Part 2: In which I consider leaving Luis and going solo...
As I told you last time, I'd acquired a manager to market my sexual expertise. Then there was a week when Luis leased me out, or maybe traded me -- I never learned the full details, to a massage parlour called 'Le Homme Libre'. When I protest I know nothing about giving a massage he laughs. The clients are business-men who need a little stress-relief -- y'know, stress is just so... stressful, so they need relaxation, usually of the erotic kind, nothing I'm not familiar with. It's a sleazy place up a flight of narrow stairs. A couple of cubicles, a cramped sauna and shower-room, an extractor-fan that rattles mournfully as the wind blows, and three other young guys who work there on different shift patterns, from what information I can gather.
There's some raucous joshing. I get undressed. We wear only short white towels which allow the client's access, free rein, should they choose, and are easily removable as required. I quickly learn that mine spends more time on the floor than it does around my waist! We purge and lubricate, and while doing it I catch a glimpse of another of the youths doing the same. And he's huge. I've seen big cocks. This is bigger than anything I've ever seen before. It was mesmerising, I can scarcely believe my eyes, although I see only the briefest glimpse. Business is slow at first. A couple of guys arrive and are taken into curtained-off cubicles. I sit and read a magazine.
Then the next customer, dressed only in a towel, is assigned to me. We enter the tiled cubicle. There's a wall-mirror and a low couch. He lies face down. I smile, squeeze oils on his back and do the best I can at massaging him. Inevitably he rolls over and I start on his chest, then lower, to his paunchy stomach.
I hesitate, ask 'you want extras?' as I've been told to.
He says 'yes,' so I unfasten the towel. He's genitally unimpressive. I dribble a little oil over it, and begin concentrating my attentions on his stiffening cock. It doesn't seem to take him long as I flex up and down its slippery-glistening length with one hand and coddle his drooping ball-sack with the other, rolling it with the palm of my hand. He merely lies there, his hands behind his head, watching. I'm not sure how to finish him. Wiping it with a towel seems a little unkind, and there's laundry bills. I can't just allow it to shoot off. So I duck my head down towards his groin, hesitate, look up to catch his eye. He gulps and nods. My lips close in around the ridged bulb of his cock, and with only the slightest lapping flick of my tongue he begins to come. After all, I can always spit it out later. If I decide to. I don't. I keep his stubby erection in my mouth for what I consider a tactful period, then release and towel it dry. He seems embarrassed now it's over, clutches for the towel, and smiles at me nervously. But he leaves a tip before he goes.
I say 'thank you, sir, come again,' emphasising the word 'come.'
There's another wait between clients. I sit and talk to the masseur I'd noticed earlier. He says his name is René 'The Log'. He brings me a coffee in a Styrofoam cup and says 'drink this, it'll wash the dirty old-man spunk-taste away.' I laugh, it seems to be the expected response. But how does he know? is there CCTV, a camera hidden behind the mirrors? Or is he just surmising from what he knows about the clientele? Judging by the gutteral sounds I hear from behind the curtains of the other cubicles, they all seem to be doing pretty much the same. He seems happy to chat. He tells me some of the 'visitors' like their boys pubically shaved, so that the 'dirty buggers' can pretend they're with pre-pubertal Twinks. He laughs. I laugh too, although I'm more intrigued to see what I know is lurking beneath his towel. Is that monster shaved?
Soon there's another client. He takes me into the cubicle and even before I've begun the massage, his hand goes up my towel to squeeze and explore what he finds there. I smile encouragingly and part my legs. My towel comes adrift, so does his, and all pretence of massage ceases.
'You ready boy?' he demands.
'Yes sir' I say, although my state of arousal surely says as much.
'Then show me what you can do with that pretty mouth.' He sits on the edge of the couch as I crouch to suck him, slathering my mouth up and down his bloated length, suck-suck-suckity-suck, giving attention to the tip, then the shaft. He squirms in the way that some guys squirm when they're getting sucked, indicating he's not quite as in control as he pretends to be, but guiding my rhythm, pumping up to meet me as I take it deep, moaning on every stroke. For me, I've been here before, there's not a lot he can do to me that others have not already done.
He lets this go on for some time then pulls me up, turns me around and bends me over the couch, forcing my legs apart with his knee so that he can slide up into me. I stoop, to be conquered. I must be getting used to it, it goes in so easily. We can see what's happening in the mirrors, and once the fucking begins the sight of my erection flipping up and down to the rhythm of his thrusts is a turn-on, and I grunt and ejaculate in long milky-white streams, which amuses him. He smacks my bare bottom, squeezes my spermy cock. Then slows a little, pauses, then begins again, slows, then restarts, stringing out the process as long as he can, until he's spurting warmly deep up inside of me. At length he slowly extracts and gestures me to lick and suck him clean. Again, once I've done, as I'm wiping him and myself, and mopping my sticky spunk-smears off the couch, I thank him. Although this time there's no tip.
There are other clients. Some of them simply go into the sauna where I'm certain they're shagging each other, which seems a little unfair, after all -- that's the service we're here to provide! The pace speeds up around lunchtime, then as the first day becomes the second, then the third, and I become increasingly used to the routine, and their expectations. I sit and wait, with the disturbing awareness that the next stranger to come through the door, whoever he is, whatever he's like, within moments I'll be on my knees sucking him off. And most cocks are not as aesthetically beautiful as porn would lead you to believe. In fact there are tiny pathetic ones, and downright ugly ones too. No-one really wants a massage. So I start from that premise. Focus on servicing the cock, ignore the often-unpleasant guy who owns it.
'The Log' seems particularly friendly, and its good to talk. He's blonde, with a wide easy face and generous mouth. We exchange increasingly frank intimacies. He says 'all these guys, we wouldn't be doing this if we weren't getting paid for it.'
'No' I agree, 'not all of them.'
He picks up on my words, 'but some of them, you mean?'
