Beauty & The Jock - Part 4

Smooth Sack

Everyone in this story is 18+

Kyle came back on Friday. Again.
Same time. Same casual attitude. Like this had somehow become a weekly ritual he didn’t even think twice about.

He walked in through the front, gave my mom the usual polite nod, then followed me toward the treatment rooms like it was no big deal. Like this wasn’t his third full-body massage from the gay kid he ignored at school.

“I think my thighs needs some work today,” he said, dropping his gym bag in the corner. “Think I pulled something during sprints.”

I turned on the warmer light, lit the eucalyptus candle, and started setting up the table. “Do you do anything besides hurt yourself at practice?”

“It’s football,” he said, pulling off his hoodie. “Hurting yourself is practice.”

Meanwhile, he was already peeling off his hoodie and shirt, movements loose and practiced. I looked over just in time to see him hook his thumbs into the waistband of his sweats and push them down in one clean motion.

He scratched lightly along his hip, same spot as before.

“Still itching?” I asked, grabbing a fresh pair of gloves.

“Less,” he said, glancing down. “But, like… can you check if it looks better?”

“You want me to inspect it again?”

He shrugged, already stepping out of his briefs like we were just picking up where we left off. “You’re the expert.”

I pulled on the gloves. “Alright. Lie back.”

He climbed onto the table, completely naked, and casually reached for one of the smaller towels from the side tray, not even one of the proper body-sized ones, folded it once and dropped it over his crotch like it was doing anything.

“That's the towel you’re going with?” I asked, raising a brow.

“Works fine,” he said, smirking. It really didn’t. But I let it go.

I stepped in and gently lifted the towel, inspecting the skin along his groin. It had healed a lot in just a week, less red, no flaking, and the cracking along the crease was gone. The patch of hair was still thick and dark, but the irritation underneath was clearly calming down.

“Looks way better,” I said. “You’re healing.”

“Nice,” he muttered, sounding genuinely relieved.

I peeled off the gloves and tossed them into the bin, then poured oil into my palms. “Alright. Let’s work on those thighs.”

He lay back fully again, that same little towel staying precariously in place as he stretched his legs out. I started at the tops of his thighs, slow and deep. His skin was warm from practice, flushed and slightly tacky from sweat. As I worked deeper into the muscle, his breathing slowed.

“God,” he muttered after a few minutes, voice low and dazed. “Your hands are, like… what even are they?”

“Witchcraft, I think” I chuckled.

His body twitched slightly when I pushed into a knot along the inside of his thigh, but he didn’t tense. He just let out a long exhale and melted back into the table. His head lolled to one side. Eyes half-closed.

By the time I moved up to his lower back, he was practically vibrating with contentment.

I watched his face for a second, then said, “So, if you want that itch to fully go away, there’s one more thing you could try.”

He cracked one eye open. “Yeah?”

“Hair removal,” I said. “Not shaving. Not waxing. Something gentle. Cream-based. It'll cut down on moisture and friction. That’s probably what caused most of it.”

He blinked, then nodded. “Don’t you do that stuff here?”

“I know how,” I said. “Usually it’s my mom, though.”

“I want you to do it,” he said without hesitation. “I trust you.”

I froze for half a second. Not because I was nervous, but because of the way he said it. It landed harder than I first figured.

“Okay,” I said. “Lie back. Stay still.”

I grabbed the kit from the shelf, gloves, cream, fresh towels, everything. The whole time I kept my hands steady, professional, but inside, my pulse was tapping out a different rhythm.

He didn’t even look nervous. He just lay there, towel off, legs slightly apart, letting me work. I applied the cream gently, avoiding the more sensitive skin, spreading it through the coarse hair. I focused on being careful, efficient.

Somewhere in the middle of it, I noticed the twitch. Then the slow shift.

By the time I wiped the cream away, he wasn’t hard, but he wasn’t soft either. Just heavy. Resting there like it had nowhere else to be. He didn’t react to the fact that I was right there, cleaning him up. And I tried not to react either.

“Alright,” I said, stepping back. “Let me check the angle. Can you stand for a sec?”

He stood, casual as ever, and I crouched slightly to check the hairline and skin. Everything looked smooth. Slightly pink, but clean. As I tilted my head to get a better view.

Something warm landed on my upper lip.

I instinctively licked it away.

Then froze.

I looked up.

Kyle’s face was blank for half a second, then turned red.

“Dude,” I said slowly. “Did you just… pee a little?”

“No! No, I swear,” he said, hands up like I was accusing him of murder. “It wasn’t pee. It was just… um. You know.”

I narrowed my eyes. “Like… pre?”

He nodded, eyes wide. “Yeah. Just that.”

I stared at him. Then laughed.

Like, really laughed. Doubled over a little, hands on my knees.

“Oh my god. This is officially the most insane thing that’s ever happened to me. The quarterback of the football team just pre-cummed in my mouth.”

“I’m not even the captain,” he snapped, but then he smirked like he was in on the joke. “And shut up. I told you. I’m a virgin.”

I wiped my mouth with my sleeve, still laughing. “Like how is that possible?”

“It just is,” he said. “You’re the first person who’s ever really touched me there. Unless you count super awkward medical stuff.”

It wasn’t awkward. Not in the way it should’ve been. It was just absurd. And weirdly… kind of sweet.

Kyle let out a short laugh, too.

“Why did the most embarrassing thing ever happen, but I don’t really care that much?”

“Because it’s me,” I said. “You’ve already shown me your junk, asked me to inspect a rash on your balls, and made me buy your antifungal cream.”

He laughed harder. “Yeah, okay. You’re in too deep now.”

“Exactly. What’s one drop of pre among friends?”

He smiled. “Right. Friends.”

He reached for the towel, paused, looked down, and winced.

“Yeah… I’m gonna need a minute to get dressed.”

I nodded, backing toward the door. “Sure thing. I’ll be out at the counter.”

I stepped out and pulled the door shut behind me.

A while later, he came out freshly dressed, hair still damp from the sink.

“I can’t wait till tomorrow, the party in gonna be lit” he said, giving me this tiny half-smile before walking out.

When I went back into the room, the towel he’d used was still there.

The towel he’d used was still there. The small one.

It was bunched near the edge of the table, folded unevenly, like it had been left in a hurry. Right in the center, the fabric was stained not just damp, but visibly slick, and streaked with clear, slightly dried strings of something unmistakable. Precum.

No question.

It had soaked into the towel in long, thread-like trails, some still glistening faintly under the soft light. I stared at it, not because I was grossed out, but because it was just… a lot. Like, volume-wise. And the fact that it had happened right there, with me crouched in front of him, made something low in my stomach twist.

I swallowed. My jeans tightened instantly.

I tucked myself on instinct, tugged my shirt down, and looked away fast. This was still work, technically. Still the salon. But my brain had already gone places I couldn’t exactly walk back from.