She’s stunning with her long blonde hair and blue eyes. The shy smile clinches it for me. If I met her at a bar, I would have asked to buy her a drink immediately. Do guys still do that? I’ve been out of the dating game so long I no longer know the rules.
What I do know is that I can’t let her see my hard dick. Having her think of me as a pervert is the last thing I want.
“I wouldn’t have thought your line of work would lead to this type of tension in your neck and shoulders. Is it high stress?”
Honestly, it’s not. I love my job and seeing the transformations in my clients and their confidence boosted. “No,” I grunt out, feeling a muscle slowly easing under her hands.
She grows silent, my curt answers no doubt putting her off further conversation. She seems to know just where to prod and touch, and eventually my body gives up the fight and sinks into the relief she brings.
“Would you like me to work on your calves and hamstrings?”
Is it my imagination or does her sweet voice hesitate just the smallest bit?
Working on my legs means raising the sheet. Squashed between the table and my legs, my hard dick aches. Spreading my legs might give a bit of relief and the soft sheet and my boxers should still hide how affected I am.
“Sounds good.”
Her hand rests on my shoulder. “I’m going to lift the draping up to your glutes, keeping your midsection covered. Would you like me to cover up your back as well?”
“No…” I clear my throat. “No, you don’t need to do that.”
Anticipation tightens my gut as she gently lifts the sheet exposing my legs. This is a professional service and I’ve just met Tricia, yet it feels like some sort of slow seduction scene is taking place.
Internally, I moan. That’s how hard up I am. Turning something innocent into sexual. I need to get a grip.
Somehow, I make it through the massage and stumble down off the table when Tricia leaves for me to get dressed. Tugging on my dress shirt and working the buttons, the ease with which I can move my shoulders is a welcome change and I exit the clinic with a spring in my step, ready to conquer the day.
***
After a week, I’ve convinced myself that my attraction to Tricia is merely because a beautiful woman was touching me. It’s me being touch starved and I would have had the same reaction to any massage therapist.
That’s both embarrassing and depressing, rolled into one big pathetic lump. The lump being me.
When I call to make another appointment, I fully plan to request a different therapist to test that theory. That’s not what comes out of my mouth, though. “Yes, with Tricia, please.”
Hanging up after booking the appointment, I stare dumbly at my phone, as if it's to blame for my lapse in follow-through.
No matter. I can handle this.
All week, I mentally count down the days until my appointment. When the day finally arrives, I drive there with anticipation simmering low in my gut and my hands clenched on the steering wheel.
Despite that, while waiting in the room for Tricia to come in and start the massage, my dick is behaving well, and I feel hopeful. Everything here is designed to relax and comfort, from the bland cream walls to the mellow traces of scents that I can’t quite identify.
I suck in a deep breath, exhaling slowly and physically feel myself unwinding.
When the knock sounds and the door swings slowly inward, my heartbeat takes off at a gallop, my entire body tensing up. So much for aroma therapy.
Tricia’s hair pulled back into a low ponytail draws my attention to her long, slim throat and the delicate gold chain that surrounds it. A tiny charm sways from it and I can’t quite make out what it is.
“Hello, Dr. Smyth,” she says, giving a fast smile.
“Matt, please,” I request. There’s something about Tricia addressing me by my title that puts a wall up between us I don’t care for.
Her thick lashes conceal her eyes for a moment, her smile freezing. Her pink tongue darts out, sweeping across her lips so quickly that I almost miss it. “Matt,” she says, a hint of color rising in her cheeks.
Familiar with what’s expected of me, I quickly strip off the robe and lay down on the table. Her oil slicked hands touch me moments later, easing some of my tension.
“Good week?”