Massage Client's Massive Erection

Marlene checked the intake form one last time and smoothed the front of her uniform. Twenty-eight, licensed, and running her own private studio out of a converted storefront with blackout curtains and a table that cost more than her first car, she still got a small flutter before a first-time client. Xavier Hale, thirty-two, referred by a regular who swore he needed deep work after long weeks at a desk. She opened the door with her professional smile already in place.

He filled the doorway. Tall, broad through the shoulders, dark hair still damp from a shower, wearing a plain gray T-shirt and soft pants. His eyes were warm and a little shy, which she liked. New clients often arrived braced for judgment.

"Xavier? I'm Marlene. Come on in."

"Thanks for fitting me in." His voice was low. He stepped inside and looked around the room—oils lined on a shelf, a folded sheet, the padded table under a dim lamp. "First massage. I don't really know the rules."

"Easy rules." She kept her tone light and steady. "You undress to whatever you're comfortable with. Most people keep their underwear off and use the towel. Face down to start. I'll step out. Call me when you're settled."

He nodded. She left him the privacy of the changing screen and waited in the hall, listening to the soft rustle of fabric. When he called her name she came back in and found him exactly as instructed, long body stretched on the table, face in the cradle, a white towel draped over his hips. Only the towel was not doing the job it was supposed to do.

Between his slightly parted thighs the fabric tented and sagged under a heavy, unmistakable weight. Even soft, or nearly soft, the bulge was enormous—thick enough to push the cloth into a deep curve, long enough that the mass of it pressed toward the edge of the table. Marlene stopped with her hand on the oil bottle and felt heat slam low in her belly. Her pulse kicked. She had massaged athletes and big men before. None of them had carried something that looked like that while they were still relaxed.

She oiled her palms and started at his shoulders the way she always did, working the knots along his spine, thumbs pressing into muscle. Her eyes kept dropping. Every time she leaned over him the towel shifted a fraction and the shape beneath it rolled, dense and warm-looking, the outline of his balls heavy against the inner thigh. A throb started between her legs, slow and insistent. She pressed her thighs together under the uniform skirt and kept her hands professional, gliding down his back, over the small of it, careful not to let her fingers wander under the cloth. Her mouth had gone dry.

"Pressure all right?" she asked, and heard the slight catch in her own voice.

"Perfect," he murmured into the cradle. "You have strong hands."

She worked his calves, his hamstrings, circling closer to the towel than she needed to. The bulge didn't shrink. If anything the warmth of the room and the slow drag of her palms seemed to wake it. She stared. She knew she was staring. The professional part of her brain kept issuing warnings and the rest of her, the part that hadn't been touched in months, ignored every one of them. Her nipples had tightened against her bra. She could feel herself getting slick just from looking at the weight of him under that thin white square.

"I'm going to have you turn over," she said. Her voice came out lower than she meant. "So I can work your chest and the fronts of your legs."

He lifted his head. For a second their eyes met in the mirror on the far wall, and she wondered if he had felt her attention like a hand. "All right."

He rolled carefully, one arm holding the towel in place. It didn't stay in place. As he settled onto his back the cloth slipped, then caught again across his hips, and Marlene saw the first real swell of him. Not hard yet. Thickening. The shaft beginning to fill, pushing up against the towel from underneath in a long, slow rise that made her breath stop.

She started at his collarbones anyway, because that was the sequence, oil warming under her palms as she worked across his chest. He was solid under her hands, skin hot, heartbeat steady and then not so steady. She moved lower, over his stomach, and felt the muscles there jump. When she reached his thighs she had to stand at the side of the table with his leg between her arms, and the towel was right there, inches from her wrists.

Under it, his cock kept growing.

She watched it happen and could not look away. The fabric lifted by degrees. A long ridge formed, then a thicker one, the cloth pulling tight over a shaft that had to be more than she could wrap one hand around. The head swelled into a blunt, flared shape that stamped itself against the towel, the rim of it clear as a drawing, the slit a small dark dent in the cotton. Indentation after indentation. Long. Thick. The heavy vein along the underside casting its own shadow. Her lips parted. She realized they had parted only when cool air touched them.

Xavier's eyes were open. He was watching her face.

"You're staring," he said, quiet, not angry. His cock jumped under the towel at the words, another thick inch of lift, and the cloth rose with it.

Heat flooded her cheeks and her cunt at the same time. "I am." She didn't lie. Her hands had stopped on his thighs, fingers pressing into muscle. "I've never seen anything like that. I'm sorry. I should—"

"Don't be sorry." His voice had gone rough. He held her gaze, and the mutual heat in it was so plain she felt it in her knees. "It's because of you. The way you were looking when I was face down. I could feel it."

That did it. His erection surged, the strength of it absurd and perfect, and the towel lifted straight up off his body. The corner peeled back. The whole square rose on the pillar of his cock until it tented like a flag and then slid, defeated, down one hip. His cock stood free in the lamplight—long, thick, flushed dark at the fat head, a bead of fluid already shining at the tip, the shaft so heavy it barely leaned. It had lifted the towel by itself. Marlene made a sound she didn't plan, small and hungry.

"Tell me if you want me to stop," she said. Her hands were shaking. "I want to touch you. I want more than that. But only if you want it."

"I want it." He reached down and shoved the towel the rest of the way off the table. "God, Marlene. Look at you. Yes."

She dropped what was left of the cloth to the floor. Both hands wrapped around him and still didn't cover the length. He was hot, velvet over steel, the skin of the shaft sliding under her oiled palms as she stroked from the thick base up to the flared head and back down. A groan tore out of him. She stroked again, slower, twisting gently at the top, watching his stomach clench, watching another clear drop well up and spill over her thumb. Her mouth watered. She bent and took the fat head between her lips.

He tasted like salt and clean skin. She sucked, tongue pressing the underside of the crown, and he swore, one hand hovering near her hair like he was afraid to grab. She took him deeper, as deep as her jaw allowed, which wasn't deep enough, and used both fists on what her mouth couldn't reach, stroking in time with the pull of her lips. Wet sounds filled the small room. Her uniform skirt had ridden up. She was aching, empty, thighs slick.

"Come up here," he said, voice wrecked. "Please. I need to feel you."

She climbed onto the table, knees on either side of his hips for a moment, and he caught the front of her uniform and pulled. Buttons gave. The fabric tore at the placket with a short rip, and cool air hit her breasts as he shoved the ruined top open and dragged her bra down. His hands were big and sure. He palmed her, thumbs rolling her nipples, and she gasped against his mouth when he kissed her—hard, grateful, messy.

"These off," he muttered, already pushing her skirt up and her panties aside. Two fingers slid through her folds and found her soaked. "Jesus. You're dripping."

"Your fault." She rocked onto his hand. "Since I saw you under that towel."

He pushed two fingers into her, slow, then a third, stretching her while his thumb circled her clit. She moaned into his neck, working herself on his hand, the wet sound obscene. It wasn't enough. She needed the cock she had just had in her mouth, the one still standing against her belly, smearing her skin.

He rolled them with a careful strength that kept them both on the table. She landed on her back, legs falling open, and he settled between them. The head of his cock nudged her entrance, huge, blunt, pausing.

"Yes," she said, before he could ask again. "I want it. Slow. Then don't be slow."

He pushed in.

The stretch stole her breath. He was so thick her body had to open around him in increments, the fat head breaching her, then inch after heavy inch sinking into her cunt until she felt stuffed, split, gloriously full. Her hands clutched his shoulders. A broken moan left her throat.

"You're huge," she gasped, the words tumbling out because she couldn't hold them. "God, Xavier, you're so huge. I can feel every inch. Don't stop."

He bottomed out with a shudder, hips flush to hers, and held there while she adjusted, kissing her jaw, her mouth, murmuring that she felt incredible, so tight, so wet. Then he drew back and thrust, deep missionary, the table creaking under them. Each stroke dragged that thick shaft along every sensitive place inside her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and met him, moaning into his ear how big he was, how she had stared at his cock under the towel and gotten wet just from the shape of it, how she wanted him to fuck her until she couldn't think. He answered with harder thrusts, the wet slap of their bodies filling the studio, his balls heavy against her ass.

She needed to ride it. The urge hit her so hard she pushed at his chest. "Let me on top. I want to feel all of it."

He rolled onto his back, cock shining with her, and she swung a leg over and sank down in one long, shaking slide. The angle was different, deeper. She planted her hands on his chest and rode him, hips rolling, taking that massive erection to the root and lifting until only the head stayed inside, then dropping again. Her breasts bounced. He gripped her hips and watched her with dark, hungry eyes, thrusting up to meet her, the sound of her cunt taking him loud and slick.

"Look at you," he said. "Riding me like you own it."

"I stared at it," she panted, grinding her clit against the base. "Now I'm going to come on it."

Pleasure coiled tight, bright, almost there—but he sat up, kissed her hard, and eased her off with a groan that said he was close too and not ready to finish. "Turn over," he said. "I want to fuck you from behind. I want to feel you come around me."

She got onto her hands and knees on the wide table, uniform hanging open, skirt bunched at her waist, panties dragged to one thigh. He knelt behind her, one hand spreading her, and pushed back in with a single deep stroke that punched a cry out of her. Doggy style let him go even deeper. He held her hips and pounded her, relentless, the fat head striking that sweet spot on every thrust, his thighs slapping her ass, the whole table shifting under them. She dropped to her elbows and pushed back, taking it, babbling yes, harder, don't stop, you're so deep.

The orgasm hit like a wave breaking. Her cunt clamped down around his shaft in hard, pulsing spasms, and she came with a raw cry, shaking, soaking him, vision sparking at the edges. He fucked her through it, groaning at the grip of her, pace faltering only when she sobbed his name and clenched again, aftershocks ripping through her.

"I'm going to come," he rasped, pulling out at the last second. "Where—"

"On me." She rolled onto her back, breathless, and wrapped both hands around his slick, throbbing cock. "Right here."

He knelt over her stomach and she stroked him fast, both fists, twisting over the swollen head. His whole body locked. Thick ropes of cum erupted across her breasts and belly, hot stripes painting her skin, spurt after heavy spurt while she milked every drop, palms gliding through the mess, coaxing him until he shuddered and nothing more came. A last pearly thread dripped over her knuckles. He braced a hand beside her head, chest heaving, and looked at her like she had ruined him in the best way.

She pulled him down. Their kiss was slow, breathless, tasting of salt and satisfaction, his softening cock resting against her thigh, her hands still sticky on his back. For a moment neither of them moved, just breathed, foreheads touching, the lamp humming softly in the quiet room.

Marlene reached for the warm towel she kept by the table and wiped his stomach, then her own breasts and belly, gentle, unhurried, cleaning the shine from both of them. Her uniform hung open. She didn't care. He watched her hands with a dazed, pleased look that made her smile.

"Same time next week?" she asked, voice husky. She folded the towel and met his eyes. "I think you should book the full-body package. I'll make sure it's very thorough."