Marcus Chen arrived at 9:17 PM, seventeen minutes late for his nine o’clock appointment. He hated being late—it suggested a lack of control, a slipping of the reins he kept wrapped so tightly around every aspect of his life. But the conference call with Singapore had run long, and traffic through the city had been a nightmare of red lights and construction detours.
The brownstone stood tucked between a wine bar and a vintage bookshop, its facade warm brick with a discreet bronze plaque: Rivers Bodywork & Wellness. Marcus had walked past it a hundred times on his way to the office, never once considering he’d need its services. He didn’t need things. He managed. He controlled.
But his assistant Emma had made the appointment anyway, sliding the confirmation email across his desk with a look that brooked no argument. “You snapped at Jenkins yesterday for breathing too loud,” she’d said. “You’re wound tighter than a two-dollar watch. Go get a massage before you give yourself a stroke.”
So here he was, briefcase in hand, still wearing his Tom Ford suit, feeling ridiculous.
The door chimed softly as he entered. The reception area was small but immaculate—warm lighting from Edison bulbs, the subtle scent of lavender and eucalyptus, a small fountain trickling water over smooth stones. Instrumental music played low, something with piano and strings that immediately made his shoulders want to drop from where they’d been hunched around his ears.
“Marcus?”
He turned. The man who emerged from the hallway was not what Marcus had expected. Tall—maybe six-two—with broad shoulders that filled out a simple black henley. Dark brown skin, strong forearms, hands that looked like they could palm a basketball. Dreadlocks pulled back in a neat tie. Eyes that were warm and assessing in equal measure.
“I’m Elijah Rivers.” He extended one of those capable hands. “Thanks for coming in.”
Marcus shook it, noting the calluses, the strength in the grip. “Sorry I’m late. Work ran over.”
“No worries. You’re my last appointment.” Elijah gestured toward the hallway. “Come on back. We’ll get you sorted.”
The treatment room was dim and warm, a massage table at its center draped in soft linens. More of that subtle lighting, more of those essential oils. A small side table held bottles of oil and lotion, perfectly arranged. Everything about the space whispered relax, let go, surrender.
Marcus’s jaw tightened.
“Have a seat.” Elijah indicated a chair in the corner. He pulled out a clipboard with an intake form. “First time here, so I need to ask you some questions. Any injuries I should know about? Surgeries? Areas you’d like me to avoid?”
Marcus sat, crossing one ankle over his knee in a posture he knew projected confidence. “No injuries. No surgeries. Nothing to avoid.”
Elijah’s pen moved across the form. “What brings you in tonight?”
“My assistant thought I needed it.”
A slight smile. “And what do you think?”
Marcus met his eyes. They were darker than he’d first thought, almost black in this lighting. Patient. Knowing. “I think I work too much and my shoulders hurt.”
“Fair enough.” More writing. “Where do you hold your stress? Besides the shoulders.”
“Lower back. Neck. Jaw.” Marcus heard himself listing body parts like inventory. “Everywhere, basically.”
Elijah set the clipboard aside and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “When’s the last time someone took care of you, Marcus?”
The question landed like a physical thing. Marcus felt his defenses snap up immediately. “I don’t—that’s not—”
“I’m not asking about your personal life.” Elijah’s voice was gentle but firm. “I’m asking when you last let someone attend to your body. Really pay attention to what it needs.”
Marcus opened his mouth. Closed it. Couldn’t remember. His ex-wife had given him a shoulder rub once, maybe three years ago? Four? Before the divorce, certainly. Before the promotion. Before he’d decided that needing things from other people was a weakness he couldn’t afford.
“I don’t remember,” he admitted.
Elijah nodded like this confirmed something. “That’s what I thought. You’re carrying everything in your body. I can see it in how you sit—like you’re bracing for impact. We’re going to work on releasing some of that tonight. Sound good?”
“Sure.” Marcus’s voice came out rougher than intended.
“Great.” Elijah stood, moving to the massage table. “I’m going to step out. I need you to undress to your comfort level—most people go down to underwear or nothing, whatever feels right. Then lie face-down on the table, under the top sheet. There’s a face cradle at the head. Take your time. Knock when you’re ready.”
Then he was gone, door clicking softly shut behind him.
Marcus sat alone in the warm dimness, heart beating harder than it should. This was ridiculous. It was a massage. A professional service. He’d had massages before—quick chair massages at corporate wellness events, that one time in a hotel spa in Tokyo. This was no different.
Except it felt different. The quiet. The privacy. The way Elijah had looked at him, like he could see through the expensive suit to the exhausted man underneath.
Marcus stood and began unbuttoning his shirt.
He’d stripped down to his boxer briefs, folding his clothes with the same precision he brought to everything, stacking them neatly on the chair. His body was lean, maintained through discipline rather than passion—early morning gym sessions, meal prep, the occasional run when insomnia made sleep impossible. He wasn’t vain about it, but he wasn’t ashamed either.
Still, lying face-down on the table, the sheet pulled up to his waist, he felt exposed in a way that had nothing to do with skin.
He knocked on the wall—two sharp raps.
The door opened. Footsteps, soft on the hardwood. The rustle of Elijah moving around the room, adjusting something, the sound of a bottle being opened.
“How’s the temperature?” Elijah asked. “Too warm? Too cold?”
“Fine.”
“Face cradle comfortable?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” A pause. “I’m going to put my hands on you now. Just breathe. Let your body tell me what it needs.”
The first touch was warm oil on his upper back, Elijah’s palms spreading it across his shoulders in long, smooth strokes. Marcus flinched involuntarily.
“Easy,” Elijah murmured. “I’ve got you.”
Marcus tried to relax. Failed. His muscles jumped under Elijah’s hands like startled animals.
“When’s the last time you took a full breath?” Elijah asked, hands working in steady circles.
“I’m breathing fine.”
“You’re breathing shallow. Up here.” Pressure on his upper chest. “Try breathing down here.” Pressure on his lower ribs. “Deep. Slow.”
Marcus inhaled. It felt foreign, pulling air that deep. His ribs expanded against Elijah’s palm.
“There you go. Again.”
Another breath. Deeper this time. Something in his chest loosened fractionally.
Elijah’s hands moved to his shoulders, thumbs digging into the meat of the trapezius muscles. Marcus groaned before he could stop himself.
“Yeah, you’re carrying a lot here.” Elijah’s voice was calm, clinical. “This is going to be intense. Tell me if it’s too much.”
It was too much. It was also exactly what Marcus needed. Elijah’s thumbs found knots Marcus didn’t know existed, pressing into them with steady, relentless pressure until something released and pain bloomed into relief.
“Fuck,” Marcus breathed into the face cradle.
“That’s it. Let it out.”
Elijah worked methodically—shoulders, neck, the muscles along his spine. Each knot released brought another involuntary sound from Marcus’s throat. Groans. Sighs. Small gasps when Elijah hit a particularly tender spot. He felt like he was being taken apart and reassembled, piece by piece.
“You hold everything so tight,” Elijah said, hands moving to Marcus’s lower back. “Like if you let go for one second, everything will fall apart.”
Marcus didn’t answer. Couldn’t. Because it was true.
Elijah’s hands slid lower, working the muscles at the base of his spine. Then lower still, to his glutes. Professional, necessary, but intimate. Marcus felt his breathing change, felt his body responding in ways that had nothing to do with therapeutic bodywork.
Elijah’s hands paused. “You okay?”
“Don’t stop.” Marcus’s voice was rough, muffled by the face cradle.
The hands resumed their work, kneading the muscle, releasing tension Marcus had been carrying for months. Years. His cock was half-hard against the table, and there was no hiding it. No pretending this was just about sore muscles anymore.
“I’m going to have you turn over,” Elijah said quietly. “Take your time.”
Marcus lifted his head from the cradle, muscles protesting. He rolled onto his back, the sheet settling over his hips, doing absolutely nothing to hide his arousal. He stared up at the ceiling, refusing to meet Elijah’s eyes.
“Marcus.”
He looked. Elijah stood beside the table, oil glistening on his forearms, expression unreadable.
“Tell me what you need.”
Not what do you need for the massage. Not where else hurts. Just: tell me what you need.
Marcus’s heart hammered. This was the moment. The choice. Maintain the fiction of professionalism, or acknowledge the truth that had been building since Elijah’s first touch.
“You,” Marcus said. “I need you.”
Elijah’s jaw tightened. “This isn’t something I do.”
“I know.”
“I could lose my license.”
“I know.”
“Then why—”
“Because I haven’t felt anything in two years.” Marcus pushed himself up on his elbows, sheet falling to his waist. “Because your hands on me is the first time I’ve felt seen since my marriage ended. Because I’m asking. Please.”
Silence stretched between them. Elijah’s eyes moved over Marcus’s face, searching for something. Certainty. Honesty. Desire that matched his own.
“Last appointment of the night,” Elijah said finally. “Door’s locked. No one knows you’re here.”
“No one knows I’m here,” Marcus echoed.
Elijah’s hand came up, cupping Marcus’s jaw. His thumb brushed over Marcus’s lower lip. “If we do this, I’m in control. You surrender. Can you do that?”
Marcus had spent his entire adult life being in control. Making decisions. Leading teams. Managing outcomes. The thought of giving that up should have terrified him.
Instead, it felt like relief.
“Yes,” he whispered.
Elijah’s thumb pressed against Marcus’s lip, and Marcus opened without thinking, taking it into his mouth. Elijah’s eyes darkened.
“Good,” he murmured. “Lie back down.”
Marcus lowered himself back onto the table, heart racing. Elijah stepped back, and for a moment Marcus thought he’d changed his mind. Then Elijah reached down and pulled his henley over his head in one smooth motion.
His torso was a landscape of muscle—broad chest, defined abs, the deep V of his obliques disappearing into his jeans. Marcus’s mouth went dry.
Elijah’s hands went to his belt. The clink of metal, the rasp of a zipper. He pushed his jeans and boxer briefs down in one motion, stepping out of them.
Marcus stopped breathing.
Elijah’s cock was magnificent—nine inches, thick, cut, already half-hard and rising as Marcus stared. It curved slightly upward, the head flushed dark, a bead of precum glistening at the tip.
“Jesus Christ,” Marcus breathed.
Elijah wrapped one hand around himself, stroking slowly. “This what you need?”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s see how well you take it.” Elijah moved to the head of the table. “Slide down. Let your head hang off the edge.”
Marcus shifted, the sheet falling away completely, his own seven-inch uncut cock hard against his stomach. He let his head drop back off the table’s edge, the world inverting. Elijah stepped closer, his cock now level with Marcus’s face.
“Open.”
Marcus opened his mouth, and Elijah guided himself in. The angle was perfect—Marcus’s throat a straight line, Elijah’s cock sliding deep on the first thrust. Marcus gagged, eyes watering, but Elijah held still, letting him adjust.
“Breathe through your nose,” Elijah instructed. “Relax your throat.”
Marcus tried. Failed. Tried again. Elijah pulled back slightly, giving him space, then pushed in again. Slower this time. Deeper.
“That’s it,” Elijah murmured. “Take it.”
He established a rhythm—long, slow strokes that had Marcus’s throat working, saliva running down his cheeks. Elijah’s hands came to Marcus’s chest, thumbs brushing his nipples, and Marcus moaned around the cock in his mouth.
“You look so good like this,” Elijah said, voice rough. “Letting me use your throat.”
Marcus could only make a choked sound of agreement. His own cock throbbed, untouched, leaking onto his stomach.
Then Elijah leaned forward, bracing himself on the table, and Marcus felt hot breath on his cock. A tongue traced the underside, following the thick vein. Marcus’s hips jerked.
Elijah’s mouth closed over him, taking him deep, and Marcus nearly came right then. The sensation was overwhelming—Elijah’s cock in his throat, Elijah’s mouth on his cock, the dual penetration making his entire body light up. He couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but feel.
Elijah worked him with the same skill he’d used on the massage—knowing exactly where to press, where to lick, how much suction to apply. His tongue played with Marcus’s foreskin, dipping beneath it, finding every sensitive spot. Meanwhile, his hips kept up their steady rhythm, fucking Marcus’s throat with increasing intensity.
Marcus’s hands came up, gripping Elijah’s ass, pulling him deeper. He wanted more. Wanted to be filled, used, consumed. Wanted to give up every ounce of control he’d been hoarding.
Elijah pulled out of Marcus’s mouth with a wet sound, and Marcus gasped for air, throat raw, lips swollen. Elijah released his cock and straightened.
“Up,” he commanded.
Marcus pushed himself up, head spinning from the inverted position. Elijah climbed onto the table with surprising grace, straddling Marcus’s chest, his ass inches from Marcus’s face.
“You know what I want,” Elijah said, looking back over his shoulder.
Marcus did. He gripped Elijah’s hips and pulled him back, spreading his cheeks. Elijah’s hole was perfect—tight, pink, clenching in anticipation. Marcus dove in.
The taste was clean, masculine, intoxicating. Marcus licked broad strokes, then focused his attention on the tight ring of muscle, circling it with his tongue. Elijah groaned above him, rocking back against Marcus’s face.
“Fuck, yes. Get your tongue in there.”
Marcus pointed his tongue and pushed, breaching the tight entrance. Elijah’s entire body shuddered. Marcus worked him open, alternating between broad licks and focused penetration, his hands kneading Elijah’s ass cheeks.
“You eat ass like you’re starving,” Elijah panted. “Like you’ve been waiting for this.”
Marcus had been. He hadn’t known it, but he had been. Waiting for someone to take control. Waiting for permission to let go. Waiting for this exact moment—face buried in Elijah’s ass, the world reduced to taste and scent and the sounds of pleasure above him.
Elijah climbed off, and Marcus immediately missed the weight, the contact. But then Elijah was pulling him up, pulling him off the table, and they were standing face to face for the first time since this started.
Elijah’s hand cupped the back of Marcus’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.
It was deep, hungry, tasting of each other. Elijah’s tongue invaded Marcus’s mouth with the same confidence he’d shown throughout, claiming, possessing. Marcus surrendered to it, letting Elijah lead, letting himself be kissed instead of doing the kissing.
When they broke apart, both were breathing hard.
“Get on the table,” Elijah said. “On your back.”
Marcus climbed back up, lying down, his cock standing rigid against his stomach. Elijah grabbed a bottle of lube from the side table—when had he put that there?—and slicked his cock with practiced efficiency.
“Legs up.”
Marcus raised his legs, hooking his hands behind his knees, spreading himself open. Vulnerable. Exposed. Exactly where he needed to be.
Elijah positioned himself between Marcus’s thighs, the head of his cock pressing against Marcus’s hole. “When’s the last time you were fucked?”
“Two years. Maybe more.”
“Then this is going to be intense.” Elijah’s eyes locked with his. “Breathe.”
He pushed in.
Marcus’s body resisted, the thick head stretching him impossibly wide. He gasped, muscles clenching.
“Breathe,” Elijah repeated, holding still. “Let me in.”
Marcus forced himself to relax, to breathe through the burn. Elijah pushed deeper, inch by inch, until Marcus felt impossibly full.
“Holy fuck,” Marcus choked out.
“Halfway,” Elijah said. “You’re doing so good.”
Halfway. Jesus Christ. Marcus didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Elijah pulled back slightly, then pushed in again, gaining another inch. Then another. The stretch was overwhelming, bordering on too much, but Marcus didn’t want him to stop.
Finally—finally—Elijah’s hips pressed flush against Marcus’s ass.
“There,” Elijah breathed. “All of it. You took all of me.”
Marcus felt split open, claimed, possessed. Elijah held still, letting him adjust, one hand stroking Marcus’s thigh in soothing circles.
“Move,” Marcus managed. “Please move.”
Elijah pulled back and thrust in, and Marcus saw stars. The angle was perfect, Elijah’s cock dragging over his prostate with every stroke. Elijah established a rhythm—deep, steady, relentless. The massage table creaked beneath them.
“This what you needed?” Elijah asked, voice strained. “To be opened up? Filled?”
“Yes,” Marcus gasped. “Yes, fuck, yes.”
Elijah’s pace increased, his hips snapping forward with more force. Marcus’s hands scrabbled at the sheets, looking for purchase, finding none. He was adrift, unmoored, nothing but sensation and need.
“Touch yourself,” Elijah commanded.
Marcus wrapped a hand around his cock, stroking in time with Elijah’s thrusts. The dual stimulation was almost too much. He could feel his orgasm building, coiling tight at the base of his spine.
“Not yet,” Elijah said, reading him perfectly. “Not until I say.”
Marcus whimpered but obeyed, slowing his strokes. Elijah pulled out completely, and Marcus made a sound of protest.
“Up,” Elijah said. “I want you riding me.”
They switched positions—Elijah lying back on the table, cock standing proud, slick with lube and Marcus’s body. Marcus straddled him, positioning himself over that thick shaft.
“Take it at your pace,” Elijah said, hands on Marcus’s hips. “Take what you need.”
Marcus lowered himself slowly, the angle different now, somehow even deeper. He bottomed out with a groan, Elijah fully seated inside him. For a moment he just sat there, adjusting, feeling the stretch, the fullness.
Then he began to move.
He rode Elijah with increasing confidence, finding a rhythm that had both of them groaning. Elijah’s hands roamed Marcus’s body—chest, abs, thighs—touching everywhere, claiming everything. Marcus braced his hands on Elijah’s chest and worked himself up and down, chasing the pleasure building in his core.
“Look at you,” Elijah said, voice rough with arousal. “Taking my cock like you were made for it. So fucking beautiful.”
Marcus had never felt beautiful. Competent, yes. Successful. Put-together. But not beautiful. Not like this—sweaty, desperate, impaled on another man’s cock, chasing pleasure with abandon.
“I’m close,” he gasped.
“Not yet.” Elijah sat up, wrapping his arms around Marcus, holding him still. “Lie back down. On your back. I want to see your face when you cum.”
They rearranged again, Marcus on his back, legs spread wide. Elijah positioned himself between Marcus’s thighs and pushed back in with one smooth thrust. Marcus cried out.
This angle was devastating. Elijah’s cock hit his prostate with every stroke, and Marcus could see everything—Elijah’s face tight with concentration, his body moving, the place where they were joined. Elijah’s hand wrapped around Marcus’s cock, stroking in time with his thrusts.
“Now,” Elijah said. “Cum for me now.”
Marcus’s orgasm hit like a freight train. He came hard, painting Elijah’s hand and his own stomach with thick ropes of cum, his hole clenching rhythmically around Elijah’s cock. The sensation pushed Elijah over the edge—he thrust deep and held, his own orgasm pulsing inside Marcus, filling him.
They stayed locked together, both shaking, both gasping for air. Elijah’s hand was covered in Marcus’s release. He raised it to his mouth and licked it clean, eyes locked on Marcus’s, tongue catching every drop.
“Fuck,” Marcus breathed.
Elijah leaned down and kissed him, sharing the taste—salt and musk and intimacy. Marcus opened for him, taking it, taking everything Elijah offered.
When they finally broke apart, Elijah was still inside him, softening but not pulling out yet.
“You okay?” Elijah asked softly.
Marcus laughed—a real laugh, the first in months. “I don’t think I can move.”
“Don’t. Not yet.” Elijah shifted slightly, and Marcus winced. “Sorry. Let me—”
He pulled out carefully, and Marcus felt the loss immediately. Elijah’s cum leaked out of him, and he should have felt embarrassed, but he didn’t. He felt claimed. Marked. His.
Elijah grabbed a warm towel from somewhere and cleaned them both with gentle efficiency. Then he climbed back onto the table—it really wasn’t built for two—and pulled Marcus against his chest.
They lay there in the dim warmth, heartbeats slowing, breathing evening out. Marcus’s head rested on Elijah’s shoulder, one arm draped across his chest. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been held like this. Maybe never.
“That wasn’t very professional of me,” Elijah said eventually.
Marcus smiled against his skin. “That was the most honest thing I’ve felt in years.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Silence settled over them, comfortable now. Outside, the city continued its evening rhythm—cars passing, distant sirens, the muted sounds of people living their lives. Inside this room, time had stopped.
“I should go,” Marcus said, making no move to leave.
“You should.”
Neither of them moved.
Finally, reluctantly, Marcus pushed himself up. His body protested—muscles loose in ways they hadn’t been in years, but also sore in new and interesting places. He stood on shaky legs and began gathering his clothes.
Elijah watched from the table, unabashedly naked, looking like some kind of god in the amber light.
Marcus dressed slowly, his body remembering the feel of Elijah’s hands with every movement. When he was fully clothed again—suit, tie, the armor of his professional life—he turned back to find Elijah had pulled on his jeans but remained shirtless.
“Same time next week?” Marcus asked, trying for casual and failing.
Elijah smiled—a real smile, warm and knowing. “I’ll keep the slot open.”
Marcus moved to the door, then paused, looking back. Elijah stood in the center of the room, hands in his pockets, looking at Marcus like he could see straight through to his core.
“Thank you,” Marcus said quietly.
“For the massage?”
“For everything.”
Elijah’s smile softened. “Get some sleep, Marcus. You look like you need it.”
Marcus stepped out into the cool night air, the door clicking shut behind him. His body felt different—loose, open, alive. He could still feel the ghost of Elijah’s hands on his skin, the stretch of being filled, the weight of surrender.
His phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from Emma: How was it? Feel better?
Marcus smiled and typed back: Made another appointment for next week.
He walked toward his car, the city lights blurring slightly. For the first time in two years, Marcus Chen felt like he could breathe.
And he knew exactly where he’d be next Tuesday at 9 PM.
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