5. The Medical Massages” Begin
THE "MEDICAL MASSAGES” BEGIN
KENT
The office is colder than the rest of the house, a holdover from when I used to smoke cigars here, before Jeannine banned even the memory of tobacco from my pores.
The air smells faintly of dust and spines—leather-bound journals, my own medical monographs, a handful of rare books I keep for the feel of them in my hands, the way their bindings groan when opened.
Every surface is matte and dark: the shelves are black walnut, the rug a faded jewel pattern.
At the center of the room, positioned like an altar, is the massage table.
Now, it’s almost eight-thirty. I sit at my desk, facing the table, a sheet of patient charts fanned out before me but unread.
The desk lamp burns low, painting the room in sepia.
I’m wearing a loose henley, gray, the sleeves shoved to my elbows, and black sweatpants that are clean and soft.
My posture is relaxed—at least it looks that way—but my jaw is locked and my knuckles have gone white against the arm of the chair.
Every fifteen seconds I tap my knee, a percussion of impatience, until I force myself to stop.
The bottles of oil are arranged on the credenza: neat, precise.
I chose sandalwood for tonight—strong, almost medicinal, with a thread of something sweet under the surface.
The oil is warm, waiting in a small ceramic bowl next to a folded white towel.
I double-checked the temperature twice, afraid of it being too cold, or worse, too hot.
I stare at the table, imagining her hands, and the pulse in my groin intensifies.
I haven’t touched myself all day, not since the shower this morning, and the restraint is a kind of punishment.
My cock presses hard against the inside of the sweatpants, obvious and unsubtle, but I make no move to hide it.
If anything, the anticipation is its own species of pleasure, more electric with every minute that passes.
The house is silent, insulated by the storm windows and the thick walls.
Occasionally, I hear the furnace whir to life, or the creak of the oak stairs settling under their own weight.
I close my eyes, listening for her footfalls, and when the sound finally comes—soft, measured, approaching from the hallway—I feel my entire body tighten.
The knock is barely audible, more a feather-touch than a request for entry.
I open my eyes and stand, careful to move slowly, to preserve the illusion of control.
My erection strains as I walk to the door, and I imagine for a second that she’ll see it and recoil, or laugh, or say nothing at all and let it haunt the air.
I open the door. Mary Kate stands on the threshold, a shadow of uncertainty around her, but she holds herself upright, shoulders squared.
She wears a simple heathered tee and faded jeans, the kind that ride low on her hips, and her feet are bare, toenails painted a dusty rose.
Her hair is loose and golden, falling in soft waves to the middle of her back.
She’s not wearing makeup, or if she is, it’s invisible, and her skin is fresh and a little pink from the cold.
Her eyes find my face, linger a half-second longer than necessary, then dart away—toward the table, the rug, the closed bottle of oil.
I notice her hands, fingers curled tight around the phone in her palm, knuckles pale.
For a second, her lower lip catches between her teeth, as if she’s biting back a question, and then she releases it, exhaling slow.
“Hi Kent,” she says.
“Hi,” I say, my voice rougher than usual.
I step aside, gesture her in with a flick of my head. She walks past me, her body heat trailing in her wake, and the scent of her shampoo—something sweet, clean, not childish but not quite adult—floods the room. I close the door, locking us in.
She stops a few feet from the table, arms folded across her chest. She isn’t wearing a bra; I can tell from the way her large breasts shift under the cotton, the faint shadow of a nipple catching in the lamp light.
The sight is so distracting I have to look away, fix my gaze on the oil bottles, the clock, anything but her.
I clear my throat, voice even and measured, the way I speak to nervous patients before a procedure. “You came.”
Mary Kate laughs, a brittle sound. “I said I would.”
I nod, say nothing, and let the silence do its work. After a moment, I cross to the massage table and adjust the towel, squaring it along the vinyl pad.
“I thought we’d start with basic technique,” I say. “It’s easier than it sounds, but you have to be precise. It’s uncomfortable if you’re not.”
She watches my hands as I speak, her eyes wide and blue, pupils dilated. I sense her heartbeat, her breath, the micro-movements of her fingers against her ribcage. She’s terrified, but she’s also present—fully here, not running or deflecting, just waiting to see what happens next.
I explain the basics, as I would to a medical student: “It’s a matter of pressure.
The stones collect along the epididymis, sometimes in the cord.
You need to break them up, but not bruise the tissue.
Most people use too much force, but it’s actually about sustained, rolling motion. Like kneading dough.”
She nods, lips parted, the tip of her tongue flicking over her lower lip in a nervous gesture.
I hesitate, then: “Do you want to practice a little first? Or should we just—?”
She cuts me off, voice small. “No, there isn’t really any way to practice. Let’s just do it.”
I breathe out, surprised by the rush of relief that fills my lungs.
I let the sweatpants drop around my ankles, the henley following in a single, practiced motion, and step out of the pile.
I do it with the same detachment I use in the exam room, but the stakes are much higher here, the audience infinitely more important.
My cock is fully hard now, the head purpled, a vein running the length of the shaft.
I catch her staring at the glimmering tip, but she doesn’t look away.
I climb onto the table, lie back, and fold my arms at my sides. The table is firm, the vinyl cold against my bare skin, and the towel crinkles under my back. My erection stands straight up, almost obscene, but I let it. There’s no point in pretending.
“Start with the oil,” I say, gesturing to the bottles. “Use more than you think. It reduces friction.”
She nods, steps closer, and selects the sandalwood. Her hands tremble as she pours a small pool into her palm, then rubs her hands together, warming it to body temperature. The smell is immediate, heavy and sweet, overlaying the chill of the room.
Her first touch is tentative—a feather-stroke along my thigh, as if testing for a reaction.
I keep my face blank, breathing slow, but the nerve endings there are already humming.
She moves to my balls, cupping them gently, fingers careful not to squeeze.
The oil is warm, almost hot, and my cock jerks in response, a reflex I can’t control.
Mary Kate pauses, glances at my face. I keep my eyes closed, but I can feel her gaze on me, the heat of it. I force myself to speak, voice low. “That’s good. You can go harder. Roll them, don’t just—”
She adjusts her grip, cradling my balls in both hands, thumbs pressing into the cord above the testicles, fingers rolling in slow, methodical circles.
The sensation is exquisite—slow-moving pleasure, perfectly balanced.
I let out a sound, something between a moan and a sigh, and my hips lift slightly off the table.
She continues, gaining confidence, her touch firmer but never overly hard.
Every movement is precise, controlled, and I realize she’s been listening to me all along, cataloguing my advice and turning it into action.
I want to tell her how good she is at this, how perfect, but the words catch in my throat.
After a minute, she speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Is this okay?”
I nod, eyes still closed, but then I open them and meet her gaze. The look on her face is pure concentration, an innocence mixed with something darker, a thrill at the power she holds in her small hands.
“Perfect,” I say. “Just like that.”
She smiles, and it’s real, for the first time since she walked in.
Her hands move faster, working the oil into my skin, sliding over the sensitive ridges and hollows.
She grazes the base of my cock once, then again, and this time she lingers a split second longer, as if daring herself to go further.
I inhale, sharp and audible, and she laughs again—a genuine laugh, nervous but pleased. “Sorry,” she murmurs, but she doesn’t stop. She works the testicles with both hands, fingers deft and strong, then lets her knuckle brush the shaft, more deliberate this time.
My cock twitches, desperate for attention, but I stay silent, letting her decide what happens next.
She switches hands, then oils her right palm and wraps it around the base, squeezing gently, thumb pressing into the spot just below the head.
The sensation is overwhelming. I groan, hips lifting again, and this time she looks me in the eye as she does it.
For a few seconds, the world contracts to just her hand and my body and the flicker of lamplight against the ceiling.
Then she stops, steps back, hands dripping with oil, and reaches for the towel. I half-sit, propped on one elbow, my cock bobbing between us like a metronome. She wipes her hands, then glances up, color high in her cheeks.
“Did I do it right?” she asks, almost shy.
I swallow, voice thick. “You did everything right.”