TRIGGER WARNING – Each personalized story may contain certain kinks that not everyone will enjoy and being conscientious of this, due-diligence has been performed during review and prior to submission. If you find any critical omissions, please let me know. Please check the associated TAGS on each story, as these can include, but are not limited to: “Breeding” (Unprotected Cream-pie), CNC (Consensual Non-Consensual Touch/Penetration), Non-Con / Molestation / Groping (Non-Consensual Touch/Penetration), Cheating (Non-Partner Relations), Public Play, Forced Orgasm, Restraints/Bondage, Free-Use (Multi-partner CNC), “and then….”
Each of these stories represent a part of my past where I’ve entertained adventurous ladies by encapsulating their fantasies, so each episode has been customized to their particular kinks, carnal desires, and/or individual needs. Fair warning as my stories tend to be longer-format, as such, I recognize that I can be wordy and have been told as much – “Less Talk – More Cock.”
The purpose of my context and content is to be the stimulant of your sexual gratification – not premeditated [Lit®]erary aggravation!
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–Let The Games Begin. BTW, She’s A Long One–
“Handsome Hands – Your Personalized Massage Experience.” I chose to open the storefront after many conversations with my friends and female acquaintances. Each of them suggested that I put my skills to use for the betterment of good rather than evil. I must admit that my hands were able to get into way more pants than my tongue was; once I was able to lay my hands on the body, they began to work their magic and release tensions that weren’t even in existence.
Given my propensity for wandering hands, it was quite a moral dilemma of whether or not I would go into a business and be able to trust myself with the client / practitioner relationship. It’s kind of like putting an alcoholic in charge of the bar; sure, he knows how to make a really good drink, but you will most likely have to pick him up off the floor because he “got high on his own supply.” It took me many moons to find the location that was classy yet didn’t require me supporting some plastic Beverly Hills housewives. All that plastic surgery makes it very difficult for a massage, especially a full-frontal.
The storefront was classic in design, minimalistic in accouterments, and felt very relaxing once you entered its grand entrance way. Twelve foot ceilings covered in lace webbing that’ll give the ambiance that immediately puts the clients emotions at rest. The smell of lavender lofts throughout the air from one of those fog machines that seem perpetually belching out flower-flavored smoke. I took some punches for not going with a taki-taki Asian vibe. I went with more of a seductive upper-class ghetto-chic – “Botega Bougie” I call it. I wanted the vibe to be more of “Librarian in the Streets and Tik-Tok Thot in the Streets.”
After the business languished for several months being supported by friends, friends of friends, friends of friends of friends, friends of friends of friends of friends of friends (ok, you get it), family members, and the good ol’ fashioned word of mouth, the advertising finally started to make headway. I provided a lot of free flyers in Voucher format to a certain demographic: this was the local University and community college, the bars surrounding them, and through several hundred dollars of ‘bribes’, let’s say “gracious engagements”, and many a drink applied, I was able to find a lot of the youngin’ friendly hangouts (mainly bars and nightclubs) that those 18 to 35 frequent.
I figured with all the dancing and moving about, especially with the stress of everyday life, not to mention the workload and poor posture of the average college student, that there would be more than enough clientele laying in waiting for word to hit their ears… and their crisp dollar(dollar)-bill(s)(y’all) to hit my account.
The standard reservation schema was present. You could call us on a central line to book your private studio in the package that would suit you best. We also had forms that existed on many websites where the user can drop in information, but the most practical and best used was the reservation system built into my company’s website – TBH, it took me months to fumble-fuck with it till I finally gave up the ghost and bid it out to a computer major at the Uni FFS.
Having this form lets you customize your experience to your heart’s desire in a way that you will get the maximum benefit from every dollar spent. Depending on your imagination everything can be anyway; you can have the massage table pointing a myriad of directions (including if you’re a Muslim, we can even point towards Mecca if you prefer). Room temperatures, contours of the massage table and texture of the overlayment that will ultimately be pressed intimately against your skin.
A world of sounds to be customized; you can hear birds chirping or waves crashing, gentle wind or some old Chinese dude playing a flute, heck you can even to listen to monkeys fucking if that was your jam. You can choose from a variety of pre-loaded music or you can bring your own and hook up your device directly to your personalized entertainment system.
Lighting was another customizable feature you can go dim, you can go rose-colored, you can even go black light that way your skin will show off any cotton that is caught in the follicles, your teeth will gleam brilliantly against the darkness of the room, and if you choose to leave your socks on at least you know where your toes are… You can even go “Great God Bahamas” and get a suntan while you’re laying there, but I wouldn’t advise it unless you’re going for that Bikram yoga vibe.
The week was trying on my patience, like that old person in the shopping lane in front of you with their basket on one side and her Norma Sass blocking your departure while she balances the ingredients and costs of two nearly identical cans of sardines. “Who the fuck uses sardines nowaday anyways?” Trying not to be a dick, you make believe that you’re very interested in whatever product happens to be within eyesight on the top-shelf while you quietly mull over the charges you’d catch for running the old biddy over. It may not be the cops that get you, but there are some woke-ass SJWs out there watching and waiting to cash your receipts and upload them to mainstream media.