Pucked Off (Pucked 5)

Based on my body’s reaction, it seems like my dick thinks it’s the next thing Poppy’s going to massage. That reaction wanes when she gets to my IT band, which kills as she uses what feels like her shoulder to dig in.

“Does your trainer encourage any of you to do yoga?” she asks.

“No, why?”

“It might help with this.” She runs her forearm across the outside of my thigh, and I hiss.

“I don’t think yoga’s my thing.”

“Maybe not, but more stretching could be helpful. I can give you some exercises to do at home, if you want.” Her hands smooth down the back of my leg again.

“You could, but I probably won’t do them.”

She laughs. It’s a pretty sound. “At least you’re honest.” She starts working on my ass, which isn’t nearly as sexual as I expected. It actually hurts a lot.

“At the very least you should try to soak in an Epsom salts bath for a good twenty minutes after this.”

“I have a hot tub; will that work?” I get this odd feeling, like this isn’t the first time I’ve had this conversation with her. But that doesn’t make sense at all.

Her arm slips, and her elbow digs hard into tight muscle. I grunt, and she gasps.

“I’m so sorry!” And then her palm is on my ass, kneading the spot, and my dick once again thinks it should be next on the massage list.

After that she doesn’t give me any more advice or ask questions apart from whether the pressure is okay. By the time she’s done with my legs and my ass, I have the most insane hard-on. The top of my dick feels like it’s going to pop off.

She moves away from the lower half of my body after she covers it, and settles a palm in the middle of my back. “Lance?”

I grunt out a yeah.

“If you’d like to turn over, I can work on your quads.”

“No!” I don’t mean for it to come out so aggressively, but there is no way I’m turning over so she can get a load of my hard-on. “I mean, that’s okay. I’m good.”

“You still have another ten minutes. I could work on your neck and shoulders, if you’d like.”

“Do I have to turn over?”

“It would be easier.”

“But you can work on my neck like this?” Beyond not wanting her to see my problem, I don’t think looking at her face is going to help my situation. I might not have been paying close attention when she brought me in here, but she’s a natural redhead, and I have a serious weakness for them. They remind me of the good things about Scotland. And their personalities tend to be fiery like their hair, although I’m not so sure Poppy fits that mold. Either way, propositioning my massage therapist seems like something I’d definitely do, and certainly shouldn’t. Especially when having her touch me feels so damn good.

“If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“Yeah.”

“Okay.”

Her fingertips trail a line up my spine through the sheet. At this point it feels like all contact is directly connected to my cock. It twitches between the table and my stomach. I fully expect the neck massage to help calm the issue below, because she’s no longer near that part of my body, but it doesn’t. Instead I get harder—if that’s even possible. I try to stay focused on something other than my goddamn hard-on, but it sure isn’t easy.

I’m almost glad when it’s over. Almost. And then the moment she finishes, I realize that unless I schedule another massage with her, she’s never going to put her hands on me again. Weird panic accompanies that thought.

“Take your time getting up. I’ll be waiting for you in reception.” The door clicks quietly behind her.

I flip over and throw off the sheet. My erection stands straight up. I wait a full two minutes after she leaves the room for my hard-on to deflate. While I’m waiting, I send a message to Balls to let him know I’m done.

Our next stop will be the impound lot where my Hummer is waiting to be picked up, and once I get home, I’m thinking I need a nap. For two days. But first I’ll have to rub one out or the ache in my balls is going to be unbearable.

My hard-on shows no signs of giving up, like it thinks Poppy’s coming back for a happy ending.

I’m almost positive I could make it happen in less than a minute, but that’s sketchy, even for me. Instead I get dressed. I’m fumbly and uncoordinated. I end up having to sit on the chair to get my sweats back on.

As I’m tucking the head into my waistband so it’s not too obvious that I’m sporting wood, I notice the wet spot on the sheets where my cock has been weeping tears of sadness over not being touched. For fuck’s sake. It’s like I’m a damn teenager.