I love comments and criticism. Email me at mack.marek42@gmail.com. And remember, Nifty is a free service funded by donations, so please don't forget to support this awesome site if it gets you off! http://donate.nifty.org/donate.html
Manuel Ramirez enters at three o'clock on the dot. Good, I don't like waiting.
He looks like he's in his late forties. A little short, maybe five-eight or so. Heavyset, probably two-thirty. His skin is dark and leathery, worn by the sun. Thick black hair sprouts from his arms.
He greets me with a handshake and broken English. Closer up I see the holes in his threadbare shirt and dark sweat stains under his arms. His jeans are beaten and dusty. He must've come straight here from work.
So he's a dirty, fat old man, probably twice my age. Won't matter, I have the incense. It's far from legal but it's why I've earned my reputation.
Huh. Speaking of which, wonder why he's here. My typical client is usually a creep: only perverts hear about me from some seedy online forum. In a few cases, I end up with someone with a creepy friend who plays a practical joke on them. In any case, this guy doesn't really strike me as a weirdo. He seems a little uncomfortable, like he definitely wouldn't have come here on his own. I notice a wedding ring on his hand. I wonder if he has any idea what he's in for.
I make a mental note to check afterward, to see who called me to schedule this appointment. I doubt it was him.
"Come on back," I say, gesturing to the dim room behind me. He follows trepidatiously. It's almost cute, seeing this hardworking, simple man outside his comfort zone, being led around like a timid child. He's not relaxed; I'll have to take it slow.
"You can undress and lie face down on the table with the sheet over you," I instruct him, then I shut the door behind me quietly to give him privacy. Many of my clients can barely wait to rip their shirts off, but I can tell that he is not the type to know what to expect. I gather the incense and body oils, then knock softly. "Yes," he says awkwardly in his thick accent.
I enter quietly and queue up the tranquil spa playlist. I glance over at the corner of the room. Good, his underwear is there too.
I lather some oil into my palms, heating them up. Then I peel back the sheet. I grimace--he has a really hairy back. Well, a client is a client. I pump a little extra oil and then I run my fingers softly against his skin, which is already warm.
I continue to trace outlines softly along his back, starting along the spine and then spreading outwards. His tense muscles are gradually relaxing under my fingers. Good, he's getting comfortable.
I step away, wiping the oil from my hands with a towel, and head over to the counter to light the incense that my business is so well known for. A sweet lavender scent almost masks the underlying chemical mixture, which is an intricate combination of pheromones and psychoactive substances. It will take some time to permeate the room and affect my client, especially one who isn't prepared for the experience and will likely resist.
That's fine. I have no more bookings this afternoon. I might as well savor this one.
I return to the table, warming more oil in my hands, and this time I put my elbows into it, kneading his shoulders, then outlining his spine with my thumbs, pressing into his bulky muscles, tracing a path from his neck down to his tailbone, my palms working along his back. I feel the muscles quivering and pulsating. This man works hard, and he's probably never had a massage before. Good thing I am an actual therapist in addition to the other services I provide.
I feel around, my fingertips like dousing rods searching for knots. I encounter one and my fist presses into it, softly at first, then gaining as I press my weight down into my arm, kneading and rolling his flesh. I hear an almost imperceptible groan--maybe I didn't even hear it, but merely felt the vibration emanate back up my arms from his torso.
The incense is hitting me now, and the familiar sensation envelops my senses. I admire the curves of his body, the rough, masculine skin, the dark hair. I want nothing more than for every square inch of my skin to be in contact with his. But I must be patient. He must have less tolerance to the drug than me, so no doubt he is feeling it too, but he's fighting it, confused about his arousal. To do it now is too soon.
I move up to his shoulders now. The muscles feel strong but tender, so I start softly, working them with the bottoms of my palms as my thumbs work the back of his neck, moving up towards the base of his skull. His head is shaved clean, so I allow my hands to find their way to his scalp and my digits dance across the skin, alternating between softly tracing rhythmic patterns across his head and digging into his temples and jaw muscles.
Then I reverse the pattern, returning to his neck, then shoulders, then back down the spine in a smooth, slow motion, and at this point I know he is ready.
I slip off my sweatpants and peel off my shirt silently. Face-down, he has no idea that I'm naked. My cock is pulsating eagerly, already starting to ache, but it will have to wait. I lightly pull back the sheet, exposing his furry ass, and watch for any sign of discomfort or recoil. But, as usual, I gauged accurately; he is fully intoxicated.
I pump a generous amount of oil into my hands, then they find their way to his big, padded glutes, pressing along his hips, then massaging broad circles around his ass, occasionally returning to his tailbone to give attention to his powerful back muscles. All the while, I am drawn, hypnotized to his hairy, beckoning hole, already puckered up, and finally I can't hold back.
I lean down, breathing in deeply. He wreaks of sweat and manhood, but nothing more. Perfect. My hands soften and slow their rhythm, then they find their way, itching closer and closer to his crack. Then suddenly, as if acting of their own accord, they slip between and pull apart his cheeks.
I feel him tense and twitch, and I know that he is struggling to come to his senses. This is the crucial time to make the move, or it'll all be over.
My head descends and my tongue slips into his hole, and I feel his defeat as his legs slacken under my bare chest and I hear a loud exhale escape him. He is entirely mine now.
I dig my tongue in further, relishing the salty taste of his sweat, my lungs filling with his musky scent, and now I'm drilling in as deep as I can go, and I am entirely consumed with his body, his pulse beating against my lips. I only vaguely know that a world exists outside of this dark warmth between his ass cheeks, and I am only reminded of it by his labored breathing, the distant sound of the music, and the almost imperceptible scent of lavender mixing with the overbearing aroma of the man's body. He's wriggling, his hips are shaking, and he is thrusting back, trying to push me in deeper, and I am anchored in place, pushing back down as hard as I can, and the veins of his rectum against my lips are throbbing. He needs more, and I can't deny that to him, not now, even if I wish I could taste him for an eternity.
It takes every iota of strength I have to pull away, and he utters a pitiable "no!" when I do. Ah, to see this rugged, hyper-masculine, middle-aged man reduced to this, desperate, whining, begging. "Por favor," he gasps, heaving, gasping it again. "Please, please," and it's a meek whisper now.
I will provide. I'm lubing up my cock now, slowly, carefully, because I know if I start to jerk I won't be able to control myself. I fill my lungs to the brim with the smoky incense, willing my palpitating heart to calm down. I hear a sniffle. My God, he is crying now. I will relieve him of his agony.
I climb up onto the table, straddling his thick, furry thighs with my knees balanced on the edges of the bed. And then I descend, lining myself up with his hole, and carefully press the head in.
If ever there was a virgin, he is it. He is tight against my head, and as I push farther in I feel the warmth closing in on all sides, and it's like all of me is inside him, as if my whole soul were embedded in my cock and I just keep pushing farther in, burying myself in his gut, and when I slide along his ridged prostate it feels as if I am penetrating his whole body, his heart, his soul, and at long last my pelvis is resting against his tailbone and my glutes tense up, burying the last inch in him.
There is no resistance. He is not in the pain suffered by so many virgins. No, he is lying with his head to one side, his eyes closed, and I know he's on an entirely different plane of existence. I lower myself down and my tight stomach rests against his warm, oily, furry lower back, my pecs aligning with his shoulders, and I rest my arms on top of his arms, my full weight now pressing down on him.
I lean in and I open my lips against his neck, my tongue tracing against the rough, prickly edges of his five o'clock shadow. His skin is delectable, and I'm salivating like mad.
He strains his neck so I meet him halfway for a kiss, and his rough tongue slips into my mouth, running along my teeth, exploring every crevice, trying to dig as deep into me as I was into him, and I share some of his own taste with him, running my dirty tongue around his warm, wet mouth.
My hips are moving rhythmically with a mind of their own, with a pace so slow, it feels as if my cock is dragging past every cell in his rectum. My hands release his arms and I pull them in, pushing them under his body to squeeze his chubby, hairy tits, enveloping him in a tight hug as I begin to increase the tempo.
I'm fucking him harder now, the tender rubbing of my cockhead against his prostate becoming rougher, shoving, then pummeling. My arms tighten, my fingernails dig into his chest, and I pull him back, lifting him partway up from the bed, and our lips part as he gasps for the air that I squeezed out of him.
He is staring, unblinking, into my eyes, unwavering even as the rest of his body shakes from the force of my hips rocking against him, and suddenly they widen. I understand what is happening and force my lips back onto his violently and his loud, reverberating moan is sealed in, funneling out of his mouth and into mine, and I know that even though he is flat on the bed, he's going to cum.
I release all restraint, letting my inner animal take over, and my hips become a blurred frenzy. His ass is taking a real pounding and he's taking it like a champ, every successive thrust as tight and welcoming as the last, his prostate shaking from every impact and bracing for the next.
And I release, shooting a white-hot load of cum as deep in his bowels as my hips will allow me, rearing back and preparing for another thrust with all the strength I can manage. I eject another volley into him, and the vibration of his deep, guttural growl directly into my mouth is so strong it almost hurts. Warm liquid is pooling against my thigh resting on the bed against his hips, his cum spreading on the sheets beneath us, and that sends me over the edge, wild, shooting more powerfully with a final thrust, pushing deeper into him than ever before, feeling as if my hips are folding and I'm pushing my whole body into him, every muscle poised in one downward motion toward a singular purpose: to unite our flesh.
And then I let go, and feel each part of my body relax, my grip on his chest loosening, lowering him back onto the bed, my sweaty torso coming to a gentle rest against his slick, sticky back, my ass loosening and my cock still hard, throbbing against the walls of his beaten asshole, and, for a moment, like every client before him had at this moment, he completes me in a connection unlike what anyone else has ever experienced.
For a few minutes we just lie here, catching our breath, then I peel myself off of him and pull my flaccid cock out of his ass, which is now leaking cum, which is running down his taint and dribbling over his ballsack.
I grab his hand and help him sit up on the bed. I chuckle quietly at the red outline where my fingers groped him so tightly. The underside of his belly is dripping with his own cum. I kneel for a moment to take his manhood into my mouth, which is still semi-hard. His hand slips around the back of my head and I gently squeeze his brown cockhead with my lips, kneading the last few drops of his salty cum onto my tongue.
Then the playlist comes to an end, I extinguish the incense, and slip my clothes back on, all while he sits there, naked and paralyzed, his eyes closed. As I latch the door behind me quietly, I'm not sure he's even noticed that it's over.
After a few minutes, he comes out, dressed and looking sheepish. I've washed up and composed myself. He stands awkwardly in the lobby, hands in his pockets. I hand him a bottled water and he beelines it for the door, half-tripping on his untied shoelace. I grin mischievously as I see a wet spot flowering on the seat of his jeans, from my cum still leaking out of his tender, puckered asshole.
The door clicks behind him and with it, my clearheadedness starts returning. Right--my curiosity. I pull up my computer to look to see who scheduled the appointment.
Graciela. Ah! I remember her. She was client from a few months ago, a middle-aged Hispanic woman. If I recall, she had a wedding ring as well. Yes, it hadn't been long after Christmas. Probably was a gift, either from a perv or someone who looked me up on some seedy list of low-cost massage therapists.
Graciela... Ramirez.
Jesus fucking Christ.
She came here. I gave her the best fucking anyone could ask her. And... she scheduled an appointment. For her own husband.
Oh, man. What I would give to be a fly on the wall when he gets home tonight.