by Troy Storm
“Yeah?” Clay had rubbed down everything except...
“It showed me I wasn't totally a dead pile of flesh.”
“Oh? Yeah?” The young man was still wary. Pleased, but not sure where the conversation was going. “You wanna turn over? I didn't do the back of your legs.”
“Sure, Clay.” But he didn’t turn over. “I don't know if it's just the massage.” Matt was coming down the home stretch. “Or the way you massage. Or if it was just the right time. But you probably saved my life. At least my sexual life. I'm dating again.” It was a statement of fact. A proclamation. A revelation. A salvation.
“That's...good. That's kind of what I...wanted to...” He fell silent, his hands at Matt's pubes.
“Clay, I would love for you to jack me off, but that's not why I'm here. I can do that really well myself. I can't believe I'm the only guy in town who needs to have his physical life regenerated. I think you've got something special to offer.” He sidetracked. “But the yellow has got to go.”
“What?”
“It's a great color. Very subtle. Daffodil, right? But nobody comes to CoveHaven to get the same experience they can get in midtown Manhattan. You know, bright, clean spa type stuff. At least not the guys who come here. They want something different. They want what Leo has out front. A history. You know, just like you and your buddy were impressed by the barber pole. Times gone by. When things were better. Or so they'd like to believe.”
“And?” Clay gripped Matt's dick...hard. Defensively. Matt winced. Clay did not apologize.
“I think you should go back to the brown. Dark, cozy. Varnished wood. Maybe a couple of spotlights on the massage table so you can see what you’re doing, but none of this scented candle stuff? Maybe leave a couple of bottles of aftershave open to connect it with the authentic old-fashioned barbershop outside. Oh, God! That's fantastic what you're doing to my dick!”
The apprehensive young man was transformed, his mind quickly attached to Matt's suggestions, his hands both firmly massaging Matt's thick penis and sturdy balls. “It's Tantric. I think. Penile stimulation, or something. I didn’t finish the course. You really think that's what the guys around here want?”
“Some of them. Sure, why not? What we do know is the yellow is not working. Maybe a big mirror, like outside, so they can see themselves. So they can approve of what you're doing. But the rest in shadow. Not too blatant. Let the guys waiting their turn watch what you’re doing so they don’t feel weird. They can play with their phones, but not enough light to read a magazine or anything. Maybe some beer in the fridge. Jesus, Clay, I'm about to shoot a wad!”
“Oh, hell. Gee. What the fuck am I doing? I'm supposed to never touch anybody sexually. That's really bad. I'll never get my license...”
“Sorry. My fault. I just put it out there and you picked it up. That felt...awesome.”
The young man put his face in his hands, then realizing where his hands had just been, pulled them away quickly. “Maybe...maybe I'm not ready for my own space. I don't know, a whole new paint job, a mirror, a big one like outside, spotlights. Free beer. It sounds expensive.”
“I'll give you a loan. You can pay it back in massages.”
The muscular young man brightened. Not knowing what to say, he laughed. “I could finish up the hand job. Except...”
“Right,” Matt chortled, neglecting the 'except' for the moment. “Give the customer what he wants. Or at least as much as the massage license bureau or whoever will allow. Get the tired corporate dude to where he wants to leap up from your massage table and run home and bang his beautiful neglected bride or boyfriend. Who knows how many shaky relationships you'll save. The word will get around. You'll be a hero.”
Both men hooted with laughter.
“Me and Chris Evans!” Chad shouted.
“Who?”
“Mr. America. In the movies. You don't get out much, do you, Matt? Okay, is that why you wanted to see me this afternoon? To save my entrepreneurial ass?”
Matt swung his legs over the edge of the massage table. “I want some man-to-man advice.” His dick was hard. He fondled himself distractedly.
“Man-to-man. That's not the kind of advice I'm usually called upon to give, but I'll give it my best. Need any help with that?”
“Wanna join me?”
Matt marveled at the powerful legs that were revealed when Chad slipped out of his sweats.
“Dude, you are one built guy. Ever thought of private training?”
“I did some of that at the spa I worked at in New York. But that can get kinda...personal.” He sat back down next to Matt on the massage table and began to jerk himself off in accompaniment.
They both paused a moment before breaking into full laughter.
“Ten bucks to see who shoots the farthest,” the kid snickered. “Okay?”
“A betting man?” Matt began to whang himself firmly. “You're bringing back my old scout days.”
“Habit. I spent some time in Vegas. And look around. I'd have to be a betting man to think I might make a buck off a yellow massage room. Right?” His strong fingers probed his muscular large organ, deep tissue-ing it to its fullest potential. “Oh, yeah.”
His technique was awesome. Matt imagined a class of exhausted corporate types whanging away toward nirvana.
“So? Your problem?” Clay reminded him between heavy breaths. Both men were getting there quickly. “You've got two girlfriends. What's the deal? I hear one's hot, one's not. But sweet. Sounds like a perfect combo.” The deep blue eyes closed. The broad smooth brow furrowed in concentration as the muscular body slipped off the padded surface to stand and lean back against the table. “Perfect,” he whispered, obviously not commenting on Matt's two girlfriends.
Matt stopped dead. He was going to lose this bet. “How did you know?” He quickly resumed his pounding. Jesus, this was fucking exciting...and incredibly stupid for a grown man, he snickered. The kid deserved a huge tip!
“You know, all that social media stuff. I’ve got a page. Those dudes will talk about anything. Comin' home!” he hissed between gritted teeth, spreading his muscular legs wide and preparing to finalize his winning moves.
The dude looked awesome! Matt didn’t have to imagine himself lacking. But he could imagine himself back at the gym being whipped into shape by the young man. He could imagine himself back in bed…
…with his two girlfriends!
Or more!
A shot of white cream streaked across the room. Then another. And another. The masseur's powerful body shook. “Damn. That's a good one,” he breathed. He switched hands, laying a shaky strong arm over his older buddy's shoulder. “Give it your best, Matt. Then tell old Clay what your problem is. Aren't two delicious ladies enough?”
Matt leaned against the young man, sucking up his heat, his youthful energy. He stroked firmly, his fingers drawing out his full potential.
“I guess not,” he gasped, reaching his peak. His dick exploded, his body contracted violently and released, propelling the thought along with the streaks of his re-energized manseed across the room.
“I keep wondering why the hell Dot hasn't called,” he yelled.
He lost the bet.
But he made a damn good showing.
* * * *
Dorothy Ardmore had had a tough day at The Crowning Glory. It wasn’t her clients who had given Dot a bad time. Not even the clients who sometimes could be demanding when the latest hairstyle suddenly went viral and she wasn’t quite ready for the cell phone close-ups. It wasn’t even her usually even-tempered boss, Amelia, who was also known to get a bit testy when news of an impending new grooming establishment starting making the rounds.
And there had been rumors, Dorothy remembered, as she kicked off her heels in the living room of her small apartment, picked them up, and continued to slide out of her clothes as she headed for the bedroom. There was gonna be a new spa in town! Hopping from one iWhatever to the Other. With hot tub, fancy mud baths. Everythin
g! The emails and texts had flown thick and fast with each new amenity getting more and more glamorous as the day progressed.
But the upshot turned out to be a single massage table that old man Brubaker had let some kid who was working on his massage license talk him into putting in the back room of his barbershop.
Sorry, she grinned to herself. The Barber Shop. She had to remember how important distinctions were in a small town. And if there was anything CoveHaven was, it was a small town. The Barber Shop had a history. History was important. Particularly if that was about all that was left.
You’d think, being less than three hours from the Center of the Known Universe, as she liked to consider New York City, and having gone from a major industrial center in the area during the late eighteen hundreds to barely more than a bedroom community for the Big Apple—
with maybe a couple of Poughkeepsie outlanders thrown in—the place would be a bit more sophisticated. Like Cold Spring or Beacon. At least giving a shot at recognizing the twenty-first century had arrived.
She sighed as she brushed out her slacks and carefully hung them to air out. Cold Spring had its art galleries and antique stores. Beacon its museum. CoveHaven had The Crowning Glory and The Barber Shop. The C.G. and the B.S.
And the backroom massage table, mustn’t forget that.
She grinned to herself as she slipped out of her bra and panties, imagining some muscle-bound kid from the local community college who, as soon as he could get his license and enough money together, would fold that massage table and be out of CoveHaven and headed for a real spa, somewhere in the depths of New York County.
Of course, there was the semi-scandal about the sex education classes and the librarian and the local high school coach. That had been good for a few days. But it had been handled so discreetly, that…
Except for Matt Bartholomew’s big speech in front of the board of education.
Dorothy looked in the full-length mirror. She was naked.
Perfect timing, she thought, appraising herself with a jaundiced look. To think of Matt Bartholomew just as she got completely undressed.
She put her hand on her lower abdomen and slowly lowered it further, then spread her fingers and pressed down, combing them firmly through the wiry puff of hair at the apex of her firm thighs. Her other hand pressed into her full breasts, appraising, testing their firmness.
She was immediately hot and damp. Deep, deep inside, prowling through the depths of her most private inner space, a low rumble took place.
She cupped her fingers, feeling her full, wet fleshiness fill her hand. The thick lips puffing luxuriously.
She took a deep breath, her full chest expanding, her nipples firming.
Pretty pussy needs a little loving, she muttered, licking her dry lips. She began moving around the room. Gathering her “loving” essentials. There was a ritual involved. The moves were practiced. They had saved her ass.
This whole business about dating Matt and who gets to damned first base first, or hits a home run first, or whatever, she muttered to herself, was what was getting under her skin.
She and Alice had been good friends. She and Matt had been good friends. She and Matt and Alice and Beau had been good friends.
It had been hard enough when Beau had been killed. Alice and Matt had gotten her through the bad times. Then Alice died and Matt had needed time to mourn…and then he had needed more time and then…he wasn’t not friendly…he just wasn’t…there. And they both accepted it and assumed the time would come when he would want to move on and she thought the time would come when he would want to resume their friendship. At least.
She had expected Matt to need her to get through the bad times after Alice was gone.
But he had done it alone.
Like a man.
She guessed.
You would have thought…their both being widows…widowers…
Her mind began to fuzz as she moved the lit candles into place in the small bathroom and started the water running. The sound of the rush of the hot stream impacting into the water in the tub began its magic, dulling her senses to what was running around in her head. The gushing splash gently turned her attention…her total attention…away from her annoyance…to her…to her body.
No Matt. He was fending for himself just fine, thank you very much. No wondering. No wide-eyed Lucy. No sloe-eyed Christy. No rolling eyed Amelia. No beady-eyed Marta Dalaport.
Dorothy slid into the filling tub, her cupped palm sifting the bath salts accompanying her descent into the water. The drive of the heavy, hot stream gushed into the boiling foam. Outside her little protected candle-lit circle, the world dissolved away. Her mind totally focused on the water, the foam, the rushing sound, the light from the half-dozen candles catching the spray as she played with the stream, running her elegant hair magic hands under the driving column.
The tub was filled. She twisted the faucet knobs.
Silence. Nothing but the gentle slosh of warm water against her skin. Caressing and cleansing. Molifying.
She settled back. Her fingers moved over her body. Uncovered, firm flesh in the cooler, steamy air. Slick, watery skin enveloped underneath the warm fluid. She loved her flesh. She loved the feel of her hands on her, in her.
Her fingers probed and ever so gently plucked at her most sensitive areas. Rode the hills and valleys, dipped into the most intimate entrances. Entrances that had been abandoned except for her own reclaiming.
She stroked her clit, plucked at the wet mat of pubic hairs. Thrust her full hips up to meet her descending fingers, clustered into kissing digits, tiny five-fingered mouths, five-tongued adulation.
Her breasts bloomed. Her skin flushed, warmer underneath the water, degrees cooler out. She dipped her chest as her hands pressed and possessed, her nipples plunging into and out of the water, her full breasts making waves, foamy waves, female adulatory waves, addressing her body’s need, attending to her want.
The water began to slosh, her body writhing deliciously in response to her watery ministrations, her fingers working more assiduously, doing their duty, probing, teasing, plucking, pressing, filling her—not as deep, not as far inside, but enough…enough. Enough.
Soon. Too soon.
She squeezed her breasts with the upper part of her arms and reluctantly removed her hands from her nether regions, pulling them languidly up her center. She pressed the fingers gently into her tummy, feeling its fullness, testing its elasticity. Her fingertips trailed up her front, pausing to play at her bellybutton, to probe at her abs, and finally to slide across and grip the opposite elbow, cupping and caressing her breasts.
She gently lifted the full-blown mammary glands, feeling their heaviness and their womanliness. She crossed her legs underneath the warm water and squeezed, tightening her vaginal muscles, tightening her arms, compressing herself into one fully aware package. Slowly she writhed, feeling her skin slicked by the water and kissed by the moist air of the heated bath. Her whole body sang. Every nerve ending joined the chorus. Her flesh was music. Full-throated.
She felt the tempo building, the climax coming. She urged the finale on. Her back arched. Her hands plunged into the water and into herself.
She exploded. With a grateful expulsion of breath, followed by gasped giggling. Her whole body tingling as she climaxed, merged with the water, with the candlelight, her fluids pouring into the warm hot receptacle of her tub, her mother lode. She drove her fingers deep, titillating, dragging the orgasm out, stretching it like a lush rubbery sheath, her hips convulsing as the interior waves thrashed for release, and then poured their release into the milky universe she was suspended in.
God.
Damn.
Good.
Dot stretched, spread her legs, pointed her feet, stretched her feet, lifted her legs and hooked her heels onto the sides of the tub, her white-knuckled fingers gripped the rim, then plunged in again to pull her pussy wide, wider so she could kiss it with her finger probes, thank it with the h
ard-pressing palms of her hand. Iron its bloom, its full blossom back into place. Where it would be waiting for her again when she needed…
…to remind herself…
…she didn’t need any man.
Chapter Four
Peering over the edge of her margarita glass, Dorothy watched Lucy intently follow Giancarlo-their-waiter-for-the-evening adroitly swivel-hip his way away from their secluded booth through the crowded tables of the local Italian restaurant.
“He's cute,” Lucy noted, sitting next to Dorothy on the padded seat, wide eyes aglow at the brightly decorated pseudo-Italianate surroundings.
“Cute and high school jail bait.” Across the table, Christy took a sip of her house red and reached for a breadstick.
“Really? He looks a lot older than that.”
“Now, the dude that brought our drinks, you could lay hands on him with no trouble at all.” Christy crunched a good portion of her breadstick and munched seductively.
Dorothy stroked a pink tongue over her salty lips “Lucy, how often do you get out these days to where you even see guys?” She checked out a young waiter nearby taking orders. “Though some of the local high school guys are old enough to knock up their fellow female students, the law says we cougars are not allowed to knock them up without getting our hands slapped. Seems unfair to me.”
“Cougars?” Lucy's brow furrowed.
“Okay, two cougars and a baby lioness,” she amended, shooting a glance toward the second cougar as the baby lioness giggled.
“We all know where our hunky school board head stands on that,” Christy noted, dryly. “Not where he stands on 'cougars',” she explained to Lucy's raised eyebrows. “On 'knocking up.' He said it loud and clear. What we do not know, is where Matt stands on,” she paused, directing her look at her two dinner companions. “Us.”
“Us?” Lucy's eyes suddenly brightened.
“You won the bet,” Dorothy said without emotion. “There is no us. Isn’t this little victory dinner a reason to rub our noses into that very evident fact?”
“Well, that's what I've been thinking about.” Christy traced an elegant finger around the rim of her glass. “Though there's no doubt in my mind that eventually I would have bedded the dude fair and square, there may have been extenuating circumstances this first time around.”