Date: Fri, 29 Mar 2002 15:57:10 EST
From: Keybedder@aol.com
Subject: "Wrong and Right"

WRONG AND RIGHT by K. Nitsua. Copyright 2002 by the author.

I lie on my stomach on the table as he prepares to begin the massage. I'm
nude. State law says it's wrong for a client of a registered massage
therapist to be undraped. From the beginning it felt right to us.

"How are you?" he asks, warming the cream in his hands. He's already
started the soft music he always plays.

"Doing good." He always makes conversation, treats me like a human being. I
like to think we're friends, though we never see each other outside of our
sessions.

I turn my head and say, "You know, I'd like it to be a little different
today."

"How?" he asks.

I hesitate, then say it. "I've always had a fantasy about being massaged in
the dark."

He shrugs and smiles.

"No law against that."

He snaps off the lamp. His apartment is small and he works in his
bedroom. It's not completely dark. I can see the shadowy outline of his
body in front of the double bed.

He spreads the massage cream on my skin and sets to work with his usual
deep, skilled strokes on my back, neck and shoulders. He has years of
experience and it's apparent in everything he does. We don't talk much. The
silent communication between us says more than words.

My arms stay at my sides, and I make no move to touch him in any way. It's
wrong for a client to initiate sexual contact with his massage
therapist. Even so, we've felt the electricity between us since our first
session.

He leans against the table as he works, allowing his crotch to contact my
body. It's swollen, as usual. Despite his professionalism he can't help
himself. I breathe a little faster. My cock is pointing downward, toward my
feet. I feel the pressure of my erection trapped by my weight, almost
painful. I know he can see the head of my penis peeking from between my
legs, beneath my balls.

He bends down to work my shoulders and his breath tickles my ear. He makes
his way down my back to my buttocks, lingering there. His fingertips brush
the sensitive hairs repeatedly in the cleft between my cheeks. He pauses,
then I feel cool liquid running into my crack. He spreads it with his
fingers, stroking my asshole, slipping one finger in for just a moment,
then withdrawing it. He applies oil to the head of my cock in one quick
stroke. As he works on my buttocks he touches it again and again, always
brushing it for just a second. I can feel a wet spot forming on the
table. I shift my body and sigh.

He moves around to my feet and ankles. He works them as usual, then travels
up the backs of my legs with long deep strokes, brushing the bottom of my
balls and the head of my cock. His finger slips inside my asshole and
remains longer this time. It finds the firm knob of my prostate and begins
to move, pressing and stroking it. His other hand strokes the head of my
cock. I breathe long and deep, in ecstasy.

It's wrong for a massage therapist to use strokes of a sexually stimulating
nature on a client. It's wrong for him to massage the genitals or
anus. What he does feels so right. I can't ask him to stop.

He moves up my back with his hands and climbs onto the massage table,
straddling my legs. He continues with repeated long strokes up my back to
my shoulders and neck. As he reaches the back of my head he bends down
toward me. I'm enveloped by the heat of his strong body. He whispers in my
ear. "How are you doing?"

"Just great," I gasp.

"Is this what you had in mind?" he asks.

"God yes. You're amazing."

He chuckles. "Time to turn over."

He gets back on his feet as I obey. My hardon juts stiffly upward on my
stomach. For a moment I look into his eyes. In the semidarkness I can see
they are dark and intent. We both know what is to come but we keep up the
pretense a few moments longer. He massages my pectoral muscles before his
oiled fingers touch, then caress my nipples. I can no longer stay silent
and groan softly with pleasure.

He smiles and puts a finger to his lips, gesturing with his eyes toward the
closed door of the bedroom. I nod.

His lover is watching TV in the living room. If we make too much noise
he'll hear us.

He bends his head to my chest and substitutes his soft tongue for his
fingers. I'm careful not to make any more sound but I writhe with
pleasure. He moves down my body, kissing my stomach. His fingers return to
one nipple.

I can no longer keep my hands to myself. I pull the hem of his T-shirt out
of the athletic shorts he's wearing, and caress his stomach. He pauses,
pulls it up and over his head, drops it to the floor. His chest and stomach
are smooth and hard. I sit up on the table and turn toward him. I bend and
take one of his nipples in my mouth. He gasps, as I knew he would. His tits
are as sensitive as mine.

I move to his neck, kissing the smooth skin on his shoulders and throat. I
feel the stubble on his chin as I move toward his mouth. We exchange a
gentle, chaste peck on the lips. He won't open his mouth when we kiss, one
limit he's set. He also won't take any other part of me in his
mouth. That's okay. Maybe it makes what we're doing a little bit less
wrong.

I slide my hands underneath the waistband of his shorts and draw them
downward. The white, stretchy material of the scanty briefs he wears
underneath appears. He pushes the shorts down and lets them drop to the
ground.

I climb off the table and stand in front of him. I place my hand on the
bulge in his underwear, feeling the moisture where his precum has soaked
the fabric. I look into his eyes. He stands, passive, arms at his sides. I
reach behind him and push my hands underneath the waistband of his briefs,
cupping his firm round buttocks and kneading them. I draw down the material
slowly, slowly, bending my knees as I peel the last remaining clothing off
his body.

His sparse, trimmed blond pubic hair appears and his cock springs out. It's
a beautiful one, long, straight and circumcised, the dark purplish crown
flaring from the shaft. His balls are neat and compact beneath, freshly
shaved. I kiss my way down the smooth skin of his stomach to his crotch,
breathing in his faint, manly scent, feeling the hard flesh contact my
cheek, wetting it with the fluid of his arousal.

His briefs are around his ankles in a crumpled heap. I lift each of his
feet in turn and free them from the fabric, then toss the underwear
aside. He's already kicked off the sandals he was wearing. It's wrong for a
therapist to undress during a massage. It's wrong for us to be naked
together. Right now I don't give a shit.

I'm kneeling on the carpet at his feet, eyes raised, scanning his form
before me. His jutting cock fills most of my field of vision. My own cock
has been hard practically since the start of the massage. It feels like it
could stay that way forever.

With my tongue I gently clean the salty precum from his piss slit. Then at
last I open my mouth and take him into me, pushing more and more of the
hard, veined shaft in until his cock head is pressing against the back of
my throat and his pubic hair is tickling my nose. It's a little too soon
and I gag, but I don't care. Filling your mouth with hard cock has got to
be one of the great pleasures of life.

I can hear his harsh breathing above me as I begin to slide back and forth
on his organ. I reach up with my hands and play with his nipples. I know
he's enjoying this, but he stays silent and motionless. It's another way he
maintains an emotional distance. He's allowing me a liberty, not
participating in the act. We both know it's wrong for me to be giving my
massage therapist head during a session.

He's not going to cum in my mouth, even though I'd like that. After a few
minutes I release him, stand and get back on the massage table.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" He always asks this, even though he knows the
answer.

"Yes, please."

He turns, his erection swinging, and opens a drawer nearby, pulling out a
wrapped condom. He tears open the package and sheathes his cock. He catches
my eye and winks. "Ready?" he asks.

I nod.

I'm lying on my back. I lift my legs in the air to give him room. He mounts
the table and I give him the tube of massage cream. He greases his stiff
cock and squeezes more cream onto his fingers. His slippery hand makes
contact with my ass crack again, moistening the outside before two fingers
enter me. I shudder with anticipation of the greater invasion to come. My
own cock is leaking onto the oily skin of my stomach.

He grasps my ankle with one hand and positions his organ against my asshole
with the other. I don't turn my gaze away from his eyes, steely with
desire, for one instant. He pushes his pelvis forward and I feel my
sphincter close around the head of his dick. He slides into me slowly and
gently, almost as if he's still massaging me. My rectum opens before the
silent onslaught. He presses on until he's buried up to his balls. I raise
my head and catch a glimpse of his smooth, muscled stomach just past my own
hardon.

He leans down toward my face. "How are you doing?"

"Great."

He nods and begins to thrust into me. We both know to stay as quiet as we
can. There's no sound except our breathing and the creaking of the massage
table. Gradually he increases his pace, sweat dripping off his face onto my
body.

"Feels great," I tell him. "Fuck me."

He grins as he continues fucking. He raises his body and looks downward,
grasping my ankles. I know he's enjoying the sight of his pole sliding in
and out of my stretched, greased hole. He looks at me again and his eyes
flash. "Feel good?" He gives a huge thrust that sends his cock plunging
into me. Taken by surprise, I cry out, then cast my eyes toward the door.

He shakes his head. "It's okay." He bends toward me again and his thrusts
shift into higher gear. It's difficult for him to cum in this situation,
he's told me. I know he has to will himself to his climax. It's okay by me
since the fuck lasts longer this way. It's so wrong for us to be fucking
during a massage. But it feels so right.

I stretch out my hand. Still thrusting, he takes the tube and squeezes some
cream into my palm. I apply it to my own hard cock and begin to work
it. The friction combined with his relentless assault on my prostate brings
me quickly to the verge of orgasm. Then I hear the short, harsh gasps from
his throat. I'm dimly aware of a throbbing in my ass as he empties his load
into the rubber inside me.

He looks at me, his chest still heaving with release. I haven't cum yet, in
fact I've let go of my dick. I'm waiting for him. "Do you want me to--"

I nod. He takes my cock. It only takes a few seconds of his hard stroking
before I begin to gasp with the indescribable sensations of orgasm. He
keeps hold of my spurting cock and cups his other hand in front of it,
gathering the cum. I raise my head and he presses his hand against my
mouth, compelling me to eat my load. I swallow as much as I can, savoring
the smell and taste. It's right that it should be salty, even bitter. I
lick and clean his fingers, taking each one into my mouth in turn.

We're finished at last. He withdraws from me and goes into the bathroom to
dispose of the condom. I lie quiet, trying to recover from the storm that's
ripped through my body.

He re-emerges, leaving the bathroom door open. His form silhouetted against
the light is magnificent, the shoulders broad, the arms thick, the waist
and hips narrow and tight. He's holding a damp washcloth. He cleans my face
of the cum smeared on it, then picks up a towel--the draping towel that we
never use--and dries me off. When he is finished he leans down and gives me
a gentle kiss on the lips. My arms encircle his shoulders and I pull him to
me. We embrace for long moments.

He pulls away. "Time to finish the massage."

He picks up his clothes from the floor and pulls them on. Then he stands at
the head of the table behind me and takes my head in his hands, massaging
my scalp. His thumbs gently stroke my cheeks and forehead. After the
passionate contact we've just had his touch is chaste and somehow deeply
moving. I heave a sigh and tears prickle behind my closed eyelids. Is it
guilt? Sadness that he and I can only touch in this surreptitious, secret
way? Happiness that two human beings can be in such perfect communion, even
so fleetingly? I don't know.

After a few more strokes he releases me. I hear his gentle voice.

"Take all the time you need. I'll be in the other room."

I want one last touch, so I reach out and grasp his hand. He squeezes it,
then pats me on the shoulder. He's gone.

Slowly I rise, rub the excess cream off of myself and get dressed. I'll
stop by the gym and shower before I head home.

I tie my tie and comb my hair, looking into the mirror in his bathroom. I
always look so different after being here--it's amazing to me that no one
else notices.

I go out into the living room of the apartment. He's sitting there with his
lover. They smile up at me. I shake his lover's hand. "How are you doing?"

I've left his fee and a nice tip on the end table in the bedroom--that's
how I always do it. I pull my cell phone out of my jacket pocket and check
the messages. I frown and put it to my ear. As I listen I click my tongue
in annoyance.

"Something wrong?" he asks.

"Our other car died on the freeway," I say. "My wife had to have it towed
to a service station. She's waiting there now for me to pick her up. She
didn't need that today."

He smiles and shrugs. "Sounds stressful. Try to stay relaxed now."

"Thanks, I will."

"Bye," his lover says.

I swing onto the road and concentrate on surviving the traffic. My cell
phone rings but I don't answer it. It's probably my wife, wondering where I
am.

What we're doing is wrong. It's wrong for him to have sex with a massage
client. It's wrong for him not to tell his lover what he's doing. It's
wrong for me to have sex with my massage therapist. It's wrong to cheat on
my wife. It's wrong not to tell her about my need for other men. It's
wrong. All of it is wrong.

It feels so right.

END