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01 Haziran 2023, 22:38
**AUTHORS NOTE: This was written as a companion piece to The Commission, Ch. 07 but it's absolutely not necessary (or, depending on the reader, recommended) to follow along with both. This is a work of fiction featuring characters all over the age of 18.**
Ginger. Firecrotch. Slut. Whore. Prude. Tomboy. Bitch. Twig. Flat. Ugly.
I've been called all of these things.
Hot. Beautiful. Sweet. Cute. Attractive. Kind. Fun.
Those things too.
The guys who called me by the first set of names would inevitably grow into the kind of men who called me by the second, but I didn't know that when I was younger.
Knowing would have helped.
I wasn't always self-conscious. When I was a kid I'd be the first one climbing up a tree or down into a ditch, chasing after a lost ball or toy. I played sports with boys and with girls, proud of my athletic abilities and the advantages of my long, lean frame.
But then the names started. Adults love variety, but kids? Kids don't like anything that's different, and I certainly looked different. I was bullied by both genders for being too thin, too freckled, too weird. I'd committed some type of unknown offense simply by having red hair. The skin left untouched by dots was deemed too pale, inviting jokes about me needing more sun but also about me frying in it.
Eventually, I started to fade. Turning inward, shying away from any perceived spotlight and the dangers its beam might entice. Quitting sports, and clubs. Barely speaking in class. I didn't know what else to do.
By the time I was 18, I'd still never dated anyone. Dating would involve willingly attracting a man or woman's attention, which was, to me, an inconceivable hurdle. Even in college, when I finally tried, the thought of someone seeing me naked left me absolutely tachycardic. By then I'd given up hope that my body might fill out eventually, and accepted begrudgingly that compared to the women I lusted after on TV and in class, I was comically underdeveloped.
This wasn't a misunderstanding or delusion on my part, I had no notable curves and what little I did have felt more mocking than helpful. Guys had been teasing me about how small my tits were for years without even seeing them. It didn't improve much once they did. While my college boyfriends were polite, it was impossible not to feel like I'd disappointed them somehow. That I'd left them wanting more. More flesh, more to grab. Larger breasts, a bigger ass. Wider hips. More of whatever they always seemed to find on the next girl once they'd stopped searching for it inside of me, greedily mining for satisfaction between my legs.
An enthusiastic fucking. That, at least, I could offer.
Sex was the only time in my life that I really felt free. Riding an ex on his dorm room futon, getting bent over a ping pong table with a frat guy pounding me from behind. Once I stopped caring about my body, I learned to fuck with joyful abandon, happy to entertain both men and women for as long as they'd have me. A few stuck around for a while, but eventually they'd all wander off to find what I was missing.
I knew what I was missing.
It was the part of me I'd muted. The part that only knew how to care, how to feel everything and everyone. The part that would get me hurt.
I'd lost it on purpose, and I wasn't sure how to get it back.
I dropped out of nursing school with a year left and trained to become a masseuse. I could give a million reasons why I made this decision, but the truth is, I honestly don't know. Something felt wrong, Ankara bayan escort (http://ankaradograma.com/) and I just needed to fucking jump.
So I jumped.
I landed at a spa just outside of downtown, inside a swanky hotel I could never afford to stay at. I had to be refreshed each day like the sheets, used by the guests who snuggled and fucked and slept beneath them. I didn't mind. I loved it.
There was something rewarding about quietly assisting people in an environment that encouraged very little talking. I wanted to help them relax, to physically diminish their worries and stress, if even for an hour. Half an hour. Whatever time they had to be soothed.
I was good at it.
I'd been working at the spa for a little over a year year the first day Adam came in. He must have been in his mid or late 20's, younger than many of the hotel guests. He was only a little taller than me, dark blonde hair, golden stubble spread across his jaw and upper lip. To be young, handsome, and able to afford those accommodations seemed almost unfair. He would have been easy to feel spiteful towards if he wasn't so disarmingly sweet. Genuinely kind.
Fucking gorgeous.
I started his massage by asking him to lie face down, working his back, shoulders and legs first. I unveiled his limbs one at a time, each revelation a small treat for me. Tight muscles toned from use, announcing their presence without an air of vanity. He must play sports. Tennis, possibly? Volleyball? I tried to guess as I kneaded my palms into his skin, my fingers searching for knots. Repeated wear and tear.
It happened after I turned him over.
Not immediately, but around the moment I started pressing and stretching his hands, holding them in mine.
He was suddenly hard.
Undeniably erect.
Now, this happens. It's totally normal. I wouldn't have thought twice about it aside from a detached curiosity about this stranger's attractive body, but the size...
It was small. So much smaller than I would have expected.
I stayed silent, continuing with the massage like nothing happened, but I couldn't stop glancing at the little lump beneath the sheet. Wondering about it. Was he thinking about it too?
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes closed, blush spreading like wildfire across his face.
"For what?" I asked. I shouldn't have put him on the spot like that, and normally I would have just squeezed his arm and told him not to worry, but for some inexplicable reason I wanted to hear him acknowledge it. I needed him to.
"For that," he tilted his head down towards his crotch. "I didn't, I don't know. I mean, it probably happens to you a lot, but I didn't mean to. Now I'm making it weirder. Shit."
He exhaled softly, then again, "I'm sorry."
"It does happen all the time," I reassured him. "Don't be embarrassed."
"Yeah," he started, then paused. I waited for him to continue.
"...but you're really cute and I didn't want you to see that."
Ok, now I absolutely wouldn't encourage anyone to flirt with their masseuse, it's not what we're there for. But my heart skipped a beat this time. There was something so vulnerable about his words, about the truth. It hits differently. Stirs you somewhere beneath your shell, in the place that's soft and pulpy. The place I'd forgotten how to reach. He dived right in and poked it, and he didn't even know he had. I wanted him to do it again.
"Why not?" I asked, gently leading him.
"Ugh," his eyes were still shut tight. Red, hot embarrassment Escort bayan Ankara (http://ankaradograma.com/) now spread down to his chest. "Because it's fucking tiny."
His cock moved slightly against the sheet in agreement, as though encouraged by this acknowledgement. "Yep," the small bump seemed to concede.
"Can I see it?" I asked before I had a chance to think.
Shit.
How could I say that?
I was surely getting fired. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me, that was completely inappropriate. Borderline insane.
You can't just ask to see a client's dick.
SHIT.
I was panicking when he responded simply, softly, "I guess so. If you really want to."
I did really want to. I had to, I couldn't explain it.
I decided to search my soul for explanations later, and let my desires guide me in the present. Giving myself to them. Riding that current to the probable termination of gainful employment.
I gently lifted the blanket from his body.
My heart swelled. My pussy ached.
It was tiny.
Ok, not tiny. But certainly below average, I couldn't pretend otherwise even if I wanted to. I didn't want to, though. Honestly, I wanted to kiss it.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths short and scared. I tried to imagine how he felt in that moment, his shortcomings abruptly exposed to a woman he found attractive. Wondering whether she found it hilarious, his complete inadequacy. Did he feel humiliated? I didn't want him to and yet, god, the thought that he was also turned me on. It was getting me wet.
"Wow," I murmured. I wanted to touch him, to wrap my hand around his small, flushed cock. To see it disappear into my fist, hidden beneath my fingers. Capped by my thumb.
I reached out and stroked it.
"Oh, fuck," he scrambled to sit upright.
Shit, not again. I kept screwing up. Why couldn't I stop?
"You don't have to touch it," he muttered, staring at me wide-eyed for the first time.
It was my turn to blush, to feel embarrassed. But then I thought about what he said.
You don't have to.
Have to.
But what about want?
"I'd like to, if that's ok." My voice hushed as I stared at my feet, afraid to hold eye contact for too long. I didn't care what he thought when I met him, I never do, but suddenly I'm nervous. Afraid he will change his mind and decide that I'm ugly. That he'll realize he doesn't want me near his cock, or near is body at all. I hold my breath.
He reclines against the bed again, closing his eyes. His hands trembling.
"Ok."
Ok.
I reach back out and touch his small, firm penis. Running my finger up and down it lightly, then gingerly pressing it between my pointer and thumb like I'm measuring it's girth, or lack thereof. My fingertips trace a vein from below his tip down along his shaft. His pubic hair neatly trimmed, proudly displaying his little member. It's so cute, so adamant in its efforts to be noticed that I savor the way he looks in my hand.
I circle my fingers around his slight width then tighten my grip, wrapping them around his dick, slowly pushing and pulling along his meager length. A small bit of clear fluid expels from his tip when I squeeze.
"Oh," he sighs. His body jerks.
"I love your cock," I murmur, masturbating him faster, more intentionally. Astonished with myself.
"You don't think it's small?" He asks between breaths, his sincerity tugging at my heart and my clit.
I can't lie to him. I don't think he'd want me to.
"It is Bayan escort Ankara (http://ankaradograma.com/) small," I confess, "but I think that's why I like it."
The truth. I can give him that.
He says nothing at first, but then I realize why. He can't speak, he's using every ounce of energy he has to hold back. To keep from cumming. He liked hearing that it was small, to have his fears not only confirmed but relieved.
To feel not only accepted for the thing that he hates, but actually wanted for it.
It's getting him off.
I reach behind me for a towel. I'm going to make this lovely man squirt harder than he has in years. Maybe ever.
"I like touching it," I tell him quietly, honestly, watching his face. "I've never played with a dick this tiny before. I can't believe how easily it fits in my hand. How it might barely fill a mouth.
It's turning me on."
He squeezes his eyes shut as I speak, panting harder.
"Any girl would be lucky to be with you, Adam. To feel your little pink cock moving inside her."
A low moan catches in his throat.
"I want to watch it cum," I whisper. "It's adorable. Let it cum for me. Please."
Adam obeys almost instantly, covering his lips as he cries out softly, fluid streaming from his tip into the towel. It keeps pumping out of him, burst after burst of milky-white jizz. Fuck. It's so much.
He's silent afterwards, the blush creeping again down his face and neck.
He's ashamed.
No, I don't want that.
"Hey," I shake him gently, "look at me."
He opens his eyes reluctantly, meeting my gaze. Holding it.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He looks surprised, then grateful. Whatever anxiety he had is suddenly washed away, carried out by the tides after he released an ocean of his own, embracing his insecurities. Molding his embarrassment into something new.
Something fun.
Something I was able to show him.
"You're amazing," he murmurs. "Seriously, thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that. How much it means to me."
I smile because I understand.
"I needed that too," I admit. He may not know how deeply I feel it, but it's true. His own vulnerability aroused something in me, the part I'd shut off from pain, from love. From empathy and caring.
It's back on now.
Full-fucking-blast.
I'm finally here.
I hand Adam his robe and wait outside the door as he gets dressed, returning his privacy. Even if he doesn't need it. A minute or two later and he's beside me again, flushed, smiling. Glowing.
"If I didn't have a wedding to go to tonight, I'd really love to take you to dinner," he sighs, gently closing the door behind him.
"It's alright," I smile. "Maybe if you're ever in town again."
"I think you would be worth coming into town for," he laughs.
"Seriously though," he drops his voice and leans in close. "I've never had someone know how to make me feel so good. How to walk that line. Instinctually. It really felt like you cared."
He looks at me curiously.
"Because I do care," I exhale. "I care a lot, too much maybe. I hate seeing anyone hurt. I just wish someone had helped me the same way."
It dawns on me then. That this is something I could do- helping people with their insecurities and their discomfort. Making them feel whole again, desired. Reading what they need and giving them what little I can.
Healing myself too.
Adam asks if it's ok to leave me a big tip. He doesn't want me to feel cheap or used, but he wants to show his gratitude the only way he knows how. He insists.
I tell him it isn't necessary, but I know he will anyways. If it makes him happy, I'll let him.
Hell, for the first time in my life I'm being paid for being myself, fully and completely. For genuinely helping someone.
My heart races.
I can't wait to do it again.
Ginger. Firecrotch. Slut. Whore. Prude. Tomboy. Bitch. Twig. Flat. Ugly.
I've been called all of these things.
Hot. Beautiful. Sweet. Cute. Attractive. Kind. Fun.
Those things too.
The guys who called me by the first set of names would inevitably grow into the kind of men who called me by the second, but I didn't know that when I was younger.
Knowing would have helped.
I wasn't always self-conscious. When I was a kid I'd be the first one climbing up a tree or down into a ditch, chasing after a lost ball or toy. I played sports with boys and with girls, proud of my athletic abilities and the advantages of my long, lean frame.
But then the names started. Adults love variety, but kids? Kids don't like anything that's different, and I certainly looked different. I was bullied by both genders for being too thin, too freckled, too weird. I'd committed some type of unknown offense simply by having red hair. The skin left untouched by dots was deemed too pale, inviting jokes about me needing more sun but also about me frying in it.
Eventually, I started to fade. Turning inward, shying away from any perceived spotlight and the dangers its beam might entice. Quitting sports, and clubs. Barely speaking in class. I didn't know what else to do.
By the time I was 18, I'd still never dated anyone. Dating would involve willingly attracting a man or woman's attention, which was, to me, an inconceivable hurdle. Even in college, when I finally tried, the thought of someone seeing me naked left me absolutely tachycardic. By then I'd given up hope that my body might fill out eventually, and accepted begrudgingly that compared to the women I lusted after on TV and in class, I was comically underdeveloped.
This wasn't a misunderstanding or delusion on my part, I had no notable curves and what little I did have felt more mocking than helpful. Guys had been teasing me about how small my tits were for years without even seeing them. It didn't improve much once they did. While my college boyfriends were polite, it was impossible not to feel like I'd disappointed them somehow. That I'd left them wanting more. More flesh, more to grab. Larger breasts, a bigger ass. Wider hips. More of whatever they always seemed to find on the next girl once they'd stopped searching for it inside of me, greedily mining for satisfaction between my legs.
An enthusiastic fucking. That, at least, I could offer.
Sex was the only time in my life that I really felt free. Riding an ex on his dorm room futon, getting bent over a ping pong table with a frat guy pounding me from behind. Once I stopped caring about my body, I learned to fuck with joyful abandon, happy to entertain both men and women for as long as they'd have me. A few stuck around for a while, but eventually they'd all wander off to find what I was missing.
I knew what I was missing.
It was the part of me I'd muted. The part that only knew how to care, how to feel everything and everyone. The part that would get me hurt.
I'd lost it on purpose, and I wasn't sure how to get it back.
I dropped out of nursing school with a year left and trained to become a masseuse. I could give a million reasons why I made this decision, but the truth is, I honestly don't know. Something felt wrong, Ankara bayan escort (http://ankaradograma.com/) and I just needed to fucking jump.
So I jumped.
I landed at a spa just outside of downtown, inside a swanky hotel I could never afford to stay at. I had to be refreshed each day like the sheets, used by the guests who snuggled and fucked and slept beneath them. I didn't mind. I loved it.
There was something rewarding about quietly assisting people in an environment that encouraged very little talking. I wanted to help them relax, to physically diminish their worries and stress, if even for an hour. Half an hour. Whatever time they had to be soothed.
I was good at it.
I'd been working at the spa for a little over a year year the first day Adam came in. He must have been in his mid or late 20's, younger than many of the hotel guests. He was only a little taller than me, dark blonde hair, golden stubble spread across his jaw and upper lip. To be young, handsome, and able to afford those accommodations seemed almost unfair. He would have been easy to feel spiteful towards if he wasn't so disarmingly sweet. Genuinely kind.
Fucking gorgeous.
I started his massage by asking him to lie face down, working his back, shoulders and legs first. I unveiled his limbs one at a time, each revelation a small treat for me. Tight muscles toned from use, announcing their presence without an air of vanity. He must play sports. Tennis, possibly? Volleyball? I tried to guess as I kneaded my palms into his skin, my fingers searching for knots. Repeated wear and tear.
It happened after I turned him over.
Not immediately, but around the moment I started pressing and stretching his hands, holding them in mine.
He was suddenly hard.
Undeniably erect.
Now, this happens. It's totally normal. I wouldn't have thought twice about it aside from a detached curiosity about this stranger's attractive body, but the size...
It was small. So much smaller than I would have expected.
I stayed silent, continuing with the massage like nothing happened, but I couldn't stop glancing at the little lump beneath the sheet. Wondering about it. Was he thinking about it too?
"I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes closed, blush spreading like wildfire across his face.
"For what?" I asked. I shouldn't have put him on the spot like that, and normally I would have just squeezed his arm and told him not to worry, but for some inexplicable reason I wanted to hear him acknowledge it. I needed him to.
"For that," he tilted his head down towards his crotch. "I didn't, I don't know. I mean, it probably happens to you a lot, but I didn't mean to. Now I'm making it weirder. Shit."
He exhaled softly, then again, "I'm sorry."
"It does happen all the time," I reassured him. "Don't be embarrassed."
"Yeah," he started, then paused. I waited for him to continue.
"...but you're really cute and I didn't want you to see that."
Ok, now I absolutely wouldn't encourage anyone to flirt with their masseuse, it's not what we're there for. But my heart skipped a beat this time. There was something so vulnerable about his words, about the truth. It hits differently. Stirs you somewhere beneath your shell, in the place that's soft and pulpy. The place I'd forgotten how to reach. He dived right in and poked it, and he didn't even know he had. I wanted him to do it again.
"Why not?" I asked, gently leading him.
"Ugh," his eyes were still shut tight. Red, hot embarrassment Escort bayan Ankara (http://ankaradograma.com/) now spread down to his chest. "Because it's fucking tiny."
His cock moved slightly against the sheet in agreement, as though encouraged by this acknowledgement. "Yep," the small bump seemed to concede.
"Can I see it?" I asked before I had a chance to think.
Shit.
How could I say that?
I was surely getting fired. I don't know what the hell was wrong with me, that was completely inappropriate. Borderline insane.
You can't just ask to see a client's dick.
SHIT.
I was panicking when he responded simply, softly, "I guess so. If you really want to."
I did really want to. I had to, I couldn't explain it.
I decided to search my soul for explanations later, and let my desires guide me in the present. Giving myself to them. Riding that current to the probable termination of gainful employment.
I gently lifted the blanket from his body.
My heart swelled. My pussy ached.
It was tiny.
Ok, not tiny. But certainly below average, I couldn't pretend otherwise even if I wanted to. I didn't want to, though. Honestly, I wanted to kiss it.
His chest rose and fell rapidly, his breaths short and scared. I tried to imagine how he felt in that moment, his shortcomings abruptly exposed to a woman he found attractive. Wondering whether she found it hilarious, his complete inadequacy. Did he feel humiliated? I didn't want him to and yet, god, the thought that he was also turned me on. It was getting me wet.
"Wow," I murmured. I wanted to touch him, to wrap my hand around his small, flushed cock. To see it disappear into my fist, hidden beneath my fingers. Capped by my thumb.
I reached out and stroked it.
"Oh, fuck," he scrambled to sit upright.
Shit, not again. I kept screwing up. Why couldn't I stop?
"You don't have to touch it," he muttered, staring at me wide-eyed for the first time.
It was my turn to blush, to feel embarrassed. But then I thought about what he said.
You don't have to.
Have to.
But what about want?
"I'd like to, if that's ok." My voice hushed as I stared at my feet, afraid to hold eye contact for too long. I didn't care what he thought when I met him, I never do, but suddenly I'm nervous. Afraid he will change his mind and decide that I'm ugly. That he'll realize he doesn't want me near his cock, or near is body at all. I hold my breath.
He reclines against the bed again, closing his eyes. His hands trembling.
"Ok."
Ok.
I reach back out and touch his small, firm penis. Running my finger up and down it lightly, then gingerly pressing it between my pointer and thumb like I'm measuring it's girth, or lack thereof. My fingertips trace a vein from below his tip down along his shaft. His pubic hair neatly trimmed, proudly displaying his little member. It's so cute, so adamant in its efforts to be noticed that I savor the way he looks in my hand.
I circle my fingers around his slight width then tighten my grip, wrapping them around his dick, slowly pushing and pulling along his meager length. A small bit of clear fluid expels from his tip when I squeeze.
"Oh," he sighs. His body jerks.
"I love your cock," I murmur, masturbating him faster, more intentionally. Astonished with myself.
"You don't think it's small?" He asks between breaths, his sincerity tugging at my heart and my clit.
I can't lie to him. I don't think he'd want me to.
"It is Bayan escort Ankara (http://ankaradograma.com/) small," I confess, "but I think that's why I like it."
The truth. I can give him that.
He says nothing at first, but then I realize why. He can't speak, he's using every ounce of energy he has to hold back. To keep from cumming. He liked hearing that it was small, to have his fears not only confirmed but relieved.
To feel not only accepted for the thing that he hates, but actually wanted for it.
It's getting him off.
I reach behind me for a towel. I'm going to make this lovely man squirt harder than he has in years. Maybe ever.
"I like touching it," I tell him quietly, honestly, watching his face. "I've never played with a dick this tiny before. I can't believe how easily it fits in my hand. How it might barely fill a mouth.
It's turning me on."
He squeezes his eyes shut as I speak, panting harder.
"Any girl would be lucky to be with you, Adam. To feel your little pink cock moving inside her."
A low moan catches in his throat.
"I want to watch it cum," I whisper. "It's adorable. Let it cum for me. Please."
Adam obeys almost instantly, covering his lips as he cries out softly, fluid streaming from his tip into the towel. It keeps pumping out of him, burst after burst of milky-white jizz. Fuck. It's so much.
He's silent afterwards, the blush creeping again down his face and neck.
He's ashamed.
No, I don't want that.
"Hey," I shake him gently, "look at me."
He opens his eyes reluctantly, meeting my gaze. Holding it.
"Thank you," I tell him.
He looks surprised, then grateful. Whatever anxiety he had is suddenly washed away, carried out by the tides after he released an ocean of his own, embracing his insecurities. Molding his embarrassment into something new.
Something fun.
Something I was able to show him.
"You're amazing," he murmurs. "Seriously, thank you. You have no idea how much I needed that. How much it means to me."
I smile because I understand.
"I needed that too," I admit. He may not know how deeply I feel it, but it's true. His own vulnerability aroused something in me, the part I'd shut off from pain, from love. From empathy and caring.
It's back on now.
Full-fucking-blast.
I'm finally here.
I hand Adam his robe and wait outside the door as he gets dressed, returning his privacy. Even if he doesn't need it. A minute or two later and he's beside me again, flushed, smiling. Glowing.
"If I didn't have a wedding to go to tonight, I'd really love to take you to dinner," he sighs, gently closing the door behind him.
"It's alright," I smile. "Maybe if you're ever in town again."
"I think you would be worth coming into town for," he laughs.
"Seriously though," he drops his voice and leans in close. "I've never had someone know how to make me feel so good. How to walk that line. Instinctually. It really felt like you cared."
He looks at me curiously.
"Because I do care," I exhale. "I care a lot, too much maybe. I hate seeing anyone hurt. I just wish someone had helped me the same way."
It dawns on me then. That this is something I could do- helping people with their insecurities and their discomfort. Making them feel whole again, desired. Reading what they need and giving them what little I can.
Healing myself too.
Adam asks if it's ok to leave me a big tip. He doesn't want me to feel cheap or used, but he wants to show his gratitude the only way he knows how. He insists.
I tell him it isn't necessary, but I know he will anyways. If it makes him happy, I'll let him.
Hell, for the first time in my life I'm being paid for being myself, fully and completely. For genuinely helping someone.
My heart races.
I can't wait to do it again.