I just returned from my first visit to the institute’s massage therapist. Oh, my holy rabbit. When I got outta there I was unable to speak in the elevator, I just leaned up against the wall, drooling, hardly paying any notice to the other passengers. I must have looked pretty drunk. With a goofy smile and a neck that was barely strong enough to stay upright, I said: " Hi.. Massage. Yeah?"
It was a good one. It was painful, sure, but right now I feel like putting my face to rest on the keyboard, on the floor, or just any kind of surface in the horizontal position really. I wanted to give her a hug, and immediately fall asleep on her tits. Being my first time there I guess she talked as much as she did to place me correctly in the social hierarchy. I know all about her and her boyfriend’s vacation in Paris, their encounter with a neck-shattering mattress, with all the unspoken action such a proposition would imply to someone like me. I felt we bonded right there. Although I admit the word ‘bondage’ sprang to mind a split second earlier. With or without the natural body oils.
– Doing anything special on the 17th (national holiday)?
– …nnngtk! nubnok.. ghnn!
– Yeah, I know exactly how you feel
*panting* (thinking: How can I be sure? Is this legal?)
– So, where in the North are you from?
– Nice. Never been there. Hang on, this might hurt a bit
*gasp* (thinking: GAaaaaaahh!)
I had to share with her the most intimate details of my back pain, but she’d already begun on my back before I got to the part where I had resolved the mattress issue. When she asked me questions I’d just keep quiet not to scream out in agony or groan like a dirty pig. No chance to explain myself.
Then I told her about mouse-wrist, which I get sometimes, like when I sit on the side of the computer to tutor someone in front of the screen. She only heard the former half-sentence, and before I knew it she’d put my hand on her upper thigh to massage my wrist. Now, a man’s mind can be very flexible (see: philosopy) but it also has an auto-switch to the off position in a few special cases (see: sex). When a woman puts a man’s hand on her upper thigh, the mind goes: Stroke or grab, stroke or grab, stroke or grab very, very fast. Combine that with a brilliant massage and a soothing voice, and the path of least resistance is undebateable.
The part of my will that was still self-aware at the moment struggled to stop the natural instinct of stroking the thigh at hand. That’s when I felt Mr. Nelson twitch in his lair, stretching up to see what all the fuzz was about.
Mr. Nelson: Cheers, mate. What’s up?
I went: Nelson. Abort. Abort! False pretext, I repeat, false pretext! Abort!
She went: Can you turn on your back so I can do the neck proper?
Which translates into: Luke, I am your father.
My inner went: Nooooooooo!
I went: Quick! Do something painful!
She went: What?!
I went: Shoulders or sum’thin!
My inner went: Come on, Nelson, you owe me!
She did it, Mr. Nelson left the building, I turned around and she fixed my neck. Operation Hide the Hard-on completed, zero casualties. Although I might think twice about going back. It would have been easier if she had been 500 pound Hilda from Germany and without all those enticing fragrances. Some smells stimulate the privates, you know. And it naturally (very naturally) doesn’t help putting my hand on your thigh either, unless you’re actually trying to get it on.