A for Ask Me Anything Again…

Hello. The thirst for sensual massage stories is insatiable. Let’s continue to feed it shall we? Here is another post under A for Ask me Anything.

“Hi Jamie, where’s the strangest place that you have given, or received a sensual massage?”.

I wish I could say it was somewhere like one of those pods on the London Eye (you know it…that big Ferris Wheel on the south bank).  Think of the views!…..both from the pod and into it….wouldn’t that be a fun thing to do?

I understand it takes half an hour for one of the pods to make a full circle of the wheel. So two rotations would be ideal for a massage; The first rotation to build up the energy as the pod reaches 12 on its’ imaginary clock face and then we cool things a little as the pod moves down to 6.

We build again to a climax on the second rotation as the pod reaches 11. Then as it rotates back down to 6 things can calm down again until we get off (the other kind of getting off). I say that thing is built for sensual massages…

In the days when I had a six pack (before they were a fashion item) and prior to me doing sensual massage as a job, I would occasionally book myself a massage.

This was of course for research purposes, not pleasure. You could call it market research because I was planning to set up in business myself….I just didn’t know how at the time.

In those days I had a ‘normal’ job…you know the type….an office, meeting people, doing presentations, licking the boss’s arse….and so in some ways it was not so different from what I currently do.

I was working away (an outcall?) on the south coast of England. I had an afternoon free so… why not get a massage?

It didn’t take long for me to find someone local advertising: ‘Sensual Massage. Experienced male masseur available for in calls at my studio or at your hotel. Call me on xxx etc’. The advert was sufficiently suggestive to enable me to infer that it would be that kind of massage…

There was no picture unfortunately, but my imagination filled the pictorial void. I called the masseur to find out more.

His name was Mick. I should tell you now that my experience with Mick was so disconcerting that I can’t really bring myself to type his name again….so he’s now going to be called Eric, for no better reason than because it’s an anagram of rice, which I have prepared for dinner later. So it’s Eric from now on, OK?

I asked Eric a few questions and decided he sounded ok. I booked an hour with him. It was fortunate that he was available immediately. His place wasn’t far away from where I was staying so it meant I could drive there in about 20 minutes.

I know now that if convenience and availability is your main criteria for booking a massage then perhaps you shouldn’t have high expectations. In those days I was naïve; I had high expectations.

Now that I am older (although obviously still young in body and mind, of course) I’d be more questioning about what was on offer, and about what experience he had. Most decent masseurs get booked in advance so they don’t have availability at short notice.

I should have guessed his easy availability might be a clue to whether or not he was any good. But I was innocent, horny and had an afternoon to kill… so I booked it without asking the appropriate questions.

At the agreed time I turned up at Eric’s studio, which seemed to be in his home. That’s ok, lots of masseurs work from home….although I guess they don’t work on Zoom unlike most home workers these days. Unless possibly they’re doing massage demonstrations online, or filming porn? I’ll save the porn filming stories for another post (ask any questions you like!).

When I arrived Eric wasn’t filming or zooming or anything like that. Far from it… he was doing some housework.

It appeared that Eric was ironing because from where I stood in his hall, I could see the ironing board set up in the kitchen. Briefly I wondered if he intended to massage me in the kitchen on the ironing board which could have been something unusual.

“Hi James, it’s great to see you” Eric said as he ushered me first into his hallway, and then through to his lounge. He seemed very pleased to see me, as if I was his first human contact in weeks.

Perhaps it was the way he grasped my shoulders with both hands, pulling me into an embrace, and a kiss full on the lips, that gave me this impression. I wasn’t quite ready for that level of welcome, it was too familiar too soon.

It’s like when your masseur slips his finger in your bum after just 5 minutes of massage. I don’t know about you but my bum needs more than 5 minutes to get to know people. There’s an appropriate time for that level of intimacy and having just met Eric I wasn’t quite ready for the full on the lips kiss. But I let it go and allowed him to ‘slip a finger in’… metaphorically speaking – not literally of course. Not yet. Anyway, it was a friendly welcome, and that’s not a bad thing.

“James, let me get you a drink” Eric said, gesturing with is eyes and his head to the lounge where a decanter of what looked like whisky sat on a silver tray placed on a side table. “Neat or anything with it?” he added.

Now I was becoming a little more disconcerted at his friendliness…was I here for a massage or to chill out with Eric over a few drinks while we chatted about the ironing? Was he going to get me drunk and take advantage of me? After how many drinks would I be tied up in his cellar dungeon room while he slid a 12 inch dildo in me? Would my bum have got to know him well enough by the time the final inch went in? Is my imagination a little too vivid?

I guess his overt affability was better than being cold to me but still, it felt a bit too much. “Oh I’ll just have some water thanks Eric” I said as the dildo dungeon scenario faded from my mind. “Great choice” he replied, continuing… “scotch and water it is…I’ll be having the same” …and he started to pour out two generous servings of scotch and water into a couple of tumblers.

Rather than stop him and insist on having just a glass of water, in my naivety I let another metaphorical finger ‘slip in’. At this rate he’ll be fisting me before long…

“Thank you” I said as Eric handed me the drink, which seemed to be 50:50 scotch and water. He didn’t bother with ice, perhaps lest it cool things down too much. “Cheers James! Now let’s get you undressed and on the table…we’re upstairs” he said, as he ascended the stairs two at a time… “and bring your drink” Eric added with a wave of his now empty glass. I put my still full drink down and followed Eric swiftly up the stairs, like a new puppy with its tail wagging.

“Now lad, the shower is in here, and here’s a towel. You get yourself undressed and showered while I sort out the table” Eric said as he opened the bathroom door for me. I went in and started to undress.

“Leave your clothes on the chair there James…I’ll just blah blah blah….” I heard him call from the landing as I was undressing. I couldn’t hear exactly what he said because his voice was muffled by what sounded like a loft (attic) ladder being lowered.

Now naked, I peered out of the bathroom door to see Eric’s legs disappearing up the ladder into the loft. So it was a loft ladder I had heard. What’s he doing up there?

“When you’re ready come up, the table’s up here. Oh and bring your clothes” he called down from the loft. I wondered if he wanted me to help him fetch the table down, but why did I need to bring my clothes?

The shower was now running warm so I quickly showered, dried off and opened the bathroom door fully to see the loft ladder was still down. Looking up through the loft hole I could see a brightly lit loft room. Just visible from  my perspective through the hole was the end of the massage table, ready for me. “Come up James, I’m ready” Eric called. I then realised that this massage was happening in Eric’s loft…

Have you ever climbed a loft ladder, holding a bundle of clothes when you’re naked? It’s not easy and there’s a nagging concern that if the ladder somehow retracts your valuable extremities might somehow be severed by the retracting metallic rungs.

Those thin cold steps aren’t kind to bare feet either. Yet despite these concerns I simply had to see what was up there and I wanted that massage. I climbed the steps, my tail still wagging.

The loft room was boarded, but that was the only concession to make the place suitable. The table was set between a couple of roof support beams, and partly under a slope so that it was impossible for Eric to stand at the head end without stooping.

In a corner there was a large water storage tank, and along the gable end wall there was piles of black bags, rugs, some old furniture and a headless mannequin. The fluorescent light was harsh, too bright and positioned directly over the table. It all added to the lack of a suitable ambience.

Beneath the table, in a token gesture at comfort, there was a rug. Beside the table, on a chair Eric had placed the massage oil and some towels, of all different colours.

The ‘massage room’ was stiflingly hot (this was summer). I noted that the air was still and musty.

Eric, standing beside the table wearing just a jock from which his semi hard cock poked, exclaimed in an excited tone as I climbed into the loft: “James, welcome to my massage studio!”. I noted that the masseur was shrill and lusty.

“Hop on James, front down, that’s a good boy” he said as I lay on the table. It was one of those situations where you know that proceeding is not a good idea, but you do so anyway.

Eric gave a playful smack to my bare bum and started to apply the oil. This wasn’t a good sign, the smack on the bum was fine but it’s not good to be applying oil so soon in a massage.

Eric then started long flowing effleurage strokes down my back. It was ok, he did it right, the first few strokes felt good and I began to relax a little. Maybe despite everything this would be a decent massage?

Eric continued with this for what felt like 15 minutes. The same stroke. The same pressure. The same speed. Over and over again. Incessantly. Up and down my back.

There was no music. Just the sound of a regular drip, drip, drip from the water tank in the corner. The drip provided a metronomic pace for Eric’s repetitive strokes up and down my back. That’s how bored I was; I had resorted to counting the strokes and the drips. Stroke … drip … stroke … drip … stroke …drip. God it was boring.

I longed for a finger in my bum, or anything to break the monotony, even the foot long dildo would have been welcome, well…half of it maybe.

I parted my legs slightly wider, and wiggled a bit, you know, as a hint….please do something different Eric. Maybe he noticed because he moved his attention to my legs, but with the same pace, same pressure and same stroke, over and over again on my left leg.

This was more than annoying, because I knew my right leg would have to endure the same treatment. I zoned out…

….“Eric, would you and your friend like a cup of tea?” called a female voice from downstairs. Did I imagine that? Was I dreaming?  

“Ah… James, it would seem that my wife’s home. I think we’ll have to finish presently” said Eric casually. “Would you mind sucking me off before we end?” he said, even more casually, waving his now fully hard cock in my face as I lifted my head in surprise at the call of his wife.

No, I wasn’t dreaming, this was a real, and it was a nightmare. Eric’s wife was making tea for us downstairs and as an amuse-bouche I was being offered her husband’s load. I politely declined the load, but not yet the tea.

“Sorry Eric, I think the mood has passed. Thanks for the massage. I’ll get dressed now” I said as I moved my head away from his engorged cock and sat up on the table.

Eric wasn’t taking that as a ‘no’ however and he stood opposite me as I sat on the side of the table and waved his cock around “are you sure I can’t persuade you?” he asked as a bead of pre-cum dribbled from the head.

This was becoming awkward. I feared his wife would appear at the loft hatch with the tea and a cream éclair. Why did I think of a cream éclair? Did Eric’s wife know what was happening? How did I end up here?

I stood up, gave Eric a brief hug and said “thank you but I’d really best get dressed, your tea will get cold”. I picked up my pants, wiped off the oil on my back with one of the towels, and started to get dressed. He seemed to get the message. “OK James, but you will join us for a cup of tea before you go?” 

I’m English, it’s polite to have tea, but that would involve a chat with Mrs Eric which could get embarrassing. This was a true English dilemma; refuse tea and offend your host or accept tea and risk embarrassing everyone.

The avoidance of an awkward social situation does however take a slight precedence over turning down a tea invitation. I declined the tea and left in a hurry.

I still don’t know whether Eric’s wife knows what kind of visitors he has to the loft, or what goes on up there. Perhaps she’s in on the deal but I think it’s more likely she believes he just does ‘normal’ massages up there. It looked like she’d struggle to climb the ladder to be honest, she was quite large, so I guess he feels safe from such an intrusion.

If you’re ever offered a massage by someone called Mick (remember, I changed his name) and it’s in a seaside town on the south coast of England, please enquire as to where he does the massage. If there’s anything about lofts then it’s your call as to whether you’d like a boring massage, a mouthful of Eric and then tea with him and his wife. And if you do go, please tell me….is Mrs Eric in on it?