Page 3 of All I Wank for Christmas

A gurgling sound comes from his mouth like he’s finding words to say or just trying to catch his breath. He lets me lead him to the lobby, and he looks around the hallway like he’s seeing it for the first time.

When I get to the lobby, the hot guy is still sitting in the chair waiting for Linda Two. Maybe she’s on lunch. Maybe he’s waiting for Linda Three. Whatever the case, he’s still there, and he smiles when I walk into the room. “It’s you!” he says with a smile, dropping the magazine again.

I hand off the older gentleman to Linda One and mouth, “Stroke victim.” She sighs and waves the man over to the counter for a refund. I don’t think the man has blinked since I tried to touch his cock.

Walking to the gorgeous man, I tilt my head and smile. “Do I know you?” I ask.

“Nope,” the man replies with a little shake of his head. His eyes light up like a spotlight, and he gives me another look up and down my body. He clears his throat and focuses on my face. Only then do I remember my shirt is still unbuttoned enough for my C-cup breasts to pop out.

“Oh, I just thought maybe we knew each other since you seemed to know me just now.”

He shrugs. “I just saw you a few minutes ago. I was hoping you’d be my masseuse, but you went back with that guy. I guess I was disappointed when you left and felt happy when you came back.”

What. A. Cinnamon. Roll.

“That’s sweet. Did a Linda come and get you yet, or are you waiting for a specific masseuse?”

“I think I’d like you if that’s alright.”

My heart drops to the floor. I only get to jerk off guys this hot when I have an actual Tinder date and choose them myself. Gorgeous men who look like they could model on the cover ofGQdon’t exactly rush into a small-town rub and tug. Maybe he’s someone’s bored relative who has nothing better to do in our town over Christmas and is only surrounded by cousins who would be unsuitable for hand jobs.

“Have you recently suffered a stroke?” I ask, not wanting to have a repeat of the last man.

“No.” He furrows his brow and frowns. “Does that matter?”

“Nope. Just checking. Come on back,” I say, turning and waving for him to follow me. “Welcome to The Happy Stroke Club.”

I don’t expect him to tell me his name. None of the men do. Sure, I know the police department, my math teacher, my old gym teacher, the deacon at my childhood church, and the guy that runs the fish fry. But they don’t say their names, and I don’t say them during the procedure. It gets weird. It’s probably like the town gynecologist pretending they’ve never looked inside your vagina or given you a breast exam when they run into you at Taco Bell. What I do is a business transaction, end of story.

It catches me off guard when I hear a husky whisper behind me. “I’m Jasper.”

Chapter 2

Jasper

Fromthemomentshewalked into the waiting room, I wanted to talk to her. The idea of her massaging my back is nice, but I want toknowher. Learn her name. I want to know where she buys those cute red and white striped tights she’s wearing under the flouncy red skirt with what looks like garland around the hem. I want to know why she chose bangs over letting her thick, dark hair fly freely around her face. What’s her favorite color? Does she cheer for the Phillies, or is she a Pirates fan? Most importantly, Eagles or Steelers?

I run my eyes down the back of her as she silently leads me into her massage room. She’s very fit. Probably a runner by the judge of her calves. I smile, thinking of her out on a morning run, her hair back in a ponytail that flops when she jogs. I try not to think about her in tight running shorts and a white sports bra with her nipples…

“Here we are,” she says, gesturing toward the massage table in the middle of the room.

I look around at the walls. Hmm. Most massage places have relaxing pictures on the walls or soft music piped through the speakers. Maybe some incense or a pot of potpourri. This is different. Functional. The only pictures on the walls don’t match. There’s a framed cat stuck in a boot on one side of the room and a guy with a fishing pole on the opposite wall.

I pick up a paper rose at the foot of the table and sniff it. I don’t know why. I just wanted to see if it smelled nice or smells like her own perfume. Disappointed when I smell nothing but the faint hint of cleaner, I drop the paper flower and wish I had the foresight to buy her real flowers.

I never thought I’d meet someone so beautiful with a smile that lights up the room. She’s certainly not what I expected to find in a ramshackle building that needs serious brick updates and a new roof.

“Well, go ahead and get comfortable,” she says, clapping her hands and raising her eyebrows.

Her eyes widen and darken into black holes as she takes me in, studying me from my forehead to the tips of my boots. I hope I look normal. Be normal. Just for a few minutes. I only need this beautiful woman to give me a massage that will relieve all this family stress and delivery pressure of tonight. I have a lot on my plate. None of this needs to be weird.

“Don’t you leave while I get undressed? Is there a robe I can use?”

She shrugs. “If you want,” she says. Fuck, her voice is like soft butter. “Most clients don’t see the point since I’m going to see their junk anyway. We don’t exactly fuss with privacy, but I’m happy to give you a moment.”

“Their junk?”

She blows out a deep breath and crosses her arms over her chest. “I thought you said you weren’t here because you had a stroke.”

---