Apiculture Spa and Foot Job: Zbyszek Majewski in Poland
The hotel lobby smelled faintly of polished wood and roasted coffee, the kind of scent that immediately told me I was back in Central Europe. I had just checked in at the Polonia Palace when a booming voice rolled through the space like thunder.
“Professor! My sweet mentor of the nectar world!”
I turned — and there he was. Zbyszek Majewski, fair-haired, stocky as a wrestler, wearing a ridiculous yellow T-shirt printed with dancing cartoon bees. Before I could say a word, he charged across the marble floor and caught my hand in a shake that nearly dislocated my shoulder.
“Zbyszek,” I managed, laughing. “You look… prosperous.”
He grinned wide. “Prosperous? I call it buzziness! You see, Professor, bee products make strong men stronger. Wait until you taste my royal jelly shots.”
We sat in the lobby armchairs, the sun streaking through the tall windows, and he filled the air with his rapid, joyful talk — the new line of propolis creams, the bee venom therapy, his lecture later that afternoon. His energy hadn’t dimmed since university; it had only thickened, like honey left too long in the jar.
He led me out of the hotel into the early sunshine. His little Fiat rattled up, old suspension groaning as he leaned over to shove the passenger door open. I slid in beside him; the cabin smelled of pine air-freshener and the faint beeswax he always carried on his skin. He wore soft white linen trousers, drawstring loose, and every time he shifted gears the fabric draped and tightened across his lap—one second flat, the next a unmistakable swell that made my pulse skip. I kept my eyes on his thick forearm working the stick, but my peripheral vision glued itself to that growing mound, wondering how something so compact could look already half-hard before we’d even left Krakowskie Przedmieście. He caught me glancing, flashed a small grin, and let the car lurch so the fabric bounced—just once—like a silent promise. Twenty minutes later we pulled up to the Palace of Culture and Science; its shadow swallowed the Fiat and us with it. Zbyszek parked on the parking spot designated “For Speakers,” and led me in.
Inside, everything gleamed in shades of gold — glass jars, wax candles, honeycombs. The air was heavy with sweetness.
Zbyszek led me through the crowds like a man on a mission.
Our first stop was a tasting stall where local producers offered honey from chestnut, acacia, and buckwheat blossoms. Zbyszek scooped a spoonful of the darkest one and handed it to me.
“Buckwheat, Professor. The darker the honey, the stronger the heart.”
It was rich and smoky; I could almost taste the fields in it. The vendor smiled knowingly and handed me a thin wooden stick dipped in acacia honey—light as spring air, with a faint aroma of wildflowers and fruit trees in bloom. Chestnut came next, its flavor dense and almost bitter, clinging to the roof of my mouth like resin. Around us, sunlight caught in the glass jars, turning them into tiny stained-glass windows—amber, gold, and deep molasses brown. Zbyszek’s laughter rolled above the market noise as he compared them to shades of Polish beer.
On the next table, we sampled bee pollen, soft grains of yellow and orange that melted slowly, leaving a grassy sweetness. The propolis tincture stung my tongue, sharp and antiseptic, chased by a spoonful of creamy honey blended with royal jelly. Zbyszek called it “medicine disguised as dessert.” A woman in a linen apron offered us honeyed nuts and wax candies, and their aroma filled the air with something old-fashioned and rural. We stood for a while, tasting, comparing, and talking about which one would suit morning tea or rye bread best. By the time we moved on, my fingers were sticky, my throat warm, and the market seemed to hum louder—alive with the quiet industry of bees.
Next, looking incessantly at his watch, he dragged me to a tent labeled Bee Healing. Inside, posters showed acupuncture points and smiling patients. He joined a happy large-busted girl at the stand, and they together explained apitoxin therapy to a small audience, demonstrating live bee bites on each other with practiced confidence. Their voices filled the tent, vibrant and convincing, and people leaned in. I found myself leaning in too. Parting, he kissed her on the cheek, and I thought to myself: “Well, Augie, he’s straight, deal with it.”
By afternoon he stood on a small stage, transformed from the clown in the cartoon T-shirt into a confident lecturer in a crisp linen shirt embroidered with golden bees. His slides glowed on the screen behind him — close-ups of wings, pollen grains, stingers.
“When the bee stings,” he said, “it hurts, yes — but in that moment, healing begins. Pain is only nature’s way of reminding us that change is possible.”
The audience applauded; I clapped hardest of all. It struck me then that the once-wild student had become a teacher in his own right.
We dined that evening at U Kucharzy, an old restaurant where the chefs cooked in the open kitchen among the guests. Zbyszek ordered everything — pierogi with buckwheat, duck roasted with apples, and a honey mousse for dessert. He poured us mead, golden and fragrant.
“You see, Professor,” he said, his face flushed with warmth, “we Poles owe everything to bees. Even our drinks come from their labor.”
Between mouthfuls, he told me about his company — bee-wax masks, royal jelly scrubs, venom serums. “But my favorite,” he said, lowering his voice like a conspirator, “is the bee product spa. It makes you into a new man.”
“A bee spa?” I asked.
“You’ll see. I’ve prepared everything for us. I promise you’ve never had a night like this.”
His apartment, where he took me next, was in Mokotów, a quiet neighborhood with leafy streets and glowing windows. Inside, everything carried the hue of amber: wood, glass, light. On a sideboard stood rows of jars labeled Propolis Elixir, Royal Jelly Cream, Apis Oil.
Through a sliding door, I saw the spa room — paneled in pine, softly lit, a faint hum coming from a sealed glass hive built into the wall.
“This,” Zbyszek said proudly, “is Apis Therapy. Safe bees, clean air, real hive energy. Undress, Professor. To your underwear, of course.” And then there came a small chuckle.
***
The boy—well, hardly a boy now, though I still saw him that way—began with honey. I was stretched out on a long wooden table, wearing nothing but a pair of small briefs, the rest of me bare and waiting. He, too, returned with a large bottle, wearing modest swimming trunks. He began as a lecturer, telling me honey was not just sweet but cleansing, full of enzymes that softened the skin. He warmed it gently and spread it across my back and shoulders, working it in with slow pressure. The texture surprised me, thick and clinging, and the sweetness in the air was overwhelming. I could feel myself loosening, as if the honey’s slow pull drew fatigue right out of the muscles. I muttered that it was sticky work for a professor, but he only laughed and told me to trust the bees.
Next came the wax. Zbyszek said the ancients used wax as a natural therapy, sealing warmth into the body. He melted thin sheets and pressed them over my arms, chest, and thighs, while I lay still beneath his careful hands. The wax stiffened as it cooled, gripping me like armor. When he peeled it away, I felt oddly lighter, as though some layer of me had been taken off with it. My skin tingled, freshly exposed, and I could not help but think of a hive being cleaned out and made ready for the season. I told him it felt like molting, and he grinned, saying professors needed it as much as bees.
He followed with royal jelly. “This is the queen’s food,” he said, holding a small bowl of the pearly substance. “It gives her strength and longevity—some say it can do the same for us.” He applied it carefully along my temples, neck, and chest, the smell sharper, almost medicinal. I wrinkled my nose but said nothing, letting him finish. As it sank in, I did feel a curious brightness in my head, a lifting of the fog. It was not relaxation exactly, more like an old lamp being turned back on. I admitted it left me more alert than I had felt in weeks, though I was not sure I wanted to know why.
After that came the pollen scrub. “This is pure energy,” he explained. “The bees collect life from every flower, and now you carry a little of it too.” He mixed the fine grains with oil and worked them across my arms, legs, and stomach. The roughness startled me at first, but soon the friction heated my skin and sent a ripple of vitality through me. When he rinsed it away, I caught the faint earthy trace of flowers clinging to me, and my body felt scoured, as though I had been rolled in spring meadows. I told him it was the first time in years I had felt properly awake from the skin outward.
The last was propolis. “The bees use it to seal and protect the hive,” Zbyszek explained, “and it can do the same for you.” He had made it into a balm, thick and resinous, and he massaged it into the soles of my feet, my calves, and finally the palms of my hands. Its scent was dark, almost woody, with a bitterness that lingered. The balm left a faint stickiness, but also a deep calm, as though it sealed me shut and kept the world from leaking in. I told him it felt like he had closed the book of my body for the day, every page pressed smooth.
When he stepped back at last, he reminded me that the hot Jacuzzi was waiting to finish the treatment. I lay there for a moment longer, reluctant to move, grateful for the strange intimacy of it all. My student had grown into a healer of bees, and—whether I admitted it aloud or not—into a healer of me as well.
In the next moment, Zbyszek slipped off the swimming trunks he was wearing and folded them neatly on the bench. I did the same, the damp fabric peeling away from my hips, and we walked to the spacious bathroom.
I couldn’t take my glance off Zbyszek’s dick that I could now see in the corner of my eye even as we covered the few steps to the bathroom. It was thick, almost cubic and framed on both sides by those twin balls that looked carved from the same warm stone, everything so perfectly matched it felt engineered. The foreskin draped the head amply, even with a tiny beak on top, and the small curve of his belly folded above it all, wobbling slightly as we walked side by side, the faint scent of beeswax and hot skin tracing us.
Do you know how time slows down sometimes? The walk to the Jacuzzi seemed so long that I had time to think of three ways in which this hot cock could get hard: First frame: the same short barrel, only the skin stretching tight so the beak peels back just enough to show a glossy, wine-dark crown—still neat, still squared, but now gleaming like polished cedar. Second frame: him thicker, veins ridging the sides, foreskin bunched behind the rim so the head flares like a blunt arrowhead, those matching balls riding high and pulling the whole package upward. Third frame: maximum swell, the shaft almost stubby-square, foreskin halfway retracted so the slit peeks out winking, a single bead balanced on the overhang, his little belly fold trembling above it all like a curtain about to rise. Each vision sent a warm tug through my sac, lifting my two boys in eager rehearsal, yet years of lecture-hall discipline kept my own cock politely in check—curious, hungry, but still waiting for permission to stand.
I watched Zby’s cock bob with every shift of his weight—just a small, lazy hop against those symmetrical balls, nestled up high, leaving the ball sac wrinkled and empty, like the whole package was nodding hello. Each bounce tightened the skin a fraction, the beak overhang kissing air, and my fingers twitched with the need to feel that warm heft, to test if the barrel was as solid as it looked. I kept my hands at my sides, but the little jumps kept pulling my eyes back, a silent metronome counting down the seconds before I’d break and reach. It was a long walk!
The heat embraced me the moment I sank in, wrapping over the skin like another layer of wax, only this one alive and in motion. Across from me, Zbyszek lowered himself with a sigh, the foam rising to our chests. The honey and balm on my skin reacted to the water, loosening, releasing their scents into the steam. I could smell sweetness and resin, flowers and wood, all mingling with the mineral tang of the bubbling water.
Every inch of me was awake. The scrub had left my skin raw and tender, so that the hot water licked at me with equal measures of sting and relief. My feet, still tingling from the propolis, pressed into the smooth floor of the tub, while my legs floated lightly, lifted by the jets. I let my head fall back against the rim, eyes half-closed, listening to the deep hum of the bath as though I had been dropped inside a living hive.
There was a weightlessness in my chest, a floating calm. I could feel the blood rushing more freely, my body flushed with warmth, my thoughts slowed but sharpened at the edges. The intimacy of sitting opposite Zbyszek did not escape me—his eyes were measuring me up, asking me a thousand questions. Yet it was not awkward. It felt natural, the culmination of trust earned over years and sealed now by bees, by heat, by silence.
I stayed there, letting the foam rise and fall against me, thinking how unlikely it was that I should find myself sitting across from a guy with such a glorious cock, which I was almost certain was getting larger under water…
***
The water steamed between us, thick with honeyed scent, and I felt the first nudge—just the side of Zbyszek’s big toe brushing the fold where thigh meets sac. He kept his gaze fixed on the cedar beams overhead, face calm, as if counting knots in the wood. I didn’t move, letting him explore; the toe slid under my balls, a slow, deliberate cradle, lifting them slightly so the warm water lapped at skin that rarely saw air. His eyelids lowered a fraction, while that thick toe eased another millimetre, supporting my weight like a gentle shelf, pulse in his arch beating against the most tender part of me.
The toe shifted, then a slow ripple ran through all five of his toes—little waves that bounced my sac like a soft water balloon. Up, down, a lazy juggle; each wiggle sent a warm tug straight to my groin and I finally met his eyes. The ceiling-gaze was gone—replaced by something steady, amused, almost tender. He gave another deliberate flutter and my balls bobbed again, the message clear: this was no accident. I felt my breath hitch, the corner of his mouth lifting in quiet confirmation while the water kept lapping and his foot kept playing its gentle, knowing game.
That big toe found the firm bump behind my sac and pressed—once, hard—like he was knocking on a door he expected to open. I slid lower without thinking, thighs floating apart; he answered with a second push, stronger, the ball of his foot bracing against the tub so each thrust nudged my prostate from the outside. Water sloshed, honey-scented steam puffing around us while he kept the rhythm—straightforward, almost possessive, the way a man drives deep when he’s claimed something. My breath came in small hitches matching his foot’s steady claim, the line between massage and fucking blurring with every insistent nudge.
The second foot joined like a silent partner, sole cupping my sac from the left while the first kept nudging that sweet ridge, squeezing gently, releasing, then pushing again—an alternating press that felt like thumbs kneading dough. I felt myself sink deeper, knees drifting wider, water lapping at my chin. Then the higher foot brushed my shaft and I jolted—it was hard, flushed, curving upward without my permission. Zbyszek’s toes curled around the underside, giving a slow, testing stroke that sent a clear pulse through the crown; the realization hit that I’d stiffened unnoticed, my body answering his feet before my mind caught up. He offered the faintest smile, toes still cradling me, ownership declared without a word.
We sat like two commuters sharing a quiet carriage—faces calm, shoulders slack, no ripple in the steam above us. No moans, no splash, just the low hum of the tub’s jets and the faint creak of cedar walls. Yet under that still surface his feet choreographed an entire conversation: squeeze, release, glide, press—each move a silent syllable spelling want. I kept my breathing even, eyes half-lidded, while every hidden touch shouted through my veins. The hush became its own language, thick as the honey in the air, saying everything we refused to voice aloud.
The arch of his foot pressed my cock to my thigh and slid from root to crown, again and again. Each pass coiled heat tighter inside my sac, like rope winding onto a winch; his other foot kept tossing my balls, lifting, dropping, so the tension wound and unwound at once. I felt the pulse climb my shaft, gather behind the head, then ebb—pleasure stacked like warm wax, heavy, sweet, locked in place while the silence enveloped us.
I opened my mouth with a click to say something, but he pushed me strongly underwater and raised his eyes to the ceiling again.
I slid forward an inch, then another, until my sac met the firm sole head-on and squished softly against it; each subtle shift sent a warm jolt through my groin. At the same time, the toes of Zbyszek’s other foot nudged the ridge behind my balls—left, right, left—like a pianist walking a simple scale, every touch lighting a new note under my skin while the water lapped quiet around us.
His upper foot crept higher until one rough toe pad settled right beneath my crown, pressing the tender frenulum in tiny circles. At the same instant his left hand vanished below the surface; I caught the faint swirl as he gripped himself, water rippling around his thick wrist. A sharp hiss slipped through his clenched teeth—first sound either of us had risked—and the small noise cracked the dam; I answered with my own low groan, letting it roll out unchecked while his toe kept tracing that sweet seam.
Heat spooled in me quite fast, a bright thread pulling from my balls to the slit; I let the moan rise, loud enough to echo off the spa boards, then eased my hips back an inch—asking without words for the dance to stretch. Zbyszek’s hand stilled underwater, his toes under my balls and along my shaft gentled to soft taps. He arched upward, water sheeting off his chest, and the thick column of his dick broke the surface—shorter than I had imagined but wider, veins ridged, the head swollen to a dark wine-purple, foreskin rolled tight beneath the flare like a collar straining to hold a prize. He held it there a heartbeat, letting me see what my silent plea had bought us, then sank again, slow, ready to take his time.
Now even the faint graze of his arch against my thigh felt like live wire; I looked down through drifting foam and saw his feet locked around me—sole pinning shaft to skin, toes digging deep into my sac, relentless. The sharp pleasure rose like a powerful wave each time, pure tickling pleasure, warm, gradual, pushing and pushing me… Four long ropes of cum shot out, each triggered by the hard nudge that bordered on pain, pearls streaking the water while my legs jerked uncontrollably against the tub’s smooth sides.
“’Appy?” he murmured, voice low, the Polish suddenly thick on his tongue—no shout, just steel. He rose slowly, water rolling off his chest, and that stubby column of his dick nudged my cheek once, twice, soft wet slaps that stung with quiet meaning. “An’ what now, professor?” he asked, almost a whisper, each syllable pressed against my skin while the heavy head rested warm beneath my jaw, waiting.
… He gasped when I opened my mouth and moved in closer. I started polite—lips just behind the flared rim, tongue tracing the soft foreskin still half-hooding the crown. A slow swirl collected the first bead of salt-sweet slick, and Zbyszek’s breath hitched once, twice, shoulders easing as though surprised I’d begin so gently. The heat of him felt massive against my tongue, a blunt weight I could already feel reshaping the inside of my mouth; I savored the stretch, the way his skin slid back with the slightest suction, revealing velvet firmness beneath.
Next I took him deep, jaw unlocked, letting that thick barrel cram my throat until my nose met the wet gold fuzz at his root. The angle forced me to open wider than I’d planned, eyes watering, yet when the low groan that rumbled out of him—half surprise, half claim—it made the ache worthwhile. I felt every pulse along the underside, the veins ridged against my tongue like cords of warm wax, and when I swallowed around him he shuddered, fingertips brushing my hair, not to guide but to steady himself, as if the suction pulled at his knees as much as his cock.
Finally I pulled off, spat a slick ribbon into my palm and wrapped both hands around him, twisting them around while my mouth worked only the head—quick flicks under the slit, then long draws over the crown, alternating hot breath with cool air. Zbyszek’s thighs locked, belly folding tight; a string of Polish half-curses fell soft and urgent—“kurde, tak, cholera”—each syllable shorter, higher, until his hips gave one involuntary jerk and the first warm jet splashed my tongue, thick, almost honey-sweet, the rest coating my lips while I kept milking him slowly, feeling the heavy throb fade against my palms.
I kept at it while he deflated—cock still heavy, skin loose and slick. I ran my tongue along the fat vein underneath, then over the smooth, clean-shaven base where there was no stubble, just warm skin and a faint soap scent. I lifted him and licked the underside of his shaft, working up to the head, pulling the foreskin forward to catch the last drops, then back to clean the groove. I sucked each ball—big, smooth, tight—and gave the slit a final flick, tasting the last bit of salt before he was completely soft in my hand, still thick, still warm.
***
“…’Appy?” he asked again, this time in a less threatening way, pulling my head away from his balls by the hair.
“Very,” I said, still panting. “You are very hot, Zbyszek, I like you a lot.”
He gave my hair a painful tug.
“I am straight,” he said. “I have a girlfriend. Never, ever tell anyone!”
“Never,” I said.
We dressed, and the only word he said to me at the airport was—not good-bye, or see you soon, mind you!—“Farewell,” with a brief short handshake. I guess it was his biggest secret—wishing to give men 20 years his senior a fantastic foot jobs\ in a Jacuzzi where no one could suspect anything, really, yes, yes, he is straight. He’s engaged to be married. He’s a serious businessman.
However, thinking about his toes playing with my balls still makes me hard, like right now.
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