These are both true stories. Only the names have been changed.
My wife and I were planning to move for family reasons to a town on the coast. Shortly before we moved, I visited for the day to meet a masseur, Robert, who had a candid website with glamorous photos of himself, pouting at the camera. His 6 foot 4 inch frame, wearing woman's underwear, certainly looked appealing.
He told me that he lived in a basement or garden apartment, so I would have to go down steps to get to his front door. His rather effeminate voice over the phone assured me that the neighbours knew nothing about what he did -- that is, offer sexy encounters for, mostly, straight married men, whom he said he preferred to gay men. He also made it clear that he was a "bottom". Pity, so was I. He was also a couple of decades younger than me.
The appointment was for 11 am. A few minutes before the time I walked past and saw that, as promised, the front door was an inch or two open. I waited until 11 and pushed open the door and called out. Robert came bounding forward, a big smile on his lips, and began chatting right away. Within thirty seconds he was feeling my flaccid cock through my clothes as he made a joke. He was quite a contrast to my previous masseur, Tom, who only spoke when he needed to.
I said that I was rather nervous and was immediately given a glass of red wine which I rushed down my throat (I am practically teetotal!). He explained that we wouldn't do anything I didn't want to. He left me to undress and get on the massage table in his massive living room. At the back was a huge window into a garden surrounded by tall walls. The front windows were veiled so no one could see inside in that direction.
