isaac might have, other than his cuteness and shyness.

My room is set up with a double bed and a single, so I utilise the smaller bed to spread out everything as I unpack.

The ceilings are 12 feet high, whatever that is in metric, and there are two very tall windows, flanked by thick curtains. I muse whether it would be difficult to keep them clean and dust-free. I check. And, they are.

Another memory immediately returns. These older rooms do not have the modern convenience of a shower, or even a toilet. There would be a common bathroom down the hall somewhere. I appreciate the recollection of it all, if not the inconvenience.

I use the bathroom and head for the reception area. Descending the plush, carpet-covered stairs I view from above the group of assembled tourists before I join them.

They are not as old as I had imagined, probably around my parents' ages on average, and they all look quite fit and healthy.

I mingle, introduce myself and discover that they are indeed a social club. A bushwalking social club. My initial visions of some people with walking sticks is replaced by thoughts that most are quite possibly much fitter than I am.

Two men appear, dressed similarly: pale blue shirts and beige trousers. Brown belts and brown boots. The older one, of comparable age to the tourists, has a clipboard and is handed a sheet of paper by one of the receptionists. The other one looks younger than I am. It's easy to work out who is Mike (the senior one) and who is Isaac (the `cute' one)!

Mike introduces both himself and Isaac to those assembled and then `calls the roll', marking off names on his list. He checks that the count of heads matches the number on paper. He confirms his count with Isaac. We are ready to go.

Both guides have a hiking staff as do a number of the bush walkers, they're not walking sticks! To me they look like the stocks that I use when snow skiing, except without the spike at the end.

Mike leads off, and the most enthusiastic walkers cluster after and around him. I take things a little more leisurely.

Isaac walks alongside me and we introduce ourselves.

I initiate the discussion. "The girls at the desk tell me that you've recently finished your training," I put to him. "So, how long was that for?"

"Quite a few months before I was accredited," he replies, then adds freely without me prompting, "Of most importance were the safety issues. After that, I and the other two trainees had to learn all of the cave features and how to operate the lighting and gates and sound effects switches, etc."

"Was that done in a classroom, or in the caves?" I ask.

"The safety stuff, theory and practice, was done in a large room," Isaac tells me. "The rest, actually in the caves, was led by a few of the experienced guides with us trainees. Different seniors taught us different things. One focussed on local history, one pointed out the features of interest in each cave and another demonstrated what to do with the lights and gates and stuff. For months we mostly just `tagged along' with tour groups, listening, observing and memorising. We were tested extensively before we were permitted to act as the `junior' and bring up the rear on our own."

"So, on how many tours have you actually done the junior role?" I ask

"This will be my sixth one," he smiles proudly.

"Do you drive in each day, Isaac?" I put to him. "Or do you stay in the House?"

He replies, "Neither. A few years ago, they built a number of staff accommodation villas, on the hillside behind and away from the House. I have a small room there, and we have shared facilities for six people in each villa."

"What about social life?" I inquire.

"Not much," he answers bluntly, then looking at me, adds, "we do celebrate staff birthdays together, but other than that, we make our own fun. Some villas host drinking parties, but I'm not into that, so I read a lot and walk a lot."

"Dare I ask the other obvious question?" I say. "Young guys like you and me have certain needs, don't we? Do you have a girlfriend here? I saw the hopeful way that the two receptionists looked at you."

He turns, looks at me, studies my face, contemplates the implication of my questions and then, checking the safety of a reasonable distance between us and the bulk of the tour group ahead, responds quietly, "I do have one regular and trustworthy companion here to keep me happy at night." He pauses for any reaction or question from me, then adds, grinning, "It's the one attached to the end of my right arm."

He raises his right hand and wiggles his fingers multiple times, as if to signal or to clarify what he is saying. I think that this is unexpectedly brave of him, considering that I am a total stranger. Or, can he sense something?

Well, if he can be comfortably frank, so can I. "Me too," I tell him, smirking and copying his finger movements.

"Every night," he adds a little more confidently, smirking back at me.

"Me too," I smile, maintaining direct eye contact.

We share a grin, and bump fists as if to acknowledge our common honesty and bravado in disclosing our nightly `companions'.

We take half a dozen steps and catch up to where Mike has stopped, surrounded by the group.

While Mike is explaining `the rules' for the cave tour to the group, predominantly sticking to the paths, keeping up with the people in front and not to talk while he is talking, Isaac and I exchange private glances and smirks.

I feel a similar tingle of camaraderie that I experienced those years ago, with my sixth-grade friends.

Mike explains his role to be at the front of the group, leading, opening gates, counting heads and activating the light switches, both for guidance and for the visual effects. He will also be telling us anecdotes and relating any relevant history. He encourages people to keep up with him so that they can hear what he is saying.

Then Isaac addresses the group, telling them that his role is to keep people together, lock gates behind the group as we move along, and to switch off the lights in each section as we leave it for the next one.

He reinforces Mike's urging of everyone to keep up with the leader, or, he tells us, he may need to use a `cattle prod' on them, brandishing his hiking staff.

In what is obviously a well-rehearsed bit of theatre, Isaac, with both hands, slowly and deliberately raises his staff to touch Mike's thigh and calls out `zzzzt'. Mike recoils in mock shock. Isaac gives a Cheshire-cat grin to the crowd.

As if the group's laughter and appreciation of their amateur dramatics is a call for an encore, Isaac and Mike repeat their play acting.

However, everyone is then reminded by Mike of the seriousness of safety first. "Safe enjoyment!" he tells them. "Stay together. Stick to the path and hold the railing whenever one has been erected because that is where it could be wet and slippery. At a few points, Isaac and I will turn off all of the lights so that you can experience what `pitch black' is actually like. When the lights go out, please stand still and don't move until they come on again. Any questions?"

There are none. Just a buzz of subdued excitement.

Mike unlocks a security gate, leads the group up a flight of concrete stairs and waits at another gate in the rockface. Everyone follows. Isaac locks the gate behind me and we catch up to the others.

The next gate, the cave entrance, is unlocked and I see a compacted-earth-floor tunnel, illuminated. Mike leads. We all follow. Isaac locks the gate and the lights are momentarily extinguished. There are some gasps and cries of surprise at being left in the dark. I freeze, as instructed. The next section of lights comes on. "Just testing!" Mike tells everyone.

Sighs of relief.

We progress. Lights on. Lights off. Mike gives commentary. The colourful lighting effects on the formations are spectacular. With some, there is accompanying music, haunting and resonant.

At the back of the group, Isaac repeats some of Mike's comments which a few of us expressed difficult in hearing clearly.

At one point, lagging behind the group, Isaac prods my backside with his staff and says `zzzzt'. I turn and look at him. He shrugs angelic innocence then grins.

He's being playful with me.

We find ourselves in a large cavern. Mike announces, "We are now going to turn off the lights for a while. Stand still. You know the expression about not being able to see your hand in front of your face? Here's your chance to test it out."

The lights are extinguished. Initial gasps are replaced with whispers and comments about how black it is.

I feel another prod in the backside. "zzzzt!" Isaac whispers.

I quickly reach behind me and grasp his staff and attempt to wrest it from him. The result is that his body ends up pressing against mine. "zzzzt!" he whispers again.

I can be playful in the dark too! Just like all of those years ago as a sixth grader.

With my other hand, I feel behind me. It takes me only a moment to realise that I have his hiking staff in one of my hands and that the bulk of his manhood is in the other. Not small!

I release both.

The lights come on. Isaac has taken a couple of paces back away from me.

Nobody would suspect anything!

I stare at him. He grins.

That was a huge risk that he just took!

I wonder whether he pressed his body against me deliberately, or did I actually bring it about by attempting to take his hiking staff away from him, and he was only hanging on to it, as I pulled it, and him, nearer?

Either way, I did enjoy the brief moments of contact with his body.

As we walk, I wait for him to make another approach.

Despite multiple opportunities, he doesn't.

Maybe him wanting to initiate something is all in my imagination. Or, is it actually wishful thinking on my part? Then again, he didn't seem upset, or pull away, when his gear was cupped in my hand! He was grinning afterwards, or was that just Isaac's good-humoured acceptance of my audacity? I may never know.

By the time that I muster sufficient courage to take a better `feel' of him, the next time that the lights go out, our tour is suddenly over.

Disappointing!

Mike leads us out. Isaac locks the gate. They stand side by side and both of them thank us for being a great group. I look at Isaac. He smiles and touches two fingers to his forehead as if to salute me. I reciprocate. Salute and smile.

Isaac and Mike head back together. I amble a respectable distance behind them and am rewarded by the view of Isaac's narrow hips and firm glutes in his well-fitting trousers. I must check the board behind the reception desk to see whether he is scheduled for another tour tonight! And join it; no doubt, with some admiring ladies. LOL.

As I pass the guides' office, Isaac is standing on the outside, with his back against the wall, reading a single sheet of paper.

For the first time, I can see, unimpeded, the front of his trousers, and my brain relates the general roundness that my eyes now observe to the bulk that my hand had felt earlier. It appears that his short-crotched trousers are pulled up almost as far as they will go, which does nothing except emphasise what is inside, without any clear definition of anything in particular.

You know what I mean!

I slow my pace to `strolling' to allow my eyes sufficient opportunity to take in the beauty of Isaac's body. And then, without stopping to gawk, I continue on towards the House which is about 200m farther up the road.

I enjoy the warmth of the fresh mountain air, probably about five degrees higher than the ambient coolness of the cave, and contemplate the beauty of the tall, broad-girthed pine trees, filtering the afternoon sunlight, underplanted with variegated ivy as a ground cover.

My reveries are broken by a body and a voice alongside me. "Hey, Rob," Isaac says. "How was that for you?"

"Great, mate," I reply. "Thank you."

"Everything?" he asks without any specifics. I wonder if he's referring to the touching.

"Absolutely," I answer. "And the cattle prod was a nice touch."

As soon as the words leave my mouth, I become aware of the unintentional double entendre, and I wonder which way he is going to interpret it.

His reply doesn't give anything away. "Yes, I got the impression that you enjoyed that."

The fact that he has actually caught up to speak with me tells me that I am not dismissed from his mind as just another tourist number.

This is encouraging!

Without having to wait to read the board in the reception area, I put my question to him directly. "So, Isaac, are you scheduled on any other tours today?"

He replies, "I was supposed to do one of the night walks, but they swapped me onto this one as I was the only junior available for this unscheduled afternoon tour. I don't mind at all, because I now have the rest of the day free."

There goes what I was planning!

"So, what will you do for the rest of the day?" I ask. "When is your next-scheduled tour? Tomorrow?"

I think that, if it's early enough, I'll join that one before continuing my journey to Sydney.

He says, "Because I had been originally scheduled on a late-night tour, the next one on my roster is just before lunch. Otherwise, if my original schedule had the afternoon tour on it, I would probably have been given one of the first-ups after breakfast.

Another disappointment!

"What about you?" he asks me.

"I have nothing planned," I say. "This is just an overnight stop before heading the rest of the way into Sydney for my Mum and Dad's anniversary dinner. So, maybe I'll grab a coffee now, go for a short walk, spend some time in the hot tub before dinner and then, afterwards, who knows?"

"Sorry to disappoint you," Isaac says, "but the hot tub is out of service today. They've been doing a bit of maintenance on the spray jets before the weekend guests arrive." Then he adds, "I was hoping to have one myself, to ease some of the aches and pains from a long hike that I did yesterday."

I file his `aches and pains' information away for later reference.

I can't let all of my opportunities slip by.

"I don't suppose you'd like to join me for a coffee and then for a walk?" I tell him. "Maybe you could show me one that is scenic but not stressful." Then I add, "Or is it against the rules for staff to mix with the guests?"

"No, it's different here," he says. "While most places forbid fraternisation, here, when I'm off duty, my time is my own." Then he adds, "I'd just better not turn up for work late or drunk!"

"No problem, then!" I smile.

"OK. Let's meet in Reception in 15 minutes," Isaac suggests. "That will give me time to change out of my uniform and freshen up a bit."

I'm tempted to tell him that I like looking at his uniform just the way that it is, but I resist.

"Me too," I say. "OK. See you in 15."

We go our different ways.

I decide, if I'm going for a walk, that it's not really necessary to change clothes now, but I will change for dinner. So, after a quick trip to the toilet and a tidy-up of my belongings, I head back downstairs.

I don't have to wait long before Isaac appears.

I was wrong about it being better for him to leave his uniform on! He's wearing light grey track pants and a long-sleeved body shirt. And the girls behind the reception desk have noticed him too. They would have to be blind not to see the same bulges that are attracting my eyes!

I am tempted to comment to him on how his clothes define his youthful and muscular body, and what the sight of it is doing to my loins. Very tempted. But I resist. For now.

"Hey, Rob," he greets me. "I thought that I might be the one waiting for you. No sense in hanging around in our rooms for the clock, eh?" He can tell that I haven't changed from what I was wearing in the cave. "Why don't we grab a take-away coffee from the café near the guides' office and then walk, talk and drink? And who said that men can't multi-task?"

So, apart from being youthful, handsome, well-endowed and possessing a `prod-igious' sense of humour, Isaac is smart too! What a catch for somebody!

I'll have to ask him about that.

"You know the area, mate," I tell him. "Where do you suggest that we walk?"

"Choice of two," he replies. "Through a large, open cavern and around onto the lookout on top of the hillside, about an hour, round trip; or we could go down alongside the river that emerges from the caves and follow it down to a dam from which we pump all of our water. Similar time."

"Well," I start, "considering that your body seems to need a rest after your hike yesterday, why don't we take the river track?"

"Excellent choice!" he replies. "And thanks!"

We amble, more than walk, along the track beside the river. The scenery is stunning, company included. I don't mind walking behind him when the path narrows or if there are overhanging branches!

The river which seems to emerge from underground somewhere widens into a crystal-clear, shallow lake that reflects the colours of the trees and the hills. I note two black swans gliding with the gentle current, a gaggle of about six or seven geese on the bank and multiple water fowl. The geese honk their displeasure at us for disturbing them and they waddle into the river and paddle away. The water fowl scurry to the safety of some reeds on the other side.

I re-initiate the conversation. "So, what did you do, Isaac, before you came here, and how did you end up here?"

"After high school, I started at uni last year, but found it too crowded for my liking," he starts. "and I struggled to concentrate on my work. Perhaps geography wasn't the best choice, even though I enjoyed it at school. Then, one weekend, I came here with my parents and just loved the tranquillity of the place, in absolute contrast to the frenetic uni campus."

"Being here, now, I can see exactly what you mean," I tell him.

He continues, "When we took a cave tour, I got to talking to one of the guides about how beautiful the place was, and how great it must be to work here. She suggested that I could apply for a trainee-guide position, if I wanted to, because there would be some becoming available at the end of the year. She said that if I applied before the vacancies were advertised, that I might `get the jump' on any other applicants."

"So, did you?" I ask.

"Yeah. She gave me a set of forms which I took home and filled in after reading as much about the place as I could, and sent them off. About a month later, I got a call to come for an interview, after which I was virtually offered a position on the spot."

We come to a bench seat and use it to just pause and imbibe the natural beauty, including the heady smell of the local flora and the raucous screeches of a single sulphur-crested cockatoo, contrasted with the soft, resonating peals of multiple bell birds.

"So, what do you enjoy most about being here?" I ask him.

"Lots of things," he replies. "I love all of this," he says as his arm sweeps across the scenery. "And I love the caves, and the unhurried pace, and meeting new people on a daily basis."

He looks at me, smiles, reaches across, presses his index finger on my thigh and says, "zzzzt."

"And how many people have you cattle prodded altogether?" I ask, returning his `zzzzt', but much higher on his thigh, in reasonable proximity to the prominence in the front of his track pants. He doesn't flinch.

"Let's see...," he contemplates. "Including you, that would be ... one!" He turns his face to me and smiles.

"Only one?" I ask, amazed that this handsome athlete has not been `friendly' with anyone else in the same way.

"Yes. Just you," he answers.

"Why just me?" I put to him.

"Because I felt your energy, the moment that I saw you," he answers, as if my question was unnecessary.

"My what?" I ask.

"Your energy. Don't tell me that you can't feel it too?" he says. "Between you and me. The energy!"

"I'm not sure what you are talking about," I tell him.

Dare I believe him? However, I do feel what he's describing, but how can I admit that to him? Or even to myself?

"Some people can see auras. I can feel energies." He attempts to explain. "When I focus on a person, I feel any energy of attraction, like a magnet. From most people I get a very weak `reading'. From you, it was the strongest that I've felt for anyone that I've ever experienced here; staff or tourist. Don't you feel it? Do you feel anything? Or am I just making a complete fool of myself?"

"Energy of attraction?" I repeat. "As in `attract', `attracting', `attractive'?"

"Yes," he answers. "Do you sense anything?"

"Seeing that you're the one who raised it, yes, I find you attractive," I reply cautiously. "Does that shock or worry you?"

"Not at all," he says. "Because I feel it too. Strongly. So, describe to me how it feels for you."

`Energy of attraction' I think to myself. I've never heard it expressed that way before!

"I'm not sure," I tell him. "Except, I like that we are almost the same age, I like your smile, the way your thick hair is brushed to one side, your slim body, your muscles, your sense of humour and your..." I pause. I look at him. I reach my hand across to the front of his track pants and hover my palm above his bulge. He says nothing, and doesn't react in any way except to continue smiling. So, I continue. I lower my hand and say, "zzzzt." Then I take my hand back.

"It's OK," he smiles at me. "Don't be embarrassed. I like your energy. It's really strong at the moment. It charges my own batteries." He lays his hand on my thigh. High. "zzzzt." And he leaves it there.

I don't know what to think. This is weird! Is he coming on to me and wanting me to do stuff with him? Is this a little scenario or charade that he has concocted to initiate some sexual contact?

"Are you sure that it's OK?" I ask.

"Absolutely," he replies.

I move my hand back to his bulge but, instead of just resting it on top, I begin to feel around. He says nothing. I say nothing, but I now sense a firmness that I hadn't encountered in the cave.

He moves his hand and locates my own stiffness which has been increasing rapidly during the past minute. He squeezes it.

"Do you feel the energy now?" he asks me.

"What I can feel is your cock and balls," I reply. "And I'm also feeling `turned on' with what your hand is doing."

"That's it!" he says. "Exactly what I feel. High, excited energy."

We spend a few moments of mutual fondling.

"I think that we had better keep walking," I tell him. "Even though I'd love to continue doing this, I would hate anyone to see us, especially one of your staff."

"Where would you like to walk?" he asks. "Farther down the river, or back to your room?"

The answer to that question is a no-brainer from my perspective! We stand and begin to retrace our path.

In my wildest dreams I could not have constructed a fantasy with a scenario like the last two hours of my life, to this point. I'm not complaining, but what is going on?

I have it!

It's early morning and I'm still asleep, having a dream about what's the best thing that could possibly happen to me today. A wonderful dream that will surely culminate in being a wet one! Then I'll wake up, shower, dress and head to Sydney to see my parents.

I feel Isaac's hand pat my backside. "zzzzt," he says.

"zzzzt! Right back at you," I tell him, squeezing his closest glute to me.

Emerging from the track to where we encounter people strolling around, we deposit our empty coffee cups into the appropriate bin and continue towards the House.

"Should we go separate ways, from here? To not arouse any suspicions?" I say to him. He agrees. I tell him my room number. "See you soon."

My dream seems so real but, logically, I'm sure that my hyperactive mind is simply constructing everything from my memory of years ago, while adding its own embellishments and desired outcomes.

That's it! Nice. Why resist it?

I clear the single bed, putting everything away into drawers or the wardrobe.

Anticipating the need for it in my fantasy, I place my massage oil on the bedside table and move the fresh towels to the floor, within reach.

I remove my boots and contemplate whether I should take off anything else when there is a knock at the door.

I open it. Isaac looks to his left and right and then steps in and closes the door behind him, reminding me of a B-grade spy movie. He extends his hand, as if we are meeting for the first time. As I shake it, he says, "zzzzt" and grins broadly.

"Welcome to my place," I say. "What would you like to do?"

"Why don't we continue from where we left off on the bench," he answers.

I agree. He levers off each of his sneakers with the opposite foot, and we clamber onto the double bed, propping ourselves up against the bedhead.

"Now, where were we?" I ask smiling. "Oh yes, you were telling me what you like about working here. Is there anything here that you don't like?"

"Not much," he replies, moving his hand up my thigh and stopping on top of my already-chunkiness. "Although, I don't have any real friends here. Everybody is friendly, but that's not the same. I don't drink with them, I don't smoke with them, I don't do drugs with the few who take them, and I don't yield to the occasional offers to join in one of their orgies."

"Orgies?" I say, displaying nonchalance to him manipulating my firmness. "How often do they have orgies?" I ask, reaching directly for the prominent tent in his track pants

"At least once a week or so," he says. "But I much prefer my nightly companion to the negative energy that I feel from the people here, especially the women who have been trying to get me into bed with them since the very day that I started here."

Interesting comment!

We continue to play with each other's body. I'm now rigid. He's stiff as well. And big.

"How's the food here?" I ask.

"Terrific," he replies. "They feed us three meals each day, which we don't have to pay for. A person could get fat if he was to over-indulge. Some have."

While he is talking, he is deftly undoing my trousers, folding the flaps down and exposing my Calvin Kleins, then he continues to `play', now being able to access the roundness of my balls. They tingle at his touch.

In response, I slip my hand under his shirt and the elastic waist of his trackies and feel, first, his `treasure trail' of hair and then the silkiness of the underwear that is covering his hard `treasure'.

Neither of us comments about what our hands are doing. We simply continue to play with, fondle and manipulate each other. Then he notices the massage oil, reaches for it with his free hand and asks, "What's this for?"

"A tool of my trade," I tell him.

He laughs, "So, I now have one of your tools in each hand." He squeezes my stiffness. "zzzzt"

"I'm a massage therapist," I tell him.

"No wonder; what you are doing feels so good," he answers. "You have experienced hands."

"Yes, my nightly companion has had `a little bit' of experience," I say.

What's it called when you understate or deliberately say the opposite of what you actually mean?

"Would your experienced hands like to massage my body?" he asks.

Aha! This confirms that I am dreaming! If all of this were real, I would be the one angling to massage him, not him asking me outright to give him one!

"Sure. If you like," I tell him. "But my experienced hands would have to remove your clothing first. The massage oil goes on your skin, not on your clothes."

He grins, removes his hand from my pants, swivels to the side of the bed, stands up and replaces the oil on the table.

Facing me, his feet are slightly apart, his arms are extended to the side but downward in a `come and get me' pose. The amorphous bulge which I first saw in his uniform, now, in his track pants has become a definite, fat protrusion.

I raise my scrutiny past his slim waist and firm pec muscles to his face. Flawless skin. Firm jaw. Bright eyes. Long eyelashes. Thick, light brown hair. Cheery smile.

Isaac is perfection, even if only in the fantasy of my imagination!

I stand, and my unfastened trousers drop to my ankles. I step out of them and push them aside with one foot.

He says nothing, and allows me to remove his shirt. His faultlessness, aka beauty, extends well beyond his face. At the sight of his defined pecs, abs, the top of his `treasure trail' and the prominent treasure towards which it's pointing, I feel my cock throb!

I hook my thumbs into the waistband, and, taking his track pants with them, I run my palms deliberately over his firm, round glutes. Their descent is impeded by the thick peg at the front. I move my hands around past his hips, easing his track pants over the impediment, taking a good feel of everything at the same time. He has substantial balls too.

I ease his track pants down and he steps out of them. As I stand, I run my hands back up his thighs, giving his cock and balls a preliminary massage on the way, re-directing his cramped erection to a more comfortable sideways-position, towards me.

"Doesn't the rest have to come off as well?" he asks, smirking.

"Not immediately," I grin back at him. "Later."

Then he asks, "Do you want massage oil to get on your clothes while you are working on me?"

My simple "No," is followed by him relieving me of my shirt.

With my pants already on the floor, he comments, "There. That makes us even."

"Maybe," I tell him, smiling. "But from what I can see and feel of your body, we are definitely not even. Maybe by a couple of inches."

"Size isn't everything," he comments.

"Easy for you to say!" I reply, smiling.

I unfold two towels and, based on experience, lay them sideways across the width of the bed, close to the end. That way, on his stomach, his chin can hang comfortably over one side with his feet over the other. At the same time, it will allow me easy access, from the end of the bed, to the full length of his body.

He takes up my recommended position, then says, "It's later."

"What do you mean, `it's later'?" I ask.

"Time for the undies to come off," he replies. "You said, `later'. It's `later' now."

"If you say so," I tell him. I lay my palms on the rounded firmness of his glutes, absorb the sensation, then take hold of the waist band and slowly pull them down. He raises his hips to assist. I add his underpants to his trackies.

"That felt good," he comments, turning his head to the side and smiling at me.

I squirt some oil onto my hands and rub them together, to warm the oil.

"Stop!" he says. "What about yours?"

"What about my what?" I ask.

"I'm naked. You're not," he tells me. "You wouldn't want us to be uneven, would you?"

"I have oil on my hands," I say.

He almost jumps off the bed, his heavy rigidity pointing straight out, perhaps even managing a slight elevation. He pulls my CKs straight down, fondles my balls with one hand and squeezes my cock with the other.

"That's better!" he tells me, and resumes his prone position on the bed, at the same time, somehow managing to direct his erection down between his legs.

I would be happy just to stay here and take in his beauty without actually massaging him. The defined muscles of his back and arms. The firm globes of his glutes. His powerful thighs. The hint of blond hairiness between his otherwise smooth, flawless glute muscles.

"Anything wrong?" he asks at my inactivity.

"Absolutely nothing is in any way wrong!" I tell him, then spread the hand-warmed oil to cover his back and shoulders. More oil. Glutes, quads and calves. Long strokes from his top to his bottom, to his feet actually. LOL. Back up, feet, past bottom to neck.

I do this multiple times, down and back up, each time massaging alternate legs. As I come up a leg, I allow my fingers to massage his inner thigh and brush against the hard tip of his elongated cock and over his ample, somewhat-flattened balls.

Each time I touch him there, he murmurs, "Ohhh."

I move and stand at his head, which allows me to run both of my hands from his shoulders to the mounds of his backside, which I grip and squeeze before pulling my palms up the sides of his body, across his shoulders to the top of his arms and then back up his neck to the base of his skull.

"You really do have experienced hands!" he says. "This feels amazing."

As he turns his head to look at me, he suddenly realised the proximity of my erection to him. He slowly and deliberately runs one hand up my legs, cups and weighs my balls, then grips my cock and gently pulls it. "zzzzt," he mutters. Then he relaxes his arm back to its original position.

The next time that my hands run down his back I allow one finger to dip deep between his glutes and I add a "zzzzt" of my own.

His glutes tighten. The contracted muscles of his backside are a stirring sight!

I complete his neck to feet massage and say, "OK, turn over."

At this point, some guys will draw breath, ask questions, delay any action and exhibit various degrees of embarrassment. Not Isaac! He readily flips over, adjusts his cock so that it's lying straight up along the ridge between his well-defined abdominal muscles, then gives his balls a liberating lift.

My first impression of seeing his naked front is that his cock and balls, emanating from between the crests of his pelvis, are disproportionately large, compared to his slim frame. However, they are a perfect complement to his fully toned muscles. He is the best of any Greek Adonis, come to life. Hey! It's my dream; so, he's my vision of Adonis!

He looks up at me and smiles.

"Nice!" I grin back at him.

I'm tempted to kiss the smile right off his lips, or tweak the erect nipples on his pecs, or take a handful of his balls. Instead, I mess up his hair. Then I goofily grin at his surprised expression.

I make short work of oiling and rubbing his front; high and low. Pecs, abs and quads. Then I take extra care and spend much more time on his middle bits.

Despite its heaviness, each time that I fondle his soft and full balls, his cock flinches off his abs and exudes another globule of pre-cum. His soft moans of pleasure are music to my massage therapist's ears.

It's only when I start to slowly jack off his steely pole that he tells me to "Stop".

"What's up?" I ask him. "I thought that you would like this."

"I do. More than you know!" he replies. "But, once again, we are uneven. Swap places."

I don't argue and I don't question. I merely comply.

The one thing that we do have in common, as we exchange places, is our obvious bodily excitement.

"Face up or face down?" I ask him.

"I'd like to watch your face," he replies.

I lie on my back, heels hanging over one side of the bed so that my head is supported at the other side.

He squirts oil onto his hands and rubs them together.

"Ever given anybody a massage before?" I ask, as he takes up a position adjacent to my hips.

"Nope," he answers. "But I was taking note of what you were doing."

He massages everything except my cock and balls. And does a pretty good job of it too.

By way of explanation for this exclusion, or his oversight, he tells me, "I'm saving the best for last. Now, turn over."

I feel somewhat cheated that he didn't do to me what I did for him. However, I take him at his word that my dream will still end happily. LOL.

With my face down, and thumbs tucked under my thighs, palms upwards, Isaac repeats what I did earlier, almost stroke for stroke.

Occasionally, I feel the head of his cock brush my open palm as he leans forward. My fingers encase, then release, it. Neither of us comments. It's all tactile communication.

Then, "For somebody who has never massaged anyone before, you have a great touch," I encourage him.

He does, however, use much more oil than I did.

"Your body looks terrific, all covered in oil," he says. "It's almost inviting me to slide on it and massage it with my own body."

"Then, I think that you'd better RSVP to that invitation," I grin at him, looking to the side, then I move my hands to near my head and grip the edge of the bed.

He nudges my thighs close together and kneels astride them. Then, I feel him slowly begin to lower his body onto mine. I feel his hefty cock nestle between my glutes, then his full weight on my back and he places his hands over mine.

He begins to slide. Small movements at first. A few sensations predominate: his cock sliding on my oiled backside, his chest pressing on my back, and the side of his face rubbing, with deliberation, against my own.

"Oh, this feels so good," he groans near my ear.

"Me too," I encourage him.

Then the length of his movements increases. He draws himself farther down my body before pushing upwards. I feel his cock start between my thighs, slide up and over my glutes and finish in the middle of my back. A duet of moans of pleasure ensues.

Occasionally, instead of surmounting my glutes, his cock gets `stuck' between them. He merely pulls back and starts again. I can't tell whether he is deliberately testing my attitude to potentially being fucked, but I don't comment. Neither does he.

Then, the moment that he pushes directly against my hole, I calmly say, "Hey," as if he has suddenly entered forbidden territory.

"Sorry," he whispers and withdraws slightly. I feel him lift his hips and he pushes his cock downwards, between my thighs and under my balls until I feel his hairs on my backside. He does it again. And again.

The sensation of his strong cock sliding along my hardened perineum is extremely stimulating.

His moaning continues and, with each subsequent push, slowly morphs into grunting.

"Are you enjoying this?" I whisper to him.

My words seem to interrupt some kind of euphoric trance that he had entered. His pushing stops and he replies, "Oh, yeah! Are you OK?"

"Yep. Loving it too," I say. "But how about if we both turn onto our sides?"

Without further comment, we roll, as one, towards the second towel in the middle of the bed.

He slides one hand under my neck and wraps his other arm over my body, gripping my chest tightly. He resumes pushing, and moaning, and grunting.

I break into his spell again. "Haven't you forgotten something?"

"What?" he asks, sounding concerned.

"You didn't say, `zzzzt' when using your cattle prod." He can probably hear the smile on my face.

He continues powerful pushing. "zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt, zzzzt..."

Then he stops. "Sorry," he tells me. "There is something else that I forgot."

"What?" I ask.

His hand moves from my chest to my cock, now extremely wet with precum. He begins to rub it. He fondles my balls and I can tell that he is also encountering the end of his own protruding erection down there.

His pushing restarts and his jacking hand coordinates with his hip movements.

I feel the sensation start. Low and deep. It intensifies and I know that within a couple of seconds, I will wake up from my dream and grab for the tissues next to my bed before I soil my sheets. Then, while I capture multiple spurts of spunk, I will endeavour to remember the details of what caused my thrill, so that I can replay this entire fantasy tomorrow night and experience the ecstasy all over again.

"I think I'm gonna cum," I tell him, and pull the first towel against us to confine as much spurting as possible.

"Hold on," he tells me, "if you can." His hand movements stop, but his thrusting increases, both in pace and intensity.

Then, without stopping his shoving, his jacking resumes on my cock, frantically. Then I feel his body spasm, which pushes me over the edge and mine begins erupting as well. Again and again and again ... Again.

Our tensed muscles relax and our bodies slump against each other and sink onto the bed.

As our intense breathing slows, he apologies again. "I'm so sorry Rob. I got carried away and didn't give you the opportunity to do the same thing. You know, to `get even'."

"That's OK, Isaac," I smile. I'll take my turn when I have a repeat of this dream tomorrow night."

"What are you talking about?" he asks.

I am suddenly and profoundly aware that I haven't just woken up. This isn't a wet dream. It's real. Very wet but very real!

I pause. "I'll embarrass myself if I tell you, and you'll think that I'm a total idiot, or at least deranged" I say.

"Try me," he replies.

I explain how, at one point down along the path by the river, when we first got really `frisky' with each other, I thought that he was too handsome to be real, and that what we were doing was way too good to be true, so I convinced myself that I was just experiencing a very authentic dream, from which I would wake up with a slumbering ejaculation. The proverbial wet dream.

There is contemplative silence. Then he laughs. Well, more of a giggle than a laugh. "I was right!"

"About what?" I ask.

"The energy of attraction," he tells me. "I felt it. You felt it. The only difference was that I totally believed it but you couldn't, so you created a fantasy to explain it to yourself. Then he asks, "Did you enjoy your fantasy?"

"I reckon that the reality was way better than any fantasy that I've ever imagined in the past," I tell him. "What about you?"

"I've been saving myself for someone whose attraction energy matches my own," he tells me. "It was definitely worth the wait."

"What?" I ask. "You've never mucked around with anyone here before? What about in high school?"

"No," is his simple, unqualified answer.

"How can someone as handsome as you, not have attracted heaps of people who wanted to `get it off' with you, both females and males?" I put to him.

"Yes. There were a lot who `came on' to me at school, and also like when I first arrived here, as I told you," he says. "But, yours is the first energy that I've ever really been attracted to, and surrendered to. Besides, I have always had my faithful, nightly companion to give me a thrill. That probably sounds weirder than your fanciful dream, doesn't it?"

"Not really," I tell him. Then I add. "Lucky me!"

"And lucky me," he replies, hugging me. "Thanks." He adds, "What you might think is even weirder, is that I thought that I could feel your energy even before I came into the reception area and saw you. In fact, I'm sure that I even felt something long before that. Perhaps, even while you were still driving."

"To be honest," I share with him, "I was feeling something strange too, while coming down the road to the Caves. I thought that it was just a wave of nostalgia and anticipation. Does that make any sense?"

"So, you COULD feel it too?" he asks. "It's not only a visual thing. I don't know if it's some kind of sixth sense. Maybe more like a Geiger counter; the closer you get, the louder it clicks."

Enjoying the warmth of each other's body and company for many minutes, we chat about `the energy of attraction' and how far it could extend, and how it could be so selective. Then I say, "We have a bit of a problem, I think."

"What problem?" he asks. "Nothing we have done is a problem for me."

"There's no shower in here." I put to him.

"Hmm. Yeah. Seems ridiculous, doesn't it, to put clothes on just to go down the hall and get them off again?" he says. "At least, after dinner, people don't take any notice if they encounter someone in the corridor, wearing pyjamas and with a towel over their arm. After dinner, I think that they wouldn't even worry if they saw a person with a toiletries bag with only a towel wrapped around them."

"So, what do we do?" I ask. "There seem to be a lot of people around at the moment."

"Let's just clean up with these towels, get dressed then shower when it's clear." Isaac offers. "You can use the one just down the hall on the left, and I'll go back to my room. There are two more clean towels in the top of your wardrobe, if you need them," he says.

We clamber off the bed and Isaac offers to wipe my body for me, "Considering that I'm the one who covered your back with oil and was mostly responsible for all the stuff that you're wearing on the front." He laughs.

"Yeah. Quite a mess!" I tell him. "But, what a fantastic way to make a mess!"

"Amen to that," he tells me. Then, standing directly in front of me, he looks, seemingly longingly, into my eyes and asks, "Rob, how often do you come this way, and stay here?"

"Oh, maybe once every ten years, on average," I reply, smiling at my own humour.

His smirking expectancy goes into freefall.

"But..." he starts, with an emotional quiver in his voice.

"Isaac," I tell him. "I only came here on a whim. It's been a couple of years since I saw my parents, and I am just travelling down for their silver wedding anniversary. Twenty-five years. Other than that, I had no reason to come here, or stay here. I just thought that I'd break the trip overnight, check out how much the place had changed then arrive fresh in Sydney tomorrow."

"So, you don't ever come this way at all?" he asks. His sad expression and emotional voice reveal a great disappointment."

"Never had any reason to," I tell him. I pause, then I add, "Until now..." I raise my eyebrows up and down.

He stares at me. His smirk recovers and broadens to a beaming smile.

"How can I resist your magnetic energy?" I ask. "Apparently it can draw me in from any distance. We had better swap contact details so that you can tell me when you have a couple of days off, or I can tell you when I feel like driving somewhere for an overnight trip."

"Are you planning on staying here on your way back from Sydney?" he asks.

"Will you be free if I do?" I reply.

"Even if I have to swap shifts with somebody," he smiles. "Absolutely."

"Then I guess I'll see you again on Sunday afternoon or Monday," I tell him. "And you assured me that you'd let me `get even'."

"Hey," he says. "It's not even dinner time, yet. You can `get even' later, if you like."

I grin and tell him, "Then you'd better bring your pyjamas. It could turn into a long night."

"You wear pyjamas?" he asks me.

"Nah," I smile back.

"That makes us even," he says.

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' and `Hayden'.
I think that `Gino' is one of my better works; however, it's located at http://nifty.org/nifty/gay/highschool/massaging-gino/

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