I don't know if my hands were shaking more from excitement or from stress. As I walked into the rugby team's locker room as their new massage therapist, I felt like this wasn't just my first day on the job, it was the fulfillment of some very physical fantasy. The bodies I'd seen on posters, online, and on TV were now going to lie naked on my table. And trust my hands.
The locker room was warm, smelling of shower gel and sweat. I came around the corner and froze in my tracks. The guys were loud, amused, half-naked, wearing jockstraps, towels draped low on their hips, sweaty chests. Someone called out:
"Oh, that must be the new guy!"
The coach walked up to me, tall, with a voice like sandpaper.
"Matt, right? The massage therapist? Great. The guys need you. If any of them cause trouble… let me know."
He gave a half-smile.
"They're grown men, after all..." I thought at the time. And I ignored it.
The players introduced themselves one by one, without any inhibitions: Logan with a tattoo on his thigh, Jay with a cocky smile, someone else shook my hand, his grip was damp and he gave me a quick wink. I could tell that no one here had a problem with physical closeness.
I walked into my office and took a deep breath. A small room with soft lighting, a massage table, a bottle of sandalwood-scented oil, and a cabinet with towels. I ran my hand over the surface of the table, waiting. This is where they would lie, relaxed, in need. And I would touch them.
I felt a warmth in my lower abdomen. No, I couldn't get aroused at work. But my body had a mind of its own.
The quiet of my first day lasted exactly nine minutes.Then someone knocked who was about to change everything.
He knocked briefly, confidently.
"Can I come in?"
The door opened before I could answer. Max was standing there. The same one I'd seen earlier in the locker room, confident, broad-shouldered, with thighs so massive that the fabric of his shorts barely covered them. His wet hair suggested a quick shower, and his stubble was even darker from the moisture. He smiled casually, as if we'd known each other for years.
"Hey. I'm Max. The coach said you're new," he said, looking around the office. "My thighs are killing me… can you help?"
His voice was low and calm. No asking, no embarrassment. I nodded and pointed to the table.
"Sure. Lie down. On your back would be best."
Max nodded... and without a word, he pulled the towel off his hips. He did it naturally, without any drama. He simply stood naked in front of me, the weight of his body evenly distributed on his feet, his muscular back, his buttocks still taut from the workout. Not a second of hesitation. No glance to see if it was okay.
I felt something tighten inside me. This wasn't part of the plan. In my head, there was procedure, professionalism, the towel. But Max was already lying down on the table, comfortably, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
"Is this okay?" he asked, smiling faintly.
"Yeah... sure," I replied, hearing my own voice strangely deeper than usual.
I reached for the oil, trying not to look too long. But I saw everything: how his thighs parted slightly, how his breathing calmed, how his body waited. My hands were already warm, and I had one thought in my head that I shouldn't have on my first day of work:
He knows exactly what he's doing.
And he's letting me do it.
I poured the oil onto my hands and rubbed them together for a moment; I had to calm down. Focus on the touch, not on what was lying right in front of me, completely naked, relaxed, as if we were old lovers, not a new employee and a rugby player.
I touched his thigh, a warm, taut mass of muscle. Slowly, deliberately, I spread the oil, sinking my hands into his body. Between my fingers I felt every tendon, every reaction. Max said nothing. He just breathed deeper when I pressed closer to his groin. His skin was hot.
I started on the outer thighs, moving toward the inner ones. Here the tension was greater, not just in the muscles. My thumbs were just inches from his cock. I focused on the work. On the technique. But his body… was reacting.
When I looked up, I saw that his cock was no longer lying limp. Slowly, almost shyly, it began to rise. It grew, pulsed, without shame. And Max?
He lay there with his eyes closed, the same half-smile on his face. As if it were natural. As if he wanted to see how I'd react. He didn't move. He didn't apologize. He didn't joke. He just was.
My hands hesitated for a second. Just a second. Then I went back to the massage, deeper, more rhythmically. But the awareness of what was happening just inches from my fingers burned me from the inside.
With every movement, his hips trembled slightly. The tension was building, no longer just physical. There was more in the air than the scent of oil.
This wasn't just a massage.
It was the beginning of something with no turning back.
For a moment, the only sound in the room was his breathing. Slow, heavier than before. My hands worked on his thighs, but the tension wasn't there anymore. It was exactly where we were both thinking about it.
Max was the first to open his eyes.
He lifted his head slightly, looking at me from beneath half-closed eyelids. No rush. No pressure.
"And could you..." he began and paused briefly, as if giving me time to escape. "...take care of my cock, too?"
There was no joke in it. No provocation. Rather, a calm suggestion from someone who knows his body and its needs well. My heart beat faster. A hundred reasons to refuse popped into my head, the rules, work, the first day. But my body had only one answer.
"If that's what you need," I said quietly.
I started with my thumb. Gently, as if it were still part of the massage. I slid it along the hardening shaft, feeling the pulsing beneath the skin. It was hot, heavy in my hand, reacting to the slightest touch. Max sighed deeply, his hips twitched, but he let me take the lead.
My hand enveloped him completely. Slowly. Rhythmically. Without haste. His skin was taut, smooth from the oil, and every movement made his breathing grow louder. I could feel him handing over control to me, not with words, but by the way he stopped moving. By the way he let me.
"Yes... exactly like that," he murmured, his voice completely different now.
My hand moved more confidently. I knew what I was doing. I knew how he was reacting. Every throb in my hand was a response. Every sound, a confirmation.
It wasn't quick relief. It was the release of tension he'd been carrying in his body for weeks.
And I could feel he was very close.
I felt it first, the change in rhythm beneath my fingers, the sudden tension in his body. The cock in my hand hardened even more, pulsing violently, as if trying to break free. Max drew in a sharp breath, his hips lifting slightly.
"Matt..." he whispered, using my name for the first time.
I didn't speed up. On the contrary. I slowed my movements, lengthening each stroke of my hand, feeling him struggle against his own body. His breathing was ragged, deep. His fingers clenched the edge of the table.
"Now," I said calmly, more to his body than to him.
His cock twitched in my hand. Once. Twice. And then the release hit suddenly, hard, warm streams hitting my hand, my wrist, the skin of my forearm. I felt the pulsing all the way to the end, as if all the tension that had been building inside him had finally found an outlet.
Max slumped heavily onto the table with a long, low sigh. For a few seconds, he didn't move at all. Then he stretched lazily, as if after a good rest.
"Thanks," he said finally, quite casually. "Seriously. You're a lifesaver."
He stood up without putting on a towel. He walked past me calmly, without rushing, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. The door closed quietly.
I was left alone.
I stood motionless for a moment, looking at my own hand, still warm from his body. Oil mixed with his release. A scent that had no business being in a massage therapist's office.
I took a deep breath and thought only one thing:
"That was just the first day."
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