I have written many gay/bisexual stories and would welcome any feedback. This short story is part of a semi-autobiographical novel that I am writing.
There are three parts to this short story and I'll publish them on here over the next few days.
My Blog is: http://richardpetersbooks.blogspot.co.uk/
My Amazon author page is: http://amazon.com/author/richardpeters
RUB IT - Part 1
I headed for the neighbourhood gym.
"Can anyone do a sports massage?" I asked the cute guy on reception, hoping it was him who gave them. His short-cropped hair made me want to run my fingers through the stubble. I enjoyed the mental image of his head bobbing in my cock, while his hazel eyes looked up lustfully over my body to my face
"Robert is our personal fitness trainer. Bob!" he called over my shoulder.
The sports hunk walked over, his white sports vest bulged with his pecs, his exposed finely-toned arms swung casually, his tight, white trunk-style shorts hugged his package. I'd seen him around town in the clubs and bars, always with a gorgeous woman on his arm. Who could blame them?
"This gentleman needs a sports massage." Cute-boy said amiably.
"Sure, what's the problem?" Bob replied, looking me up and down professionally.
"Er the shoulders and lower back." I replied truthfully enough.
"Sure." Bob said still looking at my physical setup. There was something deliciously exciting having a straight lad look at me so closely. "Get changed and I'll take you upstairs, work out payment with Dave." He nodded to cute-boy.
He smiled and went over to an attractive woman working on the treadmill. She smiled coyly and sweatily and Bob adjusted the dial for her.
"Thirty quid for shoulders and back and fifty for full body." Cute Dave said with a smile.
"Full body." I replied, wishing this twink was going to do me. I handed over my credit card.
I headed for the men's changing room. I shed my clothes in the deserted changing room. It was a quiet Monday morning. I put my short-sleeved vest and running shorts on.
The door opened and hunky Bob came in. "Ready?" he smiled looking me up and down. His teeth were a lovely white, his face was handsome with a definite beard shadow under the skin. I liked a man who shaved close. I could only wonder how his face would feel if it roamed wet kisses over my body.
His dark hair was short, but not cropped. He looked like a matinee film star
like a handsome Tom Cruise. But taller and not so odd-looking. His eyes were soft and kind, not cruel and weird like Mr Cruise.
His muscular forearms were dusted with soft, fine dark hairs. Boy he was gorgeous!
"Ready." I replied and followed Bob out of the changing room. He turned right and led me up a narrow, bare staircase. There was a single room at the top and Bob opened it. I slipped past his welcoming arm that held the door open for me. I felt a frisson of a thrill as my body slid inches past his.
The room was a standard massage room. Subdued lighting, massage table, small window with a privacy curtain across it. Cream walls, pleasantly warm, a rack against the wall with oils and towels hung from it.
"Music or silence?" Bob asked. His voice sounded deeper and sexier in the small room.
"Music might be nice."
Bob's hand responded by pressing the button on a CD player and soft flutes and tropical sounds softly filled the room.
"Draped or undraped?" His deep tones harmonised with the music.
In the UK our massages are done in the nude. I remember once in the States shocking the masseuse when she came in to found me totally nude. But that's another story. But an English gentleman can choose to be draped by a towel which the masseur tactfully adjusts, while maintaining the client's privacy, or just to go the whole hog and not be covered.
"Undraped." I said. "It's easier for a full-body, isn't it?"
"It's up to the client." Bob smiled and how I wished Bob would go undraped too! But that was too much to hope for. However, the idea of this straight guy touching every inch of me was hugely erotic.
I hesitated so as not to appear too keen. "If you'd like to get ready then." Bob said, rubbing his hands together to make sure they were warm. The muscles in his forearms rippled and his biceps flexed. The thin straps on his athletic vest displayed his exposed muscular shoulders divinely.
I lifted off my running shirt and as it came over my head, I took a peek at his shorts. The bulge of his balls and the softness above it were clearly visible. No wonder the woman downstairs had practically melted to putty when he stepped over to her on the treadmill.
"Ok?" I hesitated with my fingers in the waistband of my shorts.
"Go ahead." He smiled and as I lifted the second foot out of the shorts I glanced across. But he wasn't watching, he was sorting out which massage oil to use on me.
"Face down, just make yourself comfortable." He said.
I slipped onto the massage table, disappointed that he hadn't taken the chance to check me out.
I put my face into the towel-covered hole and snuggled my torso against the soft towels covering the table.
Strong hand pressed my shoulders and slid greasily over my skin. Jesus! He was good. His fingers kneaded in above my shoulders and the right-hand area stung with a delicious, sharp pain.
His left hand let go and his right pressed and pushed in deep, concentrating on the sore spot. I groaned and Ben gave a little chuckle over the fact that I was feeling the perversely enjoyable pain.
After spending five minutes on the area of lactic acid, he put his hands to work fairly gently stroking my back below my shoulder blades.
"I've seen you around town." I said while hoping his hands would wander down to my naked buttocks.
We talked about which clubs we liked then about sport and football. I can do the normal heterosexual stuff when I feel like it.
All the time his hands pressed along my back and around my sides. The conversation naturally faded and I fell into the hypnotic stupor his massage was casing.
His hands left me and I heard him lubing them up. I was disappointed when they didn't go to my arse. Instead he put a hand to each of my thighs and pressed firmly. My body rocked on the table as his fingers pushed and slid up and down, causing my hard pressed cock to thicken against the towel.
His fingertips tickled the underneath of my cheeks and I wanted to beg him to take a cheek in each strong hand. When Bob was satisfied that he had covered every inch of my thighs, he slid over the back of my knees and down my calves.
Silently he massaged each foot, his thumbs taking care to press the balls of my feet.
He let go and splashed more oil on his hands and I heard them slap together. Oh! He put his hands to my buttocks and pressed hard. Oh, my god! I thought I was going to orgasm there and then into the towels.
He pressed and kneaded and slid. Fingertips slid into the edge of my crack and I instinctively relaxed my thighs and parted them slightly. His fingers were permissively sliding over every exposed inch of my backside.
The air was pregnant with a heavy silence. I parted my legs a little more hoping against hope that he would defile me.
My buttock cheeks were parted slightly by his strong fingers promiscuously sliding up my crack. They did not pause but slid down the side of my bum and I relaxed it slightly, hoping they would slide underneath to finger my erection.
Instead they slid down the sides of my hips and over the top of my thighs. I could not supress a little gasp when the tips of his fingers slid between my thighs and tickled up to the top, just a fraction away from my compressed scrotum.
"Where was your back hurting?" his soft, deep voice whispered.
I didn't want to answer. I wanted him to carry on wantonly exploring my arse
But I mumbled into the face-hole, "Right at the base."
He warm hands left my backside and he rubbed more oil on them. He set to work on the base of my spine in small circular motions. It was delicious.
Then my straight hero changed tack. He went to the base of the table, standing between my parted feet. He put both hands on my back, leaning forward and pressing his forearms to my bum.
He pushed up with his hands and his elbows dug into my buttocks. It was like his massive strength was forcing my whole body up the table, just gravity and friction with the towels holding me in place. But my skeletal structure slid inside my flesh.
Down he pulled my back, his elbows slipping off my buttocks and his warm forearms pressing into them. He paused and pushed up massively again. So much of the surface of his hands and arms were pressing onto my skin. It seemed to be the nearest thing I could get in contact with a straight guy without actual lovemaking.
Again he paused at the top of his upstroke and I could only imagine the front of his shorts pressed to the edge of the table. Would he be enjoying pressing his cock to the towel between my feet? Would he be getting hard?
Down his hands, forearms and elbows slid until his hands were cupping a buttock each. Up he stretched again. Surely he was excited? Surely this was a sexual act?
On and on he slid and paused, varying whereabouts on my back his hands explored. Contact between a straight man and myself could scarcely get more intimate. His fingers when reaching my bum sometimes just clutched my buttocks in an iron grip, other times slid greasily over my crack entrance and down between my thighs.
I never wanted the erotic experience to end. Surely Bob must be aroused now, especially as the front of his shorts must be being rubbed seductively by the soft table end. For myself my cock was crammed between my belly and the table, each up and down movement causing it to be rubbed.
His hands departed and I sensed him turn away. "Turn over and I'll do your front." His lovely, deep, sexy voice said.
Part 2 to follow soon.