A gay sex stories: I Start Giving Massages Pt. 01 This is a work of fiction
I stopped asking women for dates in my late twenties, tired of the laughing rejections. Me, a desperately shy, pleading specimen of a man.
Instead, I lived an enforced celibate life. All I could do was jack off when I was horny. In my mid forties I discovered massages and received the occasional massage from women. I was very innocent at first, thinking that a massage could only consist of a woman massaging my legs and back. Then I discovered that some were willing to massage my cock to orgasm, although no more than that.
I went gay when I was about fifty, when on a business trip, with my back in pain, the only person available to massage me at short notice at a parlour was a man. I found it turned me on to be with a man with only a towel concealing me. On another business trip to the same city I asked for him in advance, to the barely concealed giggles of the woman receptionist on the phone (this was before the Internet). There were fresh giggles from the same receptionist on my arrival, and I went red. She gave me a knowing look.
To my surprise and joy the massage got, shall we say, very intimate at the end, led by the masseur. I still like women, but more as works of art to appreciate than as objects of sexual desire. After all, I really enjoy watching cute actresses like Jennifer Aniston, Sandra Bullock, Jennifer Lopez… unattainable women, if you like.
Over the years I spent a lot of money getting massages from gay masseurs. I only came across one who was straight, and only one gay masseur declined my advances. Sometimes they were about the same age, or a little older, but some were young enough to be my son. Daddy sex! A few times they made the first move, at other times I moaned appreciatively and stroked their cocks and gently squeezed their balls with my hand as hints, though sometimes it took a few massages for the seduction to occur.
My massages were my sex life, and I loved being submissive, to being under the control of these experienced gay men, following instructions. It felt a lot safer to me than going to saunas or trying to be picked up in gay bars. I also liked trying different masseurs, as I loved the novelty and challenge of fresh men taking me. They probably enjoyed the fact that I’ve always been straight-acting — one masseur even told me he only massaged straight men, preferably married.
When I was fifty-five I was declared redundant by my company with a sizeable payoff. Together with an inheritance and savings, if I lived carefully — as, except for massages and cheap holidays, I normally did — I could carry on without a job for years. I decided to take a break of a few months before looking for another job.
One day I had a light-bulb moment. Instead of paying for massages, I could give massages myself. The maximum of opportunity and the maximum of temptation! I was slim, tall, not bad looking, just shy. The masseur could always surrender himself to the client if the client had such tastes. I could make enough money to see me to my retirement.
I paid £2000 for a full-time six-week course, bought a massage table and various oils, and learnt the details of the job. Half of the training was “practical”, where those on the course carried out massages on each other. These were exclusively with women, as, for the first time ever on the course, I was told, I was the only man. I did get some suggestive looks from a few of the women I massaged, or when they gave me massages, but I ignored them, as I thought of women as gossips, and didn’t want to take it further. Also, the pretty ones were those who ignored me on the massage table.
Once I had finished the course, according to law I had to carry out a certain number of free massages for months to build up experience before charging for them. I also had to buy insurance. I read the text on lots of massage websites so that I could read a carefully honed message, hinting rather than stating what I was offering. By only hinting I could always avoid close contact with anyone I didn’t care for! Strictly speaking the money was for a massage: the laws didn’t care what happened between consenting adults. I offered “Sensuous massages for all men”, and stated that it was a clothing optional massage, for one hour (I could offer to extend it, of course!), and made it clear that straight men were welcome. I’ve never really enjoyed being with effeminate men, and relished the idea of seducing any fit, straight customers. It sounded as if it would be fun teasing their bodies. Anyway, anyone looking for, and answering, such messages was at least to some degree interested in being with a man!
As soon as I put up the primitive website, with a photo of my bare (and slightly hairy) chest, I got texts. Clearly I was not the only man who avidly looked on the Internet for massages by men. Which man would be my first client? I picked the one who made it clear that he was a straight, married man who was wondering what it was like to be massaged by a man, and hinted at being bi-curious. I didn’t know what he looked like, of course, but gave him details to get to my house. I hoped he would be nice!
At ten o’clock on the dot the doorbell rang. I slowly walked to the door, my heart pounding, and opened it to John, a short, paunchy man in his sixties. Not ugly, but not particularly attractive. Like me, clean-shaven. He looked anxious. I was disappointed, but of course quickly ushered him in, and led the way to the simply furnished spare room with the massage table. The curtains were already drawn across, and the lights were low. I pushed a button and gentle, soothing oriental music quietly filled the room with peace.
“Please undress in here. I leave it up to you if you take all your clothes off, and if you choose to use a towel.” I had carefully rehearsed the words, and only on subsequent sessions did I add “I will wear shorts and t-shirt”, if my client wasn’t attractive, or the alternative, “I will be nude”. In the case of the latter, I always stayed in the room to chat and stripped as soon as the client was naked. On this day I was indeed wearing shorts and t-shirt, but without underwear.
“I’m completely straight, you understand,”, John said, “but I’d like to see what it’s like to be massaged by a man.” He paused. “Um, no funny business, please.” I nodded and smiled, and left him to undress.
A minute or two later John called out that he was ready. I entered. He was lying face down, head in the usual hole at the table’s end, with a towel across his bottom. I saw that his underwear was with his clothes on the chair. I also saw some money on the table.
“The money is for charity,” he said. “It doesn’t seem fair to get a massage for nothing.” I admit that I was touched. I took off my shorts and shirt, and my five-inch circumcised cock slowly hardened in the warm atmosphere of the room.
I began to use the oils to massage a man for the first time ever. It gave me a feeling of power: I was in control, deciding on when and where my strokes would be. I worked first on his back, applying firm pressure. Then the bottom beckoned, but what about the towel? I began, rather awkwardly, to massage his bottom by shifting the towel a bit. Then I bent down to John.
“May I move the towel down your body, if you’d like me to massage your bottom?” There was a gruff, grunted assent. I did a trick a masseur liked doing to me — I very slowly slid the towel down his legs. John squealed with delight.
I pressed on my elbows to massage his bottom. He began to shift a bit. Then I moved to the thighs. I made slow, short strokes, and began to move up his ample thighs towards his bottom. Little appreciative moans rose up from the table. John parted his legs a bit more. I grinned. This was going to be fun, playing John’s body like a harp to make sweet music which perhaps only I could hear.
Three times “by accident” my finger slipped momentarily into his anus. “Oops”, I said the first time. Each time, John gasped and gave a gentle cry. I turned to his calves. It’s good to torment your client, so they don’t know what to expect. They enjoy it all the more when you return to the part of their anatomy that pleasured them so much.
After a while I moved my hands down to massage the inside of his thighs, gradually moving closer and closer to his groins. I heard gentle gasps. His cock was under his belly, and so out of sight or feel, but his ample shaven balls were available. I gently massaged them.
John began to lift himself off the bed. I reached my hands out to touch his shaft. I hadn’t seen it, of course, as he had undressed in private. It was big. A good seven inches, as I later saw. It was stiff as a board. I gave the length of it a good, quick squeeze and let it drop. I heard a groan. Good, I thought, let him want some more. Instead I gently massaged his balls in my hands. Yet another moan, and he dropped to the bed.
I carried on in this fashion a few times and then asked John to turn over. I saw first his big belly and then his big, rigid, circumcised cock. I didn’t really fancy the man yet it was so erotic. I was deciding his fate — would he remain a straight man, or would he, as we say in Britain, begin to bat for the other side?
“How are you feeling, John”, I asked. It was only fair, after all, to see how he felt. He might want to flee from the room! He could leave, or remain.
“I’m in absolute heaven”, was the reply.
I took my shirt off and began to massage his arms, noticing for the first time his wedding band. I massaged each finger of his left hand, then the right, and felt his arm tentatively touching my leg. I paused as his arm moved up my shorts and touched the fabric concealing my cock. His fingers slowly squeezed. I peered at John: his eyes were mesmerised, looking at my shorts. I gently pulled away and took down and then kicked off my shorts to be as nude as he was. I heard a soft and appreciative moan as he stared at me, nice to hear at my age.
I gave a quick feel around his balls, squeezed some oil onto him, and rubbed his cock up and down as it pointed skywards before turning to his calves. After a while I began to move up to his thighs, and slowly moved my hands up them and into his anus. I pushed a couple of fingers in. The flesh yielded, and I heard yet more moans. This was not taught at massage school, by the way, but I’d enjoyed it from previous erotic massages.
“Are you still OK, John? Is this too intense for you?” I took more moans as a verbal contract for me to continue. I reflected that maybe I wasn’t as submissive as I thought, as I wanted him to be my trembling bitch, my plaything. All my previous partners had been experienced gay men where I played the junior, accepting role. It was incredibly exciting to seduce a straight man and to add him to our growing ranks. No wonder the national birth rate had crashed!
I gently teased his cock with my chin by rubbing it along its length. I held it upright, and bent down so my mouth was an inch away. I turned my head and looked at him. Was it going to be a thumbs up?
A terrified, sweating face looked back at me, gave a weak smile and nodded. I took him into my mouth, and began to nod my head up and down, playing with his cock, slopping the saliva on. His precum seeped into my mouth.
Several minutes later I went naughty and quietly asked “Am I better than your wife?”
“No one’s ever sucked me before”, he muttered. “I almost came in your mouth, sorry.” I thought to myself “That would have been a first time for me, too”. I wasn’t sure if I would have minded.
I clambered for a while on the table and carried out more fingering in his anus and holding and gently stroking his cock, while he touched different parts of my body, especially my balls and cock. I asked if he wanted anything more or if he was alright. He looked pleadingly at my cock and moved his head towards me.
I went all stern on John. “Look, this isn’t right unless you ask for it. Otherwise I can be accused of rape. What, exactly, do you want from me?”
You cut have cut the atmosphere with a knife. There was a pause, then, in a trembling voice, John said “I want to suck your cock.”
The tables had turned. Instead of being the supplicant, lying on the massage table, hinting, almost pleading, for sex from a smirking masseur, I was in charge, and could say yea or nay. My cock went even harder than before, if that was possible. My head buzzed with anticipation, with a feeling of power.
An image suddenly popped into my mind. It was the very nice look of Jennifer Aniston as a nymphomaniac dentist in Horrible Bosses 2, when she showed her cleavage to her horrified male assistant.
“Open wide”, I said.
To be continued…