Andrew tugged at the hem of his t-shirt, trying not to wince as the fabric brushed against his chest. Bangkok heat clung to him like syrup, but it wasn't the weather that had him shifting uncomfortably--it was his damn nipples. Sensitive since puberty, they could stiffen from the lightest breeze, and lately, even the weight of his shirt was too much. It was embarrassing, maddening. Before leaving the airport he stopped at a kiosk to buy some numbing cream. The cashier handed him a complimentary travel pouch with his purchase of what he thought was numbing cream. He didn't think twice.
"Apply as needed," the label read. He ducked into the nearest restroom, rubbed a generous amount onto each aching nub, and sighed at the cool tingle that followed. Relief, finally.
Outside, the sun was setting, casting orange streaks over the city. He had no real plans--just wanderlust and a post-grad gap year to burn. But tucked inside the pouch was a single paper coupon: Free massage session at Lotus Garden Spa. A clean, minimalist design. Gold lettering. Classy. It seemed legit.
He shrugged, his nipples still tingling. What the hell.
Lotus Garden was tucked away between two closed cafés down a quiet side street. The sign flickered softly above the door. Inside, the reception was dim and smelled of coconut and lemongrass. A young woman at the front desk took his coupon with a polite smile and gestured for him to follow her.
The room was narrow, dark, and quiet, lit only by a few recessed lights and a flickering oil lamp in the corner. A massage table sat in the center, freshly laid with a towel. Soft instrumental music floated from hidden speakers.
"You undress. Lie face down," the woman said gently, then closed the door behind her.
Andrew hesitated, then pulled off his shirt, letting it fall to the floor. His nipples had hardened again--still sensitive, but now something else tingled beneath his skin. The cream was definitely not numbing. His cock shifted in his shorts. Damn.
He slipped out of his clothes, folded them neatly on a stool, and lay face down on the table, his head resting in the cradle. The towel covered his lower back but left his lean legs and smooth ass exposed. The air-conditioning brushed over his bare skin, and his heart thumped just a little faster.
The door clicked open behind him. Bare feet padded across the floor. A soft scent of coconut oil drifted over him. Then two warm, oiled hands pressed gently onto his shoulders, gliding across his skin.
The massage had begun.
The small, oiled, warm hands moved with precision and gentleness in a way that made Andrew's skin tingle. They spread across his back with smooth, confident strokes, pressing into muscle, gliding up along his spine, and then easing outward along his shoulders. He exhaled slowly, letting his cheek sink into the leather cradle.
When he first laid down, he'd tugged his cock and balls downward to keep them out of the way. Tucked neatly between his thighs, hidden under the towel that draped over his ass. But now, something was shifting.
The strokes were soft but purposeful. Fingers traced along the lines of his obliques, then down toward the outer edge of his ass. The touch never lingered long--just enough to make him aware of it. Just enough to leave his skin waiting.
He shifted slightly, and the tip of his nipple dragged across the leather of the massage table. A shiver rippled through his chest. The friction was maddening--too smooth, too soft. He moved again, almost instinctively, and the other nipple caught, sending a bolt straight through his stomach.
His nipples began to burn.
The cream.
Not numbing. Definitely not.
The sensitivity had returned, amplified now, and spreading heat through his chest like a lit fuse. Even lying facedown, he could feel every twitch of his nipples against the table cushion. It made his cock jerk. He cursed himself silently.
His cock responded immediately--still tucked downward, but thickening now. Slowly, uncomfortably. He clenched his jaw. This was just a massage. This wasn't supposed to feel--
The masseuse's fingertips swept the inner curve of his thighs, dangerously close to the towel line. His cock twitched, bumping the fabric from underneath. More pressure now, as a hand pressed between his shoulder blades and the other kneaded his lower back. The towel over his ass lifted slightly with the motion, and Andrew felt it--his shaft rising, the head breaching the edge, exposed to the air.
Another shift, another drag of nipple against leather.
He gasped.
A few beads of precum spilled out onto the table beneath him, invisible in the dim light but undeniable in sensation. The heat, the touch, the friction--too much.
He swallowed, eyes shut tight. His cock strained downward, fully hard now, the top of it poking free beyond the towel's edge. He hoped the masseuse didn't notice--but he knew that was a lie. Every movement felt intentional. Every brush, every pass, designed to draw out reactions.
And Andrew was reacting.
Then the hands lifted. Silence.
A towel was gently laid across his back. Then came a soft voice--close, smooth, impossibly calm.
"Turn over, please."
His heart thumped hard in his chest. He hesitated. His nipples were burning. His cock was still rock hard, glistening with precum, its length outlined beneath the towel. He knew there was no hiding it now.
He rolled onto his back.
The towel was quickly adjusted to cover his hips, but it barely managed. His shaft tented the fabric, obvious and aching. His chest was flushed, his nipples tight and painfully sensitive--still untouched, but already begging.
That's when he saw it.
A faint, wet puddle on the table cushion beneath where his hips had been.
His precum.
His mess.
His face flushed hot, but before shame could settle, the masseuse stepped into view.
Not a woman.
A man.
Lean and barefoot, with delicate features and jet-black hair tied loosely at the back of his neck. His skin smooth, almost hairless. His eyes calm. Soft lips. High cheekbones. Beautiful, almost ethereal--but unmistakably male.
Andrew froze.
The man didn't speak. He only moved forward.
Oiled hands hovered over Andrew's bare chest.
Then, with a practiced touch, the masseur poured fresh oil between his palms, rubbed them slowly together, and lowered them.
Andrew flinched as the first warm press landed just beneath his collarbone. The hands began to glide across his chest--slow, circular strokes, edging closer to the swollen, trembling points of his nipples.
And Andrew lay still.
Breathing shallow.
Eyes wide open.
The oil was warm. Slick. It spilled across his chest like liquid silk, and the masseuse's palms followed--slow, deliberate, smooth. Wide circles spread from collarbone to sternum, skimming the edges of his nipples without ever quite touching.
Andrew stared blankly at the ceiling, jaw tight. Every muscle in his body coiled tighter the longer those hands glided over him. This wasn't what he expected. Not from a free airport coupon. Not from a massage.
His length jerked again under the towel. He cursed silently.
It's just tension. Just touch. You're straight. You've always liked girls. Only girls. He'd had girlfriends. Two serious ones. He liked their softness. Their smell. Their curves.
But this--this wasn't soft. Not quite. It was skilled. Intentional. And it was doing something.
Every glide of his hands-- her, Andrew still thought-- was electric.. And worse, the oil slicked across his chest was starting to pool under his nipples, spreading heat that lit his nerves like exposed wires.
Then it flared.
His nipples burning. The cream. Not numbing. Definitely not. Sensitivity amplified now, more heat spreading through his chest like a wildfire.
He tried not to react, to suppress the rising need.
You're not enjoying this. It's just your body reacting. That's all it is. It's not you. It doesn't mean anything.
But as the masseur's fingers edged inward, closer to the aching peaks, his cock gave a sudden, sharp jerk. The towel tented slightly. He squeezed his eyes shut. He didn't even realize how hard he was until he felt the slickness against his thigh--a bead of precum leaking, soaking into the fabric below.
He'd tucked himself downward earlier to avoid embarrassment. Now the stiff shaft strained against the curve of his body, the head creeping out just past the edge of the towel.
Then--without a word--a soft cloth slid over his eyes.
He flinched.
"It helps clients relax," the masseuse whispered. Only that. Nothing more.
Andrew hesitated. He should've said no. He should've gotten up. But he didn't. He let the cloth settle. Darkness wrapped around him, silencing the room. Now it was just breath, oil, and the press of slick palms returning to his chest.
They moved slower now. Firmer. Exploring the muscles along his pecs, rubbing upward and inward. And then--
