The Scene (Book 2): Room Serviced
By Abbey Kypner
Cover Art by Pockyrum
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2012 by Abbey Kypner
Discover other titles by Abbey Kypner at Smashwords.com
https://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/abbeykypner
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This work is intended for adult audiences only, and should not be read by individuals age 17 or younger. All characters herein are entirely fictional and of age 18 and above.
~~~~~
Room Serviced
Knock knock.
"Mister Gutierrez? Room service," I declare through the door.
I'd called him up half an hour earlier on his hotel line, saying that Coach wanted his players rubbed down to help them relax. It's half-true... there's the Big Game tomorrow after all. I never understood how anyone could be so rabid over college football, but the Stags are up against their biggest rivals this game. With eighty years of the two schools butting heads, it's a big thing.
The offer didn't really surprise Martin Gutierrez. Theirs is a well-funded private school, and the administration is known to treat its players well. The team is regularly provided with room service, and each member even has his own little suite. These two facts make my job easier.
The locks click and the door swings open. As I'd instructed over the phone, Martin's fresh from the shower. Specks of moisture still cling to his skin and he wears only a white towel around his waist. I smile, holding the basket of lotions and towels as I enter.
Like all football players he's well-built, layered with slabs of muscle that result in more bulk than tone. He's got a nice, tapered chin, and a bit of bad-boy stubble that gives him a shadow of a goatee. His short hair is buzzed along the sides, but the little spikes that he's kept are flecked with water. Martin's one of those paler latino guys, with features more graceful and less earthy.
He looks a little taken aback as I enter. Probably expected a girl.
If I seem a little giddy right now it's not because I'm about to service this hot, muscled jock. It isn't even the fact that my client doesn't know he's about to be a client. It's the intrigue behind it, the fact that I'm posing as a simple hotel masseur and pulling this Mission Impossible shit. For a moment the thought of rappelling down to his balcony in a harness makes me smirk inside. Always wanted to do that.
This is gonna be one of my best jobs yet.
“So uh, you're gonna...”
“Don't worry,” I give him a reassuring smile, “It's not anything I haven't seen before.”
It takes some effort to deepen my tone a little, to harden it so my natural flirtatious purr doesn't shine through too much. I'd practiced reining in the breathy softness in my voice, mostly done in the shower each night for the past week as I psyched myself up for this gig. Whether you're singing or practicing new accents, it never sounds as good outside the bathroom. Something about the acoustics, I guess. Still, I'm pretty sure I sound less like a rentboy and more like an average dude when I talk to him.
“Go ahead and lie down, Sir.”
Reluctantly, Martin crawls onto the sheets and lies on his chest, face turned to the side on his pillow. He smells crisp, like he'd been using some Mountain Spring body wash he'd brought from home. It's a pretty decent hotel, but they still cut corners when they can. Teeny bar soaps and minibottles will never go out of style, apparently.
I squirt a dollop of lotion into my hands. Raspberry scented, something sweet and fruity to get him to salivate.
He tenses when I touch him at first, in that squirmy sort of way when a dude's getting a little too intimate with another dude. This can't be his first massage from a guy, but then again he doesn't know me at all. Unfamiliarity breeds a certain discomfort. My hands are firm though, and my thumbs press up the nape of his neck along the hidden clefts between his muscles. My fingers are stronger than they appear, my grip is nice and taut. I work the pressure points between the base of his skull and his spinal cord with my knuckles, easing out the knots beneath.
Again he tightens, this time from the initial discomfort of my work. Yet little by little that rock-hard muscle begins to melt under my grip, those hisses become drawn-out moans. His shoulders loosen, his body begins to go limp. If he had any reservations about me working on his bod, they've been pressed away under the warmth of my hands. For now it's just a normal massage, nice and medical. No homo.
My job is about pleasuring men after all, with discretion and variety. That means training in a lot of different techniques to help them unwind after a hard day's work. Plenty of people put up ads on hookup sites asking for a “massage.” You wouldn't believe how many are surprised that, yes, I can actually give them a pretty damn good rub-down before we move on to the more intimate play.
“Unnngh Gooooood...” he moans.
“You're all knotted up along your trapezius,” I say, sounding all authoritative and stuff, “You do heavy lifting or something?”
“Unf. Football.”
I make an “mmm” sound in acknowledgment. “Yeah, I suspected. Pro?”
It's a fact of life that women want to seem younger than they really are and that guys want to be treated like they're older. Martin smiles at my feigned mistake. “College for now. But we're fucking prepped,” he pauses, “Shit, man. You're really good at this...”
I'm working along one of his arms now, pressing the kinks out of his triceps. Once I get to the hands I even take care to loosen his knuckles with firm squeezes.
“Thanks. I've been doing this for, oh... four years now. What team are you playing for?”
“Stags. It's the Big Game tomorrow.”
“That sounds pretty sweet, dude,” I try to sound enthusiastic, “I saw the game last year. Totally awesome. What was the score again?”
If you can't tell, I don't know a goddamn thing about football and this is me bullshitting right now.
“Twenty-seven to twelve,” Martin says with a chuckle, “But Coach wants us to fucking crush 'em this year.”
“Looks like they can depend on you, at least,” I grin, giving his muscled arm a little pat before moving on. He smiles into the pillow.
I've done my research of course, and this guy melting into putty in my paws? He's the Stags' star quarterback. Feeling him up like this it's easy to see why: there's a certain expertise in the way he moves, a keen discipline with how he holds himself. You can feel that training of his just from the way he stands, past the firm meatiness of his muscles.
In a way I feel like he's a kindred spirit, another guy who lives off of his well-trained body. It almost makes me feel bad for taking this gig.
I shift the conversation to something I'm more familiar with.
“Hey whacha think about Hodgeson?” I ask. The linebacker for the Knights, naturally. Well-loved, and so damn popular that any stain just slides right off of him. There can't be anything else I'm talking about.
“Psssht. His girl's full of shit, man.”
This is just too easy.
“Yeah. It's not like anyone was hurt. What was he gonna do, turn the other girl down?”
“Bitch is just jealous,” he huffs from how I knead along his shoulder blades, “You date a pro like him, you gotta let these things slide, ya know?”
“Besides, he used a rubber and everything.”
“Hell yeah. What happens at the game stays at the game..”
I nod and begin along his spine, “That's all that matters, man. You thinking of hitting anything up here?”
The shift is subtle, and Martin just chuckles, “You gonna tell anyone?”
“What happens at the game stays at the game, right?”
“Maybe.” It's all he says, with a happy little smile on his face. The fact that he's being intentionally vague tells me all I need to know. We have an understanding here, between us guys. Once he realizes it, once he trusts me, I get to work.
“I'm gonna do your glutes now.”
He only flinches a little when I squeeze down on the muscles of his ass. Yet again I'm coaxing him into a good comfort zone, getting him used to my touch. He's got pretty full cheeks: lean and hard and without any plumpness to speak of when he tenses. Part of me is tempted to give him a good smack through that towel. I refrain of course, and instead I do a good, thorough job of loosening him up before starting on the backs of his thighs. I squirt another dollop of lotion into my palms and rub them together, warming the salve between my hands.