Femmy Masseuse Helps His Customer Get Over Sexual Inhibitions

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Let me make it perfectly clear—when I wasn't attending classes, I was at the Baths. I even studied there while my fellow classmates hung out in the stacks. Then I got sick and tested POZ.

I quit school to reevaluate my life and swore off sex, so that I wouldn't do to any other guy what had been done to me. At 21 I sought refuge from my personal conundrum in the hustle and bustle of 9-to-5. I clerked at uncle's law firm.

Of course, he didn't know the real reason I had taken a hiatus from the collegiate world—beyond my vague explanation that I needed respite from the rigors of the academia—I was burnt out. Likewise the official line was I had hurt my hamstring playing soccer, when actually I had slipped in the whirlpool while getting gangbanged at the Baths.

So my whole life seemed a string of fabrications, and I was sick and tired of the whole thing. But my injury actually was debilitating—so I sought the services of a Masseur.

My favorite was this little storefront spa, and it always seemed pretty upright and legit—right up until the hot and humid lunch time I walked in and all the beds were full. My usual Masseur was tied up with other guys, so I was faced with the alternative of being treated by a flaky little Fag I’d never seen before or a Masseuse. Okay, since, I was partial to Queers to begin with (understatement of the year) I followed the mincing little Queen downstairs where they had a couple of spare rooms.

We were totally alone; and I got my usual raging Hard-On, which I always get in the presence of a Fag—a phenomenon which had begun the very day of my self-imposed abstinence and continued to then and there. As usual I ignored myself; and, anyway, it hardly mattered, since I was still fully dressed.

He left me in a room to change, and I stripped down quickly to my boxer shorts and lay face down in the over air-conditioned atmosphere, the effect of which, I hoped, would simulate a cold shower.

But the wimpy little Fag returned too soon, and for the next 10 or 15 minutes, the mere touch of the horny little Wastrel wreaked havoc on my bod. With his paws resting on my buttocks, he inquired if any part of my anatomy was in need of special service.

I bit my tongue and dutifully, and true to my vow of continence, gave him the straight version about my leg.

Anyway, he started with my Ass, which wasn't that unusual, but his technique was definitely sensual—concupiscently different—and I figured he couldn't help himself. Neither, in retrospect, could I.

He worked his hands beneath my boxers; and they felt warm and good. Old instincts never die, and subconsciously I began making little fucking motions on the table.

I think he read, or maybe misread, my intentions because he oiled up my body, from neck to ankles, which was SOP, but then his nimble fingers began to caress the inside of my boxers, his slick digits gently probing the sensitive boundaries of my Cunt. His lips barely inches from my ear lobes, he whispered in his native New Yorkese, "I hope you're feeling better. I always aim to please."

Yes, no denying he was good. But I couldn’t let it happen. I looked up and smiled lamely, resolute in my determination not to encourage him. Undeterred, he smiled back, pulled off my boxers, and ordered me to flip.

At first oblivious to my Erection, he oiled my chest, and upper thighs, before caving on my Balls, massaging them with his greasy fem mitts, till, finally, he slid up to jack my Cock.

I closed my eyes and prayed, “Lead us not into temptation...."

He inched closer to the table and dropped his trou. He, too, was wearing boxers. He slid them down; and, unrestrained, a thick six inches popped out before my face.

“But deliver us from evil.…"

My supplication was rudely interrupted by that all too familiar edit I'd succumbed to all my life.

"SUCK IT!"

His belly jutted forward, his Cock, the first since my Conversion to brush my lips. Like on autopilot, they parted as he plunged into my mouth.

It was awkward. I was lying on my side, and my jaw began to ache. ‘THIS IS STUPID! THIS IS NOT YOUR EVERYDAY MASSAGE!’

Pragmatically I jumped down off the table and knelt down in front of him. He began to fuck my face. He already had his shirt off, his pants down around his ankles, his Cock glistening with Precum. Like the poor, deprived Fucker that I was, I found myself ravishing his Cock.

"At least," I thought, "this minor indiscretion, still on the safe side, would cause him no lasting harm."

But then he pulled out of my mouth and bent over to the table. "eat my Ass!"

Remember I’d been deprived for months. And, after all, no one gets AIDS from just doing Oral. So I compliantly rammed my tongue into his Rosebud, and soon I found myself enthusiastically savoring the nectar of the little Queen’s Ass Juices, my mug planted firmly up his Butt.

"NOW FUCK ME!"

"I CAN’T! NOT WITHOUT A CONDOM!"

"Why not? I don’t have any STD’s."

"BECAUSE I'M POZ!"

He turned around and started at me agawk. I felt like a bug under a microscope.

"You got HIV?"

He stuttered, struggling to comprehend. Without warning he reached out and twisted my Nip with all his might!

"Ouch!" I said I'm POZ, not dead, goddammit! "

"I'm not so sure. Let's see." With that, he bent down to suck me, taking my shriveled Cock between his lips. Talk about an explosion—his hot soft mouth the first to caress my Death Stick since last year. They say the spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. And the sensation of his tight thin faggoty lips dancing on my Dick Head decimated every ounce of my resistance, as months of stymied PreCum oozed out of my Piss Slit.

"Hmmmm, Yum-Yum! Tastes fit enough. And I still want you to fuck me," he advised, plunging his tongue deep down my throat.

For the first time since that fateful day at the Doctor's office I responded indulgently—returning his caresses with every ounce of Lust and Passion I'd suppressed those many months. And as I reached down to grope his Penis, he did a quick 180, bracing his arms against the table, bucking back against my Cock.

I gasped loudly as my ever-ready Death Stick, slick with Precum, oils and spit, lunged forward of its own volition and plunged into his Cunt. I'd been close before I entered him, and his tight, wet warm enticing tunnel led me to shudder and convulse.

I never did understand his motivation, perhaps some willful, self-destructive need, yet all I could think of while I fucked him was, “Honey, Welcome to the Club.” I can assure you my reaction was on the purely instinctive side. And you wouldn't believe how I spasmed as my Toxic Jizm assailed his Mancunt.

POZ or NEG—it hardly mattered. He’d helped me see the light. Suffice it to say, from that day forward, I never again gave a fuck about Status, and never again volunteered anything about it, lying if I was asked.