A Special Massage

It was a cold, rainy winter night in Bologna, Italy. I had just finished week five of an intensive language program, with three more to go. My employer seemed to think I had an aptitude for languages, and with our new offices opening in Milan, they wanted me to be a liaison. It was pretty sweet to get to be paid to hang out in Italy, I'll grant you that.

So, here I was, five weeks in, horny as hell, and yet still no closer to my dream of getting laid by some Statue of David-like (well, okay, maybe alittlemore endowed) Italian guy. Well, not just laid, but also losing my V card. That's right, you're talking to a bona fide virgin dude. Pathetic, right? To be fair, while I've always been a dude, nobody really knew I was a guy until the last few years, after top surgery and many months of testosterone transformed me. Now, nobody but my doctor and close friends know I haven't always looked like this. For all practical purposes I am a man out in the world, at work, at language school, everywhere. A man put together a little differently, but a man. With needs like any man.

In the hopes of rectifying this sorry situation, since I'd not yet had any luck with running into just the right gay man, I decided to look around online. There were a couple of bars, but that's not really my scene. Then I saw an ad for massage. That sounded pretty good, who couldn't use a massage? Ohhhhh, it was "men-only massage". All male masseurs. Hmmm. Interesting. Would they accept me? And why only men? The blood was already starting to flow to my T-dick as my imagination ran wild. Make a phone call or just show up? Probably should at least make sure they have an appointment available, right? So I picked up my cell phone and dialed.

"Pronto," came the answer at the other end. I struggled to get my point across in my newly blossoming Italian. It turned out they could see me tonight. Good. I tried explaining that I was transgender. I didn't know an Italian word for that, and neither did Google Translate. I am not sure the woman answering the phone understood but she did ask, (and in Italian of course),

"But you are male, no?"

"Yes, I am male."

"Then there is no problem. Come at 8. We will get you set up for your special massage."

I hung up the phone thinking, "special massage?" I took a quick shower, then left my small apartment to walk the porticos of Bologna, which blessedly kept the cold drizzling rain off me other than when I had to traverse cross streets. It was only a few kilometers before I was at the large door. No sign on it, but the number on the wall to the left matched. I pulled open the large ornate brass knob and entered. There was a vestibule leading to another door that had no writing, just the universal symbol for a man on the door. I knocked and heard a woman call out "Please, come in."

I entered that door as well, wondering what a "special massage" office would look like. I was disappointed to find it looked like a normal waiting room. There were a several chairs around the periphery, the walls were plain white and straight ahead was the aforementioned woman, sitting at a desk and writing some notes. She looked up at me, smiled and hit me with a barrage of rapid fire Italian that I was at a loss to fully comprehend. Finally she slowed down, sensing my confusion, and asked "8 pm special massage?" I nodded yes, and she motioned for me to sit in a chair in front of her desk. She proceeded to ask me a multitude of questions, only parts of which I understood. After all my weeks of intensive study, I was too embarrassed to admit my less-than-adequate comprehension, so I mostly nodded or simply answered "Sì." How complicated was a massage, anyway? Sometimes when I answered yes, I thought I saw the corners of her mouth turn upward in a rather wry-looking way. Once she even stopped writing and looked up at me, directly into my eyes, bunching her mouth in an odd way and nodded at me with her eyebrows raised alarmingly high.

What did I just say yes to, I wondered? Well, not to worry. I'd had plenty of massages in the States. How different could this be? Soon it was close to 8 o'clock, and she stood to direct me through another door, into a more dimly lit corridor, then into one of the doors on the right. Some more rapid-fire Italian ensued, where I made out I was to undress, and get on the table. Once she left, I disrobed, placing my clothing neatly on the provided chair. I noted a pleasant aroma wafting from some sort of aromatherapy diffuser, or maybe from one of the many candles lighting the room. Soothing music playing was playing softly. The room was fairly small, with heavy drapes covering the windows, and thick carpeting, which was pretty unusual in my experience so far in Italy. The effect was that sounds seemed pretty muted. The room somehow gave the vibe of a warm and cozy cave, if there were such a thing.

When I went to get on the massage table I noticed there was no sheet or towel to pull over me. I looked around with some alarm, but saw nothing to cover up with in the room. I felt uncomfortable, but got on the table anyhow. Surely my masseur would correct the oversight when he arrived. Should I lie face down or face up? I felt naked in more ways than one, baring all to this stranger about to touch my non-standard male body, and who spoke a language I at best only half-understood. I ended up sitting at the edge of the table, hands in my lap covering my privates.

I heard a light knock on the door and my masseur entered.

"Sei pronto?" Was I ready?

"Sì." I said with a hitch in my breath.

"Mi chiamo Marco," he said, extending his hand.

"Aiden," I answered, carefully removing by right hand from my lap to clasp his.

He was more than I had dared hope for. A beautiful head of dark curls, with olive colored skin and muscular arms, totally on display with his contrasting white tank top. He wasn't jacked-up-body-builder huge, but very nicely toned. The rest of his body was less discernible because of his loose pants, which resembled medical scrubs, but with a much nicer linen fabric, and they were beige, not hospital blue. Sadly, they did not readily display his package, which I, of course, was already wondering about. His eyes locked with mine, and I thought I detected a note of amusement. At what, my modesty?

"Devi rilassarti e sdraiarti," he said.

I understood the relax part and figured out the sdraiarti part from the way he gently nudged my shoulder back toward the massage table. Oh well, here goes, I thought. My heart caught in my throat as I wondered if this would be the point when I would be kicked out of this male only massage. I watched Marco scan my body as I laid back and nervously removed my other hand from my groin. My T-dick had already thickened in anticipation so it was already slightly protruding from my purposefully well trimmed pubic hair. He paused a moment, and then I saw a little smile appear.

"Ahhh....un ragazzo trans! Più buchi con cui giocare!"

A trans boy, he said. I'd certainly prefer to be called a man, but I was perhaps a little slight of stature for him to think to call me that. At least he didn't appear to be rejecting me. As to the rest, I understood the words for "more" and "to play", so I thought we might be good to go. I tried to ask, starting with if he spoke any English.

"Scusi, il mio italiano non è perfetto...parli inglese?"

"No, no. Non parlo inglese. Non abbiamo bisogno di parlare. Non ti preoccupare. Mi occuperò di tutto."

That was a lot of Italian, but I understood.He doesn't speak English. We don't need to talk. Don't worry, he'll take care of everything.

I tried to settle down and relax. And let him take care of everything. I felt a nice warmth emanating from the table. Heated. Nice! No wonder I wasn't feeling cold at all. Marco ran his hands lightly over my chest. My top surgery scars were still a little red, not having fully faded yet. He ran his fingers gently across the full length of them before he oiled his hands and massaged my full torso. It felt like acceptance. I took a deep breathe and felt my weight ease fully into the table. I closed my eyes and floated with the touch.

Marco's hands were warm, firm, reassuring. He used long, sweeping strokes, along the sides and front of my body, from my shoulders all the way to my hip bones, and back, over and over. Sometimes he paused briefly to flick his thumbs back and forth across my nipples, but mostly he stuck with the long broad strokes. Gradually his hands slipped past my hip bones, to the top of my legs, before they again rolled off to the side and back up. This was interesting....and arousing. With each of these longer strokes, as he rolled off my legs and gradually became more forceful, I could feel a slight tug at my T-dick, and all the sensitive tissue surrounding it. It was so sensual to feel touch there without actually being touched. As the stroke length increased and Marco had to stretch further over me, I also began to feel the linen of his pants brush my head and forehead. And I felt something soft in his pants that seemed to become less soft and more hard with each stroke.

Every fiber in my being wanted to reach out and touch the package that was so tantalizingly and lightly brushing me now with each of his long effleurage strokes, but I didn't know if that was allowed. On the sixth or seventh pass, I slightly turned my head as he passed over and nudged his package with my nose. Marco chuckled, squeezed my shoulder and moved around the table to my legs. He started with my left leg, again with the long deep strokes. The strokes gradually took in more and more of my inner thigh, before pulling out to the side again for the down stroke. The tug on my T-dick and surrounding area was becoming more pronounced and more pleasurable with each stroke. Marco moved to my right leg and continued in the same manner.

I was feeling very aroused. I wanted more. More touch. My front hole was feeling empty and needy. I started to lean toward his touch, my hips bucking slightly as he reached closer and closer to the core of my desire. Marco moved up and began massaging both upper thighs, his thumbs edging ever closer to my folds and T-dick. I tried to lean more toward his thumbs each time he approached, until finally, after what felt like forever, he bridged the gap and touched me there. His firm touch immediately eased and his thumbs brushed ever so lightly against the sides of my T-dick. Ahhhh! So perfect. My cock is so very sensitive, with so many nerve endings packed into a relatively small space. It is way too much to grab and tug at it like a cis-cock. How did he know, I wondered?

After several oh-so-light passes, I felt something drip onto my cock, and I opened my eyes to see that Marco was dribbling saliva to my cock and was leaning toward it. I dropped my head back to the table, sighing as he gently took my cock in his mouth and moved his tongue so delicately over the head. Surely this is heaven, I thought. I was so wet. His other hand began massaging below, and a finger wormed its way toward my opening. It gently circled with almost no pressure, around and around and around, until finally I could not take it any longer and I bucked toward his finger when it was at exactly the right place, pierced myself on it, and I cried out. Marco paused from his attention to my cock, and began penetrating me slowly with his finger. He seemed to sense how new this was for me, or maybe he was just particularly good at teasing and drawing things out. He moved in slightly and out slightly, a little bit deeper each time, for such a long time until once again I couldn't take it anymore. I grabbed his hand and thrust him fully inside me. It hurt a little, but I didn't care. I looked into his gorgeous deep eyes, which seem to be smiling at me, as he curved his finger, and lightly stroked toward the front of my body. Ahhhh! So good! I thought I was falling in love with Marco....surely I was not his first trans man. Or maybe he was bi. Whatever, I didn't care, as I continued to buck toward his finger, my body now taking over, doing what it needed to do, with or without my permission.

Marco continued the stroking, while he went back to work on my cock, swirling and licking the head, until I felt my orgasm rapidly approaching. I grasped his head and pushed into his willing mouth. He let me ride his face and licked me clean as I fell back to the table, spent. He let me rest a moment, then came up to kiss me. I tasted myself on his tongue as I hungrily kissed him back. I had the odd sensation of being both very satisfied and yet still wanting more. So much more. I reached for his cock and rubbed it through his pants. He groaned into our kiss. I tugged at his trousers, and he pulled away, smiling and loosening the tie holding them up. I pulled them down until his cock popped out. My first cock! He ran its soft hardness against my face. I never knew the skin would move so much or that it would feel so soft. I just had to taste it! I licked it as it came toward my mouth, and was surprised that all I tasted was "clean", though that isn't a taste, is it? That is, until he pulled back, pushing the tip toward my mouth. His foreskin was pulled back as it entered my mouth and I tasted what I thought must be pre-cum. Salty. I wanted more, and I greedily tried to suck him deeper into my mouth.

The massage table was too high for that to work, so he grabbed under my shoulders and pulled my head off the edge of the table. He must have been getting excited, because he was more forceful than he'd been so far. I liked it. I didn't know what an average sized cock was, but Marco's seemed plenty ample as I opened wide to let him in. His cock got even wider past the head and my lips stretched tight around him. He began pumping into my mouth, and before too long began to push at the back of my mouth, seemingly trying to get the last inch or so of his cock inside. I opened as widely as I could. I wanted all of him. I was cock hungry! I tried to relax my throat, gagging a little as he pushed more forcefully until he was fully lodged. He only stayed there a moment, before backing off so I could breathe, then he pushed in again. Now it was about him and his pleasure. He pushed in again and again. I tried to open as best I could and not gag. He was using me now, and I loved it.

Just as I started to wonder if he would shoot in my mouth, and what that would be like, he pulled away. I whimpered and tried to pull him back, but he gestured with his hands for me to turn over. He placed a head rest in the table for me to place my face. Then he began those same wonderful long deep strokes on my back. I felt all the tension drain from me, between Marco's wonderful work, and being post-orgasmic, which was, let's face it, also Marco's wonderful work. Before long his strokes also made their way down to my gluteal muscles, with the happy side effect of tugging on my anus, creating yet more pleasurable feelings. I also felt Marco's stiff cock grazing the back of my head with each long stroke. I began to squirm a little on the table, pressing my own renewed hardness into the table, dreaming of more places I wanted him to bury his beautiful tool.

Marco moved around the table without breaking his stroke, making his way down one leg, then down to my feet and calves. Firmly pressing, kneading, working out all the tension of the past weeks. He bent one leg at the knee, and then I felt this wet softness around and between my toes. What was this!? The sensation shot right to my little cock and my hips thrust into the table without my permission. I felt a rumble of a chuckle as Marco snaked his tongue between my toes. I tried to regain some composure as these new sensations ran up and down the neural pathways directly to my cock. Marco was very skilled indeed. He ran that talented tongue on the backs of my knees too. My need was rapidly growing, and the only solution to satisfying it was clearly going to require an impalement of Marco's thick cock in one or another of my holes.

Marco was not only skilled, but relentless. His hands now massaged my thighs deeply. Then my thighs and glutes. Grabbing my rounded globes, kneading, pressing, pulling. My hole stretching as he increasingly pulled them apart. My anus clenching, releasing, wanting, wanting, wanting to have something firm to wrap around. I felt him climb onto the table, pulling my legs apart, settling into the space between them. I didn't feel the linen of his pants, only skin. The hair on his legs tickled mine. I felt a stronger pull on my glutes, my ass opened even wider, then the scratch of his 5 o'clock shadow, and a warm wetness against my hole. Oh my God! My eyes rolled back in my head and I heard whimpering sounds that seemed to be coming from me. His tongue lathed and lapped around my hole, getting it slick and wet, over and over. My hands clenched the table. Marco was truly a master in the art of sensuality. I felt something at my hole pressing insistently, and his hands on my ass, shaking it, trying to get me to loosen my hold, and open to him, until...

His tongue forced its way inside, piercing my virgin ass. He pulsed it forward and back with quick short strokes, until my hole began to loosen. I never knew before this point just how many sensitive nerve endings I had here. I was panting in short gasps, involuntarily grasping and loosening my sphincter's grip on his tongue, as my cock pushed into the table. Marco pulled away, and I felt something cold against my hole, and a finger swirling around my opening. Another pause, and more of what I assumed was lube was applied, and then Marco firmly began pushing his finger inside me.

"Ohhhhh! It is too much," I tried to say, as his finger kept pushing past the first rim of resistance.

"Shhhh. Shhhh. Andrà tutto bene."Everything will be okay.

It sure didn't feel like everything would be okay. But Marco removed his finger, spread more lube on my hole, and presumably on his finger, because this time the pressure and entry was easier to take. I felt my inner folds give way, and his finger fully entered my virgin ass. I realized I was holding my breathe, so I sighed it out and Marco began to twist and thrust his finger so minutely and gently as to be nearly imperceptible. I loosened a bit, and began to enjoy the feeling of fullness, of having this beautiful man inside yet another entrance to my body. I wanted him to possess all of my holes, fill all of them. I wanted to learn to open to him. I took another breathe. Marco must have felt me loosen more, because he began moving his finger more, a little in, a little out, a bit of rotation until it started to actually feel good, and I pressed back toward him as his finger made a forward thrust.

"Sì, sì, accettarlo Aiden. Accettarlo. Dobbiamo prepararti per il mio cazzo."

Now he starts conversing? With his finger firmly in my ass? I struggled to comprehend. Something about accept it? Cazzo....doesn't that mean cock? His cock. I tried to imagine opening to his thick dick. I couldn't fathom it, with how just his finger felt. But I couldn't deny that I wanted it, despite my fear. I wanted to try. This is what I had hoped for, after all, hadn't I?

I felt Marco's finger pop out, heard him pop the bottle of lube, then felt more coldness again at my entrance, but a wider pressure.

"Nooooooo!" I cried.

"Sì, sì, sì" he soothed, "puoi farlo. lo farai."

I struggled with the verb tenses, as Marco pushed and held my lower back against the table so I couldn't squirm away, as he firmly began pushing what felt like two fingers into my hole. Attempting to translate distracted me enough to allow his fingers to push in at the same time I realized he had said, "You can do it. Youwilldo it." Ahhhrghhh.....I tried to relax into this new fullness, this new stretching. Marco waited. I breathed. My grip on the edges of the table loosened slightly. He began the micro movements again, until little by little it was hurting less. It even began to feel a little good. I don't even have a prostate, I thought. How does this feel good?