Asem's Itchen

If the kitchen of Kasem's family in the upcountry jungle of Thailand hadn't burnt to the ground, I possibly never would have found out what the special Bangkok sports massage was all about. Kasem was my masseur at a fancy Bangkok gym, which was open for "men only" a couple of nights a week and which was a major pickup place for prime cuts of male meat. Of course, when I'd started going to the gym, I hadn't known it was "that sort of place," and I'd never experienced a male-male coupling before—although I'd certainly given it some serious thought. With my male model and minor TV and movie "the handsome young stud" role background, I apparently qualified as prime cut, and it wasn't long before I was humping with—and being humped by—the best-endowed of them.

It also wasn't long before I heard about the special Bangkok sports massage that a lot of the guys were getting from their masseurs. But after a couple of months at the gym, with a massage after each workout, my own masseur, Kasem, hadn't shown the least bit of intention of introducing me to any such special massage. I don't want to leave the impression that he didn't give a really good sports massage, though. I never could quite figure out how such a short, thin—almost boyish and shy—Thai man, who I was told was well into his twenties, could have such strong hands and masterful technique. But then, I quickly learned that, with the Thai, looks were deceiving. They could look like they were weak and starving, but they'd show out to be able to manhandle grand pianos up three flights of stairs in a solo effort.

Kasem's family house lost its kitchen to a stove fire, which, fortunately, was set away from the main structure of their house, in keeping with Thai good common sense practices. And to get money to rebuild, the family was forced to come to their "rich" city son—which would be the masseur Kasem (who probably was rich by Thai standards from the tips he made from farang—foreign—clients). But Kasem was stretched for money himself, so he passed on his family's plight to his clients.

Kasem didn't hit me directly for financial help when he initially told me of his family's dire problem. But he started softening me up while he told me about the tragedy. I was flat on my belly on the massage table, completely naked, as that's how all massages were given at the gym. Kasem was deep massaging the backs of my thighs, when I felt him pull my thighs apart, and he was massaging the inner thighs right up to the groin. This was a little farther than he'd ever gone before, and his touch was sending electric shocks through my body. He moved one hand to the small of my back to keep me pressed down on the table and his other, well-oiled hand wrapped itself around my cock, which he had brought back through my legs. And he slowly stroked me to ejaculation—all the time chattering on about how difficult it was to live life in rural Thailand when your kitchen had burned down. He wasn't drawing attention to the almost surreptitious hand job he was giving me, and I—other than the sighing and moaning I was doing—didn't bring any attention to it either. I was afraid that if what he was doing was openly acknowledged, I would be breaking some sort of unspoken rule, and he'd stop short of giving me satisfaction and release.

But he didn't stop, and it was very nice, a whole new, pleasant sensation for me. About as relaxing as a post-gym session massage could get. I left thinking, "So this is what a special Bangkok massage is all about. Very nice; I'm glad I finally found out about that." And I tipped Kasem an extra 50 baht (which was all of about 20 cents U.S. at the time—but which was considered a handsome sum to be tipped on top of the usual 100 baht.)

The next week, I was feeling a little deflated when my massage was about over, because Kasem had already done my back and now had me turned over. If he was going to give me what I thought was a Bangkok special, it should have happened by now. I was panicking. Could it be that I hadn't tipped him enough the previous session? That I had somehow insulted him? But then, while he was massaging my chest and belly, he started talking about that kitchen again and lamenting about the exorbitant estimate the family had been given for reconstruction of this very necessary section of their home—it could come to almost as much as 30,000 baht (only some $115, but more than most rural families could make in a year in combined income).

I suddenly realized that only one hand was massaging my chest and belly now; the other hand was rubbing my inner thighs and eventually worked its way to my engorging cock. I drew in my breath with a hiss as I felt the foreskin of my cock being pulled down to the rim of my glans and an oily finger beginning to massage my mushroom cap, mixing oil with the precum that started to bubble up and rubbing it around the cock head. A finger was trying to insert itself into my piss slit. I arched my back in sensual pleasure and tried, quite unsuccessfully, not to groan, as Kasem proceeded to rub oil all over my cock and balls and slowly jerked me off. Once again, we both pretended that nothing was happening beyond the usual sports massage.

I tipped Kasem an extra 100 baht and left thinking, "Ah, this must be the Bangkok special massage. Much more than all right!"

The third week, while I once more was on my back, was when Kasem broached the possibility that I might be able to lend him the 30,000 baht his family needed to build a kitchen—and maybe we could think of some way he could work off the debt in installments. Little doubt was left about what the installments might consist of, because immediately after making the proposal, Kasem swallowed my cock and started deep throating it. I had my hands buried in his thick, wiry black hair and was moaning loud enough to be heard in the next massage cubicle (which was tit for tat, because I had heard enough moaning from the other cubicles during my earlier tame massages). By the time oiled fingers began making little forays into my pulsing asshole, I was ready to give Kasem anything he asked for.

Of course I'd loan him the money to rebuild the family kitchen. I left him with what I had in my wallet, about 5,000 baht, I think, and promised him the balance when I returned to the gym the next week.

He was so delighted the next week, when I handed over a full 30,000 baht and suggested that the family install and extra special new kitchen that, after he had pounded and prodded and kneaded my body to sheer suppleness, he climbed up on the massage table, straddled my hips between his wiry, strong thighs, and made my throbbing cock disappear up his asshole. He rode my dick for a good thirty minutes, making every pelvis movement imaginable and dispensing love to every square inch of my buried cock. I was letting him know of my pleasure so loudly and graphically that I'm sure that everyone in the surrounding cubicles was envious and made sure he had special massages of his own that evening.

On the fifth week, Kasem wanted to start talking about a repayment schedule. He seemed to think it would take six months or more to pay me off, but I suggested a way of making the schedule much, much shorter. The first installment of my idea of a schedule had Kasem kneeling in a side chair with his belly draped over the chair back and me standing behind him, holding his pert little hips in my hands, and fucking my hot and ready cock up into his hole until the loud groans and moans those in the other cubicles were enjoying were coming out in a throaty, high-pitched Thai rather than English.

I never did learn, in terms of sexual services rendered, where a regular Bangkok special sports massage stopped and fulfillment of a loan repayment plan began. But Kasem must have thought the arrangement was a good one, because when I left Bangkok for a new assignment in Japan, he came to the airport to see my family off and, with tears in his eyes, thanked me for helping his family rebuild their kitchen. My wife was very touched—both that my masseur would make a special trip to bid me farewell and that I was so philanthropic.