The Cruel and the Curious Pt. 01

Grace would never admit it out loud, but she always prayed for a cute one. Around Zen Massage, she supposed, most of her coworkers did too.

She had been through all of the requisite classes and lectures and orientations, of course. She'd passed her exams and gotten licensed as a professional massage therapist, and she knew all about the hard science of massage therapy--the beautiful intricacy of interlocking muscle tissue, the complexity of nerve clusters and pressure points, and the way it all came together in the daily struggle of exercise. Before she was even offered her first part-time job as a massage therapist, she must have heard at least three lectures on the limits of acceptable touch; even a flirtatious comment could get her a stern talking-to from the owner, if she didn't dismiss her on the spot. The therapists of Zen Massage were professionals, and their clients--most of them, anyway--came to them with an earnest desire to stay healthy and feel good.

"There's nothing sexual about this job," Grace's boss had told her on her first day. "Always remember that, and stay professional."

Still, though... Nobody could fault a girl for daydreaming in her idle moments.

She was in her third year of art classes at Piper University at the center of town. Between her twice-weekly classes in figure drawing (her specialty), her side courses on graphic design (which she hated, but hoped would pay the bills someday), and her part-time job at Zen Massage, she seldom had time for daydreaming--but when she did, she took her time and enjoyed it.

When hanging out with friends in her off-hours, she often joked about how much time she spent around naked people. She always told people that it lost its luster after a while, once it became routine. During her regular figure-drawing sessions at the Art Department with live models--who always posed nude, naturally--she was usually too preoccupied with the stress of knocking out a competent drawing in ninety minutes to ogle them. During hour-long regimens of deep-tissue massage with her clients--who also chose to go naked under the towel, more often than not--she was usually too focused on working out the knots and kinks in their muscles and joints.

Every once in a while, though, it could still give her a little thrill. And in her quiet moments, when she mentally replayed all of her old fantasies, she found that they nearly always began in the studios of the Art Department or the tranquil air-conditioned rooms of Zen Massage. Naughtier still: when her mind conjured up imaginary lovers to keep her company, they nearly always looked like either her life models or her clients.

Her massage fantasy always started the same way:

On a quiet evening, she'd creep her way into a room fragrant with incense and scented oil, the lights dim and the halls empty. She always recognized Zen Massage's distinctive wallpaper patterned with lotus blossoms--but in her fantasies, she and her lovers had the place to themselves.

The last time she'd dreamt of the massage room, her lover was a broad-chested sophomore with soft blue eyes and smoke-dark hair; she'd forgotten his name, but she'd sketched him half a dozen times, and she knew every curve of his slim and agile body. In the dream, she'd found him waiting for her alone, lying nude atop the padded massage table, his body covered only by a folded linen towel laid across his waist. With the scent of sandalwood and cherry blossoms heavy in the air, she approached him with soft footsteps and caressed his muscular shoulders with gentle touches. Then, as he stared up at her from the massage table with eyes full of apprehension, she reached down and slowly pulled the towel off of his lap--leaving him naked and vulnerable, unprotected from her lascivious gaze.

The dream didn't end there. She still remembered the thrill of anticipation that made her heart jump in her chest when she knelt down over her lover's naked body, silencing him with a finger to his lips as she twisted the towel into a short rope and tied it around his wrists, pulling it just tight enough to keep his hands securely bound beneath the massage table. Smiling mischievously, she reached down under her loose-fitting white skirt and plucked off her panties, then bent her knees and straddled his muscular body in one easy motion, teasing his cock with nimble fingers. She savored every ounce of friction as she nestled his erect penis in the tight space between her ample buttocks, playfully wiggling her hips and gently bouncing atop his prone body as she ground her soft bottom against the throbbing firmness of his rock-hard member. He futilely strained against the twisted towel as she pinched and twisted his nipples, letting the minutes melt away until she finally guided his cock toward the moist opening of her vulva.

When she awoke, her memories of the dream lingered in her mind all week. In idle moments, she still saw her imaginary lover's face, and still recalled the thrill of watching him squirm on the massage table with his wrists bound together. With her hands slick with almond-scented massage oil, she'd fingered her clit under her tangled bedsheets while the memory of the dream was still fresh, and didn't get up from her mattress until she'd coaxed herself to a shuddering orgasm.

Today, she remembered the dream again as she reviewed her notes on her newest client. And, like so many days before, she silently prayed that he'd turn out to be cute.

His name was Max Grayson. According to his paperwork, he was 26 years old, and he'd scheduled a deep-tissue session. Felicia, her manager, had handled his intake forms, and scribbled a few brief notes in the blank spaces at the bottom. His occupation was listed as "Graduate Student"--but according to one of Felicia's handwritten notes, he was also a long-distance runner. In his first session, he'd requested deep-tissue work on his legs, thighs, lower back and glutes, all of the areas that felt the effects of his running the most.

His session was set to begin in five minutes. After taking a moment to review her client's paperwork, she set down his intake form and filed it away in the records cabinet under "G" for "Grayson." As she prepared to make her way downstairs to meet him in the waiting room, she looked herself over in the floor-length mirror that hung on the wall on the far side of the breakroom.

As busy as she was in the average semester, she still managed to look her best. Her soft blue eyes were slightly weary, betraying the mark of her many late nights at the drawing table--but her cherubic face was creased by an easy smile, and her dimpled cheeks were kissed with Autumn sunlight. Her nose, slightly upturned, always gave her a slightly impish appearance, and her cheeks were patterned with a light smattering of freckles. Her hair, styled in a short bob cut, was the color of a ray of sunlight glimpsed through a glass of red wine.

Like most of the therapists at Zen Massage, she came to work dressed in all-black. Today, she wore a snug-fitting tank top and skin-tight black leggings. As the clock ticked toward 10 o'clock, she turned sideways and admired her profile in the mirror. Her clothing was modest, but her leggings were stretched tightly over her wide hips and her round backside.

Grace didn't always love her distinctly bottom-heavy physique. At just a few scant inches over five feet tall, sometimes she wished she could trade her thick thighs for longer legs. Other days, she half-wished that she could exchange a smaller size of pants for a bigger bra. Today, though, she allowed herself a brief smile of contentment as she turned around and looked back over her shoulder to admire herself in the mirror. Feeling just a twinge of naughtiness, she reached back and rested one hand on the small of her back, admiring the ample curve of her plump butt.

The face of the clock read 9:58. Two minutes until Max Grayson's 10 o'clock deep-tissue appointment. Just enough time to make her way downstairs to the waiting room.

As she left the breakroom and made her way to the stairwell, she crossed her fingers--and silently hoped and prayed for a cute one.

  

Max would never admit it out loud, but he always prayed for a cute one. He figured that most of the regular clients at Zen Massage did too.

He had gotten the requisite introductions when he scheduled his first deep-tissue session, of course. He knew that health was the key goal of a massage session, and he knew the limits of acceptable touch. The therapists of Zen Massage were professionals, they took their job seriously, and they deserved just as much respect as any doctor or nurse.

His intake form, which he had signed before his first session, made it perfectly clear that flirtatious comments wouldn't be tolerated. Even one inappropriate word to a massage therapist could get him banned from Zen Massage permanently.

Still, though... Nobody could fault a guy for daydreaming in his idle moments.

He knew the rules by heart. But he couldn't deny that he always requested a female therapist when he called to make his appointments. And during his first massage, when his therapist told him that he could remove as much clothing as he wished, he chose to go nude without a second's hesitation.

Max knew that there was nothing inherently sexual about a massage. But there was something undeniably thrilling about being naked in a woman's presence, particularly when she kept her clothes on. Nothing made him feel as vulnerable or helpless as removing every shred of clothing on a woman's orders. Especially when he spent the next hour laid out limply on a table, vulnerable and unprotected from her every touch.

He'd never say it out loud, but sometimes he half-wished that his massage therapist would stay in the room while he undressed. He knew the rules, and he knew that his therapists were required to keep him covered during his massage--but he couldn't stop himself from fantasizing. And whenever his idle fantasies took place in the rooms of Zen Massage, they always began the same way: with a cute massage therapist lounging in a corner of the room and smirking with sadistic glee as she forced him to strip off his clothes piece by piece, his cheeks warming with humiliation as the overhead fixture bathed his nude body in unforgiving light.

As the clock in the waiting room ticked its way toward 10 o'clock, he banished that thought from his mind. He could fantasize in private as much as he wanted. In public, he had a duty to keep his naughty thoughts to himself. And even if he never spoke a word about any of his favorite fantasies, there was always the chance that they might tempt him to do or say something he'd regret. If he made a woman at Zen Massage uncomfortable--even if it was accidental--he knew that he'd replay the memory in his mind for years afterward, never quite able to forgive himself.

And God only knew what Madame Evangeline would say...

When he visited Madame E for his weekly "punishment session," he was always expected to give her a full and honest report of his bad behavior over the past week: every naughty fantasy, every broken rule, and every ungentlemanly comment. Outright sexual harassment would earn him at least ten lashes at his next session, if not something much worse. Of course, even if he stayed on his best behavior, she'd still find a reason to punish him--if only to remind him of his place.

They were called "punishment sessions" for a reason, as Madame E often reminded him; when the two of them worked out their little "arrangement" a little more than a year ago, they came to a mutual understanding that punishment would always be a regular occurrence--no exceptions. If he was lucky, she'd let him off with a mild spanking over her knee, and reward him by letting him kneel at her feet as he stroked his cock to orgasm with a palmful of coconut-scented lotion, spurting a warm load of cum onto one of her soft white towels. If he was unlucky, she'd make him stand in a corner as she thrashed his bare backside with one of her thin wooden canes, raking his back with her set of metal finger-spikes for good measure. If she was feeling extra cruel, she'd finish their session by cuffing him to a chair and teasing his cock with a battery-powered vibrator, bringing him to the edge of orgasm over and over again until his body quivered with frustration--before she finally sent him home without letting him cum.

That was another condition of their "arrangement." As long as Max served Madame E, he was forbidden to cum without explicit permission. And as Madame E regularly reminded him, she only gave permission in person. She also frequently reminded him that permission was never guaranteed, and she always reserved the right to deny him his weekly orgasm if she wished--no reason necessary. When he ventured to her apartment on Gabriel Street for his weekly punishment session, he never knew whether Madame E would be in a generous mood. Somehow, that made his heart quicken with anticipation even more than the thought of his punishment.

He still remembered their first conversation after they came to their arrangement. He sat next to her on a couch in her apartment and sipped a warm cup of mint tea as she laid out her rules.

"When you come to me for your weekly punishment, I'll ask you how long it's been since your last orgasm," she had said. "And I expect you to be honest. If you can't be trusted to obey my rules when you're out in the world, you may have to get used to wearing a chastity device for a while--at least until you learn to behave yourself. So don't disappoint me, Max. Plenty of men would love to have the opportunity to serve me like you."

Last week's session had started out mild enough. At Madame E's command, he had stood naked in the center of her bedroom with his wrists securely held by a set of leather shackles that hung from her ceiling by a set of chains. She took her time going to work on him with a leather flogger, striking over and over again until a crisscrossing pattern of pink welts had formed on his back. Every so often, she moved in close, and he felt her warm breath on the back of his neck as she mischievously pinched, groped, and fondled his bare ass, cupping his balls from behind. He'd done just fine until she brought out the vibrator...

In hindsight, it was his fault for letting his eyes linger where they shouldn't have lingered. Madame E had worn one of her black satin corsets that night, and nothing else but panties. It was a dangerously tight corset with lace trim.

When she'd started with the flogger, the mild sting of leather tails against his bare flesh had served as a fine distraction from his sexual frustration--but when she knelt down to press the head of the buzzing vibrator against the underside of his half-erect cock, she left him with a near-perfect view of her cleavage from above. Her considerable breasts were pressed together and pushed upward by the tightly laced corset, threatening to spill out entirely. And as she gently stroked his growing erection with soft fingers and ran the vibrator back and forth along every side of his swelling cock, he drank in the full, glorious sight of her breasts as long as he could. He lasted just two minutes before he came all over the floor of her apartment.

He should have been able to hold back. He knew he should. But after enduring Madame E's flogger for a good twenty minutes, his willpower was worn down. And after spending a week daydreaming about his next session under her roof, the anticipation of sexual release had made him giddy.

Maybe she had been in a generous mood that evening. Maybe she would have given him permission if he'd just held out for another two minutes. But when he felt that rush of pleasure coursing through his cock, he knew it was already too late.

Madame E knew that his orgasm was coming before it began. As soon as she heard the pitch of his breathing go up an octave, she switched off her vibrator and withdrew her hand from his engorged cock. Without an ounce of stimulation, his cock twitched pathetically, oozing and dribbling semen in a tiny puddle on the hardwood floor. His orgasm lasted barely three seconds, giving him only the tiniest flutter of physical pleasure, and left his cock feeling painfully swollen and sensitive--but as disappointing as it might have been, a broken rule was still a broken rule. Naturally, he was ordered to lick his spent semen from the floor as soon as she unfastened his cuffs.

His next punishment session with Madame E wasn't until Thursday evening. But in the meantime, she had arranged a "special" punishment, set to begin this afternoon in just a few hours. Madame E wouldn't be on hand to administer it herself, but she seemed confident that it would teach him the error of his ways all the same. Cumming without permission was a serious offense, after all--and it required more than the usual penance.

"Always remember, Max," Madame E had said to him. "I can always find ways to make you suffer. I don't even have to be in the same room as you. I don't even have to lay a finger on you..."

The voice of the receptionist snapped him back to the present day. The clock read 9:58. Just two minutes until his session.

"Grace should be ready for you in just a couple of minutes," the receptionist said, bright and cheery. "She'll show you to your room upstairs."

"Thanks," Max said, giving her a smile back. "I'm in no hurry."

He took a deep breath as his eyes drifted toward the stairwell, knowing that he would get his first glimpse at "Grace" any minute.

  

Grace made her way down from the staircase just as the clock hit 10. There were just three men in the waiting room.

"Max Grayson"

As soon as Grace called out her client's name, one man turned to look at her and stood up to greet her.

"That's me," he said, raising a hand. He flashed a warm and easy smile in her direction.

As soon as they locked eyes, both of them inwardly sighed with relief.

"Nice to meet you, Max. I'm--"

"--Grace. They told me. Thanks for fitting me in."

Grace looked him over as he reached out to shake her hand. He was a head taller than her, and his snug-fitting v-neck pullover was stretched tightly across his broad chest, just barely exposing the contours of his well-formed pecs and solid abs. His warm brown eyes and reddish hair complemented the crisp October weather, reminding Grace of Autumn leaves. His running hobby had left an undeniable mark on his physique: his upper body was lean and slender, but his dark-washed jeans fit just tightly enough to show off the silhouette of his powerful thighs. In spite of his athletic build, his boyish features and knowing gaze reminded Grace of a poet.

As Grace's eyes strayed downward to his long legs, she couldn't help but imagine him in shorts...

She pointed toward the stairwell.

"Come on upstairs," she said. "I've got the room all ready for us. Just follow me."

"No problem," Max said.

As Grace led him upstairs, Max couldn't resist the urge to sneak a glance at her backside. As soon as he did, the undeniable pain of sexual frustration set in.

Today was Tuesday. It had been five days since his last weekly session with Madame Evangeline--which meant five days without an orgasm. And twelve days since the last one that left him with any real satisfaction.

He always got desperate in his last couple of days before his regular Thursday session. If he'd been thinking clearly, he might have booked his massage appointment for Friday. Then, at least, he might have been able to keep his naughty thoughts to a minimum.

As he followed Grace up the stairwell, her butt swayed from side to side like a metronome, just barely jiggling with each step she took. Despite her pixie-like appearance, her backside was full and round, and her black leggings clung delectably to her curves. Max kept his eyes riveted on her behind as they made their way upstairs together, and felt his cock twitch with arousal. Suddenly apprehensive, he forced himself to look away. He knew he'd never forgive himself if he got an erection during a massage...