Straight to Release!

[Radica7]

A gym injury leads Asher to a private deep-tissue massage with Fabian, a skilled and strikingly handsome masseur whose calm, knowing touch quickly turns therapeutic relief into something far more charged.

Chapter One

Asher winced as he lowered the barbell back onto the rack, a sharp twinge shooting through his lower back like an electric jolt. The gym was buzzing with the usual afternoon crowd, clanking weights, grunts of effort, and the faint metallic scent of sweat mixed with rubber mats. At 23, Asher had been pushing his limits for months, sculpting his body into something he was quietly proud of. Broad shoulders, defined arms, a chest that strained against his tank tops, and legs that spoke of endless squats and deadlifts. But today, that ambition had bitten back.He straightened up slowly, pressing a hand to the small of his back, his face contorting in discomfort. His trainer, Mike, a burly guy in his forties with a perpetual five-o'clock shadow and a no-nonsense attitude, noticed immediately. Mike had been spotting him during the set, his tattooed arms folded across his chest.
"Whoa, easy there, Ash," Mike said, stepping closer. "That didn't look good. What happened?"
Asher rubbed the spot gingerly, trying to play it cool. "Just tweaked something on that last rep. Feels like a knot or whatever. I'll walk it off."
Mike shook his head, his eyes narrowing in assessment. "Nah, man. That's your lower back...probably a strain from overdoing the deadlifts. You've been hitting it hard lately. Listen, you need to get that sorted before it turns into something worse. I know a guy who's killer with deep tissue massages. Fixed my shoulder last year when I thought I was done for."
Asher hesitated. A massage? He'd never been one for that kind of thing, sounded too indulgent, too... intimate. "I don't know, Mike. I'll just ice it at home."
"Trust me," Mike insisted, pulling out his wallet and fishing for a business card. He handed it over -- a simple white card with embossed black lettering: Fabian Ruiz, Licensed Massage Therapist. Deep Tissue & Sports Recovery. There was a phone number and an address scribbled on the back.
"Call him. Tell him I sent you. He's discreet, professional, and damn good at what he does. Male masseuse, but hey, results are results."
Asher took the card, glancing at it skeptically. A male masseuse? He'd only ever heard of women doing that stuff, like in spas with fluffy robes and cucumber water. The idea of another guy working on his body felt... weird. Uncharted territory. But Mike was insistent, clapping him on the shoulder before heading off to spot another client.

That evening, Asher lounged on his couch in his small apartment, the card staring at him from the coffee table. He popped a couple of ibuprofen and tried to stretch, but the pain lingered, a dull ache that made every twist uncomfortable. He wasn't gay. Hell, he'd dated a few girls in college, though nothing serious since his last breakup a year ago. But a massage was just a massage, right? Therapeutic. Nothing more. Still, the thought of lying there, exposed, under another man's hands... it made him shift uneasily. He decided to sleep on it.
The next morning, fate decided for him. Asher bent down to pick up his keys from the floor, and a lightning bolt of pain ripped through his lower back. He gasped, steadying himself against the kitchen counter, his vision blurring for a second. "Fuck," he muttered, breathing through it. That was it, no more ignoring this. He grabbed his phone and dialed the number on the card, his heart pounding a little more than it should.

The line rang twice before a deep, calm voice answered. "Fabian Ruiz speaking."
"Uh, hi. This is Asher Hayes. My trainer Mike gave me your card. I, um, hurt my back at the gym. Lower back strain, I think."
"Ah, Mike's a good guy. Tell me about the pain." There was a slight pause. "When did it start? What makes it worse?"
Asher explained, pacing his kitchen as he talked. Fabian's voice was soothing, almost hypnotic, with a faint accent that Asher couldn't place, possibly Spanish? They discussed the injury briefly: sharp pain on bending, tightness in the mornings, radiating down to his glutes sometimes.
"Sounds like a classic lumbar strain, possibly with some glute involvement," Fabian said professionally. "I specialize in deep tissue work for athletes. We'll target the knots, improve circulation, and get you moving better. Sessions are in my home studio - private, comfortable. I use oils, aromatherapy if you like. Full body if needed, but we can focus on the back."
Full body? Asher swallowed. "What should I expect? I've never done this before."
"Nothing to worry about. You'll undress to your comfort level, most clients go down to underwear or nude under a towel for better access. I'll work the muscles methodically, checking in on pressure. It's relaxing, but deep tissue can be intense at first. Pain should ease by the end."
"Oh ok," Asher murmered.
They arranged a time, tomorrow morning at 10 AM, at the address on the card. A studio apartment in the city outskirts.
"See you then, Asher," Fabian said, his voice a deep soothing echo in Asher's ear.
"Bye."
Asher hung up, staring at his phone. What had he just done? A male masseuse, in a private apartment? His mind raced with worries. Would it be awkward? Professional? But the pain throbbed as a reminder, and it was set. No backing out now.

The morning of the appointment dawned crisp and sunny. Asher woke early, his back stiff from sleep. He took a hot shower, letting the water cascade over his body, easing the tension a bit. Standing in front of the mirror, he styled his dark brown hair carefully, parted to the side, a bit of product to keep it tousled but neat. Why was he bothering? It wasn't a date. But something in him wanted to make a good impression—clean, put-together. He shaved his stubble smooth, trimmed his nails, even groomed his pubes a little, though he told himself it was just hygiene. Clothes comfortable and loose-fitting. Gray sweatpants that hung low on his hips, soft and breathable, paired with a plain white tee that hugged his chest just enough to show the outline of his pecs without being tight. No underwear? No, he slipped on black boxer briefs—better safe. He spritzed on a light cologne, something fresh and citrusy, then grabbed his keys.

The drive was longer than expected, traffic snarling through the city before opening up to quieter suburbs. Asher's mind wandered, nerves building. What if it was awkward? What if Fabian was a total creep? But Mike trusted him, and the pain was motivation enough. The guy over the phone did not sound like a creep at all, he convinced himself.
He pulled up to a modern apartment building, sleek with glass windows and potted plants at the entrance. Studio apartment - private, like Fabian said. He took the elevator to the fourth floor, heart thumping. The hallway was quiet, carpeted in neutral tones. Apartment 4B. He knocked, and the door opened almost immediately.

A handsome guy stood there, mid-thirties maybe, with dark features: tanned skin, sharp jawline framed by a neatly trimmed beard, and piercing brown eyes that crinkled at the corners. His hair was black, cropped short on the sides with a bit of length on top. He wore a fitted black top that showcased his muscular arms and chest, clearly someone who hit the gym himself, and loose gray tracksuit pants that draped casually over his hips. A flash of white teeth in a welcoming smile.
"Asher? Come in," he said, that deep, calm voice from the phone sending a subtle shiver down Asher's spine. "I'm Fabian. Nice to meet you."
Asher stepped inside, the door clicking shut behind him. The apartment was cozy, intimate, not what he'd expected from a "studio". Dim ambient lighting from wall sconces cast a warm glow, supplemented by a few strategically placed lamps with soft bulbs. The living room was the main space, open-plan with a plush couch in deep navy facing a small TV mounted on the wall. Bookshelves lined one side, filled with anatomy texts, essential oil bottles, and a few candles already flickering. The massage table was set up behind the couch, in a cleared area near large windows draped with sheer curtains that filtered the morning light. It was draped in crisp white sheets, a folded towel waiting on top. A small side table held oils, lotions, and a diffuser humming faintly.
"Um nice to meet you too," Asher extended a hand which was met with a firm grip. He gazed briefly into the eyes of the slightly taller adonis before shiftinh his attention towards his surrounding.
The kitchen was adjacent, compact but modern. Stainless steel appliances, a granite countertop with a couple of mugs drying on a rack. The whole place smelled faintly of lavender and sandalwood, clean and inviting. Minimalist decor, a few abstract prints on the walls, a potted fern in the corner, no clutter. It felt professional yet personal, like a sanctuary.

"How is your back right now?" Fabian stood close, closer than a stranger should, his presence filling the narrow entryway without effort. That white smile flashed again, easy and disarming, but his eyes held something steadier, more assessing.
He didn’t wait for permission. One large hand settled gently but firmly between Asher’s shoulder blades, the touch warm through the thin cotton of his tee. Asher stiffened for half a second, instinct, surprise - then felt the palm slide downward in a slow, deliberate glide until it came to rest at the small of his back. Fabian’s thumb found the exact spot without searching, pressing in with steady, increasing pressure right over the knot that had been screaming since the gym.
The pain bloomed sharp at first, a bright flare that made Asher suck in a breath through his teeth. But almost instantly the sensation shifted—deepened, spread outward in warm, liquid waves that raced up his spine, down through his hips, and into the backs of his thighs. It wasn’t just relief; it was something richer, almost intoxicating, like the ache had been waiting for exactly this kind of firm, knowing contact to finally let go. His knees softened. His shoulders dropped. For a dizzying moment he felt boneless, pliant, like warm clay under the older man’s hand.
Fabian held the pressure, thumb circling once, twice, slow and sure, never letting up enough to let the knot reform.
"Ahhh," Asher moaned.
“Where does it catch the most?” Fabian asked, tone still perfectly professional, but quieter now, intimate in the hushed space between them. “When you bend? When you twist? Tell me exactly.”
Asher’s mouth opened, but the words came out softer than he intended, breathy. “When I bend… mostly forward. Like picking something up. It shoots right here...” He gestured vaguely toward his own lower back, but his hand trembled slightly. “And sometimes down the right side... into the glute.”
Fabian nodded once, eyes never leaving Asher’s face. His thumb eased off just enough to let Asher breathe, then pressed again - deeper this time, rocking gently side to side. Another rush of heat flooded Asher’s body; his eyelids fluttered, a quiet sound escaping his throat before he could catch it. He felt himself leaning back into the touch without meaning to, hips tilting forward a fraction, seeking more of that melting pressure. Putty. That was the word. Putty in Fabian’s hands, every muscle suddenly liquid and obedient.
“Piriformis referral, probably,” Fabian murmured, almost to himself. “Tight quadratus lumborum pulling on the SI joint. We’ll get it open.” He gave one last slow, lingering circle with the pad of his thumb, enough to make Asher’s breath hitch again then withdrew his hand entirely. The absence was immediate and startling. Asher swayed forward a tiny step before catching himself, cheeks flushing hot as he realized how openly he’d melted under the touch. Fabian’s expression remained calm, almost gentle, but there was a faint, knowing curve to his mouth now. “Bathroom’s right there,” he said, nodding toward the door. “Take your time. When you’re ready, we’ll start properly.”
Asher managed a nod, legs feeling unsteady as he turned toward the bathroom. Behind him, he could sense Fabian watching - quiet, patient, already cataloguing every reaction, every shiver, every place where Asher’s body had answered without words.

It was small but impeccable, white tiles gleaming, a pedestal sink with a mirror above, stocked with hand soap and fresh towels. Minimal: a shower stall with frosted glass, a toilet, and a small shelf holding toiletries. Neat and tidy, no stray hairs or mess. He splashed water on his face, took a deep breath, and returned.

The air had shifted; a soft scent of eucalyptus and vanilla wafted from the diffuser, mingling with the candle flames dancing gently. The room felt elevated, almost seductive in its calm.
"Alright," Fabian said, his voice commanding yet gentle. "We'll start with you face down on the table. Strip down to whatever you're comfortable with, most go nude under the towel for full access. I'll give you privacy." He draped a large white towel over the table and stepped into what Asher assumed was the bedroom, closing the door softly.
Asher's pulse quickened. Undress? Here? He'd never been naked around another guy like this. Sure, gym showers, but he always hurried through, towel clutched tight, and preferred showering at home. His body was great, honed from years of discipline: 6'1" frame, lean muscle without bulk, skin smooth and lightly tanned from outdoor runs. But he was modest, self-conscious in ways he couldn't explain.
He peeled off his tee first, revealing a chiseled torso—broad chest with defined pecs, nipples small and pink, a faint trail of dark hair leading from his navel down. His abs were a subtle six-pack, not overly ripped but toned from core work. Shoulders rounded with muscle, arms veined from lifting.
Sweatpants next, sliding them down his legs. His thighs were powerful, quads bulging slightly, calves sculpted from cardio. He hesitated at his boxer briefs, thumbs hooked in the waistband. Nude? Under the towel? He decided yes, better for the massage.
He exhaled and slipped the briefs off in one smooth motion. His cut cock flopped free, average in length but noticeably thick even soft, the smooth, rounded head fully exposed. It hung heavy against his balls, full, low-hanging, and dusted with finely trimmed dark hair that trailed lightly up toward his navel. The whole package swayed gently as he moved.
His ass was a standout, round, firm glutes from squats, cheeks pert and smooth, with a light fuzz in the cleft. Naked now, he climbed onto the table face down, draping the towel over his lower half, covering from mid-back to thighs. His heart raced, but he called out, "Ready."

 

[Radica7]

Fabian returned, footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. He approached the side table, selecting a bottle of oil, unscented, warming it in his hands. The room's ambience enveloped them...soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers, a gentle hum of strings and flutes; candles flickering, casting shadows that danced on the walls; the air warm, not stuffy, with that aromatic haze making everything feel dreamlike.
"Let's start with your upper back and shoulders," Fabian said, his voice therapeutic, professional. "I'll apply the oil gently at first. Tell me if the pressure's too much or not enough."
He poured oil into his palms, rubbing them together to warm it, then placed his hands on Asher's shoulders. The touch was firm yet soothing, thumbs digging into the trapezius muscles, circling knots with precision. Asher tensed at first, the unfamiliar sensation of strong hands on his skin sending a ripple through him. But as Fabian worked, kneading the shoulders in slow, rhythmic strokes, the tension melted.
"You're carrying a lot here," Fabian noted. "How does that feel?"
"Good," Asher murmured, his voice muffled against the table's face cradle. "A bit sore, but... relaxing."
Fabian nodded, though Asher couldn't see. He moved to the upper back, palms gliding down the rhomboids, fingers splaying to cover the broad expanse. The oil slicked smoothly, warming Asher's skin, the scent subtle but grounding. Fabian's technique was expert: effleurage strokes to spread the oil, then petrissage, kneading the muscles like dough, releasing tightness.
Asher's thoughts drifted; he'd never had someone touch him this way, so methodically, so intimately. It wasn't sexual - at least, he told himself that, but the closeness, the warmth of another body nearby, stirred something unfamiliar. As Fabian shifted to Asher's right side, working the latissimus dorsi, his body leaned in.
Asher's arm hung off the table's edge, palm up, relaxed. And then, a brush. Something soft yet firm grazed his open palm, the bulge in Fabian's tracksuit pants. Loose fabric, but the outline was there, heavy and warm for a split second. Asher froze, his breath catching. Was that...? He stopped breathing for a moment, mind racing. But Fabian didn't react, continuing the massage seamlessly, and Asher's body betrayed him— the relief in his muscles was too good, waves of relaxation pulling him under. Thoughts evaporated; he melted into the table, surrendering.
"Good, you're loosening up," Fabian said, moving to the left side now, repeating the process. Another brush against Asher's palm - deliberate? Accidental? The bulge felt substantial, a soft weight that made Asher's cheeks flush. But he said nothing, the pleasure overriding the shock.
Fabian progressed to the middle back, thumbs tracing the erector spinae muscles along the spine. "This area's key for posture. Tight here can pull on the lower back." He applied deeper pressure, elbows joining in for leverage, working out adhesions with controlled force. Asher groaned softly, a mix of pain and release.
"Breathe through it," Fabian coached. "The pain's from the knots breaking up. Where exactly does it shoot to?"
"Lower back, sometimes glutes," Asher replied, voice husky.
"Makes sense—compensatory tension." Fabian's hands glided lower, approaching the lumbar region. He folded the towel down slightly, exposing more of Asher's back, oil dripping warm and viscous. Thumbs pressed into the quadratus lumborum, circling, then stripping along the muscles with forearms. The pain flared at first, sharp, pinpointed, but Fabian modulated, easing when Asher winced.
"Right here? That's the origin. We'll release it slowly."
The room's settings amplified everything: the dim light softening edges, candles' flames reflecting off oil-slicked skin; the music swelling gently, a low bass vibrating through the table. The air thick with aroma, making Asher's head swim in a pleasant haze. Satisfied with the back, Fabian moved to the legs.
"Now, feet and calves, everything's connected." He uncovered one leg, towel tucked securely over the other and glutes. Starting at the soles, his thumbs dug into the arches, rolling over pressure points. Asher sighed, the reflexology sending tingles up his spine. Up the calves: strong strokes, kneading the gastrocnemius, releasing tightness from runs.

Then thighs. Fabian poured more oil, hands gliding up the hamstrings, long, effleurage strokes from knee to just below the glutes. The touch turned more intimate here, fingers splaying over the inner thighs, brushing close to sensitive areas. Asher's breath deepened; the sensation was electric, warmth spreading. Fabian worked the quads too, from the side, his body positioning inevitable brushes against Asher's hanging arm again, that bulge, firmer now? Asher's mind flickered, but he pushed it away.
As he massaged, Fabian slowly folded the towel inward, first a quarter, then half...exposing the curve of Asher's ass cheeks bit by bit. The fabric bunched into smaller circles, revealing smooth skin, the cleft hinting at shadows. Cool air kissed the newly bared flesh, contrasting the warm oil.
"This allows better access to the upper thighs," Fabian explained calmly. His hands ventured higher, thumbs pressing into the adductor muscles, fingers grazing the perineum accidentally, or not? Each brush against Asher's balls sent a jolt: soft, fleeting touches that made his sac tighten.
Asher's cock, trapped beneath him against the table, stirred. Slowly growing as blood rushed in. He hadn't had a girlfriend in a year - no touch, no intimacy. This was the closest anyone had been, and his body reacted instinctively, he told himself. Not because he was into this...into a guy. Just biology. But deep down, a mix of nerves and curiosity bubbled. Would Fabian massage the glutes? The thought made his stomach flip. But his heart beat anxiously.
"Feeling the tension in your hamstrings. Common with back issues," Fabian said, his voice steady. "How's the pressure?"
"Fine... good," Asher managed, voice strained as another graze sent his cock twitching to semi-hardness.
Fabian paused at the glutes' edge. "How are your glutes?"
"Tight," Asher admitted.
"Tight glutes can compress the sciatic nerve, radiating pain. We'll work them to release."
Asher gulped as Fabian poured oil into his cupped hand, letting it warm before dripping it onto the exposed ass. The towel was fully adjusted now, barely covering the center. Warm rivulets trickled down the cheeks, pooling in the cleft. Should he protest? But it felt so good already, the anticipation alone made him ache in confusing ways.

Fabian spread the oil with broad palms, gliding over the round globes. "Nice glutes...firm, well-developed. From the gym?"
"Yeah," Asher said, trying to sound casual. "Squats, deadlifts."
"Impressive. You must put in the work. I can feel the muscle density, good for stability, but they hold tension." Fabian's kneading deepened, fingers digging into the glute max, rolling the flesh in circles, separating the cheeks slightly to access deeper layers. The motion was erotic, hands squeezing, thumbs pressing into trigger points.
Asher drifted, the sensation incredible. Waves of pleasure-pain radiating, his body surrendering.
"What exercises do you recommend?" Asher asked, voice breathy.
"Romanian deadlifts for hamstrings, but ease in. And hip thrusts, builds these beauties without strain." Fabian's tone held admiration, a flirtatious edge. "You've got a great foundation. Envy-worthy."
Asher flushed, the compliments landing warmly. Then, he felt it again; the bulge nestled fully on his open palm as Fabian leaned in for leverage. Heavy, warm through the thin fabric, the outline of cock and balls pressing insistently. Asher didn't pull away; his mouth parted slightly, breath quickening. A mix of lingering back pain and burgeoning pleasure.
Fabian kneaded once more, cheeks parting wider, exposing the pink pucker of Asher's hole briefly. He clenched his hand into a fist over it, squeezing, oil dripped from his knuckles, landing hot and slick right on the rim. Asher moaned unintentionally, a low, throaty sound escaping.
"You okay?" Fabian asked, concern laced with something deeper.
"Yeah... just... intense."
Fabian pressed a thumb there, circling the rim slowly, gentle pressure, tracing the sensitive skin, feeling the slight give, the warmth. Asher's body responded: his hand squeezed instinctively around the bulge in his palm, feeling the thick shaft, the heavy balls shifting under fabric. Fabian's cock twitched in response.
"How does that feel?" Fabian murmured.
"Mhm," Asher could only hum, mind swirling. He traced the outline mentally: long, girthy, balls plump and full. It dawned on him—he was groping another man's penis. Was he gay? No, surely not. It was the setting, the mood, the smells, the oils clouding his judgment. But the curiosity burned, mingling with nerves, as the thumb circled deeper...

Fabian had spent the last fifteen minutes exclusively on Asher’s glutes, kneading, stripping, petrissage, friction...methodical at first, then slower, more deliberate. The towel, once modestly draped, had been folded and refolded until it was little more than a narrow band across the small of Asher’s back, leaving the full, rounded globes completely bare. The cheeks were flushed a soft rosy pink from the sustained pressure and the heat of the room; the colour bloomed outward from the centre like spilled wine on pale linen. The skin itself felt impossibly smooth under Fabian’s palms, warm, almost feverish, the surface taut over dense muscle beneath. Every time Fabian pressed deeply, the flesh yielded just enough before springing back, resilient, sculpted. A textbook bubble butt: high, round, pert, the kind that strained against gym shorts and drew second glances in locker rooms Asher always pretended not to notice.
Fabian’s hands moved in slow, overlapping circles, thumbs tracing the twin dimples at the base of Asher’s spine where the erector spinae muscles dipped inward. The dimples were pronounced, shadowed in the low light, and Fabian lingered there, pressing gently, then harder, feeling the way the underlying fascia gave way. Each press sent a ripple across the cheeks; the flesh quivered, then settled, the rosy hue deepening slightly with every pass.
Lower now. Fabian poured fresh oil directly into the cleft, warm rivulets that trickled down over the perineum before he caught them with the pads of his fingers. He spread the slickness outward in long, luxurious strokes, coating the inner curves of the glutes until they glistened like polished marble. Then he returned to the centre, thumbs bracketing the sensitive strip of skin between balls and hole, the taint. He applied pressure there again in slow, pulsing circles, not penetrating, just enough to stimulate the rich network of nerves. Asher’s hole responded immediately, a tiny, involuntary flutter. The pink pucker opened slightly, barely a breath’s width then clenched tight again, only to open once more with the next slow rotation of Fabian’s thumb. Open… close… open… close. Each cycle drew a soft, almost inaudible gasp from Asher, his exhales growing longer, shakier.
Fabian noticed. Of course he noticed.
He smirked, small, private, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to show he was enjoying this far more than professional decorum might allow. He kept the pressure steady, letting Asher’s body set the rhythm. Every time the rim relaxed open, Fabian let the pad of his thumb glide over the delicate inner edge, never quite breaching, just teasing the threshold. The heat radiating from Asher’s core was intense; Fabian could feel it against his knuckles. The younger man’s hole pulsed like a second heartbeat, needy, confused, greedy for more contact even as Asher’s mind tried to tell his body this was still just a massage.
“Do you sit quite a lot?” Fabian asked, voice low and calm.
Asher swallowed, face still buried in the cradle. “Mostly when I’m working. Office job. Desk all day.”
“Hmm.” Fabian’s thumbs slid outward again, framing the cheeks and lifting them slightly, letting gravity pull them apart so he could see and feel the way the rosy flesh parted to reveal the darker, puckered centre.
“I can see that. The piriformis and gemelli are shortened on both sides, classic desk posture pattern. The glutes look strong, but they’re locked up from sitting. That’s why the low-back pain keeps referring here.” He punctuated the diagnosis by sinking both thumbs deep into the meat of each cheek, spreading them wide for a long, slow stretch.
Asher’s hole winked open again, wider this time, the rim glistening with oil and involuntary relaxation.
Fabian released the stretch, then repeated it - spread, hold, release, each time letting his oiled fingers drift closer to the centre. This time traced lazy figure-eights around the rim, never quite touching it directly, letting the anticipation build until Asher’s hips gave the tiniest, unconscious lift, chasing the contact.

The pucker fluttered under the attention, opening slightly with a soft, involuntary gasp of flesh, then clenching tight again, only to relax and bloom open wider on the next orbit. It was mesmerizing, that tiny movement, pink and warm, glistening with oil that dripped down from Fabian's fist, squeezed out in deliberate drops that landed hot and slick right on the centre, making Asher's hole twitch and part, as if craving more. The sensation was a delicious ache, a mix of vulnerability and fire that spread through his thighs, making his untouched cock throb against the table beneath him.
Fabian's breath was steady, close enough that Asher could feel the warmth of it ghosting over his lower back, but his hands never rushed. He kneaded deeper now, fingers splaying wide to cup each cheek fully, lifting and spreading them apart so the cool air kissed the exposed skin, contrasting the feverish heat building inside. Asher's ass rose instinctively with each pull, cheeks quivering, the rosy flush deepening to a flushed crimson as blood rushed to the surface. It felt empty when Fabian's touch lightened, aching, needy, his hole clenching around nothing, almost begging for the return of those fingers. And when they did return, tracing the cleft from top to bottom in long, languid strokes, Asher let out a low, unintended moan, the sound muffled against the face cradle but echoing in the intimate space.
The steamy haze thickened; sweat beaded on Asher's skin, mixing with the oil to make everything slicker, more sensual. Fabian's bulge, still nestled occasionally against Asher's open palm as he shifted sides, felt heavier now, a teasing weight that pressed warm through the fabric, but it was the ass that commanded everything.
Fabian lingered there, hands roaming freely, squeezing the firm undersides where thigh met ass, lifting the cheeks to let them fall with a soft bounce, then sliding back to the centre to tease that fluttering hole again. Oil dripped anew, warm and viscous, pooling right at the entrance, making everything slicker, hotter. Asher's mind blurred; the pain in his back was a distant memory, replaced by this intoxicating pull, his ass the centre of the universe, round, rosy, begging to be touched, to be filled with sensation if not with anything else. The steam built, invisible but palpable, until Asher was lost in it, body trembling on the edge of something profound, every nerve alight in the dim, aromatic glow.

Finally, as if sensing the precipice, Fabian eased back, his hands trailing one last, lingering stroke over the dimples. Asher's ass clenched, rising once more, chasing the ghost of the touch... it felt so empty, so achingly needy. But Fabian just patted his thigh gently. "Turn around," he instructed, voice still calm but threaded with something darker, hungrier. "We'll do the front."

 

[jared]

Fabian returned, footsteps soft on the hardwood floor. He approached the side table, selecting a bottle of oil, unscented, warming it in his hands. The room's ambience enveloped them...soft instrumental music playing from hidden speakers, a gentle hum of strings and flutes; candles flickering, casting shadows that danced on the walls; the air warm, not stuffy, with that aromatic haze making everything feel dreamlike.
"Let's start with your upper back and shoulders," Fabian said, his voice therapeutic, professional. "I'll apply the oil gently at first. Tell me if the pressure's too much or not enough."
He poured oil into his palms, rubbing them together to warm it, then placed his hands on Asher's shoulders. The touch was firm yet soothing, thumbs digging into the trapezius muscles, circling knots with precision. Asher tensed at first, the unfamiliar sensation of strong hands on his skin sending a ripple through him. But as Fabian worked, kneading the shoulders in slow, rhythmic strokes, the tension melted.
"You're carrying a lot here," Fabian noted. "How does that feel?"
"Good," Asher murmured, his voice muffled against the table's face cradle. "A bit sore, but... relaxing."
Fabian nodded, though Asher couldn't see. He moved to the upper back, palms gliding down the rhomboids, fingers splaying to cover the broad expanse. The oil slicked smoothly, warming Asher's skin, the scent subtle but grounding. Fabian's technique was expert: effleurage strokes to spread the oil, then petrissage, kneading the muscles like dough, releasing tightness.
Asher's thoughts drifted; he'd never had someone touch him this way, so methodically, so intimately. It wasn't sexual - at least, he told himself that, but the closeness, the warmth of another body nearby, stirred something unfamiliar. As Fabian shifted to Asher's right side, working the latissimus dorsi, his body leaned in.
Asher's arm hung off the table's edge, palm up, relaxed. And then, a brush. Something soft yet firm grazed his open palm, the bulge in Fabian's tracksuit pants. Loose fabric, but the outline was there, heavy and warm for a split second. Asher froze, his breath catching. Was that...? He stopped breathing for a moment, mind racing. But Fabian didn't react, continuing the massage seamlessly, and Asher's body betrayed him— the relief in his muscles was too good, waves of relaxation pulling him under. Thoughts evaporated; he melted into the table, surrendering.
"Good, you're loosening up," Fabian said, moving to the left side now, repeating the process. Another brush against Asher's palm - deliberate? Accidental? The bulge felt substantial, a soft weight that made Asher's cheeks flush. But he said nothing, the pleasure overriding the shock.
Fabian progressed to the middle back, thumbs tracing the erector spinae muscles along the spine. "This area's key for posture. Tight here can pull on the lower back." He applied deeper pressure, elbows joining in for leverage, working out adhesions with controlled force. Asher groaned softly, a mix of pain and release.
"Breathe through it," Fabian coached. "The pain's from the knots breaking up. Where exactly does it shoot to?"
"Lower back, sometimes glutes," Asher replied, voice husky.
"Makes sense—compensatory tension." Fabian's hands glided lower, approaching the lumbar region. He folded the towel down slightly, exposing more of Asher's back, oil dripping warm and viscous. Thumbs pressed into the quadratus lumborum, circling, then stripping along the muscles with forearms. The pain flared at first, sharp, pinpointed, but Fabian modulated, easing when Asher winced.
"Right here? That's the origin. We'll release it slowly."
The room's settings amplified everything: the dim light softening edges, candles' flames reflecting off oil-slicked skin; the music swelling gently, a low bass vibrating through the table. The air thick with aroma, making Asher's head swim in a pleasant haze. Satisfied with the back, Fabian moved to the legs.
"Now, feet and calves, everything's connected." He uncovered one leg, towel tucked securely over the other and glutes. Starting at the soles, his thumbs dug into the arches, rolling over pressure points. Asher sighed, the reflexology sending tingles up his spine. Up the calves: strong strokes, kneading the gastrocnemius, releasing tightness from runs.

Then thighs. Fabian poured more oil, hands gliding up the hamstrings, long, effleurage strokes from knee to just below the glutes. The touch turned more intimate here, fingers splaying over the inner thighs, brushing close to sensitive areas. Asher's breath deepened; the sensation was electric, warmth spreading. Fabian worked the quads too, from the side, his body positioning inevitable brushes against Asher's hanging arm again, that bulge, firmer now? Asher's mind flickered, but he pushed it away.
As he massaged, Fabian slowly folded the towel inward, first a quarter, then half...exposing the curve of Asher's ass cheeks bit by bit. The fabric bunched into smaller circles, revealing smooth skin, the cleft hinting at shadows. Cool air kissed the newly bared flesh, contrasting the warm oil.
"This allows better access to the upper thighs," Fabian explained calmly. His hands ventured higher, thumbs pressing into the adductor muscles, fingers grazing the perineum accidentally, or not? Each brush against Asher's balls sent a jolt: soft, fleeting touches that made his sac tighten.
Asher's cock, trapped beneath him against the table, stirred. Slowly growing as blood rushed in. He hadn't had a girlfriend in a year - no touch, no intimacy. This was the closest anyone had been, and his body reacted instinctively, he told himself. Not because he was into this...into a guy. Just biology. But deep down, a mix of nerves and curiosity bubbled. Would Fabian massage the glutes? The thought made his stomach flip. But his heart beat anxiously.
"Feeling the tension in your hamstrings. Common with back issues," Fabian said, his voice steady. "How's the pressure?"
"Fine... good," Asher managed, voice strained as another graze sent his cock twitching to semi-hardness.
Fabian paused at the glutes' edge. "How are your glutes?"
"Tight," Asher admitted.
"Tight glutes can compress the sciatic nerve, radiating pain. We'll work them to release."
Asher gulped as Fabian poured oil into his cupped hand, letting it warm before dripping it onto the exposed ass. The towel was fully adjusted now, barely covering the center. Warm rivulets trickled down the cheeks, pooling in the cleft. Should he protest? But it felt so good already, the anticipation alone made him ache in confusing ways.

Fabian spread the oil with broad palms, gliding over the round globes. "Nice glutes...firm, well-developed. From the gym?"
"Yeah," Asher said, trying to sound casual. "Squats, deadlifts."
"Impressive. You must put in the work. I can feel the muscle density, good for stability, but they hold tension." Fabian's kneading deepened, fingers digging into the glute max, rolling the flesh in circles, separating the cheeks slightly to access deeper layers. The motion was erotic, hands squeezing, thumbs pressing into trigger points.
Asher drifted, the sensation incredible. Waves of pleasure-pain radiating, his body surrendering.
"What exercises do you recommend?" Asher asked, voice breathy.
"Romanian deadlifts for hamstrings, but ease in. And hip thrusts, builds these beauties without strain." Fabian's tone held admiration, a flirtatious edge. "You've got a great foundation. Envy-worthy."
Asher flushed, the compliments landing warmly. Then, he felt it again; the bulge nestled fully on his open palm as Fabian leaned in for leverage. Heavy, warm through the thin fabric, the outline of cock and balls pressing insistently. Asher didn't pull away; his mouth parted slightly, breath quickening. A mix of lingering back pain and burgeoning pleasure.
Fabian kneaded once more, cheeks parting wider, exposing the pink pucker of Asher's hole briefly. He clenched his hand into a fist over it, squeezing, oil dripped from his knuckles, landing hot and slick right on the rim. Asher moaned unintentionally, a low, throaty sound escaping.
"You okay?" Fabian asked, concern laced with something deeper.
"Yeah... just... intense."
Fabian pressed a thumb there, circling the rim slowly, gentle pressure, tracing the sensitive skin, feeling the slight give, the warmth. Asher's body responded: his hand squeezed instinctively around the bulge in his palm, feeling the thick shaft, the heavy balls shifting under fabric. Fabian's cock twitched in response.
"How does that feel?" Fabian murmured.
"Mhm," Asher could only hum, mind swirling. He traced the outline mentally: long, girthy, balls plump and full. It dawned on him—he was groping another man's penis. Was he gay? No, surely not. It was the setting, the mood, the smells, the oils clouding his judgment. But the curiosity burned, mingling with nerves, as the thumb circled deeper...

Fabian had spent the last fifteen minutes exclusively on Asher’s glutes, kneading, stripping, petrissage, friction...methodical at first, then slower, more deliberate. The towel, once modestly draped, had been folded and refolded until it was little more than a narrow band across the small of Asher’s back, leaving the full, rounded globes completely bare. The cheeks were flushed a soft rosy pink from the sustained pressure and the heat of the room; the colour bloomed outward from the centre like spilled wine on pale linen. The skin itself felt impossibly smooth under Fabian’s palms, warm, almost feverish, the surface taut over dense muscle beneath. Every time Fabian pressed deeply, the flesh yielded just enough before springing back, resilient, sculpted. A textbook bubble butt: high, round, pert, the kind that strained against gym shorts and drew second glances in locker rooms Asher always pretended not to notice.
Fabian’s hands moved in slow, overlapping circles, thumbs tracing the twin dimples at the base of Asher’s spine where the erector spinae muscles dipped inward. The dimples were pronounced, shadowed in the low light, and Fabian lingered there, pressing gently, then harder, feeling the way the underlying fascia gave way. Each press sent a ripple across the cheeks; the flesh quivered, then settled, the rosy hue deepening slightly with every pass.
Lower now. Fabian poured fresh oil directly into the cleft, warm rivulets that trickled down over the perineum before he caught them with the pads of his fingers. He spread the slickness outward in long, luxurious strokes, coating the inner curves of the glutes until they glistened like polished marble. Then he returned to the centre, thumbs bracketing the sensitive strip of skin between balls and hole, the taint. He applied pressure there again in slow, pulsing circles, not penetrating, just enough to stimulate the rich network of nerves. Asher’s hole responded immediately, a tiny, involuntary flutter. The pink pucker opened slightly, barely a breath’s width then clenched tight again, only to open once more with the next slow rotation of Fabian’s thumb. Open… close… open… close. Each cycle drew a soft, almost inaudible gasp from Asher, his exhales growing longer, shakier.
Fabian noticed. Of course he noticed.
He smirked, small, private, the corner of his mouth lifting just enough to show he was enjoying this far more than professional decorum might allow. He kept the pressure steady, letting Asher’s body set the rhythm. Every time the rim relaxed open, Fabian let the pad of his thumb glide over the delicate inner edge, never quite breaching, just teasing the threshold. The heat radiating from Asher’s core was intense; Fabian could feel it against his knuckles. The younger man’s hole pulsed like a second heartbeat, needy, confused, greedy for more contact even as Asher’s mind tried to tell his body this was still just a massage.
“Do you sit quite a lot?” Fabian asked, voice low and calm.
Asher swallowed, face still buried in the cradle. “Mostly when I’m working. Office job. Desk all day.”
“Hmm.” Fabian’s thumbs slid outward again, framing the cheeks and lifting them slightly, letting gravity pull them apart so he could see and feel the way the rosy flesh parted to reveal the darker, puckered centre.
“I can see that. The piriformis and gemelli are shortened on both sides, classic desk posture pattern. The glutes look strong, but they’re locked up from sitting. That’s why the low-back pain keeps referring here.” He punctuated the diagnosis by sinking both thumbs deep into the meat of each cheek, spreading them wide for a long, slow stretch.
Asher’s hole winked open again, wider this time, the rim glistening with oil and involuntary relaxation.
Fabian released the stretch, then repeated it - spread, hold, release, each time letting his oiled fingers drift closer to the centre. This time traced lazy figure-eights around the rim, never quite touching it directly, letting the anticipation build until Asher’s hips gave the tiniest, unconscious lift, chasing the contact.

The pucker fluttered under the attention, opening slightly with a soft, involuntary gasp of flesh, then clenching tight again, only to relax and bloom open wider on the next orbit. It was mesmerizing, that tiny movement, pink and warm, glistening with oil that dripped down from Fabian's fist, squeezed out in deliberate drops that landed hot and slick right on the centre, making Asher's hole twitch and part, as if craving more. The sensation was a delicious ache, a mix of vulnerability and fire that spread through his thighs, making his untouched cock throb against the table beneath him.
Fabian's breath was steady, close enough that Asher could feel the warmth of it ghosting over his lower back, but his hands never rushed. He kneaded deeper now, fingers splaying wide to cup each cheek fully, lifting and spreading them apart so the cool air kissed the exposed skin, contrasting the feverish heat building inside. Asher's ass rose instinctively with each pull, cheeks quivering, the rosy flush deepening to a flushed crimson as blood rushed to the surface. It felt empty when Fabian's touch lightened, aching, needy, his hole clenching around nothing, almost begging for the return of those fingers. And when they did return, tracing the cleft from top to bottom in long, languid strokes, Asher let out a low, unintended moan, the sound muffled against the face cradle but echoing in the intimate space.
The steamy haze thickened; sweat beaded on Asher's skin, mixing with the oil to make everything slicker, more sensual. Fabian's bulge, still nestled occasionally against Asher's open palm as he shifted sides, felt heavier now, a teasing weight that pressed warm through the fabric, but it was the ass that commanded everything.
Fabian lingered there, hands roaming freely, squeezing the firm undersides where thigh met ass, lifting the cheeks to let them fall with a soft bounce, then sliding back to the centre to tease that fluttering hole again. Oil dripped anew, warm and viscous, pooling right at the entrance, making everything slicker, hotter. Asher's mind blurred; the pain in his back was a distant memory, replaced by this intoxicating pull, his ass the centre of the universe, round, rosy, begging to be touched, to be filled with sensation if not with anything else. The steam built, invisible but palpable, until Asher was lost in it, body trembling on the edge of something profound, every nerve alight in the dim, aromatic glow.

Finally, as if sensing the precipice, Fabian eased back, his hands trailing one last, lingering stroke over the dimples. Asher's ass clenched, rising once more, chasing the ghost of the touch... it felt so empty, so achingly needy. But Fabian just patted his thigh gently. "Turn around," he instructed, voice still calm but threaded with something darker, hungrier. "We'll do the front."

Damn ,,, very well written ! Awesome bate story .

 

[Shanes9x]

Great writing

 

[nyf_04]

nice onee, can't wait for more chapters!

 

[HornyTone]

Damn ,,, very well written ! Awesome bate story .

Stroked and leaked the whole way through!

 

[shakirapique]

好的

 

[jazzyG]

Nice

 

[Radica7]

Chapter two:

The dim glow from the TV flickered across Fabian’s living room, casting erratic shadows over his bare chest and the low-slung waistband of his black gym shorts. A half-empty beer can sweated in his left hand, cold against his palm, his right was already buried inside the soft cotton, fingers curling loosely around the thick eight inches of his cock. He stroked with lazy, unhurried pulls, base to crown each upstroke coaxing a fresh bead of precum that welled at the slit and rolled down the underside in a slow, glistening thread.

His breathing stayed even, almost meditative, thumb circling the ridge of the head on every third stroke, spreading the slickness until his palm made a soft, rhythmic schlick. The vein along the top pulsed visibly under his grip. He tilted his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded, letting the familiar build coil low in his gut without chasing it..savoring the lazy heat that spread through his thighs, the way his balls tightened just a fraction with each pass.

His phone buzzed on the cushion beside him. He fished it out with his left hand, Mike's name lit up.

'Ay mate, I’ve referred ur contact to a client of mine dealing with a back injury. Fix him up real good for me would ya, thnx', the text read.

Fabian let his head thud back again, a long groan rumbling out of his throat. Saturday morning. He never worked weekends. The hand on his cock slowed to a stop, fingers still wrapped warm around the shaft, feeling it throb once, twice, in protest, hot and insistent, like it was annoyed at the interruption.

He set the phone down screen-up and resumed stroking, slower now, almost punishingly slow—while he debated. The call would come. It always did. He’d politely decline, or push it to Monday. Easy.

The phone rang at 11 a.m. He glanced at the unknown number, thumb hovering and then swiped to answer.

"Fabian Ruiz speaking."
The voice on the other end was soft, almost boyish, nervous, cracking just a fraction on the first word.
"Uh, hi. This is Asher Hayes. My trainer Mike gave me your card. I, um, hurt my back at the gym. Lower back strain, I think."

They talked for six minutes. Asher stumbled over words, explained the injury in halting sentences, asked twice if it was really okay to come tomorrow. Fabian heard himself agreeing before he’d even decided. Sunday at 10. His place. The call ended as Fabian stared at the ceiling, cock still semi-hard in his hand.

Now almost a day later, the same hands that had lazily stroked himself were kneading deep into the meat of Asher’s ass. The cheeks were full, round, impossibly plush under the oil...smooth golden skin stretched tight over firm muscle that gave just enough when Fabian pressed his thumbs into the dimples at the base of the spine.
He worked the flesh in slow, possessive circles, watching the way it jiggled then settled, heavy and inviting. He slid his palms lower, cupping the undersides, lifting, spreading. The cleft parted naturally, the pink pucker winked once, tight, glistening with oil and a faint sheen of natural slickness that had nothing to do with the bottle on the side table. It fluttered under his gaze, contracting then relaxing like it was breathing, teasing him with its untouched innocence.

Asher purred, low, involuntary every time Fabian’s thumbs dragged along the sensitive inner crease. The sound vibrated straight to Fabian’s groin, making his own cock twitch in his pants.
He gave one last firm squeeze, thumbs brushing the rim in a teasing ghost of a circle, then patted the side of Asher’s thigh once, authoritative. “Turn around. We'll do the front.”

Asher froze. His throat worked visibly. “Turn… around?”

The words came out hoarse. His cock, trapped against the table since the glutes work began, gave a visible throb. Fabian could see the pulse travel up the shaft even through the muscle of Asher’s lower back.
Asher’s mind raced. Oh God, now? His heart hammered, a flush creeping up his neck. He’d felt himself hardening during the back massage, the firm hands on his thighs and ass stirring something deep, forbidden. But turning over meant exposing it all, the ache between his legs, the way his body had betrayed him. He swallowed hard, throat dry as sandpaper, avoiding Fabian’s eyes as he hesitated.

Noticing the nerves, Fabian reached for the small folded hand towel he’d set aside earlier, lifted it like a peace offering. “Here.”

Asher exhaled shakily, took his time rolling over, careful, almost shy, right hand darting down to cover himself the second his hips cleared the table. But it was useless. The purple head peeked out anyway, flushed dark and glossy, a fat pearl of precum already sitting proud at the slit. It trembled, then slid down the frenulum in a slow, shining ribbon that strung between cock and abs before snapping. Heat flooded Asher’s face, mortified, aroused, his thoughts a whirlwind. 'What is he thinking? Does he see? Of course he sees. Fuck, why am I so hard?'

“Sorry,” Asher mumbled, cheeks flaming crimson.

“You’re good.” Fabian’s voice stayed calm, warm, the smile small but reassuring. “Most guys end up having that problem. Tells me I’m doing a good job.”

Asher swallowed again, closed his eyes, tried to disappear into the table. His erection didn’t get the memo; it lifted the towel in a ridiculous little tent, the fabric clinging to the wet tip and outlining every ridge. He willed it down...think of anything else, grandma’s knitting, cold showers, anything...but the room’s warmth, the scent of oil and male sweat, Fabian’s presence so close, kept pulling him back. His skin tingled, every nerve alive and begging.

Fabian moved to the left side, poured oil into his palms, rubbed them together until the heat bloomed between them. He started at the pecs, broad, square slabs of muscle that rose proud from Asher’s ribcage, capped with small, dark nipples already drawn tight into peaks. The skin was baby-smooth, hairless, gleaming under the oil, each pec a perfect swell that begged to be traced, squeezed. Fabian spread the warmth in long, sweeping strokes, thumbs tracing the outer curves, then sliding inward until they bracketed the nipples.

“How long have you been exercising?” He pinched, firm, deliberate, rolling the buds between thumb and forefinger just as the question left his mouth, the pressure sending sparks straight to Asher’s core.

Asher’s moan dragged out long and broken. “F-five years…”

The sensation exploded through him, hot, electric, making his toes curl and his cock jump under the towel. Without thinking, his hand, the one that had been shielding opened on instinct, palm up like an invitation. Fabian shifted his hips forward; the thick ridge in his track pants settled into Asher’s palm like it belonged there. Through the thin fabric Asher felt the heat, the pulse, the way the head flared wider when he squeezed—oh fuck, he’s hard too. The thought sent a thrill through Asher, his fingers wrapping tighter, exploring the girth subconsciously.

Fabian hummed low in his throat. His cock jerked once, hard, against the cotton, rewarding the touch.
He kept working the pecs, kneading deep, letting the muscle bunch and release while his thumbs flicked and tugged the nipples in time with each squeeze of Asher’s hand below. Every pinch earned another moan. Every moan made Asher’s fingers tighten, the dual sensations building a loop of heat that left Asher breathless, his mind foggy. This shouldn’t feel so good… but it does. God, it does.

Eventually Fabian’s hands drifted lower, over the carved ladder of abs, the shallow dip of the navel until the backs of his knuckles brushed the trimmed thatch of dark hair at Asher’s base.

The towel had slipped. It puddled uselessly at Asher’s hips. His cock stood straight up now, thick, veined, the head shiny and swollen, precum pooling in the slit and overflowing in slow, syrupy drops that ran down the shaft and collected in warm trails on his skin. Asher’s breath hitched. Panic flickered behind his closed lids...he could feel the mess he was making, the way his body refused to behave, slick and exposed.

Fabian’s left hand stayed low, palm flat against the taut skin above Asher’s pubes, thumb brushing the root in lazy circles. His right wrapped around the base and stroked upward in one long, oiled glide.

Asher’s back arched off the table; a sharp cry punched out of him. The grip was perfect, warm, firm, sliding with just enough friction to make stars burst behind his eyes.

Fabian twisted at the crown, thumb sweeping over the head in tight, slippery circles, coaxing more precum until it coated his knuckles and dripped onto Asher’s abs in warm, pearly streaks. Down again, slow, then up, faster, the wet schlick filling the room like a filthy promise.

Asher’s teeth sank into his lower lip, his hips rolled in tiny, helpless thrusts, chasing the rhythm. Each stroke built the pressure, coiling tighter in his gut, his balls drawing up, heavy and aching. He moaned through gritted teeth, mind fracturing. So close… don’t stop… but what if I cum? He’s a stranger, this is wrong...but fuck, it feels-

“Are you okay?” Fabian asked, voice low and knowing.

“Hmm,” Asher managed, barely a sound.

Fabian stared as the precum grew more and more, shiny and inviting, strings of it stretching like liquid silk between his fingers and the glistening head, each bead thicker.

He used his left hand to travel up and massage the navel, the sensitive hollow dipping under his touch, fingers circling the rim while his right continued the gentle, torturous strokes. The dual assault made Asher’s body betray him completely; his thighs trembled, abs clenching in waves, every nerve screaming for release. He hadn’t felt this good in ages, not with his ex, not alone in the dark with his hand. This was different. A man’s strong grip, confident and unyielding, pulling him apart layer by layer. It scared him, the vulnerability, the raw need bubbling up. But he couldn’t stop it, didn’t want to.

Asher tried fighting the feeling, letting his thoughts wander elsewhere. Gym routines, tomorrow’s staff evaluation at work—yet his body betrayed him, hips bucking subtly, cock throbbing harder in Fabian’s fist. He gingerly opened his eyes, the room hazy and spinning, trying to catch his breath. No more hands on him. Relief? Disappointment? Both twisted in his chest.

Then he watched, transfixed as Fabian used his thumb to scoop up the precum, a thick, shining glob clinging to the pad. He brought it to his mouth, tongue darting out slow, deliberate, tracing the length of his thumb in a long, sensual lick. His tongue curled around the digit, savoring every drop, salt and musk exploding on his taste buds while his eyes locked on Asher’s, dark and unapologetic. He sucked the thumb clean with a soft pop, lips glistening, a low hum of approval vibrating from his throat.

Asher stared, mouth dry, cock twitching violently at the sight. Heat surged through him, dirty, thrilling; He’s tasting me. Me. The intimacy of it made his skin prickle, his pulse thunder in his ears. Part of him wanted to look away, embarrassed. The rest wanted to watch forever, to see that hunger mirrored back.

They stared at one another for a few seconds yet it felt like a long stretch of time, the air thick, electric, until Asher closed his eyes again, overwhelmed.

His body tensed up when Fabian’s hand gripped his cock again, firmer now, strokes shorter, focused on the head. Asher felt it build immediately, the edge rushing toward him like a wave. He was close to cumming, too close. His mind raced...this cannot happen. Not here, not like this. He was softly panicking internally, gripping the sheets until his knuckles ached white, trying to hold back the tide. But his body once again betrayed him, cock swelling thicker in Fabian’s hand, precum flowing freely, the coil in his gut tightening to the point of pain. Every stroke dragged him higher: up, twist, thumb over the slit, milking him, edging him mercilessly. His breaths came in short, desperate gasps; his balls ached, drawn up so tight they hurt, sparks danced up his spine. Just one more… please… no, stop—
The panic peaked, a frantic mantra: I’m gonna cum, he’ll hate it, this is too much! His hips jerked, back bowing, a choked whine escaping as the first pulse threatened to rip through him.

But then Fabian stopped.

He left the now throbbing cock alone, slapping wetly back against Asher’s abs, bobbing angrily, leaking in furious spurts and traveled back up toward the upper half.

Asher let out a deep breath, almost fighting to catch his breath. That was intense. He felt himself sweating, skin slick and hot, eyes rising upwards to stare at the hot masseur. Relief flooded him, mixed with frustration. So close… why did he stop? Is this not what I wanted? His cock ached, denied, pulsing with unmet need. But the edge receded just enough, leaving him trembling, on fire.

Instinctively and almost excitedly, his palm opened again, waiting for Fabian to lean into it. But Fabian didn’t. He grabbed a small hand towel and gently wiped the excess oil across Asher’s entire torso and chest, soft strokes that lingered, almost affectionate, tracing the curves of his pecs, the ridges of his abs, wiping away the streaks of precum like erasing evidence of their sin.

Finally, he stared into the younger man’s eyes, which stared back innocently, wide, glassy, pleading...his cheeks flushed red and his plump lips parted, breath still ragged.

Fabian smiled softly, with a tinge of craving in his eyes. He leaned forward, his face coming down to Asher’s who in response closed his eyes and lifted his chin, heart slamming against his ribs. This is it, Asher thought, suspense building like a held breath, Fabian’s lips so close he could feel the warmth, the faint brush of breath ghosting his mouth. Time stretched, his mind a blur. Please… touch me, taste me again… The tension coiled tighter than the edging, every second an eternity of want, his lips parting further in silent invitation.

“Time’s up,” Fabian murmured, breath hot against Asher’s mouth, the words shattering the moment.

Asher’s eyes snapped open, disappointment crashing through him, sharp, aching, leaving him hollow. No… He flushed deeper, embarrassed, looking for the towel that was trapped across his body gingerly.
“Right, of course,” he awkwardly exclaimed, voice cracking.

He stared at the back of Fabian as he was moved to mindlessly working on the counter at the foot of the massage table. Fabian’s black tank top rode up, revealing his lower back and his pants sitting really low on his hips, showing the top of his crack, no lines, no fabric. Commando. All this time. The realization hit Asher like a spark. That’s why it felt so real in my hand… so hot, so direct. His cock twitched again at the thought, still hard, still leaking.

“You may use the shower to rinse off if you like. You know where it is,” Fabian’s voice broke his distraction.

“Um, yeah sure. Thanks,” Asher murmured, mind reeling, naked, exposed, the air cool on his heated skin.

Fabian held onto the towel without a hint of presenting it to him, which made Asher’s mind run wild. Am I meant to walk over to the bathroom naked? He looked around his surroundings and there was no indication that said otherwise. Fabian was doing his own thing, so Asher gingerly got off the massage table, legs shaky from the denied release, and tiptoed his naked, glistening body toward the bathroom, each step making his ass cheeks jiggle softly, the oil slick between them a reminder of every touch.

Fabian turned around, watching the shiny plump ass tiptoe away, jiggling at every step. He smiled and bit his lips, his own hand traveling inside his pants and wrapping a fist around the girth of his cock.

Hmmm, he exhaled as he stifled a loud moan. He was leaking precum like crazy, thick, hot streams coating his palm as he stroked once, hard, the memory of Asher’s moans fueling him. He leaned on his couch and threw his head back ever so slightly as he closed his eyes and stroked his cock, the shower running in the distance like a soundtrack to his private release.

 

[Radica7]

Continued...

Asher paused at the bathroom door, his hand hovering on the cool brass knob for a long beat. The hallway air still carried traces of warm oil, sweat, and that faint, masculine undertone that clung to Fabian’s skin. His own body felt foreign, overheated, slick, every muscle humming with unfinished business. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, still rigid, the head flushed an angry plum colour and glistening with a fresh bead of precum that refused to be ignored. He swallowed, throat tight, and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was small but clean, white subway tiles catching the soft amber light from a single wall sconce. Steam already lingered faintly in the corners from earlier use, carrying a clean, woody trace of sandalwood and something sharper, maybe eucalyptus. On the built-in glass shelf inside the walk-in shower sat the essentials: a matte-black bottle of charcoal body wash labelled simply “Forge,” a sandalwood shampoo bar still in its paper wrapper, a clear pump bottle of unscented conditioner, and a half-used bar of plain Castile soap resting in a draining dish. Nothing flashy. Everything practical, deliberate, exactly like the man who owned them.

Asher twisted the handle. Water erupted from the wide rectangular rain head with a soft hiss, cold at first, then blooming hot within seconds. He stepped under it without waiting for perfect temperature, gasping as the initial chill slapped his chest and shoulders before the heat rolled in like a tide. The spray pounded down in thick, even sheets, drumming against his scalp, streaming over closed eyelids, plastering dark hair flat to his forehead and the nape of his neck. Water traced every contour Fabian’s hands had mapped; down the broad plane of his pecs, along the carved channels between his abs, pooling briefly in his navel before spilling lower.

He braced both forearms against the far tile wall, head bowed, letting the water hammer his back. The heat sank deep into muscle, loosening what the massage had already softened, but it couldn’t touch the knot of arousal coiled low in his pelvis. If anything, the relentless fall of water made everything more sensitive, each droplet felt like a tiny fingertip ghosting over skin that Fabian had claimed.

His right hand slid down first, palm flat, starting at the swell of his left pec. He cupped the muscle the way Fabian had, fingers splayed wide, thumb dragging slow across the nipple. The bud was already tight, darker than usual from all the earlier pinching and rolling. He caught it between thumb and forefinger, squeezed, then twisted, gentle at first, then firmer. A low, broken sound slipped from his throat, swallowed by the water’s roar. His hips jerked forward once, cock slapping wetly against his inner thigh.

He switched to the right pec, mirroring the motion, kneading the firm slab until it ached in the best way. Memories flickered behind his closed lids...Fabian’s smooth thumbs circling, then pinching in perfect time with the strokes on his shaft. Asher’s breathing turned shallow, soft pants puffing against the tile. The water kept falling, warm and unceasing, running in rivulets over his knuckles as he worked his own nipples, pinch, tug, roll—each pull sending a bright spark straight to his groin.

His left hand stayed braced on the wall, fingers splayed, palm slipping slightly on the wet surface as his body swayed. His right hand drifted lower, tracing the ladder of his abs, fingertips dipping into each shallow groove. Fabian’s knuckles had grazed this exact path, teasing the edge of his pubes without mercy. Asher followed the memory, nails lightly scraping through the trimmed dark hair at his base. His cock jumped at the contact, bobbing heavily, the head brushing his lower stomach and leaving a slick smear of precum that the shower immediately washed away.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft, slow, deliberate. Eight thick inches filled his grip; his thumb and middle finger just barely met on the underside. The skin was fever-hot, velvet over steel, veins standing proud under his palm. He gave one long, unhurried stroke from root to crown. A thick rope of precum welled up instantly, milky-white against the flushed plum colour, before the water rinsed it in a glistening thread down his knuckles.

Asher groaned low, guttural, the sound vibrating in his chest. He leaned harder into the wall, forehead resting on his left forearm now, water streaming over his face and into his open mouth. His hips rocked in tiny, helpless thrusts as he stroked again, slower this time, savouring the slick drag. On the upstroke he twisted his wrist, letting his thumb circle the sensitive frenulum in tight, slippery loops. Each pass made his thighs tremble; each circle pulled another bead of precum to the surface until it dripped steadily, mixing with the shower spray.

His mind replayed the edging in vivid, torturous detail. Fabian’s oiled fist, stronger, surer, stroking him to the brink, thumb milking the slit until he was leaking like a faucet, body strung tight and shaking, only to stop. The denial had left him raw, every nerve screaming. Now, alone under the water, he chased that same edge with desperate focus.

He sped up slightly, short, tight strokes concentrated on the head. His thumb pressed flat against the slit on every pass, spreading the steady leak, making the crown shine. His breathing fractured, soft, ragged pants that turned into quiet, needy whimpers. “Fuck…” The word slipped out, barely audible. His balls drew up tighter, skin wrinkling, heavy and aching. He reached down with his left hand leaving the wall for the first time, and cupped them, rolling the sac gently, feeling the weight shift. The dual sensation, fist on cock, palm on balls made his knees buckle for a second. He caught himself, forearm slamming back against the tile.

Water pounded his shoulders, ran in rivers down his spine, slipped between his ass cheeks to tease the still-sensitive pucker Fabian had exposed and circled but never breached. Asher clenched instinctively, imagining those thumbs pressing there again, dipping just inside. His stroke faltered, hips snapping forward hard into his own hand. He moaned louder, open-mouthed, unrestrained—the sound echoing off the wet tiles.

He pictured Fabian watching from the doorway; black tank riding up, track pants slung low, thick cock straining against the fabric, hand already inside stroking himself to the sight of Asher falling apart. The fantasy tipped him closer. His right hand flew now, fast, slick, twisting on every upstroke, thumb grinding mercilessly over the head. Precum poured freely, strings of it stretching between fingers and cockhead before snapping, only to be replaced by more.

His left hand abandoned his balls and slid back to brace the wall again, fingers clawing at the grout lines as his body tensed. Every muscle locked, abs rippling, thighs quivering, calves flexing. His breaths came in short, frantic bursts, water splashing into his mouth with each gasp.

The coil in his gut wound impossibly tight. Heat surged up his spine, balls pulling so high they ached. He felt the first warning flutter deep inside, the telltale pulse at the base of his shaft.

“Oh—fuck—yes—”

He angled his hips forward, aiming the head toward the tile so the water wouldn’t dilute it. Three more brutal strokes, tight, twisting, thumb mashing the slit—and the dam broke.

The first rope shot out hard, thick and white, splattering the wet tile in front of him before the shower washed it down in milky swirls. The second followed immediately, even heavier, arcing high and striking the wall with an audible slap. Asher’s back bowed, head thrown back, water streaming over his face as he cried out, a raw, broken sound that bounced around the stall. Pulse after pulse ripped through him; thick, heavy spurts that painted his abs, his chest, even catching the underside of his own chin before gravity and water pulled them away. His cock jerked violently in his grip, each contraction forcing another jet, until the last few pulses oozed out in slow, syrupy drops that clung to his knuckles.

He kept stroking through it, slow, gentle now, milking every tremor, every aftershock. His knees shook; he leaned his full weight against the wall, chest heaving, soft whimpers mixing with the steady drum of the shower. The water kept falling, warm and indifferent, rinsing the evidence down the drain while his body shuddered through the long, rolling comedown.

For a full minute he simply stood there, forehead pressed to the cool tile, water pounding his back, breath slowly evening out. His cock softened only slightly, still sensitive, twitching with aftershocks every time the spray hit the head.

Eventually he straightened, turned his face into the stream, let it wash the sweat and remnants of oil from his skin. But the ache, the deep, hollow want, didn’t leave with his release.

Fabian was still out there.

And Asher knew, with a certainty that made his spent cock give one last weak twitch, that this wasn’t over. He didn't know what this was, and as he exhaled he decided he wouldn't think too hard about it for now.

He reached for the charcoal body wash, squeezed a generous amount into his palm, and began to lather—slow, thorough, tracing every place Fabian had touched, already wondering how long he could stay under the water before someone came looking for him.

 

[dorwla]

WOW. this is hot! Got to book a massage right now....

 

[jared]

WOW. this is hot! Got to book a massage right now....

Damn ,,,, so boned !

 

[nyf_04]

this is hot af

 

[HornyTone]

Fuck yea that’s how every massage should be

 

[michaelnola]

Hot and intense story--excellent writing. So inspired, I am booking a massage right now.

 

[George_Pantelis]

Great start

 

[Blasiannn]

Yummmy

 

[HardBignHorny25]

Continued...

Asher paused at the bathroom door, his hand hovering on the cool brass knob for a long beat. The hallway air still carried traces of warm oil, sweat, and that faint, masculine undertone that clung to Fabian’s skin. His own body felt foreign, overheated, slick, every muscle humming with unfinished business. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, still rigid, the head flushed an angry plum colour and glistening with a fresh bead of precum that refused to be ignored. He swallowed, throat tight, and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was small but clean, white subway tiles catching the soft amber light from a single wall sconce. Steam already lingered faintly in the corners from earlier use, carrying a clean, woody trace of sandalwood and something sharper, maybe eucalyptus. On the built-in glass shelf inside the walk-in shower sat the essentials: a matte-black bottle of charcoal body wash labelled simply “Forge,” a sandalwood shampoo bar still in its paper wrapper, a clear pump bottle of unscented conditioner, and a half-used bar of plain Castile soap resting in a draining dish. Nothing flashy. Everything practical, deliberate, exactly like the man who owned them.

Asher twisted the handle. Water erupted from the wide rectangular rain head with a soft hiss, cold at first, then blooming hot within seconds. He stepped under it without waiting for perfect temperature, gasping as the initial chill slapped his chest and shoulders before the heat rolled in like a tide. The spray pounded down in thick, even sheets, drumming against his scalp, streaming over closed eyelids, plastering dark hair flat to his forehead and the nape of his neck. Water traced every contour Fabian’s hands had mapped; down the broad plane of his pecs, along the carved channels between his abs, pooling briefly in his navel before spilling lower.

He braced both forearms against the far tile wall, head bowed, letting the water hammer his back. The heat sank deep into muscle, loosening what the massage had already softened, but it couldn’t touch the knot of arousal coiled low in his pelvis. If anything, the relentless fall of water made everything more sensitive, each droplet felt like a tiny fingertip ghosting over skin that Fabian had claimed.

His right hand slid down first, palm flat, starting at the swell of his left pec. He cupped the muscle the way Fabian had, fingers splayed wide, thumb dragging slow across the nipple. The bud was already tight, darker than usual from all the earlier pinching and rolling. He caught it between thumb and forefinger, squeezed, then twisted, gentle at first, then firmer. A low, broken sound slipped from his throat, swallowed by the water’s roar. His hips jerked forward once, cock slapping wetly against his inner thigh.

He switched to the right pec, mirroring the motion, kneading the firm slab until it ached in the best way. Memories flickered behind his closed lids...Fabian’s smooth thumbs circling, then pinching in perfect time with the strokes on his shaft. Asher’s breathing turned shallow, soft pants puffing against the tile. The water kept falling, warm and unceasing, running in rivulets over his knuckles as he worked his own nipples, pinch, tug, roll—each pull sending a bright spark straight to his groin.

His left hand stayed braced on the wall, fingers splayed, palm slipping slightly on the wet surface as his body swayed. His right hand drifted lower, tracing the ladder of his abs, fingertips dipping into each shallow groove. Fabian’s knuckles had grazed this exact path, teasing the edge of his pubes without mercy. Asher followed the memory, nails lightly scraping through the trimmed dark hair at his base. His cock jumped at the contact, bobbing heavily, the head brushing his lower stomach and leaving a slick smear of precum that the shower immediately washed away.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft, slow, deliberate. Eight thick inches filled his grip; his thumb and middle finger just barely met on the underside. The skin was fever-hot, velvet over steel, veins standing proud under his palm. He gave one long, unhurried stroke from root to crown. A thick rope of precum welled up instantly, milky-white against the flushed plum colour, before the water rinsed it in a glistening thread down his knuckles.

Asher groaned low, guttural, the sound vibrating in his chest. He leaned harder into the wall, forehead resting on his left forearm now, water streaming over his face and into his open mouth. His hips rocked in tiny, helpless thrusts as he stroked again, slower this time, savouring the slick drag. On the upstroke he twisted his wrist, letting his thumb circle the sensitive frenulum in tight, slippery loops. Each pass made his thighs tremble; each circle pulled another bead of precum to the surface until it dripped steadily, mixing with the shower spray.

His mind replayed the edging in vivid, torturous detail. Fabian’s oiled fist, stronger, surer, stroking him to the brink, thumb milking the slit until he was leaking like a faucet, body strung tight and shaking, only to stop. The denial had left him raw, every nerve screaming. Now, alone under the water, he chased that same edge with desperate focus.

He sped up slightly, short, tight strokes concentrated on the head. His thumb pressed flat against the slit on every pass, spreading the steady leak, making the crown shine. His breathing fractured, soft, ragged pants that turned into quiet, needy whimpers. “Fuck…” The word slipped out, barely audible. His balls drew up tighter, skin wrinkling, heavy and aching. He reached down with his left hand leaving the wall for the first time, and cupped them, rolling the sac gently, feeling the weight shift. The dual sensation, fist on cock, palm on balls made his knees buckle for a second. He caught himself, forearm slamming back against the tile.

Water pounded his shoulders, ran in rivers down his spine, slipped between his ass cheeks to tease the still-sensitive pucker Fabian had exposed and circled but never breached. Asher clenched instinctively, imagining those thumbs pressing there again, dipping just inside. His stroke faltered, hips snapping forward hard into his own hand. He moaned louder, open-mouthed, unrestrained—the sound echoing off the wet tiles.

He pictured Fabian watching from the doorway; black tank riding up, track pants slung low, thick cock straining against the fabric, hand already inside stroking himself to the sight of Asher falling apart. The fantasy tipped him closer. His right hand flew now, fast, slick, twisting on every upstroke, thumb grinding mercilessly over the head. Precum poured freely, strings of it stretching between fingers and cockhead before snapping, only to be replaced by more.

His left hand abandoned his balls and slid back to brace the wall again, fingers clawing at the grout lines as his body tensed. Every muscle locked, abs rippling, thighs quivering, calves flexing. His breaths came in short, frantic bursts, water splashing into his mouth with each gasp.

The coil in his gut wound impossibly tight. Heat surged up his spine, balls pulling so high they ached. He felt the first warning flutter deep inside, the telltale pulse at the base of his shaft.

“Oh—fuck—yes—”

He angled his hips forward, aiming the head toward the tile so the water wouldn’t dilute it. Three more brutal strokes, tight, twisting, thumb mashing the slit—and the dam broke.

The first rope shot out hard, thick and white, splattering the wet tile in front of him before the shower washed it down in milky swirls. The second followed immediately, even heavier, arcing high and striking the wall with an audible slap. Asher’s back bowed, head thrown back, water streaming over his face as he cried out, a raw, broken sound that bounced around the stall. Pulse after pulse ripped through him; thick, heavy spurts that painted his abs, his chest, even catching the underside of his own chin before gravity and water pulled them away. His cock jerked violently in his grip, each contraction forcing another jet, until the last few pulses oozed out in slow, syrupy drops that clung to his knuckles.

He kept stroking through it, slow, gentle now, milking every tremor, every aftershock. His knees shook; he leaned his full weight against the wall, chest heaving, soft whimpers mixing with the steady drum of the shower. The water kept falling, warm and indifferent, rinsing the evidence down the drain while his body shuddered through the long, rolling comedown.

For a full minute he simply stood there, forehead pressed to the cool tile, water pounding his back, breath slowly evening out. His cock softened only slightly, still sensitive, twitching with aftershocks every time the spray hit the head.

Eventually he straightened, turned his face into the stream, let it wash the sweat and remnants of oil from his skin. But the ache, the deep, hollow want, didn’t leave with his release.

Fabian was still out there.

And Asher knew, with a certainty that made his spent cock give one last weak twitch, that this wasn’t over. He didn't know what this was, and as he exhaled he decided he wouldn't think too hard about it for now.

He reached for the charcoal body wash, squeezed a generous amount into his palm, and began to lather—slow, thorough, tracing every place Fabian had touched, already wondering how long he could stay under the water before someone came looking for him.

 

[Poepepoe]

So hot

 

[Nolachap]

Continued...

Asher paused at the bathroom door, his hand hovering on the cool brass knob for a long beat. The hallway air still carried traces of warm oil, sweat, and that faint, masculine undertone that clung to Fabian’s skin. His own body felt foreign, overheated, slick, every muscle humming with unfinished business. His cock hung heavy between his thighs, still rigid, the head flushed an angry plum colour and glistening with a fresh bead of precum that refused to be ignored. He swallowed, throat tight, and pushed the door open.

The bathroom was small but clean, white subway tiles catching the soft amber light from a single wall sconce. Steam already lingered faintly in the corners from earlier use, carrying a clean, woody trace of sandalwood and something sharper, maybe eucalyptus. On the built-in glass shelf inside the walk-in shower sat the essentials: a matte-black bottle of charcoal body wash labelled simply “Forge,” a sandalwood shampoo bar still in its paper wrapper, a clear pump bottle of unscented conditioner, and a half-used bar of plain Castile soap resting in a draining dish. Nothing flashy. Everything practical, deliberate, exactly like the man who owned them.

Asher twisted the handle. Water erupted from the wide rectangular rain head with a soft hiss, cold at first, then blooming hot within seconds. He stepped under it without waiting for perfect temperature, gasping as the initial chill slapped his chest and shoulders before the heat rolled in like a tide. The spray pounded down in thick, even sheets, drumming against his scalp, streaming over closed eyelids, plastering dark hair flat to his forehead and the nape of his neck. Water traced every contour Fabian’s hands had mapped; down the broad plane of his pecs, along the carved channels between his abs, pooling briefly in his navel before spilling lower.

He braced both forearms against the far tile wall, head bowed, letting the water hammer his back. The heat sank deep into muscle, loosening what the massage had already softened, but it couldn’t touch the knot of arousal coiled low in his pelvis. If anything, the relentless fall of water made everything more sensitive, each droplet felt like a tiny fingertip ghosting over skin that Fabian had claimed.

His right hand slid down first, palm flat, starting at the swell of his left pec. He cupped the muscle the way Fabian had, fingers splayed wide, thumb dragging slow across the nipple. The bud was already tight, darker than usual from all the earlier pinching and rolling. He caught it between thumb and forefinger, squeezed, then twisted, gentle at first, then firmer. A low, broken sound slipped from his throat, swallowed by the water’s roar. His hips jerked forward once, cock slapping wetly against his inner thigh.

He switched to the right pec, mirroring the motion, kneading the firm slab until it ached in the best way. Memories flickered behind his closed lids...Fabian’s smooth thumbs circling, then pinching in perfect time with the strokes on his shaft. Asher’s breathing turned shallow, soft pants puffing against the tile. The water kept falling, warm and unceasing, running in rivulets over his knuckles as he worked his own nipples, pinch, tug, roll—each pull sending a bright spark straight to his groin.

His left hand stayed braced on the wall, fingers splayed, palm slipping slightly on the wet surface as his body swayed. His right hand drifted lower, tracing the ladder of his abs, fingertips dipping into each shallow groove. Fabian’s knuckles had grazed this exact path, teasing the edge of his pubes without mercy. Asher followed the memory, nails lightly scraping through the trimmed dark hair at his base. His cock jumped at the contact, bobbing heavily, the head brushing his lower stomach and leaving a slick smear of precum that the shower immediately washed away.

He wrapped his fingers around the shaft, slow, deliberate. Eight thick inches filled his grip; his thumb and middle finger just barely met on the underside. The skin was fever-hot, velvet over steel, veins standing proud under his palm. He gave one long, unhurried stroke from root to crown. A thick rope of precum welled up instantly, milky-white against the flushed plum colour, before the water rinsed it in a glistening thread down his knuckles.

Asher groaned low, guttural, the sound vibrating in his chest. He leaned harder into the wall, forehead resting on his left forearm now, water streaming over his face and into his open mouth. His hips rocked in tiny, helpless thrusts as he stroked again, slower this time, savouring the slick drag. On the upstroke he twisted his wrist, letting his thumb circle the sensitive frenulum in tight, slippery loops. Each pass made his thighs tremble; each circle pulled another bead of precum to the surface until it dripped steadily, mixing with the shower spray.

His mind replayed the edging in vivid, torturous detail. Fabian’s oiled fist, stronger, surer, stroking him to the brink, thumb milking the slit until he was leaking like a faucet, body strung tight and shaking, only to stop. The denial had left him raw, every nerve screaming. Now, alone under the water, he chased that same edge with desperate focus.

He sped up slightly, short, tight strokes concentrated on the head. His thumb pressed flat against the slit on every pass, spreading the steady leak, making the crown shine. His breathing fractured, soft, ragged pants that turned into quiet, needy whimpers. “Fuck…” The word slipped out, barely audible. His balls drew up tighter, skin wrinkling, heavy and aching. He reached down with his left hand leaving the wall for the first time, and cupped them, rolling the sac gently, feeling the weight shift. The dual sensation, fist on cock, palm on balls made his knees buckle for a second. He caught himself, forearm slamming back against the tile.

Water pounded his shoulders, ran in rivers down his spine, slipped between his ass cheeks to tease the still-sensitive pucker Fabian had exposed and circled but never breached. Asher clenched instinctively, imagining those thumbs pressing there again, dipping just inside. His stroke faltered, hips snapping forward hard into his own hand. He moaned louder, open-mouthed, unrestrained—the sound echoing off the wet tiles.

He pictured Fabian watching from the doorway; black tank riding up, track pants slung low, thick cock straining against the fabric, hand already inside stroking himself to the sight of Asher falling apart. The fantasy tipped him closer. His right hand flew now, fast, slick, twisting on every upstroke, thumb grinding mercilessly over the head. Precum poured freely, strings of it stretching between fingers and cockhead before snapping, only to be replaced by more.

His left hand abandoned his balls and slid back to brace the wall again, fingers clawing at the grout lines as his body tensed. Every muscle locked, abs rippling, thighs quivering, calves flexing. His breaths came in short, frantic bursts, water splashing into his mouth with each gasp.

The coil in his gut wound impossibly tight. Heat surged up his spine, balls pulling so high they ached. He felt the first warning flutter deep inside, the telltale pulse at the base of his shaft.

“Oh—fuck—yes—”

He angled his hips forward, aiming the head toward the tile so the water wouldn’t dilute it. Three more brutal strokes, tight, twisting, thumb mashing the slit—and the dam broke.

The first rope shot out hard, thick and white, splattering the wet tile in front of him before the shower washed it down in milky swirls. The second followed immediately, even heavier, arcing high and striking the wall with an audible slap. Asher’s back bowed, head thrown back, water streaming over his face as he cried out, a raw, broken sound that bounced around the stall. Pulse after pulse ripped through him; thick, heavy spurts that painted his abs, his chest, even catching the underside of his own chin before gravity and water pulled them away. His cock jerked violently in his grip, each contraction forcing another jet, until the last few pulses oozed out in slow, syrupy drops that clung to his knuckles.

He kept stroking through it, slow, gentle now, milking every tremor, every aftershock. His knees shook; he leaned his full weight against the wall, chest heaving, soft whimpers mixing with the steady drum of the shower. The water kept falling, warm and indifferent, rinsing the evidence down the drain while his body shuddered through the long, rolling comedown.

For a full minute he simply stood there, forehead pressed to the cool tile, water pounding his back, breath slowly evening out. His cock softened only slightly, still sensitive, twitching with aftershocks every time the spray hit the head.

Eventually he straightened, turned his face into the stream, let it wash the sweat and remnants of oil from his skin. But the ache, the deep, hollow want, didn’t leave with his release.

Fabian was still out there.

And Asher knew, with a certainty that made his spent cock give one last weak twitch, that this wasn’t over. He didn't know what this was, and as he exhaled he decided he wouldn't think too hard about it for now.

He reached for the charcoal body wash, squeezed a generous amount into his palm, and began to lather—slow, thorough, tracing every place Fabian had touched, already wondering how long he could stay under the water before someone came looking for him.

This is hot a f.