Back then, I was the kind of skinny that didn’t look good on anyone. My T-shirts hung loose, like they were draped over a coat hanger instead of a person. My wrists stuck out from the sleeves. My jawline was soft, not because I had any extra weight, but because my bones didn’t have the muscle to frame them. I wasn’t ugly... just forgettable.
I blended into the background, the quiet Asian kid who kept to himself. No drama, no dating rumours, no interest from anyone. Closeted, of course. Not that it mattered - nobody was looking in my direction anyway.
The one person I couldn’t stop looking at was Derek Thompson.
He was everything I wasn’t. Tall, broad, sun-bleached blond hair, body that looked like years of gym training.. Football captain, letterman jacket, the works. Always dating the prettiest cheerleaders, grinning like he’d never had a bad day in his life. Dumb as a rock, but so casually confident that it didn’t matter.
We existed in different worlds. I spent my time in the library; he ruled the cafeteria. Our paths only crossed when his grades tanked enough for the coach to force tutoring. That was the only time I’d ever sit across from him, trying to focus on equations while my eyes betrayed me drifting over his forearms, the stretch of his shirt across his chest, the veins that stood out when he gripped his pencil.
He never knew. At least, I told myself he never knew.
Fast forward twelve years. I’ve filled out since then. Lean now, with a little bit of muscle in my arms and shoulders. My clothes fit properly, even flatter me sometimes. I’ve built a career in engineering, the kind that pays well and keeps me busy. I’ve got my own apartment in the city, clean and sharp, with a view that looks expensive because it is.
I’m still closeted. Not because I hate myself, but because it’s easier this way. My personal life is private and in that private life, there’s one particular indulgence I’ve never quite shaken: erotic massages from muscular men.
There’s something about it I can’t get from a casual hookup. The slowness. The intimacy. The way hands explore without rushing, the weight of a body leaning into mine. I like the build-up as much as the release.
It’s a habit I indulge a few times a month, usually after long workweeks. Which is why, one night, scrolling through listings on a gay-friendly massage site, I wasn’t expecting anything more than the usual hunt for someone with strong hands, a killer body and a nice smile.
That’s when I saw it - a profile for a guy named Brady.
He was everything I wanted in a man. Probably the hottest guy on the entire massage site. The profile photo was taken in his room, low light spilling over his body. He was standing there in shorts, shirtless, flexing one bicep just enough to make it look effortless. Thick forearms, deep veins, the kind you only get from years of training. His abs caught the light in perfect ridges, leading down to that sharp V-line that made my mouth dry. His smile was cute but cocky, like he already knew you were going to click “book.”
I immediately recognized him.
It was Derek Thompson.
I actually froze, just staring at the screen like it might change if I blinked too hard.
What the fuck was Derek; the straight jock, the guy who spent his years fucking the popular cheerleaders doing on a gay massage site?
My cock stirred in my pants before I could even think about it.
This was the same man I’d fantasized about for years, the same guy whose pictures I jerked off to during my horny nights… which, to be honest, was every damn day. And now here he was, older, bigger, hotter, and apparently open to touching men ...not just touching, but giving an erotic, deep massage.
I remembered getting hard just watching him play football back then. He’d look like something out of a sports drink commercial; hair messy, sweat running down the sides of his face, that lazy grin whenever the team scored. I’d stand in the bleachers pretending to follow the game but really just watching him. He had this habit that killed me every time: after a big play, he’d turn toward the cheerleaders, grab the hem of his jersey, and wipe the sweat off his face. The move would hike the shirt up to his chest, flashing his abs, and the whole crowd would cheer louder. He knew exactly what he was doing.
And now? Now that same straight guy was on my screen, offering “sensual deep tissue massage” to men.
My day couldn’t have gotten any better if it tried.
So, I immediately booked him for a massage under the name Dan.
If I’d used my full name, Daniel, there was a chance he’d put two and two together. Maybe he wouldn’t, maybe I was flattering myself that he’d remember a nerd like me but part of me still remembered how I’d acted around him back in high school. I hadn’t been subtle. Not really. I’d lingered a little too long when handing him papers, stared a little too openly when he stretched in his chair during tutoring sessions. I’d laugh at his dumb jokes a little harder than necessary.
I doubt he ever thought about it twice, but if he did… yeah, no way I was taking that risk. Better to be Dan, just another client.
My hands actually shook when I typed the first message:
Hi Brady. I’m looking for a sensual deep tissue session. Can you confirm?
I stared at the blinking cursor, wondering if I sounded too eager. Before I could spiral into editing it for the tenth time, I hit send.
Five minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Yo man. I can definitely do it. When were you thinking?
I chewed the inside of my cheek with excitement, reading it three times. The casual ‘yo man’, the easy tone; it was exactly the way Derek used to talk.
Tomorrow evening? I typed back. My place. 7 p.m.
Sounds good. What’s your address?
We confirmed the time. I closed the chat window but kept picking up my phone to look at the profile picture again, zooming in on his forearm, the smirk on his lips. My dick wouldn’t calm down. This was happening.
The rest of the day was torture. I tried to focus on work, but my head kept replaying old memories; the sound of his voice saying my name, the way his hands looked gripping a football. Now those same hands were going to be on me. I didn’t know how I’d manage to play it cool.
────
By the time the next evening rolled around, my apartment was spotless. I’d vacuumed, wiped down every surface, even rearranged the couch cushions like he was going to care. I know most masseurs bring their own tables, oil, and everything else, but since I get massages often, I’d bought my own; something sturdy, you know… just in case things ever escalated. The oil I kept nearby was a multipurpose choice too, perfect for easing out knots in my shoulders, and slippery enough to work just as well if the session took a different turn.
The table was already set up near the window, fresh sheets folded neatly on top. A small bottle of that oil sat on the side table, next to a clean hand towel.
I’d showered an hour earlier, trimmed up, brushed my teeth twice. I didn’t want to look too ready, but I wanted to look good enough that if he caught me staring, he’d at least know why.
At 6:59, my phone buzzed again.
Here.
I opened the door, and there he was - Derek Thompson, bigger than life, standing in my doorway like the years between high school and now had been some weird dream.
He looked… older, obviously. More filled out. His shoulders seemed broader, his chest stretching the white T-shirt in a way that made my breath catch. The sleeves clung to his biceps, and the faint outline of his pecs pressed against the fabric when he moved. A duffel bag was slung over one arm, the strap pulling the shirt tight across his back.
“Hey, man,” he said, flashing that grin. It was the same one from the football field, the same one that used to make my stomach flip. “You’re Dan?”
“Yeah,” I said, shaking his hand. His grip was firm, warm; one of those handshakes where you can feel the strength running through every finger. I was a bit nervous he might recognize me… or at least catch the name similarity...Dan, Daniel. I don’t even think if I’d used my real name he would’ve remembered, but still, the thought made my pulse tick up for a second. Then I pushed it aside and kept my smile in place as I shook his hand.
He stepped inside, his eyes scanning the place. “Nice place. I’m Brady.”
Sure, Brady, I thought. If you want to use that name, go ahead. But I could never forget all those nights I spent thinking about you... Derek bending me over, filling me, making me yours.
He walked toward the massage table I had already set up. “Oh, this looks professional. You get massages often?”
I followed him, trying to match his casual tone. “Yeah… I’m an engineer. Work long hours, so I try to get a massage every weekend. Doesn’t hurt to get some tension released.”
Brady smiled, that same cocky, knowing smile from years ago. “I get it, man. I hope I can help you release all that tension in your muscles.”
Inside, I grinned. If only you knew how badly I want you to release every kind of tension I’ve got.
He pulled a couple of personal towels from his duffel, then a bottle of massage oil. “Special formula,” he said, holding it up. “Great for deep tension relief.” Out came a portable speaker, which he placed on the side table, queuing up some slow, calming music.
While he moved around setting things up, I couldn’t stop staring. His tight white T-shirt clung to him like it was painted on, stretching over the broad lines of his chest. When he reached for the speaker, the fabric pulled just enough to reveal the curve of his obliques, the faint shadows cutting down toward his waist. I swallowed hard.
This was it. Derek; my crush was in my apartment, about to put his hands on me.
And he had no idea who I really was.
────୨ৎ────
Derek glanced at the table, gave me a little nod, and said, “Go ahead and get comfortable.” His voice was smooth, casual, but it carried that tone of someone who had done this a hundred times before.
My throat was dry. Comfortable. Right.
I started peeling my clothes off, feeling his presence hovering nearby as he fussed with the oil and the speaker. My shirt came off, then my jeans. By the time I hooked my thumbs under the waistband of my underwear, I caught him shifting, deliberately turning his head to the side to give me privacy. He lifted a folded towel in his hand, almost like a shield, waiting.
I pushed my underwear down, heart pounding and climbed onto the massage table and lay on my back, legs falling apart naturally, cock soft but heavy with anticipation. My skin buzzed like it was already under his hands. He stepped closer, head half-turned, eyes angled politely away. His hand moved quickly, sliding the towel across me, tucking it neatly over my crotch as if sealing me away from temptation.
“There we go man,” he said softly, professionally, like this was just routine.
But lying there, naked under him, legs falling open on the table, all I could think was how little it would take - one squeeze, one brush of those thick, veined hands and that towel would be the only thing between us and everything I’d ever fantasized about.
His hands were warm, coated with oil, the first touch making me jolt even though I tried to stay calm. He pressed into my shoulders, firm, steady, dragging his palms down across my chest in slow circles. The sound of the oil squelching under his grip was obscene in the quiet room. My breath caught.
Every time his thumbs pressed deeper into the muscle of my chest, my cock twitched under the towel. It was impossible not to. The way his massive forearms flexed when he leaned in; ropes of muscle, veins standing out made it worse. I couldn’t stop staring. I kept telling myself not to look, but my eyes kept darting back to them, like I was hypnotized.
The towel shifted with every twitch of my dick until it was basically hovering in the air. Obvious. Too obvious. My face burned.
He let out a small laugh, low and knowing. “It’s safe to say you’re enjoying the massage.”
I swallowed hard, cheeks on fire. “I’m… I’m sorry. This usually doesn’t happen.”
He didn’t even stop, didn’t sound bothered at all. His hands slid lower, smoothing down the line of my stomach, pressing firmly into the space just above my hips. His fingers grazed over the trail of hair leading into my pubes, dangerously close, and my cock jerked harder under the towel.
“Don’t sweat it, man,” he said, casual, like it was nothing. “This happens way more often than you’d think.”
I didn’t know what to say. My chest rose and fell too fast, every nerve firing. His touch wasn’t clinical anymore, it was too slow, too deliberate. Or maybe that was just me, reading into it, wanting it so bad it didn’t matter how innocent it was.
────
Derek moved around the table, footsteps soft against the floor, and came up behind my head. I forced myself to breathe evenly as his palms pressed into my pecs, kneading, dragging down toward the center of my chest. The scent of oil and warm skin filled my nose.
And when I tilted my eyes up, his shirt hung loose at the neck, falling open just enough for me to see the ridges of his abs underneath. Tight, cut, every line in perfect shadow. My throat went dry. I couldn’t help myself, I drew in a slow breath through my nose, stealing a whiff of him. Sweat, clean cotton, something that was just… him.
I shut my eyes fast, praying he hadn’t noticed. But my cock throbbed under the towel, stiff and heavy, tenting so high it was impossible to ignore.
The towel twitched with every beat of my cock, jumping like it was alive.
My fingers lingered against the heat of him, the outline of his dick thick and obvious under the thin gym shorts he was wearing. I froze, waiting for some kind of reaction, waiting for him to pull back, laugh, or tell me to stop.
But instead, Derek leaned in closer, almost casually, like it was the most natural thing in the world. His hips shifted just enough that my hand got pressed against him harder, my fingertips brushing the curve of his length.
His voice dipped low, steady, teasing but certain. “Go on. You can grab it.”
My chest felt tight. My breathing came shallow, like I was holding something in that I couldn’t anymore.
Meanwhile, his hands kept gliding, working over my thighs, slow and deliberate. His thumbs dug into the inside muscle, dangerously close to where the towel tented high over me. Every press of his forearms made the veins pop, thick ropes under smooth tanned skin, glistening faintly from the massage oil. The wet sound of it filled the quiet room, broken only by my small, uneven breaths.
“I don’t bite,” Derek murmured, voice low, steady, almost teasing. “Go on..grab more if you want.”
The words lit something in me. My hand pressed a little harder against his crotch, bolder now. My fingers traced along the side of his bulge, the fabric hot and stretched tight around him. Derek’s hips shifted in response, this time less accidental, more deliberate, like he was giving me room to explore. He wasn’t pulling away. He wasn’t stopping.
“Relax,” he muttered, voice low, steady, like nothing was out of place. His hands kneaded down my thighs, pushing the tension out of them, but it only sent fire straight up into my cock. I could feel the towel hovering higher, my dick pulsing against the thin cloth, making it into an obvious tent.
The more I touched him, the bolder I felt. I let my palm rest fully against his bulge now, feeling the weight of him, the length straining under my hand. His cock flexed…actually flexed when I brushed the tip through the fabric.
Derek’s breath caught, almost a grunt, but his hands didn’t falter. They slid from my thighs to my calves, squeezing firmly, then back up again, spreading oil across my skin. When he came close to the towel, his knuckles brushed the base of it, grazing so near that I almost moaned.
I was shameless now. My palm pressed, kneaded, explored his bulge, tracing him as if I had every right. He shifted one foot back, widening his stance just slightly, encouraging me without saying a word.
The air between us changed. I could feel the heat rolling off his body, smell the faint sweat beneath the clean lotion on his hands. My cock throbbed, the towel bouncing with every beat, a ridiculous flag of my arousal.
Then his hands slowed, resting on the tops of my thighs. He leaned forward a little, close enough that I could see the shadow of his jaw, the cut of his chest under his loose shirt.
“You’re hard as fuck, man,” Derek said, finally breaking the silence, voice thick, almost amused.
I swallowed, throat dry. My hand was still pressed against his cock, trembling, but I couldn’t stop.
“I…” My voice cracked. “I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
He cut me off with a crooked smile. “Don’t be sorry. Keep going. I like it.”
He stepped back half a pace, giving me a moment to breathe, but not too far. His hands slid back to my chest, palms spreading wide over my pecs. He pressed down with firm strokes, stretching the muscles until I felt my ribs shift under his weight. My chest rose against his hands, my skin heating where his fingers dug in.
What caught me off guard was how natural he made it seem. Like it didn’t faze him that I had a hard-on, my cock tenting the towel just inches from his forearm. He kneaded my shoulders, rolling his thumbs deep into the muscle, and my body gave way beneath him.
I let out a low breath. He didn’t comment, didn’t tease, just worked methodically, his forearms flexing, veins shifting under his skin. My eyes flicked up toward his face, but then I caught something else.
When Derek moved back toward the head of the table, his thighs brushing against the frame, he leaned over me again. His hands pressed firmly into my shoulders, driving the tension out, but this time I felt it, his crotch pressing right against the side of my head.
I froze for a beat, my breath stuck in my throat. His bulge was there, semi-hard, thick, heavy against me. He didn’t shift away. In fact, his hips pressed a little more deliberately, his voice low and rough.
“Feels good, huh? You like it?”
“Uh.. yeah”, I replied.
I exhaled. Every time his hands dug deeper into my muscles, his hips edged closer, letting me feel the weight of him through the thin fabric of his shorts. The smell of the oil, the heat of his skin, the slow grind of his hips; my whole body was lit up, waiting, hoping he’d take it further.
But then his touch slowed.
“Uhm,” he cleared his throat, stepping back just slightly. “So, I got another appointment at eight… might have to rush for that.”
The words hit like cold water. “Uh, you have to go?” I asked, trying not to sound disappointed. “My lower back is still tense.”
He gave a short laugh, shaking his head. “Ah, damn, my guy. We got a little too carried away up here, didn’t really get time to work your back.”
He moved away from me, wiping his hands clean with a towel. I sat up on the table, towel slipping as I adjusted, my cock still hard and my ass briefly exposed before I quickly yanked the fabric around myself again. My face burned, but he didn’t seem fazed.
“So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “when can I book the next slot?” The need in my voice gave me away.
He tilted his head, smirk tugging at his lips. “Well, how about tomorrow? I’ve got a six p.m. free.”
I snatched up my phone, booking it right in front of him before he could change his mind. “Done. See you tomorrow, Der—” I caught myself, heart skipping. “Brady.”
His eyes flicked up at me, the smirk curling wider, almost playful now. “See you tomorrow, man.”
He laughed under his breath as he grabbed his duffel bag, slinging it over one shoulder. No rush in his steps, just that casual swagger like nothing unusual had happened. He didn’t even glance back at the table where I was still sitting naked half-wrapped in the towel, my pulse hammering, my body buzzing.
The door clicked shut behind him, leaving me in the thick silence of my apartment, the air still heavy with oil, sweat, and whatever the hell had just passed between us.
I couldn’t stop replaying it. The way his bulge pressed against my head like he wanted me to notice. The way his voice gave me the green light, every word permission. The way I almost slipped his real name without thinking, like it had burned itself into me.
And now? Now I had tomorrow circled in my head like it was the only thing that mattered.
I leaned back on the table, towel slipping loose around my hips, my cock still throbbing stupidly. A grin crept up before I could stop it.
Yeah. Tomorrow.
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