Page 40 of The Legend Next Door
Every synapse in my body fires at once, and fifteen or sixteen sexual positions flit before my eyes. Cowboy. Missionary. Doggy. Him on top of me. Behind me. Both of us standing. Me on my knees. Legs open. Back arched.
“Hee-hee,” I say. I don’t mean that I laugh out loud. I mean, I actually say it.Hee-hee.Aloud.
He looks at me strangely, so I gesture to the table and try again.
“Face in the hole.” I’m instantly assaulted by the thought of Ben’s beautiful face near a hole. My hole. Ben’s mouth. My cheeks. Ben’s tongue. My ass, pried open. “P-please."
He nods agreeably, entirely unaware of how he’s affecting me, and shucks his shoes off. He takes a seat on the table, awaiting further instructions. This is something I’m trained for. It’s part of the job. Clients need clear instructions so they know exactly what’s expected of them. Lots of people don’t have regular massages, so they aren’t sure what to do. It’s on me to set him at ease. “You can take your belt off if you like, so you’ll be more comfortable lying down.”
Ordinarily, I have clients remove their clothing down to their underwear, and I drape a towel over their bottom half to keep them warm while I work. Not today. I’m not touching that scenario with a ten-foot pole. No siree. My thoughts are already coming through at a snail’s pace, and my dick is so hard I could carve ice with it. Even the slightest of sightings of Ben’s thick thighs would be my undoing. I know myself well enough to know that for sure.
He unbuckles his belt, dropping the thick strap of leather onto the floor near his shoes. There’s a strange finality to the clatter it makes as it lands.
“Anything else?” he asks. It looks like he’s trying not to smile. Like he’s finding something about the situation, or me, amusing.
I hesitate before I say it. I’d greatly prefer not to have to mention it. I’d greatly prefer if I hadn’t spotted it, or if he wasn’t wearing it today, or if I’d said, “Oh,hellno,” when he asked for a massage. The problem is, I’m going to be working on his neck and shoulders. It will be in the way if he leaves it on.
“You can take your chain off. If you want. Um, but if you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can move it and try to work around it. Might get some oil on it, but it's fi—”
He looks down at his knees, pausing before reaching up, taking the chain in both hands and raising it carefully over his head without undoing the clasp. He holds it out to me, and I offer him my open hand. He lets the chain pool in my palm, slow and controlled, the metal still warm from his body. I curl my fingers tightly around it, walk over to the bookshelf, and put it in a small wooden box I keep there.
When I return to the table, he’s lying on it, facedown. The full extent of the situation I find myself in hits me immediately.
I can look.
I can touch.
I can look at Ben. Really look. Without looking away or being worried I’ve already looked for too long. I can look at him without blinking. I can drink him in, his skin and his muscles. I can look, and look, and look as much as I want.
I can touch him too. I can’t touch him the way I want, with my lips and my mouth and my tongue, but I can put my hands on him. I can feel his skin on my palms. I can find the root of his tension and knead it out of him. I can be close to him and make him feel better.
I keep an eye on him as I reach down surreptitiously to rearrange myself. I’m as hard as I’ve ever been and the zipper of my jeans digs into me uncomfortably.
With that addressed, I push my caddy of oils and towels over to the table and pour a healthy amount of sweet almond oil into my palm, rubbing my hands together to warm it.
“Is medium pressure okay for you?” I ask.
I’m pleased with myself for remembering to ask. It’s a standard question I ask every client, so it’s probably muscle memory or reflex more than anything else, but still. It bodes well for me that at least a tiny part of my brain is still working.
I settle myself with a quick breath in and out and place both hands, palms down, on Ben’s back. His skin is warm. Almost impossibly warm. Almost feverishly warm. And it’s smooth. Deliciously smooth.
I experience a brief brain fart where I’m unable to remember what to do next, but fortunately, I manage to shake it off quickly.
Massage.
I’m here to give Ben a professional massage. He is suffering from what might well be an aura migraine, and I’m here to treat him for that.
I start with basic effleurage, a combination of light and deep stroking that’s known to help clients relax. I let my fingers roam his back, focusing on his neck and shoulders, charting out a map of the tension I find there. His sternocleidomastoid and levator scapulae are tight and both upper trapezius are knotted, though it’s worse on the right.
When his breathing deepens, I switch to petrissage, kneading hard as I begin to release his tension in earnest.
I’m impressed with myself. I truly am a better man than I gave myself credit for. I’m doing so well. If I focus on my hands and try not to think a single thing, this could actually be fine.
I lengthen my passes down his traps, leaning into the meaty tissue as I dig the heels of my palms into what’s causing him pain.
The first sound he makes is soft, little more than a gust of air leaving his lungs. It’s fine. It’s a completely typical response to the stimuli he’s receiving. The next one is louder and lower.
Oh Jesus.
