The Massage in Booth 7 I Asked for in Lisbon

Friday afternoon in Lisbon smelled of salt and freedom. I’d just come out of the hotel gym, my body still hot, my muscles loaded after a brutal session of deadlifts and pull-ups. I wore my hair loose down my back, the long braids already flecked with silver threads that gave me more of an old warrior’s look than an executive’s.

At forty-five I still stood one meter seventy-eight and kept every clean kilo of muscle, thanks to mornings swimming in open water while the sea was still cold and afternoons of weights and combat. I ran a multinational sports equipment company between Lisbon and Porto, and that kept me in shape, but it left me little time to truly let off steam. Lately everything had been reduced to quick wanks in the suite, thinking about strong bodies, big hands, and hard cocks regardless of color.

I decided to treat myself before heading up to the room: a deep ninety-minute massage. At reception they told me there was immediate availability. Perfect. A boy escorted me to booth 7 and introduced himself as Souleymane. Twenty, twenty-one at most. Malian, dark skin glossy as freshly polished obsidian, well over a meter eighty, broad shoulders straining the white uniform shirt.

He had sculpted biceps, tight black trousers that outlined powerful thighs, and a crotch that — fuck — clearly hid something big in there, no matter how professionally he tried to conceal it. Handsome face, huge dark eyes, perfect smile, full lips. He held my gaze a second longer than necessary when he greeted me.

—Good afternoon, Mr. Lars. I’m Souleymane. I’ll be taking care of you today. Follow me, please.

His voice was deep, with that soft, sing-song accent some West Africans have, sexy without trying. I walked behind him down the amber-lit corridor, smelling hot argan oil and eucalyptus. I watched his tight ass moving inside the trousers, the defined calves with every step, the way his back widened into his shoulders. My cock twitched inside my boxer briefs.

Control yourself, Lars. He’s just a masseur.

But I hadn’t touched anyone for real in weeks and this kid was exactly my type: young, strong, with that raw energy you can feel in the way someone moves, in the way he fills space without even trying.

We arrived at the booth. Light wood door, warm interior, soft music of distant drums and breaking waves. The wide table stood in the center, pristine white sheets, a large towel folded to one side. It smelled clean and promising.

—Take your clothes off, sir, nice and easy. Leave them on that chair. I’m going to get the hot oils and the basalt stones. Lie face down when you’re ready, make yourself comfortable. The towel’s there to cover yourself. I’ll be right back.

I nodded. He left and closed the door softly. I was left alone with the rapid beat in my chest and between my legs. I pulled off my sweat-soaked shirt and exposed the tattoo that covered the entire right side of my body: pure Spartan style, a hoplite with spear and shield on my chest, a lion roaring over my obliques, greaves and sandals running down my leg to the ankle, all in deep black with heavy shading.

The back had the right half covered by a round shield with a giant lambda and Greek geometric motifs. The whole right arm was a battle scene at Thermopylae: warriors, arrows, stylized blood. I liked the contrast with the clean left side, blond, hairy, muscular but untouched by ink. It was like carrying two halves: the civilized executive and the wild warrior.

I pulled down my track pants and tight black boxer briefs. My cock sprang free, heavy, thick, veined, already half-hard from anticipation alone. The pink glans peeked out, sensitive to the warm air in the booth. My balls hung low, full. I glanced at myself in the small mirror for a second: pale gray eyes like molten steel, dark-blond trimmed beard with a few gray hairs, broad chest covered in hair that ran down to my navel and continued all the way to my cock.

At forty-five I was still fucking hot and I knew it. I liked my body. I liked that other people looked at it.

I lay face down on the table. The sheet was warm, almost hot. I rested my face in the padded hole, my arms relaxed at my sides. My cock was trapped between my belly and the soft fabric, throbbing against it, already dripping a little that began soaking into the sheet. I didn’t cover myself with the towel. I wanted to see what he’d do when he came back in: whether he’d notice, whether he’d keep staring, whether he’d get nervous or turned on.

I heard the door open slowly. Bare feet on wood. I smelled the hot oil before he spoke, sweet almond oil mixed with something darker, more masculine.

—Perfect, Mr. Lars. I’m here.

His voice sounded deeper than before, as if he’d swallowed hard when he saw me like that, naked and exposed. I felt him come up to the table. There was a long, very long silence. He was definitely looking. At my hard ass, the curve of my tattooed back on one side, my legs parted just enough for him to see the balls pressed against the sheet and the thick base of my cock jutting out below.

Then the towel came down. Big, warm, taken from the warmer. He placed it carefully, with both hands, spreading it slowly over my lower back. The top edge stopped in the middle of my back; the bottom edge, fuck, the bottom edge came to just under my ass cheeks, grazing the lowest part of my butt, leaving almost the whole curve exposed.

My glutes were barely covered, the crease between them visible if he leaned even a little, my balls and the base of my cock still exposed below, pressed against the sheet. The towel didn’t cover anything important. It was more suggestion than coverage.

I felt his breathing change. It grew heavier, deeper. He went still for a second, hands still on the towel’s edge, fingertips brushing the skin of my ass by accident. Or not.

—You’re… very muscular —he said softly, almost a whisper—. A lot of training, right?

His accent thickened, his voice rough with contained excitement.

—Open-water swimming, combat, the gym… I never stop —I replied, my voice deep and teasing, letting the tone drop—. Do you like what you see, Souleymane?

Silence. Then a soft laugh, nervous but clearly excited.

—Very much… You can tell you take care of your body. It’s… impressive.

His hands finally settled on my shoulders. Hot oil, very hot, poured in slow streams down my back. His palms were big, rough in the center, soft in the fingers. He began spreading the oil with long strokes, from the nape of my neck down to where the towel began. With each pass his fingers went a little lower, brushing the top edge of my ass cheeks, testing the hard flesh.

My cock hardened completely underneath me, swollen, veined, throbbing against the warm sheet. Every time he pressed on my lower back, my pelvis shifted almost imperceptibly, rubbing me against the fabric. Slow pleasure, torturous, delicious.

This twenty-one-year-old kid already has me hard just by tucking the towel on me and touching my back. I want him to go lower. I want him to pull that towel away and touch me for real.

He kept massaging, now with more pressure, thumbs sunk into the back muscles, working their way downward. The towel shifted a little with his movements, rising just a centimeter, exposing more of my ass. I felt cool air brush the crease and then his oiled fingers skim the skin right beside the hole, not entering, just grazing, testing.

He didn’t say anything else. He just breathed hard. I didn’t speak either. I only let out a low moan when his thumbs pressed the sides of my ass cheeks, opening me a little wider without meaning to. Or meaning to.

—I’m going to work the lower back —he murmured, his voice trembling—. Tell me if I press too hard.

—Press as hard as you want —I said into the face cradle—. I won’t complain.

His hands lingered at the base of my back, just above the towel, kneading the muscles in slow circles. Each circle brought him closer to the fabric’s edge. Each circle made him hesitate one second longer before pulling away. I felt the heat of his palms through my skin, the oil sliding down my sides and dripping onto the sheet.

Then, as if the towel were in his way, he slid it a few centimeters to one side with the back of his hand. The gesture was so natural it could have passed for an accident, but we both knew it wasn’t. Now my ass cheeks were almost completely exposed, glistening with oil under the warm light.

—Excuse me, sir —he whispered without a shred of regret in his voice—. I need space to work better.

—Take all the space you need —I answered.

His hands flew to my glutes. He squeezed them firmly, parting them slightly, kneading them as if they were part of the muscle he had to loosen. Hot oil dripped in threads down the crease, sliding lower, and I clenched my teeth to keep from moaning louder. My cock dripped nonstop against the sheet, trapped, hard as stone.

—There’s enormous tension here —he said, and his thumb traced the crease from top to bottom, slowly, not entering, just gliding over the oil—. It needs to be released.

Then release it. Let me go all the way.

I turned my head just enough to glance at him out of the corner of my eye. His forehead was beaded with sweat, lips parted, eyes fixed on what his hands were doing. And in the black trousers, straining against the tight fabric, was an erection he could no longer hide. I smiled into the padded cradle. I had him exactly where I wanted him.

—Souleymane —I said, my voice rough—. The door. Does it lock?

He went very still. His hands stopped moving on my ass, but he didn’t take them away. He swallowed; I heard it perfectly in the booth’s silence.

—Yes, sir —he finally answered, almost out of breath—. It locks.

—Lock it —I said.

There was an eternal instant when nothing happened. Only the murmur of the recorded waves, the dripping oil, our two uneven breaths. Then I heard his barefoot steps cross the booth, the dry click of the latch sliding into place. And I knew those ninety minutes were going to look nothing like the spa’s service menu.

He came back to the table more slowly than before, as if savoring every step. I felt his fingers settle again at the base of my back, slide the towel all the way to the floor, and leave me entirely at his mercy, naked, shining, open.

—Tell me what you need, Mr. Lars —he murmured, pressed close to my ear, his hot breath against my nape—. And I’ll take care of it.

I smiled in the amber darkness. This had only just begun.