My Massage Therapist Called Me a Good Boy

Everyone is 18.

Chapter 1: First Release

I started going to the team massage therapist during my sophomore year because of the tightness in my hamstrings. The kind of pain that radiates up your back and makes you feel like an old man before you hit twenty. I swam competitively in high school, and even now I kept up my training for intramural meets and weekend triathlons. I had that lean, muscular build girls always described as "athletic," with wide shoulders, a tight core, and quads that barely fit in jeans. It wasn’t just that, though. I had a reputation. Locker rooms and parties made sure of that. I didn’t exactly ask for the attention, but when word spread about the meat I was packing in my underwear, I didn’t deny it either. It made hookups easier and gave me confidence. Being popular didn’t hurt.

At first, when I went to the uni spa, I always asked for a woman. I wasn’t trying to be rude about it, it just felt easier. Less complicated. But lately, they’d been short-staffed, and I kept getting paired with Brecht.

Brecht was a senior, tall and lean with those wiry forearms that looked like they belonged to a rower or a violinist. He was from the Netherlands, spoke English perfectly, except for this occasional, off-kilter rhythm in his vowels that made his words linger. That, and the fact that he never smiled unless he really meant it. I noticed that pretty quickly.

By the third or fourth session, I was used to the feeling of a guy working his hands along my legs and ass, kneading into my calves, hammies and glutes. He never got weird. He was professional. Firm. Quiet. Focused.

Still, it took me a while to stop tensing every time he pressed deep into the center of my glutes. He always pulled the towel down just enough to get the angle he needed. He knew every inch of my body, and he was efficient. Sometimes the towel stayed down below my ass, at the edge of my thighs. My hamstrings go hard when I swim, and he could tell what I needed. He worked them like he was trying to fix something that was broken.

One day in October, I came in extra sore after a long training weekend. My quads were shot. I lay face-down on the table and let the towel slip low. I knew I wasn’t exactly covered. I felt the cool air on my balls, and my shaft rested on the table between my legs, angled down. I didn’t say anything. Neither did he. But I felt very aware that he could see it.

He started on my legs like usual, with slow circles and deeper pressure, then moved up to the base of my glutes. I exhaled and told myself to stop tensing. No matter how intense the pressure got, I stayed still.

Then it happened.

He noticed that I was doing better at not tensing up when he went hard.

He said it, almost absentmindedly, in his low Dutch lilt. 

“Good boy.”

It should have been nothing. Just a phrase. Two stupid words. But my mind was stuck between a lightning strike of nerves, and a shiver down my spine. If it were one of my buddies, I would’ve chuckled. Maybe called him a fag. But it was the guy who had been giving my body intense pleasure three times a week. Within seconds of hearing his words, I felt my shaft twitch. I was suddenly ashamed, and I couldn’t acknowledge it. But something about it hit me in this electric, embarrassing, addictive way. It felt like my whole spine lit up.

The fact is, I already knew I had a praise pink. I told every girl I was with, to tell me how much they liked my big dick. And it was big, it had won every size competition I’d ever been in, except the one with my brother. And that was only lost by a centimeter in length. I still beat him on thickness.

On the massage table, my heart was pounding, my face flushed, and worse, much worse, I felt myself getting hard. Not a little. Fully. Pressed against the table. My meat couldn't hide, 

And the thing was, he kept going. He kept working my thighs, both inner and outer. His thumb brushed close to the crease of my groin, not quite crossing the line, but close enough to make my nerves fire. His thumbs kneaded all the way into my ass, and I became aware that he was close to my hole, even though I never thought about that before. The air in the room felt warmer. I started to sweat.

He said nothing else. Just massaged.

He finished me up, said goodbye, and left the room. Alone in the room, I quickly wacked off to a the weirdest ograsm of my life, right into my towel, before discarding it into the towel hamper, dressing, and getting the fuck out of there. I put it out of my mind, and didn't come back for a massage for a while.

But, two weeks later, I found myself back on the table. I had almost convinced myself that the "good boy" moment had been some fluke, a heat-of-the-moment reaction I’d read too far into. But when I came in that afternoon, Brecht gave me a quick nod, his usual quiet confidence on full display. He didn’t even ask how I was feeling. He just gestured to the table.

I stripped down and lay on my stomach, the towel once again low enough that I was half-exposed, indicating wordlessly that my hamstrings and glutes needed work. And, maybe, I was saying a bit more than that. He didn’t adjust my towel. Instead, he warmed up his hands, placed them on my calves, and started in with strong, steady pressure. This time, though, it didn’t feel like he was just working through knots. His fingers lingered at the backs of my knees, moved slowly along the inner seams of my thighs, and he pressed his thumbs so deeply into the base of my glutes that I gasped. I think he missed me.

I stayed quiet. So did he.

When he got to that same spot again, where my thighs met my pelvis, he let one hand rest there a moment longer. Just enough to make me twitch.

"Good boy," he said, very soft this time.

I swallowed and didn’t respond. My whole body was flushed with heat, and I could feel the tension rolling through me, different from soreness. I was hard again, pressed against the towel, and I knew he could see it. He didn’t stop. He just kept going like it was part of the treatment, even though we both knew something else was happening.

By the time I sat up, my head was spinning, and I avoided eye contact. He passed me my hoodie like nothing unusual had happened. But something had. Something subtle and loaded and completely unspoken.

By November, the line between what was clinical and what was charged had blurred to the point of vanishing. Every session that I went to, he would find the exact right moment to say, "Good boy." I would get a boner, and he would finish the massage. A couple times I even left a string of pre-cum on the table afterward. And every time, I would jerk out a load and leave it in the towel hamper.

Then came the Friday before Thanksgiving break.

“Full-body?” he asked, a little bit of a different tone than usual. I nodded. I didn’t have to fill out the form anymore.

I was on my back this time. He covered everything but my legs with the towel and started with long, confident strokes from my ankles to my thighs. My eyes were closed, but I was breathing a little too deeply. The room felt quieter than usual. Still.

When his hands reached higher, thighs, then hip flexors, I felt myself twitch, then relax. Again. And this time, he didn’t pull away.

His hands paused for just a breath.

Then, very softly, he said it again.
“Good boy.”

I opened my eyes.

He didn’t stop.

He moved around the table, and when I looked at him, his expression was unreadable. Professional. Calm. Except his cheeks were a little flushed.

I didn’t say anything. Just met his eyes. He adjusted the towel on my crotch, then paused. He was asking a question without words, and I looked him in the eye, basically telling him telepathically, do it.

—[]—

He started moving his hands down, over the towel, and directly grabbed my shaft through the fabric. A jolt of sensation shot through my body. "So big," he murmured, like he knew exactly what I wanted to hear.

My mind was a whirlwind of emotions. Shock, excitement, arousal, all crashing together. My chest tightened and my breath quickened. I could see his bulge growing in his pants, right next to my face, and it turned me on to know that I was doing that to him. His hand rubbed me through the soft towel firmly and steadily, and I could feel myself losing control. My heart started to race, and my body tensed, then relaxed.

"Good boy," he said, and I nearly came on the spot. I grabbed his wrist, panic mixing with the pleasure, and he stopped. I didn't even want to prolong it, rather I just needed a moment to process what was happening.

"Relax, stud," he said, his voice calm but commanding. I did. And when he repeated, "Good boy," I melted all over again.

He pulled the towel away, and my thick, hard, and veiny cock stood straight up, hovering over my abs for a second before he wrapped his oil-slicked hand around it. His stroking was firm, his grip perfect, but he knew how to edge me. He’d pause every few seconds, teasing, his fingers brushing my balls, and then he'd start up again, driving me closer and closer. At some point, he pulled his own cock out, letting it jut out in front of my face. He was big. And the sight of an uncut cock, something I'd never seen in person before, added to the surreal nature of whatever the fuck was happening today.

Without thinking, I reached for it, giving it a few tentative strokes. That’s when he bent down and took my dick in his mouth. I lost it. The warmth, the wetness, the taboo of it all, it was too much.

"I’m gonna cum," I warned, but he bobbed faster, swallowing me down. Just as I started pulsing, he shoved an oil-laden finger into my ass, probing my hole shockingly and roughly, and I came harder than I ever had in my life.

"Eat my jizz, baby," I choked out instinctively between body convulsions, the words slipping out before I could think. It's what I always said to girls. It was electric, raw, and so fucking hot I couldn’t believe it was real.

When it was over, he stood, wiped his mouth, and looked at me with that calm, unreadable expression.

"Same time Thursday?" he asked, his face telling me nothing.

"Yeah," I managed, my voice shaky.

"Good," he said, pausing for a moment before grabbing his crotch. "I’ll massage you on the inside next time too." And just like that, he left the room, leaving me in a bizarre state, physically spent, and already counting down the hours til my Thursday appointment.

When I stopped at the front desk on the way out to make my usual next appointment, the friendly guy spoke to me more than normal.

After he confirmed my slot, he said “Brecht says you’ve gotten good at relaxing.”

I nodded, smiling in a weird way, butterflies in my stomach.

“That shows progress," he said, then turned back to the computer.

I turned to the door, a strange thrilling sensation in my body, trying to think of any gay guys I knew that I could talk to to get ready for Thursday.