Complicity by Callan Smith

A lot of my stories are based on truth. Highly embellished truth sometimes I admit but nonetheless true and I've noticed that the ones closest to the truth -- like 'Unzipped' for example -- have been the most popular with my readers so you should enjoy this one. By the time you read it, Badpuppy will probably have posted sixty-nine of my stories. Maybe this is the one with the magic number.

Actually, when I started out, I never imagined I was going to get this far. But it's a bit like when you're trying to score with some guy who continues to play hard to get. Life is full of surprises. Like when I found out I was diabetic. Maybe talking about my problems with blood sugar isn't the greatest basis for an erotic story but that's how this one came about so here goes. It's a no pain no gain tale and gets better as it goes along so bear with me.

After a periodic blood test in London I was told by the doctor that I was a walking time bomb and had to have insulin treatment immediately. Besides the initial shock and the fact I was no longer able to eat my favourite food there were unpleasant side effects such as pins and needles in my legs and feet. The Diabetic's Guide To Healthy Living calls it 'a tingling sensation.' I'd always kind of associated tingling sensations with something pleasant such as cleaning teeth or how you feel after a refreshing shower but this one was anything but pleasant or refreshing and kept me awake at night. It was like walking on a bed of hot piercing nails. Later I was going to get a tingling sensation of another hot and piercing kind, like nothing I'd ever experienced. But I didn't know that yet.

This is how it all started. While searching for a place to live, my friend David had replied to an ad from an Italian physiotherapist who was moving to Paris and renting out his furnished apartment for ten months. Dave didn't take the place -- it was too big and expensive -- but he still had the guy's number. He suggested I rang to make an appointment. "He's not due to leave till next month and by then he might have you walking on air instead of on nails," Dave said. "I don't think he's gay but he's really cute. You'll like him." So I took Dave's advice and rang the guy and that was the beginning of my undoing. Although things didn't really 'unravel' between us until we'd been seeing each other in one capacity or another for quite some time. I mean I wasn't physically attracted to him, or at least that's what I told myself, and he was bent on being straight. At least with me.

The only previous experience I'd had of massages was in Amsterdam with a guy sent to me by an Escort Agency. Alessandro made it clear from the start that he was a physiotherapist not a masseur. As soon as we got that straight I realized that Dave's first impression had been right. He wasn't gay or if he was he had no intention of letting his private life encroach on his professional life. However I soon found that he was an excellent physiotherapist. His soft hands and his soothing voice helped melt away my aches and pains. And my fears. At least at the beginning. I wish I could say the same of his massages. Or physiotherapy. It sometimes had me screaming in agony. When he massaged my hypersensitive legs he showed no mercy and I wouldn't let him anywhere near my feet. In fact I behaved like a two-year old. I'd never felt so out of control. He seemed to take it all in his stride. Maybe other patients were as bad or worse than me but I was embarrassed and told him so.

"You have to learn to relax," he said.

"Easier said than done," I replied. "It hurts."

"If you think it's going to hurt, it will," he said.

I had five sessions before he left and felt much better although he still hurt me.

"It's like sex," he said during the last session. "It hurts at the beginning but it gets better."

"Now he tells me," I thought. "Just when I was getting used to his touch."

Actually part of my embarrassment was due to the fact that the pain had indeed merged into pleasure and my moans of agony were beginning to be indistinguishable from my moans of sensual enjoyment and I didn't want to give him the satisfaction of knowing that he was turning me on, or send him scuttling out the door. Especially as he was doing me so much good. By now, he'd not only managed to get the circulation going in my legs but also between my legs. But that's another story. By the way, I forgot to point out that most of the time I wore a sweat suit but the weather started to get hot -- as did I - and towards the end I got over my shyness a bit and he massaged me in my jockey shorts so could hear but not see the effect he was having on me.

At the end of June, we shook hands professionally and he said he was sorry to be leaving me just when his therapy seemed to be bearing fruit. This was the first time I'd noticed any ambiguity in what he said and wondered if it might be a sign of potential ambiguity in him. Or maybe, like a lot of so-called straights, he liked to tease. It flatters their vanity to think other men find them attractive. Especially Italians. At the same time I was confused as to whether the feelings that had flowered in me were of love or dependence. Nobody had ever touched my body and soul quite like he had. I sure as hell was going to miss him. He apologised once again and said if he came back to London for a few days he'd check in with me to see how I was going. After all Paris wasn't that far away. In the meantime, he advised me to go for long walks and get lots of exercise.

Trying to cope without him really was a 'mean time' for me. But I survived and was just getting over his absence when he came back. Paris hadn't worked out for him and he returned to London to pick up the pieces. He'd lost a lot of his clients so he had a lot more time to dedicate to me. His first massage was out of this world and made me appreciate him all the more. I did my best to relax and let my hands dangle by my side, which meant that, at one point, one of them brushed involuntarily against his crotch. I could feel the fleshy heat of him. He didn't move away but that's as far as it went. And the hour was up. So of course was I.

I couldn't really afford it but I saw him three times a week. I couldn't wait to see -- and feel -- him. One day he was rather depressed and asked me if I could help him find work. I told him there were lots of things he could do like conversation lessons in Italian or I could even take some photos of him and we could create a website. That's what everybody was doing nowadays. He agreed but not before he'd pointed out to me that he just wanted headshots, no nudes. This pissed me off a bit but I didn't say anything. I took some great shots of him and he was more photogenic than either of us had imagined. In fact we had another session during which he unbuttoned his shirt and eventually took it off. I mean we were in mid-August by then and it was the hottest summer England had had in a long time. He wasn't all that muscular but the torso shots were really something and I noticed there wasn't a blemish on his golden brown body. I wanted to see the rest of him and in spite of what he'd said I sent him to the bathroom and got him to take off his jeans and wrap an Indian scarf round his loins. To my surprise he agreed. As he lay on his stomach for some of the shots I saw he was wearing nothing underneath the loincloth and the cleft of his butt was much in evidence.

I didn't point this out to him but I knew he knew and took the photos just the same. The result was stupendous but he was anything but pleased with the Michelangelo statue he'd become under my guidance. I realized he'd never seen his sensual side or what my camera was capable of bringing out of him and it had frightened, even shocked him. Looking at one particularly hot shot it was all too obvious that, even though there was no full frontal, the two of us had entered the dangerous waters of genuine intimacy, an intimacy deeper than any genital display.

"Promise me you won't show these to anyone," he said and instead of opening up to me he became tighter than a clam and even more 'professional' with his therapy. I'd been hoping the photos would have sparked something off in him and he would have crossed the gay threshold but they had quite the opposite effect. By now, I wanted to really let myself go and get the full benefit of his massages. I so wanted to surrender to his magic touch - to give full vent to my groans of pleasure -- and not worry about what he might think of me. Once again I was afraid to do so. His hands were hot but his manner was frigid. I'd looked but I couldn't touch. That was the message he was giving out. He didn't even ask me for copies of the photos. I was so disappointed. And more than a little offended.

During the first session after the 'photo finish' he made me do all kinds of exercises, which weren't pleasurable at all. As if he wanted to wipe out the memory of what he'd let me experience before. I was mortified. I'm not sure if 'mortified' is quite the right word but since -- at least for me -- it summons up visions of death it's closer to describing how I felt. 'Deathly' disappointed. Soon his visits became less and less frequent as he'd found more work and my weeks became shorter as they basically consisted of two days. Tuesdays and Fridays. The days of his therapy. In fact my weeks began and ended with his massage sessions. Naturally, I brooded and told myself that the massage he'd given me on his return had been a dream or wishful thinking and I'd let his hands go to my head. Once he cancelled at the last minute. I was so depressed by the time he was due for his next visit that the house was a mess. I called to say I was ill. Told him I had the flu. I couldn't face him.

A week passed and I was more miserable than before so decided to get my act together. I cleaned up and called him. He didn't say much at first but his massage seemed more aggressive. Fortunately, I was lying on my stomach as it made me hard as a rock. Eventually, he asked me why I'd cancelled our last appointment. "I told you," I said. "I had the flu."

He sat on the edge of his massage table and looked deep into my eyes. It only lasted an instant but in that single instant we understood everything we needed to know about each other. We were as intimate as it was possible to be. "What really was wrong?" he asked, stroking my body as you would a dog, although his touch almost made me purr like a cat. I decided to tell him the truth.

"I was overcome by a wave of melancholy." I said.

He didn't say anything but his hands spoke volumes. He massaged me in a way he had never massaged me before. As usual, out of modesty, I was wearing my jockey shorts. I sighed in content as he pulled them over my butt, down my legs and past my ankles, savagely fondling my buttocks, stroking, kneading, and pulling at the flesh until my ass felt like a piece of pizza ready for the oven. Each calculated gesture touched delicate pressure points that were erotic gateways to my sensitive nerve endings. I groaned out loud. I couldn't help myself. In fact I almost hissed between my teeth with the pleasure he was giving me. He had me foaming at the mouth, in a sensual stupor.

"Am I washing away the melancholy?" he said.

"Yes," I said. "You know you are. You're driving me crazy."

In fact it was the closest thing to crazy I had ever been and like the Katie Melua song I was soon feeling twenty-two and acting seventeen and there was definitely a link between the two: "being close to craziness and being close to you." My pelvis rose as he worked his way under my thighs and I involuntarily rolled over so he could get to each inside leg. As he massaged me his thumbs came into contact with the base of my balls. As if by accident. But I knew it was no accident. Especially when he moved his hand down to what I later discovered was called my perineum.

When I looked the word up on my Google I found: "sometimes called the 'sacred spot' the perineum is the small indentation about the size of a dime halfway between the testicles and anus."

It may only have been a small indentation and the size of a dime but it gave me one of the biggest thrills I've ever experienced and made me feel like a million dollars.

"What are you doing to me, for fuck's sake?" I said.

"Giving you a fucking massage," he said, slipping easily into the vernacular, as easily as he was soon slipping a finger or two into my ass, which was yawning aghast at what he was doing to me.

"Fucking hell!" was my only comment as I let his fingers have their way with me.

"Admit it," he said huskily, bringing me in, close as a whisper, to what fate and his hands had in store for me.

"Admit what?" I asked him.

"That you need me," he answered.

"You know I need you." I said, determined not to miss another appointment. Although if this was going to be my punishment it might not be such a bad idea.

When it was all over he told me that what he had given me was a Tantric massage. I looked that up too and learned that in Sanskrit the penis is known as a 'wand of light.' Alessandro had spoken as if a Tantric massage, not to mention the way he touched me, was the most natural thing in the world but it had turned me into a growling, spitting beast sending sparks of electrifying sensations right through my loins. I couldn't believe this was something he did with all his patients. Didn't want to believe it. Because the very thought of him touching someone else like that had me spitting fire just as my penis or 'wand of light' had spat fire during the whole awesome process. Later I looked up the Tantric technique and was directed to a book called "The Way To Heal, Rejuvenate, Transform And Enlighten All Life" and Alessandro certainly did all that for me. To save you looking it up for yourself let me give you a taste of what Tantric massage is all about:

"Place your hand on his Lingam which is Sanskrit for penis. As you massage the shaft, gently squeeze his Lingam at the base with your right hand, and pull up, sliding completely off. Then do the same with your left hand - squeeze his Lingam at the base, and pull up, sliding completely off. Then do this again with your right, then your left, and so on. After a while, change directions - slide alternating hands from the top down to the base. Then take the Lingham between both hands and rub your hands quickly back and forth, as if you wanted to start a fire. Hold his Lingham by the head and gently shake it back and forth. Thoroughly massage the head by cupping it in your palm and turning your wrist, making 'juicing' motions as if you are juicing a lemon. Move from the Lingham to the testicles, to the perineum and back again, noting his responses. When you feel that he can stand it no longer and is at the end of his tether, or rope, bring him to a climax. The Tantric treats the person as a whole individual and doesn't discount the possibility of experiencing intense sexual pleasure as a by-product of receiving the massage. After a course of therapy in the hands of an expert he will take with him a wide assortment of altered inner feelings. He will have analyzed his life and put everything in retrospect and established a peaceful haven inside his soul where he knows he is accepted and loved for the person he is. From that inner haven he will be able to spread this inner love throughout his daily encounters."

Alessandro had certainly given me a wide assortment of altered inner feelings but hadn't exactly established a peaceful haven inside my soul. My mind and body were split down the middle like a watermelon as he didn't stay a second longer than our hourly sessions and never again referred to what he had done to me. In the endless hours between his visits I found myself wondering if he was just working 'hard' for the money or if he genuinely wanted to give me pleasure. And I never knew when he was going to turn me on again as he alternated between sensual stimulation and painful exercise. I didn't dare say "Fuck me again with your fingers teacher," or something glib like that as I was afraid it would break the spell. Especially as he made it very clear several times that he was the one in charge. I was passive putty in his hands. Something I had never experienced before, as I was usually the one holding the reins of control. Those sixty-minute sessions were so precious to me. So out-of-worldly. It was like living in a delicate time bubble or space capsule and I wouldn't have burst that bubble for all the tea in China, or wherever the Tantric technique had come from.

There was now such complicity between us that I learned to close my mouth and open the rest of me up to him. My wish was usually his command. I just didn't have to ask him for it. It might have been a cat and mouse cock-teasing game but I was enjoying every minute of it. And so was he.

My birthday came round and he asked me what kind of a massage I wanted as a special treat.

"I always like it better when you surprise me," I said.

"No, it's your birthday. You can tell me exactly what you want for once."

"I want to see you naked." I said after a pause of reflection. After all he had asked me.

"Didn't you see enough of me in those photos?" he said.

"Not quite," I replied.

"No way." he said.

But halfway through another erotic massage he did surprise me. I don't know if massage tables are all the same but his had a hole at one end where you could comfortably fit your head so that your back was perfectly straight. He was sitting in a chair in front of me massaging my shoulders, and my neck, once again driving me close to crazy but also, as it turned out, closer to home. I could see his athletic thighs spread out below me and his crotch getting ever nearer my nose. At first I thought it was an optical illusion but then he spoke to me in the same husky whisper I'd heard once before.

"Pull my pants down," he said. "I've got my hands full."

My hands were soon full too as he raised his butt from the chair. Full of his oven hot, cottage-loaf ass. I'd only seen the tip of the iceberg in that famous photo; now that iceberg was melting at my touch and his 'wand of light' beckoned to me like a beacon beckoning to a passing ship. Soon my lips found themselves where they had longed to be. Slowly, but more and more surely, his dick entered my mouth and was in full sail. His ship had reached its port of call. It had taken me months of perseverance but he was finally mine. No girl had ever sucked him off as I was sucking him off. In fact his body tremors told me I was taking him along an untrodden path. Why he'd taken so long to surrender to me I didn't know. All I knew and cared about was that the journey had been worth it. I'd taken him off the straight and narrow beaten track and together we were scaling new heights to peaks neither of us had so far reached. What I'd only dreamt of before was finally happening to me. My spinning head was soon at the top of the highest mountain enveloped in clouds of ecstasy.

At one point I let go of the sturdy masthead of his dick and it slithered out of my mouth into my ass. I felt that tingling sensation of a hot and piercing kind that I was telling you about at the beginning of this story. My experience with Alessandro taught me that two conflicting worlds have to find a satisfying solution and that we're willing to make compromises to hold onto the people we love for as long as we can. Not that either of us was compromised. We both knew what we wanted from the very beginning. It just took him a little longer that's all. People's actions or reactions are sometimes like the artist's brushstroke and, if we keep careful track, we eventually get a clearer picture of what they are all about and what portrait they're ready to paint for us.

Life, after all, is like an empty canvas. So many possibilities.