And he keeps gripping my hips and massaging, now in circular motions.
The towel responds, rubbing my sensitive cockhead in circles, too.
Over and over. In circles.
Rubbing.
Teasing.
Torturing.
My fingers curl around the edge of the table. Please don’t fucking do it, I beg myself. Please don’t fucking make a mess under this tiny towel and mortify me in front of this handsome masseuse. Please, please, please.
Yet every nerve in my body is defying that wish of mine, begging for sweet, sweet relief, yearning for the masseuse not to stop, desperate to fall over the edge.
I clench my eyes shut, gripping the edge of the table even tighter.
Then I see Kent’s face. His cute, dopey eyes. His pouty lips and don’t-give-a-fuck attitude. His messy hair.
He smirks at me. “Wanna come inside and listen to me play my guitar?”
The masseuse keeps moving his hands, rubbing.
The towel keeps pulling, brushing, teasing my cock.
“Wanna come inside and listen to me?”
I’m trying to control my breath. That sensation on my cock is suddenly Kent’s hands, Kent’s breath, Kent’s lips.
“Wanna come inside?”
Just like my fantasy.
“Wanna come?”
My toes curl. My muscles tighten. I let out a gasp.
Then I come.
And I come.
And I fucking come.
The masseuse’s hands keep moving, as if oblivious, or not caring. The come keeps coming. I can’t hold back my breath anymore as I let out the deepest moan of pleasure, erupting from my mouth as satisfyingly as my cock empties under that poor excuse for a towel. It is unapologetic and proud, the way I cry out my at-long-last-satisfied need.
Then I catch my breath and open my eyes.
The masseuse smiles at me. “Feel better?”
“I’m …” I swallow. “I’m … so embarrassed.” But am I? I sure didn’t sound it a second ago.
“It does happen, sir. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
Pleasure beyond this world is still rippling through my body. I’m practically vibrating with otherworldly energy. And here my lame-ass goes trying to turn it into a joke: “Guess it’s, uh, a testament to … to the skill of your … uh, skillful hands.” I shut my eyes as my face burns red.
“It’s often the intended result of my sensual massage service, after all.”
My eyes snap open. I lift my head. “Uh, I’m sorry. Did you just say ‘sensual massage’ …?”
“Yes, of course. That’s what your friend Rico bought you.” He smiles again. “He said it’s what you needed?”
Sensual massage. I guess that explains all of the focus on my privates. Perhaps I should have figured something was up when he did the anal stuff.
“In fact, most men prefer not even to have the towel,” he goes on. “But I got the feeling you were a first-timer, and perhaps a little reluctant to be so forward. I should maybe have said something earlier.”
This was Rico’s idea. Rico’s little gift. “No harm done.”
“We’ve still got about thirty-five minutes on the clock. Do you wish me to finish, sir?”
Didn’t I already? After a moment’s thought, I give him a nod. He smiles back, then continues to massage my legs, working down to my feet once again. I close my eyes and let the sounds from the balcony take me away. It’s strange that even after coming, I still feel horny. Some part of me is unsatisfied—empty, like a hole in my chest. It’s a need in me I don’t think any amount of massage-table hijinks or handsome masseuses are going to satisfy.
But I think I know what might.
Chapter 10 - Kent
I ruin two funnel cakes, which is basically a fucking boardwalk tragedy. Then I burn a batch of muffins and don’t hear the end of it from Malik, who’s been rather touchy ever since I showed up for my shift, so obviously either he and his wife are on the outs, or his cat Donuts peed in his favorite shoes again. Either way, it makes for a very tense work environment, and did I mention how many particularly demanding customers I have to suffer through? The greasy, fried stench of my frustrations and failures follows my bike all the way home from the Quicksilver Strand to Sugarberry Beach.
But we all know what’s really on my mind.
I thought Jonah might have stopped by the bakery just to see what’s up, or maybe to arm-wrestle another free funnel cake from me, but I didn’t see him. It isn’t a big deal. Sure, there’s a dozen reasons he didn’t show. For one, we didn’t make any concrete plans. Two, he owes me nothing; I’m just some island dude he met yesterday, and he’s got a few more days of a vacation to enjoy. There’s a million other more interesting things to do with his time other than waste it with a beach bum like me.
Not that I couldn’t have been a marginal improvement over whatever lame-ass thing he has planned today. I’m fairly certain I would’ve been a hundred times more cool or entertaining.