On The Table 1

Copyright, drlust, 2004

The conference in Toronto, like all other stuffy academic conferences I have to attend in my capacity of “learned expert,” seemed likely as not to three days of boredom enlivened by moments of conviviality with old friends teaching at other universities around the world.

If you haven’t attended one of these affairs, they are best characterized as “mutual intellectual masturbation.” That is, they offer bright people the opportunity to show off to other bright people just how smart they are by giving a paper about some incredibly obscure topic that only three or four other people in the room actually know anything about.

For me, these events hold only two attractions any more. I do enjoy some of the evening schmoozing with old friends around the bar and whenever the conference is held in a city I like, I take advantage of the opportunity to reconnect with a world of culture not available to me in the small Midwestern town where my own university is located.

Toronto is one of my favorite cities—so vibrant, so cosmopolitan, and so not-American in many ways. And so, when the annual meeting of my disciplinary society was announced for Toronto, I was actually looking forward to the trip.

In the months before my arrival on the north shore of Lake Ontario, I spent a lot of time researching the restaurants I would eat in, the neighborhoods I would stroll through, and the museums I would visit. Lest you think me just another stuffy academic, at the top of my museum list was the International Hockey Hall of Fame.

Best of all, the conference was held in Toronto’s grand hotel, a place worth spending at least one night in your life. Like most of the old grand hotels of its vintage, Toronto’s lacks some of the most modern amenities, but it makes up for that lack with style. I had stayed there almost 15 years earlier and had thoroughly enjoyed myself, so I was looking forward to a return.

I arrived on Thursday morning and went straight to the hotel. Because there was almost nothing happening at the conference Thursday afternoon, I went to check out the exercise facilities and was pleased to see that they still had their lap pool, a nice weight room, and offered massages right there in the gym. I decided right then to treat myself to a strenuous afternoon workout, followed by a full hour of massage.

Inquiring at the front desk, I found out that if I was willing to wait into the early evening, I could indeed schedule a massage. When the pleasant young woman at the reception desk pulled out the schedule, I noted that at 7:00 p.m. the opening was with a woman named Ildiko, so I asked for that appointment.

You may not recognize the name as female, but as a specialist in things Hungarian, I knew that only Hungarian parents name their daughters Ildiko.

My evening set, I returned to the conference suites and visited the book exhibits, keeping a sharp eye out for new work by competitors in my field. I returned to my room at 4:00, watched a few minutes of the CBC and then gathered my workout clothes and headed for the gym.

Over the next two hours I put my body through its paces. First an hour of intervals in the pool that left my arms and shoulders shaking, then another hour in the weight room, alternating between the various cardio machines and the weights. By the time 6:45 rolled around, I was spent and ready for my massage, so I returned to the locker room, showered, and put on the robe they had given me at the reception desk.

At 7:00 sharp, I rapped lightly on the door of the massage studio and the door opened to reveal a woman of power and grace.

Ildiko was short—probably no more than 5’2” or 5’3”, but the muscles in her shoulders and arms exposed her instantly as someone who not only gives a lot of athletic massages, but also spends a fair amount of time in the weight room. Those broad shoulders tapered to a very slim waist and her braless breasts were quite small and slightly flattened against her chest by the muscles underneath.

Her hair was blonde, very curly, and cut just below her ears and her eyes betrayed that tenuous link the Hungarians have with their Central Asian nomadic forbears—just slightly almond shaped and very dark.

Her smile was bright as she welcomed me into the room and as I entered, I couldn’t help but stare at the sculpted nature of her physique—highlighted as it was by a skin-tight tank top and sweatpants riding so low on her hips that they looked to be in serious danger of dropping to the floor at any moment. She was wearing bright red underpants, the waistband of which was clearly visible where her sweats rode low.

When she greeted me her accent betrayed her as a recent immigrant and so I surprised her by greeting her in Hungarian, something that Hungarian expats almost never experience. I’m one of those rare oddballs who actually speak Hungarian, because I lived in Budapest for three years in the early 1990s.

“How is it that you speak my language?” she asked. This is the standard question I get every time I show off my fluency.

I explained to her about my career and my residence in her country’s capital. She nodded, smiled, and told me how nice it was to be able to speak Hungarian for a change and wanted to know if it was okay to stick to Hungarian rather than English. Of course, I agreed.

“Well, Mark,” she said, “It is nice to meet you for sure. Do you have any injuries that I should be aware of before we begin?”

I told her about my stiff lower back and about my bad ankle, and explained that I prefer a more athletic massage to a more gentle one.

“That will be no problem for me,” she said, laughing lightly. Given her physique, I could imagine that it would not.

“Different of my clients feel differently about nudity, Mark, so whatever you are comfortable with is fine for me,” she continued.

“I stopped worrying about that a long time ago,” I replied, dropping my robe to the floor and climbing onto the table, fully naked. She draped a blanket over my lower body, turned on some kind of atmospheric music that was just loud enough to muffle most of the sounds from the gym just beyond the door and lit a scented candle.

All this I deduced from hearing her, because all I could see was what was available through the round hole in the table where my face was planted.

Ildiko then set to work on my shoulders, bearing down on me in the way that I especially like. Often I find that female masseuses are not strong enough, or willing enough to attack the muscles in my back to my satisfaction, so the therapists I see at home are all male. Ildiko was as strong and as willing as any of the men who I see—perhaps even more energetic.

As she worked, we chatted lightly about her life in Canada. She had emigrated in 1994 and so had been in Toronto almost 10 years. She had trained in the medical university in Budapest and so had little trouble finding work in Toronto once her English improved. Several times she asked if she was being “too strenuous” and each time I assured her she was doing fine.

“How is it that you live with these steel cables in your back Mark?” she asked after a good ten minutes trying to do something with my trapezius muscles.

“The body can adjust to most things,” I grunted, as she bore down on me.

“Ah, but it shouldn’t have to,” he chided me. “You should stretch more and perhaps practice Yoga.”

“You aren’t the first person to complain that my back is too much work,” I fired back at her.

“I didn’t say too much work for me,” she scoffed. “I meant too much work for you!”

After that, we lapsed into silence, as a massage often does when the first pleasantries have been exchanged. Once she had finished with my upper torso, she moved the blanket so that my torso was covered and my right leg was all that was exposed.

Over the next five to ten minutes she gave my leg just as much of a workout as my back had just received. In my experience, massage therapists are scrupulous about avoiding the top of one’s inner thigh, so as to avoid any hint of sexual content in the massage, but Ildiko was an exception.

She pulled my legs apart more than I was used to and spent several minutes massaging both my gluteus muscles and the place where my thigh and butt intersect. She never touched my scrotum, encased as it was under the blanket, but she was damn close!

Something about the way she was working that area—perhaps it was the fact that no massage therapist had ever been that close to my crotch—caused an unpleasant reaction in my cock. One thing I do not want during a massage is an erection. It is distracting and potentially embarrassing. But, when Ildiko switched to my left leg and ended up massaging me hard in the same locations, I couldn’t help myself…I was fully hard within minutes.

Because I knew that shortly she was going to ask me to roll over, I tried to think myself out of the erection, but to no avail. The more I thought about it going away, the harder I became.

“Okay Mark, will you roll over please?” she asked, lifting the blanket off of me.

“Uh, well, you see, I’m a bit embarrassed,” I muttered through the hole in the table. “I, uh, have an erection.”

She laughed lightly at this. “You think you are the first client of mine to have an erection? Come on, roll over now.”

Something about the light-hearted way she said it made my embarrassment seem silly, and so I rolled over, my cock bouncing against my belly as it flopped down onto me. She covered me up again and began to massage the upper thigh of my left leg. This wasn’t helping at all!

The more she worked there, and then as she shifted to my right leg, my erection merely increased to the point where the blanket was now a tent over my pelvis.

When she covered my legs again with blanket, Ildiko paused. Even though my eyes remained closed, I could sense her standing there, staring at my erection. This just made it worse, and my cock twitched involuntarily.

“This is a problem, Mark,” she murmured. “With your penis in this state, you will not be able to relax completely.”

“True,” I admitted.

“I am a professional massage therapist, Mark, so I do not have sexual contact with my clients,” she said. I had to admit; I thought she was getting ready to offer just that sort of contact. I had, after all, heard of such things happening.

“Of course,” I said, not wanting to sound disappointed.

“But that does not mean you cannot do something about this,” she added.

“I’m not sure I…” I stammered.

“If you like, I will give you some lotion and you can take care of your need while I watch. Then the massage can resume,” she offered.

I couldn’t believe this! Here I was, lying naked on a massage table in the middle of a hotel gym, albeit behind locked doors, with a very beautiful younger woman offering me the chance to masturbate while she watched.

For all of ten seconds I debated what to do, and then I opened my eyes to see her smiling gently at me. Something about that smile was all the encouragement I needed, so I smiled back and put out my hand toward her table of oils.

Ildiko dropped the blanket onto the side of the table and then poured some warmed oil into my hand. She then stepped back, leaning against the counter top and looked right at me. “Go ahead,” she said. “I’ll enjoy watching.”

Encouraged, I dropped my hand to my cock and smeared the oil over every inch of it, wiping the excess onto my balls, which I cupped for just a moment because it felt good to do so. Then I made a ring of my index finger and thump and slid it down my cock—over the head and down the shaft, stretching the skin as tightly as I could.

Because my head was flat on the table, I couldn’t see my cock, so instead, I watched her. She was now staring at my hand and my cock, a thin smile playing across her lips. Her nipples were hard and seeing that sent another wave of electricity through me.

When I masturbate, I love to stretch my cock, forcing the veins to engorge. Then, once it feels as though it is going to burst with all the blood that has flowed in but cannot find a way out, I stroke quickly several times, paying special attention to the rim of the head. Then I stretch it again, repeating the process.

Over and over I stretch and stroke, each rendition getting shorter and more violent until I know that even the slightest movement will result in an explosion. At that point, I hold it as tightly as I can and use the other hand to tease the head until I explode.

That is just what I did on Ildiko’s table, and when the explosion came, large gobs of semen and sperm shot from the head of my cock. The first one landed on my left shoulder, the second somewhere between my nipples, and a third and fourth on my belly. Finally, all that was left were dribbles of white that came out as I stroked furiously up and down.

I realized that my body had been bucking against the table, but because there were dozens of people just a few feet away, I hadn’t made any other sound than the slurping noises caused by my hand as it flew up and down my shaft. I also realized that I had been holding my breath, so I let out a large breath and inhaled, filling my lungs to capacity.

Ildiko was still staring at my cock, no change of expression visible. Her eyes were so dark I couldn’t read them.

After a moment, she pushed off from the counter she had been leaning against and handed me a warm washcloth, which I used to wipe up the worst of the mess. Then she took another warm cloth and wiped up the rest, leaving the cloth draped over my now flaccid cock.

“That was beautiful,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” I whispered back. I was in a state somewhere between erotic exhaustion and shock at what I had just done. Never before had I masturbated in front of someone and never—I mean never—had I experienced such emotional release as the result of orgasm. It was as if I dam had loosed inside me, flooding me with a sense of completeness.

She nodded curtly and then said, “Close your eyes now. I must finish on time.”

I did as I was told and let the waves of satiation wash over me as she massaged my pectoral muscles and then my neck. Finally, she gave me a very gentle facial massage that concluded with the laying of her palms over my eyes, the two of us breathing together quietly, our intake and exhalations matched. I began to drift away into that place between sleep and waking that I often go at the end of a massage.

“Thank you Mark,” she whispered, removing her hands and standing up. She covered me completely with the sheet, then said, “You may rest here for a minute and then leave through the door where you came in.”

“Thank you, Ildiko,” I replied. “This was a very special moment for me.”

“I know…” she said, as the door behind me opened and she vanished from the room.

I lay still for just a moment, then stood, put the robe back on, and stumbled into the locker room, where I dressed. At the front desk, I signed the chit for my massage, leaving her a very large tip and was just about to leave, when the receptionist spoke.

“Dr. McKenzie?” she said. I turned and she was pushing a business card across the counter top. “Ildiko asked me to give you this.”

It was a folded piece of hotel stationary. I thanked her, pocketing the note, and stepped out to the elevator lobby.

Once on the elevator, I opened the note, which read, “Mark. If you are interested in another massage while you are in Toronto, I work from home on Saturday evenings and have an opening this weekend at 8:00 p.m. Call this number and leave a message in my voice mail if you are interested. I’ll call back with directions. Ildiko.”

I put the note into my pocket, a wave of happiness flooding through my already sated body.

This was going to be a conference to remember.