Build It and They Will Come

I'm a college professor. That's my day job. I teach math, of all things.

Unfortunately, teaching math doesn't pay all that great. I, like so many of my colleagues, have another job to help with the living costs here in New England. Some of my colleagues tutor, or write admission essays for rich international students. One guy is a bouncer. Me, I like to think outside the box. We'll get to that in a minute.

It was Wednesday afternoon, and I had a mild headache. Not enough coffee. Or was it too much? Hard to tell. Yulia, from my sophomore class, was in my office.

I liked to keep an open door for students, because I know math is awful until the moment when a concept clicks, and reaching that moment takes a different amount of time for different people. Yulia was having trouble with homework, and I was explaining the intricacies of matrix multiplication the best I could. She was a bright student, and I was sure she'd get it with just a little bit more time.

Unfortunately, I didn't have that time.

"Apologies, Yulia, but we have to stop here. I'm afraid I have another commitment," I said.

"Oh, okay," she replied, her big eyes looking at me with a hint of disappointment. "I think I'm close to getting this."

"Yes, you are! Just have to remember when you go by rows and when by columns. Why don't you come here tomorrow morning, and we'll go over the rest of the material. That'll give you enough time to finish homework."

"That's so nice of you, professor! I'll see you later then!"

She jumped up her chair, waved at me, and sprinted out the door with youthful vigor that I envied.

I kept looking at her behind a little bit longer than was professional. See, Yulia was hot. Like, really hot. Maybe it was her Russian mother, who had forced her to do gymnastics from a young age. Or maybe it was his overprotective father, who literally drove two hours to see me at the beginning of the semester, and made it very clear that I was to tell him if any boys made any kind of gestures toward his precious Yulia. I didn't bother to mention to him that we hardly had any guys in this school. Maybe it was her gazelle-like (Patriotic people might call it 'Gisele-like') physique, with long legs and a nice waist. Either way, it was undeniable this gave Yulia a kind of a magical, innocent aura.

I know what you're thinking, and no. I'm not in the business of dating students, and while I think she maybe had a slight teacher-crush on me at one point, I'm doing all this extra teaching mostly to get tenure. Being an assistant professor is bullshit. Long hours, crappy pay, and no job security. I need great evaluations from students, and I genuinely like to see them do well in my classes. Thus, I help the students as much as possible.

But still, my rent wasn't going to pay itself. I'd be late from my second job if I continued this internal monologue much longer. I ran to my car, and drove to the nearby city.

---

"Hi, Josh!" Aly, our receptionist, welcomed me. Using the main entrance was risky, but I had seen that the customer parking lot was empty. It would be a serious breach of ethics to see a client, or have them see you. I quickly walked into the staff changing room before the first clients of the evening started to arrive.

Since it was early and a weekday, there was just one colleague present. Her name was Michelle, and she was a great lady. Early 40s, so a little bit older than me. Short and a little bit round, always wearing a smile with a bright-red, short and spiky hair. She was probably a lesbian, which was to be expected of people in her line of work. We didn't really talk about that kind of stuff here.

"Hey, Josh. Quiet today, huh?"

"Seems so. Do you have reservations?"

"Yep, I have regulars for the whole evening."

"Lucky you. I'm on reserve, again."

"Man, that sucks. At least you can grade homework or something and hope someone shows up."

"Yeah, but that reserve pay barely covers the cost of commute. How do you get so many regulars anyway?"

"It's that feminine touch, I keep telling you. Women don't come here for hydraulics, no matter how mighty. They come here to feel loved. Give them that, and they'll keep coming again, and again, and again. My secret, I kiss them."

"I see what you did there. They come well enough already. Besides, isn't kissing unethical?"

"I know. Our walls aren't very thick, you know. But you gotta make them feel like there's something real. That they aren't just hiring a prostitute. You're knuckle-deep in their pussies already, how could a kiss be unethical in any way? Just don't say anything and you're good."

"Hey! I'm a massage artist, not a prostitute."

"Sure, whatever you want to tell yourself."

"I'm serious. Did you know doctors used to treat women's restlessness the same way? Actual doctors," I retorted, my professional pride under threat.

"You're kidding. Why didn't the women just take care of it themselves?"

"I don't know."

"I know. They wanted someone else to do it. It's not the deed, it's the company. If it was a massage they were after, they'd just do it themselves. Just try it, man. I promise you'll get regulars in no time. Let them believe in their fantasy."

I didn't fully agree with Michelle. Many women had real troubles achieving orgasm by themselves, and most one night stands, boyfriends or husbands weren't much help in that department. That's where our profession came in. We specialize giving quality handjobs to any woman who is willing to pay. There is no guarantee of orgasm, but our success rates are publicly listed on our webpage, along with plenty of anonymous testimonies.

That's pretty much the only thing that is listed, however. Our genders and age ranges are public, but that's it. Everything is extremely confidential and private. I operate in darkness, which is how most women in my experience prefer it anyway. However, the main reason is that the clients can't see me, and I can't see them. I'm not allowed to say anything, and they risk being banned from our clinic by talking to me. They only talk to Aly, who sends a text to me detailing the client's wishes and any special conditions I should be aware of.

Yeah, you have probably guessed at this point that I don't have a wife. Or a girlfriend. Or anything, really. Not even a cat. I'm not sure why. I guess I'm too shy to approach women of my age, and I really, really don't want to date a student or an ex-student. I keep coming up with various excuses, but that's mostly bullshit. Maybe it's because of what happened during college. I'll have to talk about that in detail some other time.

Back to business. As expected, our clients are women of all sizes, shapes, and ages. I don't have a preference, as I can't see them anyway, and I truly am approaching it professionally, just trying to help the lady get what they want. Middle-aged women are the easiest customers, as many of them are experienced enough to come with little effort, usually multiple times. I take pride in my work, and hearing a woman get off is amazing. Not to mention the pay isn't half bad, especially for a guy with my 97% success rate and 4.95 overall satisfaction rating. I've received more than one hand-written letters. Aly vets all of them, of course, to make sure no personal details are passed on.

The hardest customers are young women who have never had a real orgasm. There you are, her last resort where Chad from the club or that bullet vibrator have both failed her. Some of them just aren't mentally ready for it yet, you can tell by how tense they are. It's frustrating, but still, you gotta try, since she has nowhere else to go. Despite the challenges, it is extremely rewarding when they finally come, releasing all that pent-up tension they didn't know could be released. I have something of a specialization for hard cases, I'm proud to admit. Unfortunately, most of them don't come back after they have finally opened the locks. My theory is that they go back trying to teach Chad what's the difference between clitoris and urethra. Or maybe they feel dirty and guilty, like Michelle claims.

My phone chirped. Aly was sending me exactly what I was describing before. Well, not exactly. This one was a self-described virgin, having some experience with object penetration, but no experiences with orgasms of any sort. She bought a set with full-body relaxation massage in addition to the regular vaginal one. Her preference was gentle. Most women wanted rough, but I always liked giving gentle massages better. Made it easier to live in my own fantasy.

---

After the customary five minutes to let her get on the massage table, I entered my chamber.

The open door let dim light in, but the angle of the light was designed not to show anything on the table, just enough to let me find it. I could hear her breathing stop for a second. This was usually the moment they realize what it was they actually signed up for. I cleared my throat to announce my presence, and approached the table.

My hand found her thigh, and I ran my fingers lightly across her body to get a general idea of what I was working with. She seemed to be quite tall, and pretty fit. She felt like she had a slim hourglass figure. I was surprised she claimed to be a virgin, but like I said, all sizes and shapes. Different women had different reasons, and outward appearance was a poor judge of their needs. I reached for the oil, rubbed some of it between my palms, and started spreading it on her.

She was on her back, as instructed. We didn't actually provide any shoulder or back massages. Without being able to talk, coordinating any position changes wasn't worth it. So we massaged whatever we could while they were on their back, and then moved on to the main course. It was more about mental relaxation than physical one, anyway.

I started with innocent parts of her body. Arms, calves, feet. Feet were great. Most people didn't realize how badly their feet needed massaging. I also liked hands, for the same reason. And I really liked holding hands, even in a setting like this. I didn't do face unless specifically requested, because most people didn't want massage oil there.

I was relieved to hear her breathing become calmer as the massage went on. I was careful not to cause any pain in her pressure point, opting for slow, soft strokes of my hands instead. Her muscles had been tense when I begun, but it was clear she was letting herself relax and just enjoy the feeling.

That peaceful breathing was interrupted by a gasp when I moved to her breasts. She had small, firm breasts, with nipples that reacted strongly to my touch. I gave them extra attention, and her muffled moans made it clear she was enjoying it.

I figured she was ready for the main treatment. I started sliding my hands down from her breasts, across her flat tummy, onto her pubic region. I felt a small path of hair above her opening, but other than that, she was smooth. This was typical of these young girls. They always had to shave even before getting an anonymous handjob, as if I'd think differently of them. Maybe they did it to feel more confident, I thought.

Her breathing intensified as I touched her inner thighs softly, pressing the fingertips into her muscles ever so slightly. My right hand started drawing a line up toward her slit, while my left hand went back up, to her breast. I almost started massaging, my other hand still journeying to the holy gates, when I thought about changing my routine up. I let go of the breast, hearing her barely audible protest, and brought my hand to her lips. I offered her a finger, and she gently took it in her mouth. When she started sucking, I started rubbing.

I could feel her body tense when I touched her clitoris, and she almost bit into my finger, stopping her teeth just before any serious pressure. I started kneading her lower lips, which were already covered in sweet, feminine nectar. As my hand was making her increasingly red and swollen down there, one finger was reserved to teasing the warm crevice that oozed wetness.

After a while, her sounds were getting more and more impatient, and I finally let my finger dip in, scoop up some of that thick juice, and start working on the clit. As I started my gentle, tender caress, her hands found her breasts, and she spread her legs even more, enjoying my touch with her every touch receptor. As she was getting into a very receptive mood, I brought my other hand to help. With one, I kept twirling her swollen joy-stick, with the other, I massaged her walls from inside. She was really tight pushing against my finger, but seemed to be relaxed and wet enough for this to work, as I didn't feel any real friction. I didn't dare use more than one finger, but even that was having a great effect. She was already airing what could be classified as screams, and I could imagine Aly nodding approvingly, and smiling at any ladies that might be waiting in the lobby.

The client's pelvis was starting to rise to meet my touch, and I increased the pressure on the clitoris correspondingly. She shouldn't be the one to do work; it was my show. I kept circling it, flicking it right, flicking it left, tweezing it between my fingers. She gave me plenty of vocal feedback, guiding my hand with her cries of joy.

I noticed she was starting to squirm around, experiencing a feeling she'd never had before. I continued playing with her clitors as well as rubbing her g-spot with ever-increasing pressure. When she grabbed my wrist, I knew she was approaching the goal. I kept going, enjoying her fingers trying to break my wrist, my ego swelling from the effect I was having.

Then, she got there. Her whole body tensed, her voice reaching a clear falsetto. I could feel her legs shake and I imagined her head tilted far back, her chest exposed to her imaginary lover. I let go of her clitoris, letting my hand rest on her pubic bone. I kept a finger inside, giving her contracting walls something to push against. Shit, she had a strong pussy. One day she'd make a man very happy with it.

I didn't think about going for another one. For one, the poor girl probably was going to want to take the experience in properly, if she really hadn't had an orgasm before. For another, I really wanted her to want more, and make another appointment. She was easy to work with, and her body was selfishly fun for me to touch. I tried not to think about it, but I was only a man, after all.

She had calmed down, taking in air with deep, rhythmic breaths. I was glad she hadn't said anything. Some women have to announce when they come, and that'll get them either warned or banned, both effectively meaning they won't ever be coming back. This one had managed to keep her wits with her. One might think a word or two isn't a big deal when they're already moaning with zero restraint, but it's different. It's not easy to tell a person in a street or a supermarket by their sex noises, at least compared to them saying something. And we can't really ban screaming of pleasure and expect a lot of customers.

I was ready to start wiping the oil off her skin, when I remembered Michelle's advice. I leaned over her, and gave her a kiss on the lips. She appeared stunned for a split second. I thought I had fucked up, but then she grabbed my head and pressed me against her. We kissed for a good half a minute, before I gently removed her hand, and pulled away. I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead, and walked out. She had had strawberry perfume. I had smelled something when I first came into the room, but it had been faint and I couldn't really tell what it was. It was only when I brought my lips to hers I got a clear whiff. I liked that smell.

My ego wasn't the only thing that was swollen. I had a raging boner. See, handjobbing girls was, if not routine, a job nevertheless. I always focused on reading the client, trying different angles, frequencies, fingers, in an attempt on making it as good as possible for her. That level of analytical thought wasn't compatible with maintaining a solid boner. But kissing, man. That has always been my weak point. Dick goes insta-hard and doesn't go down before the balls are empty. Something about intimacy and connection. And lips just feel really good.

Problem was, I didn't really like to jerk off. My hands were usually pretty tired after a day of writing math on the blackboard, and getting girls off. Me and Aly had had an arrangement for some time where after making her listen to other girls come for hours, I'd give her one for free, and in exchange she blew me. We figured abstaining from penetration would lead to less emotional complications, and it had worked well. Unfortunately, she had recently started dating and we had mutually agreed to stop the arrangement. I hadn't found a commercial sex toy that I liked, so usually I just let it build up until it was bad enough that I had to take the matter into my own hands.

After I was done with several other customers, it was already too late to do anything about my condition, as I had the early morning appointment with Yulia. Blue balls didn't produce calm, restful dreams.

---

Next morning, it was linear algebra time. Nothing like vector calculus after a night of dreaming about sex. Yulia had clearly put a lot of effort into learning the material, and we got through the exercises pretty fast, she even managed to solve ones from the next week's material. She seemed very inspired, somehow. Her cheeks seemed rosy, and her eyes were brighter than I remembered. Maybe she really enjoyed math.

"Thank you for your patience, professor. Really, you are the best. You handle your job so well." She had a pretty smile, and her words made me feel all warm inside.

"I'm just glad I could help. I know sometimes it's really hard to get it. Most people just need a little outside assistance to get over the hump."

"What if the hump comes back?" She sounded very vulnerable, as if she was confessing a secret.

"That can also happen. Just come see me, I will help you again. It's no trouble."

"Great! I owe you, professor. Here, I brought a little gift." She put a gift-wrapped box on my desk, grabbed her stuff, and sprung out with those long, hypnotizing legs.

I couldn't hold my curiosity and had to open the box as soon as her butt was out of my field of view.

Under the wraps was a box of fresh strawberries.