Massage Appt. Confirmed

***ALL PARTIES INVOLVED, WHETHER AUDIENCE OR INSPIRATION, ARE CONSENTING ADULTS (18+)***

TRIGGER WARNING - Each personalized story may contain certain kinks that not everyone will enjoy and being conscientious of this, due-diligence has been performed during review and prior to submission. If you find any critical omissions, please let me know. Please check the associated TAGS on each story, as these can include, but are not limited to: "Breeding" (Unprotected Cream-pie), CNC (Consensual Non-Consensual Touch/Penetration), Non-Con / Molestation / Groping (Non-Consensual Touch/Penetration), Cheating (Non-Partner Relations), Public Play, Forced Orgasm, Restraints/Bondage, Free-Use (Multi-partner CNC), "and then...."

Each of these stories represent a part of my past where I've entertained adventurous ladies by encapsulating their fantasies, so each episode has been customized to their particular kinks, carnal desires, and/or individual needs. Fair warning as my stories tend to be longer-format, as such, I recognize that I can be wordy and have been told as much - "Less Talk - More Cock."

The purpose of my context and content is to be the stimulant of your sexual gratification - not premeditated [Lit®]erary aggravation!

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--Let The Games Begin. BTW, She's A Long One--

"Handsome Hands - Your Personalized Massage Experience." I chose to open the storefront after many conversations with my friends and female acquaintances. Each of them suggested that I put my skills to use for the betterment of good rather than evil. I must admit that my hands were able to get into way more pants than my tongue was; once I was able to lay my hands on the body, they began to work their magic and release tensions that weren't even in existence.

Given my propensity for wandering hands, it was quite a moral dilemma of whether or not I would go into a business and be able to trust myself with the client / practitioner relationship. It's kind of like putting an alcoholic in charge of the bar; sure, he knows how to make a really good drink, but you will most likely have to pick him up off the floor because he "got high on his own supply." It took me many moons to find the location that was classy yet didn't require me supporting some plastic Beverly Hills housewives. All that plastic surgery makes it very difficult for a massage, especially a full-frontal.

The storefront was classic in design, minimalistic in accouterments, and felt very relaxing once you entered its grand entrance way. Twelve foot ceilings covered in lace webbing that'll give the ambiance that immediately puts the clients emotions at rest. The smell of lavender lofts throughout the air from one of those fog machines that seem perpetually belching out flower-flavored smoke. I took some punches for not going with a taki-taki Asian vibe. I went with more of a seductive upper-class ghetto-chic - "Botega Bougie'' I call it. I wanted the vibe to be more of "Librarian in the Streets and Tik-Tok Thot in the Streets."

After the business languished for several months being supported by friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, friends of friends of friends of friends of friends (ok, you get it), family members, and the good ol' fashioned word of mouth, the advertising finally started to make headway. I provided a lot of free flyers in Voucher format to a certain demographic: this was the local University and community college, the bars surrounding them, and through several hundred dollars of 'bribes', let's say "gracious engagements", and many a drink applied, I was able to find a lot of the youngin' friendly hangouts (mainly bars and nightclubs) that those 18 to 35 frequent.

I figured with all the dancing and moving about, especially with the stress of everyday life, not to mention the workload and poor posture of the average college student, that there would be more than enough clientele laying in waiting for word to hit their ears... and their crisp dollar(dollar)-bill(s)(y'all) to hit my account.

The standard reservation schema was present. You could call us on a central line to book your private studio in the package that would suit you best. We also had forms that existed on many websites where the user can drop in information, but the most practical and best used was the reservation system built into my company's website - TBH, it took me months to fumble-fuck with it till I finally gave up the ghost and bid it out to a computer major at the Uni FFS.

Having this form lets you customize your experience to your heart's desire in a way that you will get the maximum benefit from every dollar spent. Depending on your imagination everything can be anyway; you can have the massage table pointing a myriad of directions (including if you're a Muslim, we can even point towards Mecca if you prefer). Room temperatures, contours of the massage table and texture of the overlayment that will ultimately be pressed intimately against your skin.

A world of sounds to be customized; you can hear birds chirping or waves crashing, gentle wind or some old Chinese dude playing a flute, heck you can even to listen to monkeys fucking if that was your jam. You can choose from a variety of pre-loaded music or you can bring your own and hook up your device directly to your personalized entertainment system.

Lighting was another customizable feature you can go dim, you can go rose-colored, you can even go black light that way your skin will show off any cotton that is caught in the follicles, your teeth will gleam brilliantly against the darkness of the room, and if you choose to leave your socks on at least you know where your toes are... You can even go "Great God Bahamas" and get a suntan while you're laying there, but I wouldn't advise it unless you're going for that Bikram yoga vibe.

The week was trying on my patience, like that old person in the shopping lane in front of you with their basket on one side and her Norma Sass blocking your departure while she balances the ingredients and costs of two nearly identical cans of sardines. "Who the fuck uses sardines nowaday anyways?" Trying not to be a dick, you make believe that you're very interested in whatever product happens to be within eyesight on the top-shelf while you quietly mull over the charges you'd catch for running the old biddy over. It may not be the cops that get you, but there are some woke-ass SJWs out there watching and waiting to cash your receipts and upload them to mainstream media.

I couldn't tell why business was soooo slow, I just couldn't figure out what the deal was, whether it was an issue with a system or that folks were cash-strapped towards the end of the month - which is really the reason I'm guessing, as with any bureaucracy, student loan payments come in on "the government's time because it's the government's dime."

When I saw the reservation coming through, I nearly shit a brick. I was chilling at the front desk with Forbes on the laptop reading about "How One Can Turn A Struggling Business Around In 5 Easy Steps" while jamming out to Notorious BIG - Juicy on the sound system - you didn't know this, but we got bass in the walls and we can make the whole place rumble (unce-MF-unce!). As usual, my right hand was holding my smartphone looking at some high-production videos of "Good Girl with Daddy Issues" finding herself in a compromising situation - my left hand ensured that my weapon was at half-cock.

I feel low-key sexy as hell walking around with "chubs in scrubs", liking the way that it pokes out just barely enough to catch their attention and to keep their mind going while they try desperately to maintain eye contact and remain professional. The sound of the message was louder than I expected and it quite honestly did startle me. At first, I looked towards the door because I thought it was the entrance bell but no one was there. It's because I hadn't heard it in a couple days, so my mind was a couple seconds behind recognizing it for what it truly was.

The Pampered Princess Package booked by what I would presume to be a younger lady named Luna C. I like to pull all the strings, push all the buttons, yank all the levers to really set the impression that this person is booking an engagement, not just a clinical routine exercise reminiscent of a post-coital cold-embrace, but rather it is an experience designed to wow the client, exceed their expectations (and to generate loyal repeat customers). Now don't get me twisted, I do make sure that all of my clients get what they came for and more, but this is a business after all, someone's got to keep the lights on - "This dick ain't gonna suck itself."

Wow, this lady either knows what she wants or she's an epileptic and her caregiver had left the room because all the freaking options were chosen. Personalized sound coming from her own device (I hope TF it ain't Justin Dweiber again), a mellow, relaxing, and comfortable environment was being masterfully designed specific for this massage, having the softest of mattresses with the plushest of covers. This is where I get jealous that I can't have an out-of-body experience and massage myself. If I could clone myself, I would be able to finally feel what all of my beneficiaries have felt. To be honest, if I can clone myself, I wouldn't put it past me from getting myself drunk and taking advantage of me.

I thought I had time to get the room setup because it was set for Tuesday. I had all the time in the world. I went back to my absent-mindedness of scrolling through the pornucopia displayed at my fingertips. Something was niggling my brain though about one of the options selected and I just about dropped my phone when I realized it wasn't next Tuesday but this Tuesday, as in freaking today. As in 2 hours from now!

"Fuck", I winge as I "drop my cock and grab my socks". I ran to the supply storage to start gathering all the gear. For what this crazy lady ordered, it would take me all of that time to get set up and I don't even know if I'd have the time to wipe off the sweat being created as I'm jumping through hoops to make this lady's dream come true.

In all actuality, it only took about an hour for me to get the room all set up and pre-loaded, so that when she arrived the room and bed were already warmed, the ambiance was set and everything was square so that all she has to do is "Plug and Play," strip down to what I imagined to be beautiful form (git nek'd), and place her goddess-like form on the table positioned waiting for the pleasure inbound. Because I did have some time left to kill, I went ahead and put up the "Be Right Back" sign that I use when I gotta twista fatty, pinch a loaf, or rub one out.

Having specifically carved out "Me-Time" is important because you don't want your mind wandering about what that noise was when you "tryna do da do", knameen?. I figured I could squeeze in a 20-minute shower and get all cleaned up and fresh-smelling, so I don't scare this new client away with a whiff of fumunda. I hopped in the shower stall and turned the water on to make sure it was all set, quickly dodging out of the way so as not to get wet. It was one of those really tall rainfall water showers that the clients (hipsters) use after they're done with the massage to help get the oils and scents off their body to prepare themselves for slipping back into the disgusting IRL - "Hey, at least it's not stripper-glitter."

However on the way back into the stall I had a sudden urge for a potty-break. What I thought would be a Number One, normally knocked out pretty quick, quickly advanced to a Number Two, so had to be taken care of post-haste. As you may well know, 1 + 2 = 3 meant that I had to sit for a bit. Unfortunately, this ate up more time than I preferred and ruined my chance for the ol' rub a-dub-dub, but as a side-effect the room was nice and hot, now just stupid short on time.

My horn-dog mind was already thinking about all the possibilities that could present themselves for how this Client would look and I went with the stereotypical "shorty-PAWG" that has been dancing through my imagination lately. I am past the phase of entertaining the larger ladies like the ones towards the back of the magazines where the lowest-cost advertising is. Those pictures will make you go soft quicker than shit. In my mind I was picturing a cute little punk girl with colored hair, facial piercings, and inked up (I hope TF a full sleeve).

In my minds-eye, she's got one of those classic hourglass figures that withstand the sands of time. Supple round breasts: big, not huge, just pleasantly present. I just cannot contain myself until I see that A$$ when I pull the towel off once she's down on the table. It's one of those heart-shaped buttocks, looks like a heart turned upside down, nice and full with curves and smooth lines. Something to grab onto or something preventing you from breaking her back bone as you rail her against the wall. I can't deal with those "stick-chicks," I feel like I'm going to split them in half when I slide home for the first Time - "Shit, you can almost hear wood splintering."

I can't do the larger ladies any more because it's like looking for the three fricken marshmallows in that chintzy box of Lucky Charms, which those cheap-ass bastards hand out like methadone in Seattle on a Friday morning. The body type that I'm picturing for you is "Goldilocks," not too big - not too small - not too thin - not too thick - not too short - not too tall... This is my imagination, so "just let Jesse James rob this train."

All this imagery of ladies dancing through my head disturbed "Jim and the Twins" which arose from their slumber. Jim shot up like he missed the bus for a court date; I had to beat him down, he was acting aggressively... That was until I heard the entry alarm sound at the front of the shop. "What the fuck? I thought I locked that bitch!" I quickly turned off the water and made it as fast as I could on tiptoes, trying precariously not to slip on the way by the towel rack, so I can dry off and make it to the door to prevent any embarrassing situations.

As I was in mid-stride, reaching for a nice fluffy beach towel that had been laying on the warming rack, the sudden stopping of momentum didn't go so well for me and I found myself WWE Smackdown on my booty having the wind knocked out of me. I was in quite a daze for who knows how long, but obviously long enough for that fuck Murphy to stick his dick in because you heard the commotion coming from the shower room next to the entryway. I watched in frozen, slow-motion panic as I saw the door open as you came running in to check on whomever slipped.

Because Murphy (dik) is always there waiting for me to bend over for opportunity before he comes up behind me and performs surprise bhut-sechs: naturally, I never made it to the towel rack because now I was in a fetal position on the floor... just not quite close enough to reach out and grab a towel. I must have looked like some albino ape laying on the floor questioning his poor life decisions. Thankfully, the pleasant sound of your laughter was comforting. Finally, we can catch some humor with this situation.

You cautiously made your way over through the locker room until the point where you saw that I was naked. You let out the cutest little gasp along with the sweetest girly giggle, and for whatever reason this caused "Jim" to stand up and look around to see what was going on. Luckily, he had time to bulk-up a little because "I'm a grower, not a shower." "Jim's not the tallest gentleman in the locker room" is an average 6 - 1/2in tall and as round as a toilet-paper roll. When the ladies stare into his one deep-eye, they become enchanted, wanting to become an Indian Snake Charmer playing the flute to tame the majestic King Cobra.

You were quick acting and kind enough to recognize the situation. Immediately, you found and took action on a pile of towels over on top of the used garment section and you threw it over to me - hitting me right in the face. One could wonder whether or not that was done on purpose, was it calculated and taking some time to distract by throwing it at the larger-head rather than taking careful conservative aim and leveling at the smaller-head, which would have conveniently solved my embarrassment quickly.

You demurely backed your way out of the room recognizing that I needed some private time to get my shit together (all my shit, get it together, put it in a bag together). By the time that I dressed myself, you were already outside in the foyer waiting for me. However, because I dressed so hastily, I didn't take the time to put on deodorant, even brush my teeth all minty-fresh, grab my socks or even my chonies.

That's right, I was free-balling in my scrubs with "them good ol' boys" chubbed up and swinging in the wind. Even though the light was down low, I still noticed that your eyes betrayed you and dropped down to see what was rummaging around in the front of my pants - It must've looked like that King Cobra from earlier who got caught in a sack and is trying to get out.

Luckily, I took the time previously to ensure everything was set up, so it was just more simple pleasantries as I directed you back to your customized suite, as your appointment time was coming quickly. I briefly showed you around the room, providing guidance on how to use "all the things" making it a truly personalized experience. As I left the room, an expression of my gratitude for your earlier support (and because it was slow AF), I mentioned that you would get an extra half-hour on the house for your support and lovely smile. I told you that just seeing your face light up the room caused all of the pain to melt away. I set the timer for 10 minutes and walked out the door for "you to do you, boo."

As I was making my way back into the room, I couldn't help but notice that you had quite the environment setup. It was a killer, custom-tailored experience built using all the options. Everything was laid out just right and it all combined beautifully, including the 2010's trance-dance / alt-indie music selected - "Is that Gotye?" You must have had massages before, because you're already in position with the towel laid over your backside while your beautiful skin is glowing in the dim light.

Admittedly, It was better than I imagined: smooth, sculpted, curvy, wonderfully soft. You looked so comfortable laying there, as if you had melted into the mattress. The thing that was bothering me about your reservation was that you had chosen the "Silence Infidel" option. I really don't care for that option, but my "marketing specialist" person said "All the Zoomers today don't like hearing what Boomers/GenXYZ-ABC gotta say. They don't want to talk about millennial problems, geriactric politics, or the stupid weather - they got an App for that. They just want to be taken from A to B of their journey in comfort... and silence." They probably booked Uber from the shitter, lol.

I intend to respect your wishes to keep it a quiet situation, happy with not having to make small-talk or ask exhaustive questions requiring detailed responses. I'll just go as the situation dictates, so you're able to relax. This is for you, not for me. "Let's Do This!" I really enjoy giving massages because it allows me to practice simple yet rewarding skills of touch, designed for helping people out with problems with their muscles; or as it often happens, provides the benefactor with an attitude adjustment that supports refocused life in general.