The Massage Therapist on the Ninth Floor Tied Me Up on the Balcony

I’d been living with a strange kind of sexual boredom in Montevideo for months. Every three or four weeks I’d download the same dating app again, then delete it again, sick of the same script: exchange messages, move to Instagram, fuck three or four guys, and go back to the couch. The gym, the rambla, some sauna in Ciudad Vieja. Sporadic. Repetitive. Nothing that even remotely resembled real desire.

One afternoon on vacation, bored and with no plans, I downloaded the best-known app again. I uploaded two faceless photos and a blunt description: 1.88, top, 22×7, Pocitos area, place, no substances, neat. The minute the photos were approved, the messages came flooding in. Tops, versatiles, couples, man-woman couples. The same fauna that moved through Instagram and X.

One profile made me stop. He advertised himself as a massage therapist, photographer, yoga teacher, and “artist in general.” Skinny, tan skin, almost androgynous, long hair, 1.75. In the bio, without blinking: “1000% bottom.” I wrote to him more out of curiosity than horniness. We exchanged three messages, I asked where he was from, whether he had a place. He invited me to his consulting room after six, after his yoga class. I said yes.

I put on a white brief, a black T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. I drove to the building in Parque Rodó.

It was an ordinary building, one of those from the seventies. I rang the bell, announced myself. Seven long minutes passed before he came down. When the lobby door opened, I saw him: white tunic, black hair loose to his shoulders, sandals. The exact image of an Instagram guru. As we went up, I was thinking that after having driven all the way here, and after seeing him dressed like that, this had better be worth it somehow.

He fixed his hair in front of the mirror in the foyer and walked toward the elevator door.

“Hi, welcome! You’re so tall!” he said, and hugged me.

I gave him a couple of awkward pats on the back in return.

“How’s it going? All good?”

“Come in,” he said, and pressed the ninth-floor button.

The elevator was tiny. The two of us fit inside tightly, our shoulders almost touching. He rode up in silence, with a closed-lip smile, as if he knew something I still didn’t.

We reached the top floor. The apartment was a bright one-room space with a terrace balcony. It smelled of sandalwood and something like freshly cut grass. Clean, spacious, with plenty of empty space between the furniture. Off to one side, a massage table with a folding screen, clearly where he worked. A few meters away, an area with cushions and a yoga mat. Near the window, a tatami mat and a low cabinet with creams, oils, and plants. Facing all that, a long sofa. Outside, on the balcony, more plants, two wicker armchairs, a little table, and in one corner a wooden-and-metal lattice from which black ribbons hung. That last thing made me breathe a little slower.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked, pointing to the sofa.

“Yeah,” I said. “Nice place.”

“My home and my sanctuary.” He said it seriously, without a trace of irony. “Now tell me: you’re a big, striking guy, good-built. What are you doing looking on an app?”

“I was looking for something different from what always shows up.”

“And what convinced you about my profile?” He sat down across from me. “I’m not what you’d call hegemonic. Look how I’m receiving you.”

“Exactly that. That you’re different.”

He laughed. He got up, tied his hair into a bun, and stood about a meter from me.

“Look, I can show you things that are going to make you feel good. Today, to get to know you, I’m offering you a three-stage pleasure circuit for free. You’re going to expand, you’re going to leave here light. If you like it, next time you book an appointment and I charge you. Sound good?”

“I’d love that. What do I have to do?”

“Take your clothes off. Stay in your underwear.”

I undressed. I was left in my white brief. He looked me up and down, bit his lip, and let out a low sigh, as if he didn’t want me to hear it. He told me he was going to cover my eyes with a blindfold and that my only job from that moment on was to surrender. Listen, feel, let the body go. He turned the music up — something with bowls and long bass tones — and I heard him open a bottle of oil, rub his hands together, sigh.

“I’m going to pass a feather over you first. To sweep away the bad energy,” he said.

The feather was long, dark, from some bird I couldn’t identify.

He started at the crown of my head, went down the nape of my neck, traced my shoulders, my lats, my lower back. The feather raised goosebumps all over me from the waist down. It brushed over my ass. In a very low voice, he asked me to spread my legs a little more. I did. He continued over my inner thighs, my hamstrings, and that was when my cock stopped pretending it wasn’t there. It started to swell, as if in anticipation. I reached a hand down to adjust it and heard, more a sigh than a rebuke:

“Shhh. Still.”

He went back over my calves, my feet, and then came around to the front. I felt his breathing close to my chest. He repeated everything from the top: shoulders, arms, pecs, stomach. When the feather reached the bulge, he made several more passes than anywhere else. I inhaled and exhaled as if I were in yoga class, wanting it to go back to sleep. No chance. My cock has a mind of its own. When I heard him kneel to pass the feather over my quads, I felt a warm, damp breath over the brief. It was his breath, slow, measured. Whatever was left of my control went straight to the floor.

He put the feather aside. Again I heard the sound of hands rubbing something together. He climbed onto the sofa behind me and began rubbing oil into my traps and shoulders in something that resembled a massage, though less meant to loosen muscles than to touch. To caress. He oiled my arms, my pecs, kneaded them. The same with my lats, my back, my abs. He moved down to my legs, calves, knees, thighs. He started with the left. Then the right. My cock usually leans that way.

He moved up my right thigh with his fingertips, barely brushing my balls. The head swelled so much it peeked out over the edge of the brief. He kept massaging for a few more seconds. What I felt next wasn’t fingers: it was a tongue, soft, playing with the head. I clenched my fists, not knowing what to do with them.

He took me by the arm and gently pushed me. I walked three steps blind. My foot hit carpet. His voice reached me very close.

“Sit here. Lie back.”

He arranged my head on a cushion. He took each leg, spread them apart, and rested them on two more cushions. I ended up sprawled on the rug, legs wide open, white brief intact, cock about to split the fabric.

I heard him position himself between my thighs. He gave the adductors two short massages. He brought his mouth to my bulge. His tongue came in from the side, exactly where the head was peeking out, and once again tightened my cock against the cloth. He lifted the blindfold for just a second.

“Do you give me permission to continue? I’m going to secure your wrists and ankles. If anything makes you uncomfortable or you don’t like it, tell me.”

“Go ahead,” I said. “Keep going.”

Under each cushion there were cuffs and Velcro straps. He pulled them out and put them on my wrists and around my ankles. If I strained, I could have freed myself. I wasn’t going to strain. I let myself go.

He lowered the blindfold again. He caressed my chest with both hands. He pulled my dick out from the side of the brief and started with slow licking that quickly turned into sucking. The blowjob was the kind you feel in the nape of your neck. He filled it with saliva, jerked me when he got tired of sucking, then went back to it. I clenched my fists inside the cuffs, trying to hold out.

At some point he lifted his tunic, climbed on top of me, and sat himself down onto my cock. He let out a soft moan at first, almost of pain. He stopped, got more oil, rubbed it over his ass and over my cock, and tried again. He took it in little by little. When my balls hit him, he froze. I was breathing hard, but from pleasure. I had this strange feeling of being tied up in a stranger’s place, with a guy I barely knew deciding everything.

He started moving, lightly, moaning with each descent. He spread his ass cheeks with both hands so it would go in easier. He sped up. At one point I wanted to sit up, regain control, and fuck him my way, make him understand what it meant to be underneath. He shoved me back down with one hand.

“Stay,” he said. “Let yourself go.”

We kept at it a little longer. The two of us moaning, him on top, me tied up and blind. Then he stopped, panting.

“We’re going to try something else. You’ll like it.”

***

He freed my legs first. Then he lifted the blindfold and looked me in the eyes before untying my wrists. Not quite done unfastening me, he kissed me. He kissed me long, without asking. When he let me go completely, I kissed him back. We kissed like two wet, filthy things in a room that smelled of oil and sandalwood.

“Your cock is too big for me,” he said against my mouth. “It hurts. Come on.”

He led me to the balcony. Me naked, him with the tunic open. He pointed to the lattice and the two wooden slats leaning on the floor.

“Climb up here.”

He climbed onto a little stool. He fastened one wrist to a Velcro strap, then the other. He lowered the blindfold. He tied my feet. He passed a strap around my waist to fix me to the lattice. It was hot. We were on the ninth floor, there were no mosquitoes, no neighbors across the way. Only the violet sky and the distant sound of the rambla.

He oiled my whole body again. He focused on my cock. What came next is called, as he explained it to me, cum control. He jerked me off in different ways until I was right at the edge. When I told him I was about to come, he stopped. Waited. Started again. He turned on a black vibrator, the kind that looks like a microphone, and ran it over my cock, my balls, my nipples. The pleasure was unlike anything I’d felt in years. He changed the rhythm every minute. At times he pressed it to my perineum, while with the other hand he blew me or jerked me off with oil. He pinched my nipples with two clips and ran the vibrator over them. I clenched my teeth and focused on breathing.

To close the circuit, he climbed back onto the little stool near me and took my cock in his ass. I heard him settle himself, adjust, start moving. Me, tied to the lattice, without hands, without feet, without the blindfold this time. I could see him moaning against my neck, begging for milk, biting my shoulder. He switched the vibrator on and ran it over my balls without warning. I didn’t say anything. I held out for three more seconds and then, with a neigh that came out of the back of my neck, I let everything I had flood inside him.

“You didn’t warn me!” he laughed, panting, not stopping his movements. “Oh, God, I’ve got cum running down my whole thigh.”

I got down from the stool as best I could when he released my torso. My head was hanging forward. He freed my feet. He kissed me again, less urgently. He took my cock in his hand and jerked it softly to get the last drops out. When he knelt so he wouldn’t miss them, semen started dripping from his ass. He laughed.

“Oh, sweetheart. You were a full tank.”

I sat on one of the wicker armchairs. He brought me cold water. He invited me to take a shower. I did. I washed up in silence, my legs still shaking.

When I left, I didn’t ask the price for next time. I drove home, threw myself on the bed while I stalled for time to order delivery, and fell asleep before dialing the number. I slept like I hadn’t slept in months.

Fifteen days later, I wrote to him to do it again.