“Mark,” said Neil with a loud laugh, flabbergasted. “That’s nuts.”
“Well,” I said lamely, “all the pieces seemed to fall into place.” As Neil was still laughing, and it was late, I shushed him.
“No one can hear,” he reminded me. “Thad’s room is across the hall, at the back of the house, and Barb is in her quarters behind the kitchen. We can hoot and holler all night.” He slipped out of his loafers, bent, and picked them up.
“Maybe
you
can,” I told him, heading for the dressing room (more precisely, a large closet), “but I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“Party pooper,” he pouted.
Our banter continued, none of it important, as we prepared for bed. We yakked in the closet, yakked in the bathroom, yakked as we passed each other, setting out clothes for the morning. Our backchat petered out as I made a last visit to the bath, needing to pick something from my teeth that I’d missed while brushing. Neil was in the dressing room, rattling hangers, sliding drawers.
Standing at the sink in a comfortable old pair of linen lounge shorts (I have always worn something—shorts, robe, whatever—during the transitions between daytime dress and bedtime nudity and back again), I watched the offending gray fleck of gristle swirl down the drain. Finally, I switched off the light and returned to the bedroom.
Neil was still fussing in the closet, so I checked the clock radio’s alarm and, finding it properly set, switched off the lamps, except the one on my nightstand. Stepping out of my shorts, I tossed them onto a nearby chair, then lay on the bed. With arms crossed behind my head, I watched the shadows cast by Neil in the dressing room, and I waited.
After a few moments of dead silence, Neil appeared in the doorway, and contrary to my assumption, he was not ready for bed. Softly, he said, “Surprise.”
Backlit by the closet’s yellow glow, he wore all white—a tight T-shirt that showed every gym-honed feature of his torso, a crisp pair of pleated tennis shorts with cuffs that hugged his upper thighs, ribbed cotton crew socks folded down to his ankles, and a spotless pair of all-white leather low-tops, fresh from the box. He knew my every little fetish, and there he stood, punching buttons even I had forgotten. With a smallish workout towel slung around his neck, he looked like a tennis pro heading out for a match. No, more precisely, he looked like a masseur—an erotic, hunky fantasy of a masseur—arriving for duty at my bedside.
“Payback time?” I asked with a grin.
Smiling, he nodded, once.
“Right here?” I meant the bed. I was ready to roll over.
Still smiling, he gently shook his head.
Okay, I got it—he wasn’t going to speak. “Where, then?”
He turned, switched off the closet light, and moved across the room, where he opened one of the doors leading to the sunporch. He come-hithered with a tilt of his head.
The sight of him, the anticipation of what was to follow, had already aroused me, and he smiled at the sight of it as I rose from the bed, turned off the last lamp, and crossed the room to the sunporch. He stepped aside so I could enter first, then followed, closing the door behind us.
The scene was set. Earlier that day, I don’t know when, he had carefully arranged everything for this dreamlike encounter. The low bench in front of the sofa would serve as his massage table; its cushions were draped and tucked with a smooth white sheet, devoid of the slightest crease or wrinkle. Several rolled white towels would serve as pillows and props, as needed. A stack of huge, folded, white bath towels also stood at the ready, for later. On a little table near the bench, a tray held an assortment of oils and lotions. Had I staged this event, I would doubtless have added music and candles, but Neil had conspicuously nixed these elements, preferring the simple serenity of night. Warm air drifted through the outside wall of screens, as did an oblique shaft of cool moonlight, casting tree-dappled shadows on the white-sheeted bench. I would like to think that this last detail had also been planned by Neil, almanac in hand, but in all likelihood, this bit of astronomical mood-lighting was the product of happy happenstance.
The total effect left me momentarily breathless, and I paused to kiss Neil before we began. With his face in my hands, I touched my lips to his mouth. He returned the kiss tenderly, but again there was no passion in it—he knew that if we opened the door to lovemaking just then, his long-plotted plan would be scuttled by quick rapture. Stepping back from me, he gestured that I should lie down.
Stepping to the bench, I asked, “Face up or down first?”
He pointed down.
And I complied. It was a little awkward getting settled, as I rarely lie flat on my stomach, but Neil waited silently as I adjusted myself, the most crucial adjustment being the position of my nearly erect penis—it ended up pointing down between my legs, not up against my belly. With that conundrum solved, he took one of the rolled towels and positioned it under my head, facing me toward the screens, where I could see the moonlit lawn under a black sky, but sideways.
I also saw Neil’s legs as he stepped to the side table, where his tray of unguents awaited. I heard the gentle pop of a bottle’s plastic cap. He squeezed a small puddle of oil into one palm, then rubbed his hands together for several long seconds, distributing and warming the oil. Stepping back to my head, he faced my body lengthwise.
He spread his feet slightly, and I saw one foot at the corner of my vision. I saw the shoe he’d bought to please me, the exacting crisscross of its laces. I saw his shin, the muscled calf behind it, and the sparse, silky nap of hair that shone silver in the bluish light.
Then I felt his touch as he leaned and placed his fingertips on my neck behind my ears. He began slowly, moving his fingers in tiny circles that barely touched my skin. While doing this, he bent close and blew his warm, soft breath into my hair. His lips grazed the stubble of my neck; the tip of his nose slid between my shoulders; then he lifted his head.
The circles traced by his fingers now grew wider, till his hands had worked their way down my neck, under my chin. With both hands at my throat, he lifted my head from its nest and gently flexed it. My head seemed to bob on a placid sea. The trees beyond the screen swung lazily, as if suspended from a slow pendulum, till my head was again set to rest on its makeshift pillow. The trees stopped swinging. The tensions of the previous week—something to do with mushrooms?—ebbed from my muscles and my mind. My eyes stared blankly at the backyard.
Neil moved around me to pour more oil on his hands, which he again spread and warmed between his palms before returning to my head. Standing wider now (I saw the angle of one leg), he touched my shoulders, then slid his palms down my spine, working the oil across my entire back. For a moment, the wetness of my skin felt cold, but it was soon warmed by the friction of Neil’s hands, kneading my back with long, forceful, steady strokes.
This could go on forever, I thought, and indeed, it seemed to. Neil was breathing harder, and I could tell he was starting to sweat—his pores projected the scent of Vétiver, which hung over my head like a mist. The pungent smell, the sliding pressure on my back, my lover’s touch, the dreamy view of trees and moonlight, all converged to lull me into a dreamlike state, a waking trance. Time stopped. My life could be measured only in terms of the sensations that enveloped my body.
I wasn’t even aware that Neil had moved around to my side, the side away from my outdoor view. His foot had left the corner of my vision, though, and the sound of his breathing no longer came from overhead. He was working his way down my back, past my buttocks, toward my legs. Another pause allowed him to replenish the oil in his hands, then he began working a thigh with long, brisk strokes toward my knee. He repeated this routine on my other leg, continuing with the calf, toward my foot. He switched legs again, and when both had been fully oiled and pampered, he focused his soothing toil on my feet. Each toe received his attention, followed by a brisk stimulation of the soles. I may have moaned. I felt drool moisten the towel under my head.
One at a time, he lifted each of my legs, resting a foot on his shoulder so he could massage each shin, stopping at the knee. Then he finished off my legs with long strokes, working back up to my hips. During our travels together, we had frequently indulged in spa treatments when visiting better hotels, and so far, Neil was doing a credible job of re-creating the mood and movements of a professional massage. At this point, however, his performance took a distinctive turn.
With both hands, he began to rock my hips slowly, inching upward to the mounds of my buttocks. This continued uninterrupted for some time, and I felt a woozy smile twist my mouth as I vacantly watched the tranquil scene beyond the wall of screens. With his thumbs, he kneaded each cheek more forcefully, circling nearer the crack. As his oiled fingers neared their target, my penis (which had relaxed with the rest of me) became suddenly alert, growing hot between my legs. Neil had apparently been watching for this sign, for I instantly felt a warm, slippery finger trace the length of my penis—or was I feeling the tip of his tongue? I could not see his movements, only the scene outdoors, which grew steadily more surreal.
When I felt his finger slide the length of my crack, whisking over the rim of my anus, I gasped—not out of fear or surprise, but as an involuntary reflex of pleasure. Suddenly fingers were at play around and in me, with my penis and testicles getting the full treatment as well. It seemed he had acquired an extra pair of hands, but I dismissed any curiosity about the dextrous mechanics Neil was employing to accomplish this feat—I was too swept away to care, lost in a warm, slippery ecstasy. Bleary-eyed, I gazed at the midsummer night. Under the moonlight, mushrooms danced in rings around the base of every tree. They chattered and giggled, playing leapfrog. I moaned loudly, transported to a fantasy world rooted in Neil’s fingers.
Then I saw his face. Neil had moved around the bench, and his smile was aimed squarely at my eyes. With a blink of recognition, I smiled back, and he nodded, once. I knew his meaning. We weren’t finished. Hardly. It was time for me to roll over onto my back.
As I had relaxed to the point of weakness, he helped lift and turn me, settling my head in the towel nest he plumped for me. With eyes now aimed straight up, I saw the angled ceiling of the porch. Then I saw Neil lean over my head as he began to oil my shoulders and my chest. I didn’t know how many minutes had passed since I’d first lain down, but Neil had been working hard, and I saw that he had worked up a sweat. His T-shirt, which clung so beautifully to the body I worshiped, was wet, and even in the semidarkness, I could easily distinguish the brown circles of his nipples beneath the white cotton. As he began to work the oil farther down my chest, his crotch began to nudge the top of my head. I was looking right into the radiating wrinkles of his shorts; his bulge grazed my forehead.
I begged softly, “Please.”
He stopped, looking down at me with a questioning gaze.
“Take off those shorts.”
He smiled—my wish was his command. With a single, sure gesture, he unsnapped and unzipped his skimpy white uniform. Leaning back for a moment, he let the shorts drop and kicked them from his feet. Then he was back, assuming his previous position, leaning forward over me as his hands swirled oil around my belly. This time, however, his cock hung in my face, bobbing with his every move.
Is it possible to explain the goofy rapture of such a sight, the unexpected breathlessness of such a moment? In the telling, it sounds so silly or dirty. But the moment—and all it represented—was exquisite. He stood there sweating, busy at a task he loved, and my only role that night was to remain purely passive, to allow him the pleasure of creating pleasure for me. I could not resist, of course, taking a slurp or two at the meaty fruit that swung above me, but that was gratuitous, and I understood that my instincts were at odds with the slow, disciplined ritual Neil was performing for me. So I relaxed, watched, and left him in command.
He proceeded as before, when I had lain facedown. Moving around the table, he massaged my chest, stomach, thighs, legs, and feet. Then, getting up on the bench, kneeling between my legs, he again moved steadily toward my groin. The sight of him at work on me was in itself enough to induce another trance of dancing mushrooms, but by now my arousal was so extreme, the room’s entire energy was focused in a searing pinpoint between my legs—no nodding off now.
Neil placed my ankles on his shoulders and bent forward; the finale had begun. With hands and mouth, he manipulated and probed me, front and back. Groaning, sensing something powerful building within me, I let my head fall back, needing air.
“Watch
this
,” he told me in an urgent whisper, the first words he’d uttered since announcing his surprise payback.
I lifted my head in time to lock eyes with him. We both broke into wide smiles as my orgasm ripped through his hand and arched above us, barely missing his face. It came in three pulses, the last being the strongest, shooting higher than a foot, maybe two—though it felt like yards.
Before I could catch my breath or utter a sound, Neil drew one foot onto the bench and shifted his oily ministrations to himself. He was ready. Within mere seconds, his body convulsed. From deep within, a guttural sound escaped his mouth; his fist sprayed a thick backlog of hot semen. It landed on my chest, mingling with my own.
I held out my arms for him—the first voluntary movement I had made since lying down. He stretched out on top of me, his wet T-shirt spreading the gobs of our mixed orgasms against my bare skin. It leaked from the sides, trickling cold against my ribs. I laughed as our lips met.
“I love you,” we said.
He asked, “It was adequate, then?”
“Paid in full.”
He pulled back an inch or two. “It doesn’t have to be over, you know.”
“You bet, kiddo.” We had managed to rekindle something we had lost, and I knew that neither one of us would let go of it again.
He rolled off me and stood. “God, what a mess.” He laughed, peeling the sweaty, cum-smeared T-shirt from his chest.