Erotic massage: sexual stimulation, arousal, and fantasy.” Or so read the graphic brochure. I tore my gaze from the promised pleasure, swallowed hard, and checked my watch for the fifth time as I paced the massage room at Romeo’s. The masseur was now ten minutes late. Damn it, waiting was not my forte.
Sensual Latin rhythms wafted in the background, taking me back to the El Oceano Hotel in Costa del Sol, where I’d waited for three days before accepting that what’s-his-name wasn’t going to show. I swayed to the beat, remembering the hotel’s balmy, open-air ballroom; after I accepted the painful truth, I wasted no time getting into the vacation mood again. I spotted Paolo, the impressively hung pool boy, treated myself to an overabundance of mojitos, and indulged in the best beach sex I’d ever had. Sure cure for rejectionitis. Before the supposed honeymoon ended, there had been many Paolos, and each and every one proved to be just what I’d needed to forget the asshole.
Framed, sepia-toned photographs on the wall distracted me from my heart-mending romp through Spain. Mmm, the genital massage looked inviting. Oily, strong hands sliding over Señor Cock, playing with my balls, working me over until I was hard as stone . . . No help needed there. The photos did a fine job, thank you very much.
Since Spain, I’d enjoyed living out my beachfront fantasy with several men in the rooms at Romeo Club. One pseudo-Paolo heightened my interest when he massaged my ass—inside with his ample prick and outside with strong hands—all while he had me bent over a large piece of driftwood. My orgasm that night blew my world apart, rocket’s red glare and all that.
Another glance at my watch fed my impatience. Fifteen minutes late, and me cooling my heels with a boner the size of New Jersey. Damn it!
I picked up a bottle of Romeo Club Midnight Madness Aromatic Massage Oil. Their own brand. Impressive. All natural, sweet almond scented. Condom-safe. Hmm, good to know.
The white cloth covering an array of defined ridges and bumps captured my attention, leading my imagination to the pleasurable but perverse, firmly championing huge butt plugs and dildos. I do love having my ass stretched, and when pseudo-Paolo had indicated the use of anal toys during the mini-massage, seeking out the club’s masseur had required no further incentive.
I’d barely lifted the corner of the cloth when the door opened, leaving me to wonder if I was right about what lay beneath. I jerked my head up and salivated as a lean, muscular guy with legs that went on for days strolled in and shut the door. My entire body took notice. Damn, he was gorgeous! Not a blond hair out of place, and a strut that exuded confidence. Bare-chested and six-pack solidly defined, he filled out his track pants admirably. My knees turned to jelly, and we hadn’t even been introduced.
He approached with an outstretched arm and a smile that lit his eyes. “Hey, I’m Kyle. And you must be Brady.”
Kyle’s firm, vigorous handshake assured me my body would be well tended in his hands.
“That I am.”
“Sorry I’m a few minutes late.” With a palm to his crotch, Kyle adjusted his dick. “Some things can’t be hurried; you know what I mean?”
