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The Massage Series 1

Deixado Va



"Hi, Jack."

"Got room in your book today?"

"Hold on...let me look."


"Hmmm, not really. What's up?"

"I just really need it today. Can't squeeze me in somewhere?"


"I'll have to call you back."

"Thanks, Daniel."

"Only for you, Jack"



End call.


Chirp. Chirp. Chirp.



"Please tell me you're coming, Daniel."

"Three O'clock."



"See you then, Jack."

End call.


"Hey, Jack. You look like crap." I can see the pain etched on his face...he's hurting.

"Why thank you, Daniel."

"You should've called earlier. What happened?"

We've been over this before and I know I'm not going to change him so I just take his stubbornness in stride. He almost never calls when it'll do the most good. No. He waits 'till it really hurts.

"I had to carry something really heavy."

"Hmmmm, saving the world again?"

"Something like that."

I begin to unfold my table but he stops me with a light touch. I look over my shoulder at him. He's easy on the eye, all long and lean and silver. And unlike some of my clients, he's not really a talker. I wouldn't say he's shut down, just...reserved. All that time in the Air force probably.

"Let's move into the back." He turns away and I grab my bag and follow him to the back of the house. A long hallway leads to an open sided room surrounded by windows looking out on the Rockies. The view never ceases to amaze me. Who needs art when you have this?

"Where do you want it?" I can't resist a little double entendre.

"Here's fine." He points to the place closest to the bay window. The Sun is pouring in and everything in the room is in natural tones so it's like being outside while your inside.

He's standing at the window, arms crossed, looking out and wearing what he always wears when I come, loose cotton shorts and nothing else. I feel a slither of desire through my belly, I always do, but I shut it down pretty quick. Jack is oh-so-straight. And he has very clearly defined personal space. We banter some and I work on him and pretty much that's it. But I don't lie to myself, he's the star of my fantasies on a pretty regular basis. On my usual date, with my right hand. God, it's been a while.

I put Jimmy Page and Robert Plant's 'No Quarter' on low and the room fills with the quiet sensual strains of the Zep.

He's on the table now and I take a moment to look. He's beautiful and scarred and I try not to think what each white mark and slash means. I hook my thumbs in the waist of his shorts, slide them off and replace them with a towel draped across his butt.

I rub the sandalwood oil into my hands; warming and thinning it then begin at his shoulders, light and soothing. He's wired tighter than a piano string so I begin diving into his shoulder and back muscles, trying to work the kinks out. I work down his back, thumbs on either side of his spine towards the lumbar vertebra and I can see it. The tightness pulled across his lower back, shifting his hips into a slant instead of straight. I work it gently, warming and soothing the muscles, willing them to let go. Like I say, he doesn't make a lot of noise so when he gives a little gasp it surprises me.

"shhhhh. Deixado vá." (let go) I can't help it, sometimes I murmur in other languages to clients and it's very soothing. The first time with Jack I spoke Arabic and that was not soothing. I said. " ÇÓÊÑÎ " (relax) He said " áÇ . áíÓ ÇáÚÑÈíøÉ " (no, not Arabic) in a tight, harsh voice. Since then I use Portuguese. It's soft and sounds smooth. What the hell, at least I'm getting use out of that ten years at University.

By the time I get down to his feet, he's a lot more relaxed. I tap his thigh, which is parlance for 'turn over'. He does. I start again at his feet, running my oiled fingers up his calves, working the quads with my whole hand, from the inside out.

I work up across his hips, easing the flexors and transverse abdomens, carefully avoiding the frost of pubes peaking out from the towel. His flat abs lead gracefully to his chest, still firm and strong and I'm not going to say for a guy his age 'cause he's in great shape for any age guy. And I like the silver.

I come around the table and work his shoulders from above his head, stretching and kneading up his neck. He drops his arm down and I work on his face and scalp muscles. Jimmy's wailing away to the sounds of Persian guitars and drums and I can feel my heart thumping in time. I run my hands through his hair, around the crown of his head and back down his neck.

Deep tissue work in the neck and head can be very intense, causing blood to rush down the spine. I've had it happen many times. It makes me shiver. It has never, and I mean never, made Jack shiver. But he's trembling now.

"You okay?" I ask low and my hands never leave him. He makes a moan in the back of his throat, throws his arm over his eyes and grabs my hand. I know what's happening, several clients have tried this before and I'm usually gentle as I redirect them, but this is Jack. I've played this in my head so many times, what I'd do if he ever made a pass at me. I want him to, but God, I want it to be me, not my job. He takes my hand and puts it on his dick and wraps my fingers around the shaft, showing me what he wants. Slow, tight strokes and I can feel the heat burning my fingers. And I just...let it happen. He arches a little, thrusting into my hand. I should stop...I should. But I want it too.

I slide the towel off. The scent of sex gets stronger, his scent, musky and sweaty. I brush my fingers gently from base to tip, he moans and shivers. My hands are dryer, less oily and the friction is hot when I stroke again. In the back of my mind I'm screaming, 'don't fuck this up, don't make this mistake' but that voice is tiny and far away.

Both of Jacks arms are over his head now, grasping the table above his head, eyes shut, mouth grimacing. He's inside the feelings, gone. I'm pressing my dick hard against the table, tugging and stroking him and I let my other hand skim along his chest and over the dark bud of his nipple. His breath hitches and I pass back over it, rubbing a circle with my palm.

"God..." he says through clenched teeth.

"Ssshhh..." I whisper, reassuring. "Let go, Jack" He's safe in my hands, he knows that and I know it. A safe place to fall. He arches, heels digging into the table and I see his balls tighten, I know he's about there. His chest begins to flush, sweat beads on his lip, his mouth opens in a silent scream as he pumps my hand. Come jets across his stomach and chest. I keep my grip but still my hand, feeling the pulsing flutter beneath my fingers as his climax works through him and his breath goes out in a whoosh. I'm still and I realize I'm holding my fucking breath, my pants hot and tight. To fucking tight.

I uncurl my fingers from his softened dick, trailing them along his thigh and reach for one of my towels. Still trailing my fingers, I wipe away the dots of come, breathing in that scent, trying to fix it in my mind. Without thinking I scoop some up and suck it off my finger. Big mistake, it only makes me harder. I drape the towel across Jack's hips and let my fingers trail up his waist and leave him. The absence of his heat like a blow and suddenly, deep breathing isn't enough; I'm aching to come.

Jack hasn't moved, one arm thrown over his eyes, his breathing slow and even. Oh, God. Now what do I do? I'm torn between wanting to kiss him awake and running away and, coward that I am, running away wins.


I sit in my car not far from my apartment, slowly banging my head into the steering wheel. At what point did my professionalism fly out the window? When did I become a whore? I should have stopped but I didn't. I don't 'service' clients. I know guys who do and that is just too intimate for me. The tiny voice was right. I fucked it up.

My cell chirps, nearly sending me out of my skin. I dig it out of my bag and look at the number. It's Jack's and seeing it makes my dick hard again. Three chirps. I have to decide if I'm answering. 'God, what am I gonna say?' I hit call and put the phone to my ear.

"What?" I say, my voice tight in my throat.

"Why did you leave?" Jack's voice is quiet.

"I thought we were done."

The line is silent for maybe, five seconds, which feels like a really long time.

"Do you want to be done?"

Suddenly, I'm out of oxygen and I forget every word of English I know. A bubble of laughter threatens, clearly my hysterical response, but I squash it. And it hits me; this is that moment. You know, the fulcrum moment, on which your life changes. Between one breath and another; between the question and an answer. I can see the moment stretch before me, spinning lines of consequence like tangled vines around the future and my heart. 'Do I want to be done?'

"No." I can hear my voice, but it doesn't sound like me. I can still smell him on my hands, the echo of his gasps still ringing in my ears. I don't want to be done, I want to start over.

Sometimes, when you tell the truth, it feels like dying. Sometimes, when you hear the truth it feels the same. And something does die, whatever went before, cascading away unseen. And no matter what you do, you can't get that back. I was right on the knife edge, wanting to rewind time to the comfort of all that went before, and wanting to fly over the edge of this new possibility. When I got up this morning, I didn't know I'd be thinking these thoughts or making this kind of decision.

"Daniel?" Jack's voice drifted into my thoughts. I must have been quiet for a while. I sit in my car, eyes closed, head on the steering wheel but all I can see is that windowed room and Jack.


"Come back." I feel the words wander through me, drift in my head, settling. I just want to know one thing.

"To finish the job?"

"Daniel..." He sounds...hurt.

"I have to know. Why now, Jack? Why me?" Waiting for his next words feels like hell.


"I'm not a whore, Jack. I won't..."

"I don't want to pay for sex, Daniel. Please, let's not do this on the phone. Come back."


"Because. I want..."



"You're gonna make me say it, aren't you? Dammit."

"Two years, Jack, you've been my client and not once have you asked for more."



It's my turn for silence. He's never called me that. No one calls me that. I hate that name. But, oh, how he said it. Soft and hoarse and raspy. Now I'm the one shivering.

Ever had that experience of driving somewhere and not remembering driving? How scary it is to think you weren't paying attention and how hard it is to trust that because you did it, it could be done and you're okay?

Yeah, that's what it felt like.



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