WRONG AND RIGHT by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2002 by the author.
I lie on my stomach on the table as he prepares to begin the massage. I'm nude. State law says it's wrong for a client of a registered massage therapist to be undraped. From the beginning it felt right to us.
"How are you?" he asks, warming the cream in his hands. He's already started the soft music he always plays.
"Doing good." He always makes conversation, treats me like a human being. I like to think we're friends, though we never see each other outside of our sessions.
I turn my head and say, "You know, I'd like it to be a little different today."
"How?" he asks.
I hesitate, then say it. "I've always had a fantasy about being massaged in the dark."
He shrugs and smiles.
"No law against that."
He snaps off the lamp. His apartment is small and he works in his bedroom. It's not completely dark. I can see the shadowy outline of his body in front of the double bed.
He spreads the massage cream on my skin and sets to work with his usual deep, skilled strokes on my back, neck and shoulders. He has years of experience and it's apparent in everything he does. We don't talk much. The silent communication between us says more than words.
My arms stay at my sides, and I make no move to touch him in any way. It's wrong for a client to initiate sexual contact with his massage therapist. Even so, we've felt the electricity between us since our first session.
He leans against the table as he works, allowing his crotch to contact my body. It's swollen, as usual. Despite his professionalism he can't help himself. I breathe a little faster. My cock is pointing downward, toward my feet. I feel the pressure of my erection trapped by my weight, almost painful. I know he can see the head of my penis peeking from between my legs, beneath my balls.
He bends down to work my shoulders and his breath tickles my ear. He makes his way down my back to my buttocks, lingering there. His fingertips brush the sensitive hairs repeatedly in the cleft between my cheeks. He pauses, then I feel cool liquid running into my crack. He spreads it with his fingers, stroking my asshole, slipping one finger in for just a moment, then withdrawing it. He applies oil to the head of my cock in one quick stroke. As he works on my buttocks he touches it again and again, always brushing it for just a second. I can feel a wet spot forming on the table. I shift my body and sigh.
He moves around to my feet and ankles. He works them as usual, then travels up the backs of my legs with long deep strokes, brushing the bottom of my balls and the head of my cock. His finger slips inside my asshole and remains longer this time. It finds the firm knob of my prostate and begins to move, pressing and stroking it. His other hand strokes the head of my cock. I breathe long and deep, in ecstasy.
It's wrong for a massage therapist to use strokes of a sexually stimulating nature on a client. It's wrong for him to massage the genitals or anus. What he does feels so right. I can't ask him to stop.
He moves up my back with his hands and climbs onto the massage table, straddling my legs. He continues with repeated long strokes up my back to my shoulders and neck. As he reaches the back of my head he bends down toward me. I'm enveloped by the heat of his strong body. He whispers in my ear. "How are you doing?"
"Just great," I gasp.
"Is this what you had in mind?" he asks.
"God yes. You're amazing."
He chuckles. "Time to turn over."
He gets back on his feet as I obey. My hardon juts stiffly upward on my stomach. For a moment I look into his eyes. In the semidarkness I can see they are dark and intent. We both know what is to come but we keep up the pretense a few moments longer. He massages my pectoral muscles before his oiled fingers touch, then caress my nipples. I can no longer stay silent and groan softly with pleasure.
He smiles and puts a finger to his lips, gesturing with his eyes toward the closed door of the bedroom. I nod.
His lover is watching TV in the living room. If we make too much noise he'll hear us.
He bends his head to my chest and substitutes his soft tongue for his fingers. I'm careful not to make any more sound but I writhe with pleasure. He moves down my body, kissing my stomach. His fingers return to one nipple.
I can no longer keep my hands to myself. I pull the hem of his T-shirt out of the athletic shorts he's wearing, and caress his stomach. He pauses, pulls it up and over his head, drops it to the floor. His chest and stomach are smooth and hard. I sit up on the table and turn toward him. I bend and take one of his nipples in my mouth. He gasps, as I knew he would. His tits are as sensitive as mine.
I move to his neck, kissing the smooth skin on his shoulders and throat. I feel the stubble on his chin as I move toward his mouth. We exchange a gentle, chaste peck on the lips. He won't open his mouth when we kiss, one limit he's set. He also won't take any other part of me in his mouth. That's okay. Maybe it makes what we're doing a little bit less wrong.
I slide my hands underneath the waistband of his shorts and draw them downward. The white, stretchy material of the scanty briefs he wears underneath appears. He pushes the shorts down and lets them drop to the ground.
I climb off the table and stand in front of him. I place my hand on the bulge in his underwear, feeling the moisture where his precum has soaked the fabric. I look into his eyes. He stands, passive, arms at his sides. I reach behind him and push my hands underneath the waistband of his briefs, cupping his firm round buttocks and kneading them. I draw down the material slowly, slowly, bending my knees as I peel the last remaining clothing off his body.
His sparse, trimmed blond pubic hair appears and his cock springs out. It's a beautiful one, long, straight and circumcised, the dark purplish crown flaring from the shaft. His balls are neat and compact beneath, freshly shaved. I kiss my way down the smooth skin of his stomach to his crotch, breathing in his faint, manly scent, feeling the hard flesh contact my cheek, wetting it with the fluid of his arousal.
His briefs are around his ankles in a crumpled heap. I lift each of his feet in turn and free them from the fabric, then toss the underwear aside. He's already kicked off the sandals he was wearing. It's wrong for a therapist to undress during a massage. It's wrong for us to be naked together. Right now I don't give a shit.
I'm kneeling on the carpet at his feet, eyes raised, scanning his form before me. His jutting cock fills most of my field of vision. My own cock has been hard practically since the start of the massage. It feels like it could stay that way forever.
With my tongue I gently clean the salty precum from his piss slit. Then at last I open my mouth and take him into me, pushing more and more of the hard, veined shaft in until his cock head is pressing against the back of my throat and his pubic hair is tickling my nose. It's a little too soon and I gag, but I don't care. Filling your mouth with hard cock has got to be one of the great pleasures of life.
I can hear his harsh breathing above me as I begin to slide back and forth on his organ. I reach up with my hands and play with his nipples. I know he's enjoying this, but he stays silent and motionless. It's another way he maintains an emotional distance. He's allowing me a liberty, not participating in the act. We both know it's wrong for me to be giving my massage therapist head during a session.
He's not going to cum in my mouth, even though I'd like that. After a few minutes I release him, stand and get back on the massage table.
"Do you want me to fuck you?" He always asks this, even though he knows the answer.
"Yes, please."
He turns, his erection swinging, and opens a drawer nearby, pulling out a wrapped condom. He tears open the package and sheathes his cock. He catches my eye and winks. "Ready?" he asks.
I nod.
I'm lying on my back. I lift my legs in the air to give him room. He mounts the table and I give him the tube of massage cream. He greases his stiff cock and squeezes more cream onto his fingers. His slippery hand makes contact with my ass crack again, moistening the outside before two fingers enter me. I shudder with anticipation of the greater invasion to come. My own cock is leaking onto the oily skin of my stomach.
He grasps my ankle with one hand and positions his organ against my asshole with the other. I don't turn my gaze away from his eyes, steely with desire, for one instant. He pushes his pelvis forward and I feel my sphincter close around the head of his dick. He slides into me slowly and gently, almost as if he's still massaging me. My rectum opens before the silent onslaught. He presses on until he's buried up to his balls. I raise my head and catch a glimpse of his smooth, muscled stomach just past my own hardon.
He leans down toward my face. "How are you doing?"
"Great."
He nods and begins to thrust into me. We both know to stay as quiet as we can. There's no sound except our breathing and the creaking of the massage table. Gradually he increases his pace, sweat dripping off his face onto my body.
"Feels great," I tell him. "Fuck me."
He grins as he continues fucking. He raises his body and looks downward, grasping my ankles. I know he's enjoying the sight of his pole sliding in and out of my stretched, greased hole. He looks at me again and his eyes flash. "Feel good?" He gives a huge thrust that sends his cock plunging into me. Taken by surprise, I cry out, then cast my eyes toward the door.
He shakes his head. "It's okay." He bends toward me again and his thrusts shift into higher gear. It's difficult for him to cum in this situation, he's told me. I know he has to will himself to his climax. It's okay by me since the fuck lasts longer this way. It's so wrong for us to be fucking during a massage. But it feels so right.
I stretch out my hand. Still thrusting, he takes the tube and squeezes some cream into my palm. I apply it to my own hard cock and begin to work it. The friction combined with his relentless assault on my prostate brings me quickly to the verge of orgasm. Then I hear the short, harsh gasps from his throat. I'm dimly aware of a throbbing in my ass as he empties his load into the rubber inside me.
He looks at me, his chest still heaving with release. I haven't cum yet, in fact I've let go of my dick. I'm waiting for him. "Do you want me to--"
I nod. He takes my cock. It only takes a few seconds of his hard stroking before I begin to gasp with the indescribable sensations of orgasm. He keeps hold of my spurting cock and cups his other hand in front of it, gathering the cum. I raise my head and he presses his hand against my mouth, compelling me to eat my load. I swallow as much as I can, savoring the smell and taste. It's right that it should be salty, even bitter. I lick and clean his fingers, taking each one into my mouth in turn.
We're finished at last. He withdraws from me and goes into the bathroom to dispose of the condom. I lie quiet, trying to recover from the storm that's ripped through my body.
He re-emerges, leaving the bathroom door open. His form silhouetted against the light is magnificent, the shoulders broad, the arms thick, the waist and hips narrow and tight. He's holding a damp washcloth. He cleans my face of the cum smeared on it, then picks up a towel--the draping towel that we never use--and dries me off. When he is finished he leans down and gives me a gentle kiss on the lips. My arms encircle his shoulders and I pull him to me. We embrace for long moments.
He pulls away. "Time to finish the massage."
He picks up his clothes from the floor and pulls them on. Then he stands at the head of the table behind me and takes my head in his hands, massaging my scalp. His thumbs gently stroke my cheeks and forehead. After the passionate contact we've just had his touch is chaste and somehow deeply moving. I heave a sigh and tears prickle behind my closed eyelids. Is it guilt? Sadness that he and I can only touch in this surreptitious, secret way? Happiness that two human beings can be in such perfect communion, even so fleetingly? I don't know.
After a few more strokes he releases me. I hear his gentle voice.
"Take all the time you need. I'll be in the other room."
I want one last touch, so I reach out and grasp his hand. He squeezes it, then pats me on the shoulder. He's gone.
Slowly I rise, rub the excess cream off of myself and get dressed. I'll stop by the gym and shower before I head home.
I tie my tie and comb my hair, looking into the mirror in his bathroom. I always look so different after being here--it's amazing to me that no one else notices.
I go out into the living room of the apartment. He's sitting there with his lover. They smile up at me. I shake his lover's hand. "How are you doing?"
I've left his fee and a nice tip on the end table in the bedroom--that's how I always do it. I pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and check the messages. I frown and put it to my ear. As I listen I click my tongue in annoyance.
"Something wrong?" he asks.
"Our other car died on the freeway," I say. "My wife had to have it towed to a service station. She's waiting there now for me to pick her up. She didn't need that today."
He smiles and shrugs. "Sounds stressful. Try to stay relaxed now."
"Thanks, I will."
"Bye," his lover says.
I swing onto the road and concentrate on surviving the traffic. My cell phone rings but I don't answer it. It's probably my wife, wondering where I am.
What we're doing is wrong. It's wrong for him to have sex with a massage client. It's wrong for him not to tell his lover what he's doing. It's wrong for me to have sex with my massage therapist. It's wrong to cheat on my wife. It's wrong not to tell her about my need for other men. It's wrong. All of it is wrong.
It feels so right.
END