Behind the Blue Door
It was a new call. As always with the new calls George came with me. He waits in the car and I take my panic button with me. Well, I always have my panic button, it looks just like a fob on my car keys, just that with the regulars there is no George waiting outside. I keep telling them it is a false sense of security as a regular is just as likely to go crazy as a new client but they never listen to me.
"George, can you try find a house number, I don't have a house number of. The satnav just has a postcode."
I pulled over into one of the free parking places when the satnav said I had reached my destination. It was one of those well-at-heel areas that either had rules for everything, or perhaps everyone just thought in the same way. I often have clients in these kinds of places, maybe one day I will ask if they have rules about the colour of flowerpots. This street was grey and beige. Three story Georgian houses with beige walls and grey detail. Even the fretwork on the windows was painted grey, I can't recall ever seeing Georgian houses with anything other than white window frames. George had said nothing, he was not one for conversation.
"Did you find a house number?"
"There is no number."
He continued to look at his phone. I bet he watches massage porn when I am with a client. For a moment I considered suggesting he call the office, but instead sighed silently. Not worth it. I climbed out my car to take a look around. The road curved slightly as I walked and as I rounded the corner I came across the most delightfully blue house. They had simply swapped the beige for a mid-summer sky blue. The blue went beautifully with the grey. I so hoped this was my client.
I knocked on the door. It was opened by a bearded man wearing a silk dressing gown. He had tired but observant eyes, I fancied he must be an author typing away all day on his computer. Or maybe IT.
"Hi, I don't suppose you ordered a home massage, only I don't have a house number and, oh sorry, I haven't my paperwork, hang on, let me get it out it has a name..."
My voice drifted into a mumble as I dug in my pockets for the paperwork. I was more annoyed with George as if he were just a bit more talkative I would have come the the door prepared not annoyed.
"Yes, I am George, do you have any equipment. I am not sure if I have the appropriate table."
"Of course sir, I will be back in a moment, I am parked just around the corner."
George the client was the complete antithesis of George in the car. He was chatty, polite and helpful. He offered to help with my table, and was happy not to interfere when I assured him I had it under control. He filled the silences with light conversation about himself. He has not had a massage before. His wife suggested it to relieve his stress, though he didn't say what work he did that was stressful. His phone pinged and at my pause he turned it to silent. While I was warming the oils he readied himself, lay on the table and covered himself with a towel and lay in silence with his eyes closed.
"I have warned the oil, so just relax and enjoy."
I layed my hands on his chest and gently stroked the oil about. I drifted down to stroke his legs. The first movements are all about spreading the oil, preparing the skin for the muscle work to follow. As I stroked from his stomach to his shoulders his towel began to rise. It is very common for this to happen, as the gentle stroking is quite erotic. The towel rose and rose. It rose into an impossibly large tent. George was just braving it out in silence but I was intrigued. I had never seen a bulge that big and I wanted to see the penis underneath. I started being a little careless, indeed clumsy, with my strokes attempting to push the towel away accidentally. I knew I could quite easily cause the towel to slip with my elbow or my knee, but that would seem like I was doing it on purpose. What I did instead was to sway my body with my strokes so that while I was carefully, and obviously, avoiding his huge hard-on with my arms my torso swayed perilously close to the apex of the tent. Then one sway with a little more pressure under my hand and my breast slammed into his cock, causing it to sway down with me then spring up flinging the towel away.
I kept my eyes away from his naked groin area, watching his face to see what reaction he would have. He did nothing. He was going to pretend this was just what happens. Most men do.
I looked. It was quite fantastic. It was like my forearm with a little fist at the top. In every way it was just like any other cock I had ever seen but much, much bigger.
I didn't replace the towel and neither did George. I moved down onto his legs, each time my hands worked up his thighs the monster cock approached my face. I wondered what it would be like to feel it fill my mouth, for it would definitely fill my mouth completely. I wondered what it would be like to enclose him in my sex. I would be able to feel him on all sides and all the way in all the way to my cervix. It might be the most pleasurable experience of my life; or perhaps it would simply be too big, the most painful experience of my life.
When I finished his front I asked him to turn, he did and it was gone. I did not see that monster again and to his credit he pretended my mishap was indeed a mistake. He didn't make any lewd comments, he did not make any suggestive remarks. I am quite happy to provide a little hand relief when they bring it up, but I never suggest it.
Well, if anyone asks me who lives in that bright blue house in the beige and grey street I will answer: a perfect gentleman lives there.