I called Michael from my office that day. I was taking a short "coffee break" before lunch to look at all the ads on the erotic masseur site that I often used. Although I saw an erotic masseur about once a month, I had never found one that I had wanted to make my "regular" masseur. I had enjoyed the sessions I had booked with the masseurs advertising on the site but I never felt a connection or spark between myself and the masseur that made me want to book a second session with any one of them. Each masseur had seemed - well, impersonal. They had each kept it a very erotic but "professional" experience. I knew that none of them had probably used his real name in their ad and so I never used my real name when booking a session with any of them. I was looking to make that connection with one of the masseurs that I found online, wanting to become one of "the regulars." Looking for a man I could trust with my real name.
I was a regular player on our company softball team in the spring and summer. We had just had the first practice after work the day before and all my muscles ached. Not that I was out of shape or anything. I was a regular at the gym all winter. But ball practice always tapped into muscles I never used any other time of the year and waking those muscles up each season was always difficult. So I was eager to book a massage for that evening, after work.
Luckily, my office was fairly secluded on the floor and my desk turned so no one could see the computer screen without standing directly behind me. So I tapped the name of the site I wanted into the computer and the home page blossomed on the screen on my desk. Photos of men beckoned, all masseurs in various states of undress and able to be organized according to almost any criteria a would-be client could imagine: the newest ads posted on the site, the ads most recently updated on the site, the ads of masseurs closest to my location, the ads of masseurs ranged according to rates (highest to lowest or vice-versa), the ads of masseurs according to client ratings, the ads of those who were "featured" on the site. I had gone through each of these ways of organizing the ads many, many times before. Today, I clicked on the "newest" icon, to see which ads had been added since the last time I had looked at the site. Thumbnail photos with their headlines danced and rearranged themselves on the screen.
The first two of the "newest" ads were for masseurs I recognized from other sites. I had enjoyed my sessions with each of them but was not interested in an encore with either of them. But then I glanced at the third ad and caught my breath.
The thumbnail for the third ad showed a man I had not met before. A handsome man, shirtless, smiled out at me from the screen. His chest and arms, crossed over his chest, looked well-developed but not overly so in an artificial steroid-induced kind of way. He cheeks and chin sported just enough "5 o'clock shadow" to be attractive but not unkempt. His stomach was flat and I could see the ripples of muscles beneath the skin but again, not in an over-developed way.
But his smile was his most attractive characteristic of all. He looked relaxed and strong, confident but friendly. The headline next to the photo announced his name was "Michael." I clicked on the ad for more information. The advertised rates for sessions seemed fair and the reviews posted by previous clients were glowing. The neighborhood he lived on the same subway line I used to get to work but further uptown than my office. I picked up my phone and dialed the number.
"Hello?" A deep voice answered on the first ring. A golden voice I could easily imagine coming from the man I saw on the screen before me.
"Hello. Michael?" I asked.
"Yes, this is Michael," he answered. "What can I do for you today?"
"Hello, Michael. My name is Fred," I lied, introducing myself as I always did when speaking with a man offering erotic massage. "I just started practice yesterday with my company's softball team and those muscles - I haven't played since the end of the season last year -- are pretty sore today." Well, that was the truth. "I was hoping to schedule an appointment with you after work."
"Softball, huh?" he chuckled. But the chuckle was in a friendly way, not like he was mocking my athletic abilities or interests. "Baseball was always my favorite game in high school. It's a great sport. What position do you play?"
No erotic masseur had ever paused on the phone to discuss my hobbies like this. "I... I play outfield," I told him. "What position did you play in school?"
"I was the pitcher." In my mind's eye, I could see the man from the ad standing on the pitcher's mound, a mitt on one hand and the baseball in the other, winding up to send the ball out towards the batter. The uniform, for one of the local teams, was stretched taut over his torso and then as the ball flew towards the batter the uniform - in my imagination - simply melted away to reveal his stunningly gorgeous body beneath it.
"Pitcher? That's a great position to play. I got the chance to pitch in high school sometimes but our team at work really needs good outfielders now more than it needs another pitcher." We both laughed, already comfortable together discussing an interest in a sport we shared. We continued to share opinions of the players on the local pro baseball teams and our expectations of their chances in the upcoming season.
"What time are you available this evening, Michael?" I was finally able to ask.
"I have one appointment already scheduled for 7:30," he told me. "I could see you before that - at six - or after that, at nine. Which works better for you?"
"I don't think I could get away from my desk in time to meet you at six," I confessed. I thought about it. A nine o'clock appointment just meant I would not have to rush out of the office and that I could finish a few things at my desk rather than take them home with me. I could grab a sandwich at a deli for dinner and then get on the subway to meet Michael.
"Nine o'clock? That'll be great! See you then!" I told him.
"See you then, Fred."
He had remembered my "name." Impressive.
*** *** ***
I got to Michael's building about ten minutes early. I thought about walking around the block a few times but then just decided to ring his bell. If he wasn't ready yet, I figured he simply wouldn't answer the door. But the door buzzed almost as soon as I pressed the intercom for his apartment and I pushed the door open. I found the elevator across the lobby and pressed the button for Michael's floor.
He opened the apartment door before I had finished knocking. His bright smile above his sport shirt filled the doorway and he reached out to shake my hand while I was still in the hallway.
"Fred! It's god to see you, buddy!" he exclaimed, grasping my hand and pulling me into the apartment. The door clicked shut behind me. He had still remembered my "name."
"Glad you could come by tonight." He made it sound like we were old friends getting together to catch up on what we'd been doing. I liked that.
"Me too, Michael." I smiled and already felt tension in my muscles dissolving.
I was standing in a softly lit entryway, music quietly playing somewhere further back in the apartment. There were several doors opening off this central hallway, most of the light in the hall coming through one of those doors that - as we walked past it - I saw was the kitchen.
"C'mon right down this way," he instructed me, leading me down the hallway. He opened a door at the end of the hallway, on the left side and stepped aside as he gestured for me to go in. I did and he followed, leaving the door ajar behind him.
This room was dimly lit but this time the illumination came from a variety of candles placed around the room. The music was playing here, though I still could not identify its source. But it was a soothing melody and I figured was to help clients - like me - feel at ease here.
We were in a bedroom. The bed was the most prominent feature, placed in the center of the room. A variety of pillows were scattered across the headboard and the spread was folded down along the foot of the mattress. The dark sheets looked clean and crisp. A large bath towel was spread across the midsection of the mattress.
"Just make yourself comfortable there, Fred." Michael gestured toward the bed. "Here. Let me take those for you." I handed him my jacket and briefcase which he set on a chair next to the door as I sat on the edge of the mattress. As I lifted one foot to untie a shoelace, he turned back to me and bent down to take my foot and finish untying the laces. He gently pulled off one shoe, then the other and pulled the socks off as well, slipping them into the shoes. He began to work the bottom of one foot with both of his hands, pushing and rubbing my sole and then gently twisting and pulling each toe. He ran his little finger between each toe and resumed his preliminary massage of my foot.
I spread out my palms on the bed and leaned back to enjoy this. "Ahh, Michael. This is great."
"Glad you like it, Fred. Feet are always a great place to get started." He propped the foot he had been working on against his knee and began to massage the other. After a few moments, he placed both my feet back down on the floor. He stood.
"Now let's get the rest of you just as comfortable." He smiled down at me as he loosened my tie and began to unbutton my shirt. He reached inside and gave my nipple a light-hearted twist. I shivered at his touch, but not because his hands were cold. Far from it. I grinned back at him.
He reached down and undid my belt as well, then unzipped and opened my pants as best he could. I raised myself from the bed just enough to make it possible for him to tug my pants off. He folded them neatly and placed them on the chair beside the door as well. Then he returned to continue undressing me, running his fingertips along my thighs, along my inner arms, across my collarbone as each emerged from the confines of the clothing he removed. He stood close to me and his palms gently fluttered across my shoulders and down my back. I breathed in his scent as he stood there, his cheek pressed against his shirt.
Finally, I was undressed. My cock was already beginning to swing upwards.
"Go ahead, Fred. Lie down on your stomach there, on the towel," Michael whispered in my ear. "Then we'll work out all those softball kinks you've got there. You'll be ready for the big leagues in no time."
I swung my legs up onto the bed and lay down on my stomach, adjusting the towel beneath me as Michel had instructed me. I lay my face down, closed my eyes, and waited. I could hear the rustling of Michael's clothes being unbuttoned and shed and then the sound of a bottle top popping off. The scent of baby oil filled the room. I heard the oil sputter out of the bottle and Michael's hands rubbing together.
Then electricity sparked up and down the length of my body as Michael's strong hands began gliding along my shoulders, rubbing the knots and kinks out of first my left shoulder and then my right. The tug as Michael pulled my left arm felt both good and bad as joints popped and muscles stretched. As Michael worked my hands down the length of my arm, my manipulations caused nerves to contract reflexively in my hand and I realized that he was cradling Michael's sac in my palm; Michael's large and furry sac, filled with two oversized major league quality....
"Got the bat to go with these?" I murmured, turning my face to the side but keeping my eyes closed and speaking half to myself and half to the bed I was lying on.
"As a matter of fact...," Michael muttered, and shifted himself slightly, placing his half-engorged - and growing stiffer by the minute - bat into my outstretched fingers. It certainly did match the rest of Michael's proportions and rivaled in both strength and size any cock I had fondled before. Nothing had ever settled so naturally into my grasp. A contented sigh escaped my lips as I relaxed into the massage, fondling the equipment of my masseur.
There was a sudden vacancy in my hand and a deep, golden growling as I felt the weight on the bed shift. Michael was lifting himself onto the bed, straddling my fuzzy ass cheeks and reaching over and across my outstretched back to continue massaging my right shoulder. I felt Michael's strong hairy legs flex on either side of my own. My left and right arms readjusted themselves, enfolding his well-defined legs between my hands and his own legs running alongside mine. I was trapped there, as surely as a base runner caught between bases as he tried to steal second. The stiff bat between Michael's legs brushed and grazed the cleft between my cheeks and I flexed my ass in response. Although I could not see it, I realized later that a thin sparkling filament of pre-cum must have traced the emptiness between the tip of Michael's now fully engorged equipment and my pale but fuzzy pitcher's mounds beneath him. I heard Michael catch and hold his breath, hovering in midair a moment as if to avoid a premature bunt. No reason to clear the bench yet. "Charging the mound," I decided, would have a whole new set of associations for me in the future.
Michael's hands worked the muscles just below my right shoulder. "Think of this as first base," his rich voice purred quietly. "These muscles need to be worked and relaxed before anything else, just like a batter needs to reach first base before even hoping to get further than that." His fingertips prodded under my shoulder blades and I sighed contentedly again. I felt myself slipping deeper and deeper into a relaxed connection with my new-found masseur. "Can life get better than this?" I asked myself, silently.
"Now the runner heads toward second." Michael continued his sports monologue, his hands gliding down my right side and working the muscles between my rib cage with one hand and the muscles along my spine with the other. Michael was breathing deeply with the exertion and gently rode my ass beneath him, his cock continuing to occasionally brush my ass and send another sticky tingle up my spine. Our mutual deep breathing came to border on moaning in tandem with each other as Michael seemed to give himself up to appreciating the feel of my skin beneath him as much as I appreciated the feel of his hands and body above me.
Michael's hands engulfed the mid-portion of my back, kneading the muscles there. A wordless gurgle of appreciation rose from my throat. Michael shifted back slightly from my ass and I could feel the tip of his cock tickle the crack between my cheeks, his cock seemingly aimed right at my increasingly relaxed and ready asshole - which twitched with excited anticipation as Michael shifted his weight and position.
"The runner rounds third," he chuckled. His hands slipped easily down my lower back and love handles, molding themselves around the firm top of my cheeks he was straddling. He pressed his legs more tightly against me and I responded by pressing back with my own legs. Michael grasped my thighs more tightly with his hands and began exploring the ridges and valleys of my own muscular, fur-clad legs. I flexed my ass cheeks again and felt Michael's long, thick bat trapped there a moment before it slipped free, the pre-cum leaving what I imagined was a shiny slippery trail.
Michael continued kneading my muscles under his hands, including both mounds of my ass in his ministrations. We rocked gently in rhythm and I felt the tension and excitement buzzing within me. A stadium full of fans, waiting with bated breath to see if the ball soaring through the air above them would be a home-run, could not have been so electrified.
Without warning, Michael unexpectedly reached up and over and took the back of my neck in both hands. I could feel his pecs and tits brush my shoulder blades as his cock plowed up along the lower portion of my spine. My masseur's hands swept around my neck and along both my shoulders and then in one graceful movement down my spine and along the top of my hips beneath his own pelvis. The thrill of his touch left me gasping, unable to get my breath back.
Twice more he repeated the electrifying flight of his hands across my shoulders, down my back, and along the top of my ass. Just as gracefully, he slid off the bed and stood beside me. He reached under my pelvis and pulled my own stiff cock and large sac down so that the mushroom head poked out between my thighs, nestled on the big sac and between the testicles within it. As my dick's head scraped the surface of the towel beneath me, the rough scratchiness was not unpleasant. It tickled, in a way. Nicely. I shivered.
Michael kept hold of my dick with one hand while reaching for the oil with his other. I heard the gurgle of oil and felt it splash against my dick, balls, thighs, and the masterful fingers that held them all. Michael began massaging the tip of my cut dick with both hands, gliding my thumbs along the short portion of the shaft that was available. One thumb reached up and into my crack, exploring the tight hole hiding there. I sighed and gave myself over completely to his therapeutic touch, pressing my ass back against his thumb as it gently entered the waiting hole.
Michael's hand continued to manipulate my balls and dick's head nestled so cozily below my ass cheeks while, with his other hand, the thumb and then two fingers slid up to massage my prostate. He wrapped his fingers around my sac, as close to the base as he could reach, and pulled. His slick hands travelled down the thick folds of skin and I pressed back with all the energy I could muster, pushing both my dick and prostate closer to the source of these angelic ministrations.
Michael's massage became quicker and more intense in response to my pushing back. Quicker. Harder. Gasping. Moaning. Pressing. Pushing. Exploding....
I shot wave after wave of steaming cum into Michael's hand. It spilled over his knuckles and pooled on the towel beneath them. He held my spurting virility for a long moment, allowing it to finally slow and then lie still in his sticky palm. The fingers massaging my prostate gradually pulled out, allowing the throbbing of my prostate to subside.
*** *** ***
Later, having showered and dressed, I paid him - adding a generous tip for the care and attention he had shown me. He gave me a peck on the cheek, his scruffy face sending more tingles of electricity along my jaw and down my neck.
"Sorry you don't have time for a double-header, Fred" he whispered. By the end of each of my previous sessions with other masseurs, none of the other masseurs had remembered the name I had given. But I knew that I had found the masseur I had been looking for to make my monthly visits to. I would not only book a second session with Michael, but a third and a fourth as well. I anticipated even feeling comfortable enough at our next session to tell him my real name.
"Oh, we'll be sure to meet again," I promised myself as much as Michael. "We have at least another eight innings to go in this game!"
[taken from "I Saw Your Ad Online..."(Book 2) by David Tate]