- Joined
- Nov 18, 2017
- Posts
- 502
- Media
- 3
- Likes
- 2,245
- Points
- 313
- Location
- Somewhere over the rainbow 🌈 Midwest
- Verification
- View
- Sexuality
- 69% Gay, 31% Straight
- Gender
- Male
The room smelled of cedar and sweet orange, the same blend that had lingered on my skin for days after the first visit. Alex’s studio was on the third floor of a red-brick building on Maryland Plaza in the Central West End—old-world architecture with high ceilings, tall windows that let in slanted afternoon light, and the faint background hum of the neighborhood: distant laughter from the patio at Sasha’s, the occasional clatter of the MetroLink rolling past on DeBaliviere, couples walking hand-in-hand toward the Chase Park Plaza or the art museum a few blocks north.
I had moved to St. Louis eighteen months earlier for a promotion that turned out to be more stress than title. The Central West End became my refuge—tree-lined streets, dog walkers, coffee shops with outdoor seating even in March, the way the neighborhood felt alive without being frantic. I’d found Alex’s website late one night while scrolling on my phone in my apartment on Lindell, the glow of the screen lighting my face as I read the quiet promise: “Clothing optional for a more immersive experience.” Something in the phrasing made my stomach tighten in a good way.
First appointment had been three weeks ago, a gray Thursday in late February. I’d kept my briefs on, told myself it was caution. Alex never commented. He worked my back with steady, knowledgeable hands, thumbs sinking into the knots beneath my shoulder blades until I groaned into the face cradle. When he finished my hamstrings his fingers had brushed the crease where thigh met glute—just once, accidental maybe—and I’d felt myself stir against the table. I left relaxed but restless, booked the follow-up before I reached my car in the pay lot behind the building.
Now it was mid-March, the kind of early-spring day when the air still carried winter’s bite but the sun promised otherwise. I walked from my place on Lindell, cutting through the diagonal paths of the park across from the history museum, past the tulip beds just starting to push green spears through mulch. My heart beat faster the closer I got to Maryland Plaza. The fountain was running again; water sparkled in the light. I climbed the narrow staircase beside the coffee roaster on the ground floor, each step heavier with anticipation.
Alex opened the door barefoot, wearing loose gray linen pants and a fitted white T-shirt. Same warm brown eyes, same easy smile. “Dave,” he said, like he’d been waiting exactly for me. “Come in.”
The waiting area was small: two low chairs, a bamboo plant, a shelf of essential-oil rollers. He led me down the short hall to the treatment room. Same amber sconces, same wide table, same scent wrapping around me like an embrace. He closed the door with a soft click.
“Same as last time?” he asked. “Undress to your comfort level, face down when you’re ready. I’ll step out.”
I nodded. He disappeared into the tiny adjoining bathroom, door left cracked an inch for courtesy.
I peeled off layers slowly. Henley, jeans, socks, briefs. The hardwood floor was cool under my feet. I stood naked for a moment, looking at my reflection in the tall window—city light catching the curve of my shoulder, the faint trail of hair below my navel. No sheet this time. I climbed onto the table, stretched out face down, arms at my sides, palms up. Nothing between me and the air.
The bathroom door opened. Bare feet on wood. A soft rustle—linen sliding down, folded, set aside. My pulse thumped in my ears.
He crossed the room without speaking. I felt the warmth of him first, then his arms sliding around me from behind, chest to my back, skin on skin.
“Let’s have a hug,” he murmured, lips close to my ear.
I exhaled, pushed up onto my elbows, turned. He stepped in front. Bare. Five-nine, early thirties, slim and toned, every inch smooth and hairless. Exactly my type—had been since that first glance.
Our eyes held. No performance, no smirk. Just quiet recognition.
I slid off the table. We met in the middle of the room and wrapped around each other at the same instant. His skin was warm, already faintly oiled. Our chests pressed, stomachs, hips. His soft cock rested against mine, heavy and present. Mine thickened instantly, lifting against his thigh. His hands moved in slow circles over my shoulder blades; mine settled at the small of his back, thumbs tracing the shallow dip above his tailbone.
We stayed like that a long minute—simple, full-body contact. Breathing each other in. Then he tilted his head and brushed his lips against mine.
The first kiss was feather-light. A question. I answered by pressing closer. Second kiss firmer, lips parting just enough. Third, and his tongue slipped past the seam of my mouth, tentative, tasting. I met him with mine. Clean, faintly minty. Heat bloomed low in my belly.
When we parted we were both breathing harder. My erection pressed insistently against his hip. He was half-hard now, the head of his cock brushing the inside of my thigh with each small shift.
“Lie down,” he said quietly. “Face up.”
I stretched out on the table. No sheet. He stood beside me a moment, looking—really looking. Appreciative. Then he poured oil directly onto my sternum, let it pool in the center of my chest, warm rivulets sliding toward my sides. Instead of rubbing it in, he climbed onto the table, straddling my hips without settling his weight yet. His knees bracketed me. His half-hard cock rested lightly against my lower abdomen.
He leaned forward, palms flat beside my ribs, and lowered himself until our chests met again. Oil slicked between us. The hug this time was horizontal, full length—heart to heart, cock to cock, thigh to thigh. His mouth found mine. Deeper now. Slower. We kissed like we had nowhere else to be. Tongues sliding, lips catching, small sounds whenever we broke for air.
My hands roamed his back, tracing the long muscles flanking his spine, dipping to cup his ass—firm, smooth, warm. He rocked gently, the motion rubbing our cocks together in a slow, slippery glide. Not frantic. Just enough friction to make my breath hitch.
He kissed along my jaw, down the side of my neck, across my collarbone. Paused at my chest, blew softly on one nipple, then took it into his mouth. Gentle suction, tongue flicking. I arched. He switched sides, gave the other the same slow attention. My cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking steadily.
He slid lower. Kissed my ribs, my navel, the sensitive skin above my pubic bone. Lifted his head, met my eyes.
“Still good?”
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
He smiled—small, private—and lowered again. Soft open-mouthed kisses on the head of my cock, tasting the pre-cum there. Then a slow lick along the underside, base to crown. I groaned. He repeated the motion, tongue flat and warm, before closing his lips around me.
The heat was overwhelming. He took me deeper, slow, letting me feel every inch of his mouth. Steady, attentive sucking, one hand wrapped around the base, the other stroking my inner thigh. I threaded fingers into his hair—not guiding, just holding on.
After long minutes he pulled off with a wet sound, kissed the shaft once more, crawled back up. Our mouths met again. I tasted myself on his tongue—salty, intimate.
“Your turn,” he whispered.
We switched. He lay back, legs parted slightly. I knelt between them. His cock lay curved against his stomach, fully hard now, flushed dark at the head. Smooth, beautiful.
I started the same way: kissing his chest, sucking gently on each nipple until he sighed. Down his stomach, tracing faint abs with my tongue. When I reached his cock I mirrored him—soft kisses along the shaft, slow lick from balls to tip. He shuddered. I took him into my mouth, savoring the weight, the pulse against my tongue.
His hand rested lightly on the back of my head. Connection, not control. I worked him slowly, alternating suction and long licks, occasionally pulling off to kiss his inner thighs, the crease where leg met hip. His breathing grew ragged.
He tugged gently. “Come here.”
I crawled up. We kissed—messy, hungry. Our cocks slid together, slick with oil and spit. He wrapped a hand around both of us, stroking in long, firm pulls. I thrust into his fist, matching rhythm. Pleasure coiled tighter.
He broke the kiss. “Want to keep going like this, or…?”
“Like this,” I said. “Just like this.”
We shifted side by side, facing each other. Legs tangled. One arm around his back, the other between us, helping his hand stroke us together. He mirrored me. We rocked into each other’s grip, cocks sliding in the tight tunnel of our fists, heads bumping, shafts rubbing.
Kisses turned sloppy, mostly open mouths and shared breaths. Small moans vibrated between us. My balls drew up. His breathing stuttered.
“Close,” he whispered.
“Me too.”
We sped up—just enough. Slick sound of skin on skin filled the room. Heat surged. I felt the first pulse in his cock a heartbeat before my own release hit.
We came almost together—hot spurts coating stomachs, hands, each other. Long, rolling waves that left us trembling. We kept stroking through it, gentle now, milking the last shivers until we both hissed and laughed softly against each other’s mouths.
We held each other, sticky, spent, hearts hammering. Forehead to forehead. Legs still tangled.
Eventually he kissed me once more—slow, sweet.
“Let’s clean up,” he murmured. “Then the real massage.”
Warm towels from the cabinet. Careful strokes wiping us down. Then he guided me face down again, poured fresh oil across my back.
The rest was pure care: long glides along my spine, thumbs working knots, hands kneading glutes without sexual charge now, just deep attention. Legs, feet, scalp. By the end I was liquid.
He draped a clean sheet over me, sat on the table’s edge, hand on my shoulder.
“Next week?” he asked.
I turned my head. His face was soft, unguarded.
“Same time,” I said. “Same everything.”
He leaned down, kissed me lightly.
“Looking forward to it.”
I left floating. Outside, Maryland Plaza was golden in late-afternoon light. Couples sat on the fountain’s edge. A bus hissed past on Lindell. I walked home slowly, skin still humming, replaying the hug that started it all—naked, simple, electric.
The third session came faster than I expected.
A week later, same building, same staircase. This time the air outside carried the first real hint of spring—lilacs budding somewhere nearby. Alex greeted me with the same quiet smile, but there was something new in his eyes: anticipation that matched mine.
Inside the room we didn’t pretend. He undressed first, folding his clothes neatly. I followed. We met in the center of the floor before I even reached the table. Another long hug—standing, full-body, skin warm from the heater. This time the kiss started deeper, less tentative. Hands roaming freely. His fingers traced my spine; mine cupped his ass, pulled him closer so our cocks pressed together, already half-hard.
We stayed like that until breathing turned ragged, then moved to the table together. No “face up” or “face down” instructions—just mutual exploration.
He lay back first. I straddled his thighs, poured oil onto his chest, rubbed it in with long strokes that became caresses. Leaned down so our chests met again, oil slick between us. Kissed his throat, his collarbone, down to his nipples. Took my time—sucking gently, then harder when his hips lifted. Traced his ribs with my tongue, dipped into his navel. When I reached his cock I didn’t rush. Kissed the shaft, the head, the sensitive frenulum until he groaned. Took him deep, slow bobs, hand stroking what my mouth couldn’t reach.
He pulled me up eventually, flipped us so I was on my back. Mirrored every move—kissing, licking, sucking until I was trembling. Then he slid up, aligned our cocks, wrapped both our hands around them. We stroked together, rocking, kissing, whispering nonsense against each other’s mouths.
We came like that—chests pressed, mouths locked, release spilling between us.
Afterward he cleaned us with warm cloths, then gave me the slowest, most thorough massage yet—every muscle, every inch, no hurry. When he finished he lay beside me on the wide table, pulled me into his arms. We stayed like that until the session timer chimed softly.
Fourth visit: late March, windows cracked to let in the breeze. This time we started on the floor—thick yoga mat he kept rolled in the corner. Naked hugs turned to slow frottage, bodies sliding together, oil unnecessary because we were already slick with sweat and pre-cum. We kissed until lips were swollen. Explored with hands and mouths—his fingers tracing my hole without entering, mine circling his, teasing. We sixty-nined on the mat, slow and deep, until we both shuddered over the edge again.
Fifth visit: early April, dogwoods blooming white and pink along the streets outside. We didn’t even make it fully onto the table at first. Door closed, clothes shed, straight into each other’s arms. Long hug against the wall, then down to the floor. This time we took turns—me on top, then him, grinding, kissing, whispering how good it felt, how much we’d thought about this all week.
The massage came later—after we’d both come once, after we’d cleaned up, after we’d lain tangled together catching our breath. Only then did he work my body with the same care he always did, turning release into deeper relaxation.
By the sixth session the routine had become something else entirely. The table was still there, the oils still scented the air, but the hour belonged to us. Naked hugs and kisses weren’t the prelude anymore—they were the center. The rest—slow stroking, mutual sucking, frottage until we spilled together—was simply what happened when two bodies that fit this perfectly refused to stay apart.
Walking home afterward, past the fountain on Maryland Plaza, past the lights coming on in the windows of the high-rises along Lindell, I realized I wasn’t counting sessions anymore. I was counting the moments between them—the way my skin remembered his touch, the way the Central West End felt different now, softer at the edges, because every week I carried a piece of him back into its streets.
Some doors open quietly. Once you step through, there’s no going back.
And I had no intention of turning around.
I had moved to St. Louis eighteen months earlier for a promotion that turned out to be more stress than title. The Central West End became my refuge—tree-lined streets, dog walkers, coffee shops with outdoor seating even in March, the way the neighborhood felt alive without being frantic. I’d found Alex’s website late one night while scrolling on my phone in my apartment on Lindell, the glow of the screen lighting my face as I read the quiet promise: “Clothing optional for a more immersive experience.” Something in the phrasing made my stomach tighten in a good way.
First appointment had been three weeks ago, a gray Thursday in late February. I’d kept my briefs on, told myself it was caution. Alex never commented. He worked my back with steady, knowledgeable hands, thumbs sinking into the knots beneath my shoulder blades until I groaned into the face cradle. When he finished my hamstrings his fingers had brushed the crease where thigh met glute—just once, accidental maybe—and I’d felt myself stir against the table. I left relaxed but restless, booked the follow-up before I reached my car in the pay lot behind the building.
Now it was mid-March, the kind of early-spring day when the air still carried winter’s bite but the sun promised otherwise. I walked from my place on Lindell, cutting through the diagonal paths of the park across from the history museum, past the tulip beds just starting to push green spears through mulch. My heart beat faster the closer I got to Maryland Plaza. The fountain was running again; water sparkled in the light. I climbed the narrow staircase beside the coffee roaster on the ground floor, each step heavier with anticipation.
Alex opened the door barefoot, wearing loose gray linen pants and a fitted white T-shirt. Same warm brown eyes, same easy smile. “Dave,” he said, like he’d been waiting exactly for me. “Come in.”
The waiting area was small: two low chairs, a bamboo plant, a shelf of essential-oil rollers. He led me down the short hall to the treatment room. Same amber sconces, same wide table, same scent wrapping around me like an embrace. He closed the door with a soft click.
“Same as last time?” he asked. “Undress to your comfort level, face down when you’re ready. I’ll step out.”
I nodded. He disappeared into the tiny adjoining bathroom, door left cracked an inch for courtesy.
I peeled off layers slowly. Henley, jeans, socks, briefs. The hardwood floor was cool under my feet. I stood naked for a moment, looking at my reflection in the tall window—city light catching the curve of my shoulder, the faint trail of hair below my navel. No sheet this time. I climbed onto the table, stretched out face down, arms at my sides, palms up. Nothing between me and the air.
The bathroom door opened. Bare feet on wood. A soft rustle—linen sliding down, folded, set aside. My pulse thumped in my ears.
He crossed the room without speaking. I felt the warmth of him first, then his arms sliding around me from behind, chest to my back, skin on skin.
“Let’s have a hug,” he murmured, lips close to my ear.
I exhaled, pushed up onto my elbows, turned. He stepped in front. Bare. Five-nine, early thirties, slim and toned, every inch smooth and hairless. Exactly my type—had been since that first glance.
Our eyes held. No performance, no smirk. Just quiet recognition.
I slid off the table. We met in the middle of the room and wrapped around each other at the same instant. His skin was warm, already faintly oiled. Our chests pressed, stomachs, hips. His soft cock rested against mine, heavy and present. Mine thickened instantly, lifting against his thigh. His hands moved in slow circles over my shoulder blades; mine settled at the small of his back, thumbs tracing the shallow dip above his tailbone.
We stayed like that a long minute—simple, full-body contact. Breathing each other in. Then he tilted his head and brushed his lips against mine.
The first kiss was feather-light. A question. I answered by pressing closer. Second kiss firmer, lips parting just enough. Third, and his tongue slipped past the seam of my mouth, tentative, tasting. I met him with mine. Clean, faintly minty. Heat bloomed low in my belly.
When we parted we were both breathing harder. My erection pressed insistently against his hip. He was half-hard now, the head of his cock brushing the inside of my thigh with each small shift.
“Lie down,” he said quietly. “Face up.”
I stretched out on the table. No sheet. He stood beside me a moment, looking—really looking. Appreciative. Then he poured oil directly onto my sternum, let it pool in the center of my chest, warm rivulets sliding toward my sides. Instead of rubbing it in, he climbed onto the table, straddling my hips without settling his weight yet. His knees bracketed me. His half-hard cock rested lightly against my lower abdomen.
He leaned forward, palms flat beside my ribs, and lowered himself until our chests met again. Oil slicked between us. The hug this time was horizontal, full length—heart to heart, cock to cock, thigh to thigh. His mouth found mine. Deeper now. Slower. We kissed like we had nowhere else to be. Tongues sliding, lips catching, small sounds whenever we broke for air.
My hands roamed his back, tracing the long muscles flanking his spine, dipping to cup his ass—firm, smooth, warm. He rocked gently, the motion rubbing our cocks together in a slow, slippery glide. Not frantic. Just enough friction to make my breath hitch.
He kissed along my jaw, down the side of my neck, across my collarbone. Paused at my chest, blew softly on one nipple, then took it into his mouth. Gentle suction, tongue flicking. I arched. He switched sides, gave the other the same slow attention. My cock throbbed against his stomach, leaking steadily.
He slid lower. Kissed my ribs, my navel, the sensitive skin above my pubic bone. Lifted his head, met my eyes.
“Still good?”
I nodded, throat too tight for words.
He smiled—small, private—and lowered again. Soft open-mouthed kisses on the head of my cock, tasting the pre-cum there. Then a slow lick along the underside, base to crown. I groaned. He repeated the motion, tongue flat and warm, before closing his lips around me.
The heat was overwhelming. He took me deeper, slow, letting me feel every inch of his mouth. Steady, attentive sucking, one hand wrapped around the base, the other stroking my inner thigh. I threaded fingers into his hair—not guiding, just holding on.
After long minutes he pulled off with a wet sound, kissed the shaft once more, crawled back up. Our mouths met again. I tasted myself on his tongue—salty, intimate.
“Your turn,” he whispered.
We switched. He lay back, legs parted slightly. I knelt between them. His cock lay curved against his stomach, fully hard now, flushed dark at the head. Smooth, beautiful.
I started the same way: kissing his chest, sucking gently on each nipple until he sighed. Down his stomach, tracing faint abs with my tongue. When I reached his cock I mirrored him—soft kisses along the shaft, slow lick from balls to tip. He shuddered. I took him into my mouth, savoring the weight, the pulse against my tongue.
His hand rested lightly on the back of my head. Connection, not control. I worked him slowly, alternating suction and long licks, occasionally pulling off to kiss his inner thighs, the crease where leg met hip. His breathing grew ragged.
He tugged gently. “Come here.”
I crawled up. We kissed—messy, hungry. Our cocks slid together, slick with oil and spit. He wrapped a hand around both of us, stroking in long, firm pulls. I thrust into his fist, matching rhythm. Pleasure coiled tighter.
He broke the kiss. “Want to keep going like this, or…?”
“Like this,” I said. “Just like this.”
We shifted side by side, facing each other. Legs tangled. One arm around his back, the other between us, helping his hand stroke us together. He mirrored me. We rocked into each other’s grip, cocks sliding in the tight tunnel of our fists, heads bumping, shafts rubbing.
Kisses turned sloppy, mostly open mouths and shared breaths. Small moans vibrated between us. My balls drew up. His breathing stuttered.
“Close,” he whispered.
“Me too.”
We sped up—just enough. Slick sound of skin on skin filled the room. Heat surged. I felt the first pulse in his cock a heartbeat before my own release hit.
We came almost together—hot spurts coating stomachs, hands, each other. Long, rolling waves that left us trembling. We kept stroking through it, gentle now, milking the last shivers until we both hissed and laughed softly against each other’s mouths.
We held each other, sticky, spent, hearts hammering. Forehead to forehead. Legs still tangled.
Eventually he kissed me once more—slow, sweet.
“Let’s clean up,” he murmured. “Then the real massage.”
Warm towels from the cabinet. Careful strokes wiping us down. Then he guided me face down again, poured fresh oil across my back.
The rest was pure care: long glides along my spine, thumbs working knots, hands kneading glutes without sexual charge now, just deep attention. Legs, feet, scalp. By the end I was liquid.
He draped a clean sheet over me, sat on the table’s edge, hand on my shoulder.
“Next week?” he asked.
I turned my head. His face was soft, unguarded.
“Same time,” I said. “Same everything.”
He leaned down, kissed me lightly.
“Looking forward to it.”
I left floating. Outside, Maryland Plaza was golden in late-afternoon light. Couples sat on the fountain’s edge. A bus hissed past on Lindell. I walked home slowly, skin still humming, replaying the hug that started it all—naked, simple, electric.
The third session came faster than I expected.
A week later, same building, same staircase. This time the air outside carried the first real hint of spring—lilacs budding somewhere nearby. Alex greeted me with the same quiet smile, but there was something new in his eyes: anticipation that matched mine.
Inside the room we didn’t pretend. He undressed first, folding his clothes neatly. I followed. We met in the center of the floor before I even reached the table. Another long hug—standing, full-body, skin warm from the heater. This time the kiss started deeper, less tentative. Hands roaming freely. His fingers traced my spine; mine cupped his ass, pulled him closer so our cocks pressed together, already half-hard.
We stayed like that until breathing turned ragged, then moved to the table together. No “face up” or “face down” instructions—just mutual exploration.
He lay back first. I straddled his thighs, poured oil onto his chest, rubbed it in with long strokes that became caresses. Leaned down so our chests met again, oil slick between us. Kissed his throat, his collarbone, down to his nipples. Took my time—sucking gently, then harder when his hips lifted. Traced his ribs with my tongue, dipped into his navel. When I reached his cock I didn’t rush. Kissed the shaft, the head, the sensitive frenulum until he groaned. Took him deep, slow bobs, hand stroking what my mouth couldn’t reach.
He pulled me up eventually, flipped us so I was on my back. Mirrored every move—kissing, licking, sucking until I was trembling. Then he slid up, aligned our cocks, wrapped both our hands around them. We stroked together, rocking, kissing, whispering nonsense against each other’s mouths.
We came like that—chests pressed, mouths locked, release spilling between us.
Afterward he cleaned us with warm cloths, then gave me the slowest, most thorough massage yet—every muscle, every inch, no hurry. When he finished he lay beside me on the wide table, pulled me into his arms. We stayed like that until the session timer chimed softly.
Fourth visit: late March, windows cracked to let in the breeze. This time we started on the floor—thick yoga mat he kept rolled in the corner. Naked hugs turned to slow frottage, bodies sliding together, oil unnecessary because we were already slick with sweat and pre-cum. We kissed until lips were swollen. Explored with hands and mouths—his fingers tracing my hole without entering, mine circling his, teasing. We sixty-nined on the mat, slow and deep, until we both shuddered over the edge again.
Fifth visit: early April, dogwoods blooming white and pink along the streets outside. We didn’t even make it fully onto the table at first. Door closed, clothes shed, straight into each other’s arms. Long hug against the wall, then down to the floor. This time we took turns—me on top, then him, grinding, kissing, whispering how good it felt, how much we’d thought about this all week.
The massage came later—after we’d both come once, after we’d cleaned up, after we’d lain tangled together catching our breath. Only then did he work my body with the same care he always did, turning release into deeper relaxation.
By the sixth session the routine had become something else entirely. The table was still there, the oils still scented the air, but the hour belonged to us. Naked hugs and kisses weren’t the prelude anymore—they were the center. The rest—slow stroking, mutual sucking, frottage until we spilled together—was simply what happened when two bodies that fit this perfectly refused to stay apart.
Walking home afterward, past the fountain on Maryland Plaza, past the lights coming on in the windows of the high-rises along Lindell, I realized I wasn’t counting sessions anymore. I was counting the moments between them—the way my skin remembered his touch, the way the Central West End felt different now, softer at the edges, because every week I carried a piece of him back into its streets.
Some doors open quietly. Once you step through, there’s no going back.
And I had no intention of turning around.
