So, tell me Mr. Hendricks, where does it hurt most?”
My client, James Hendricks, lay stretched out, naked, on my portable, padded, black-vinyl-topped massage table in the middle of his living room. You know, they call these tables “portable” but they really aren’t that easy to “port.” Mr. Hendricks had helped me hoist the thing out of my car and lug it into his house but, as he carried it up the last step to the front door, I could see him wincing. I knew he was in pain.
James Hendricks had a very high-powered job that created an inordinate amount of stress in his life. I had no idea what he did but, whatever it was, it allowed him this beautiful home and those indispensable little luxuries, like my services.
I’d moved out to the West Coast to be the next big thing but was smart enough to get training in something in addition to acting. An actor’s body is her instrument—well, her body and her voice—but I suppose my body is such a big part of my craft, when looking at temporary careers to fill in and pay the rent while waiting for my big break, I naturally drifted to massage school.
“Well, I guess it’s a tie between my lower back and my shoulders. Sorry, Alice. I don’t mean to make your life so difficult, it’s just been a long week. But I know you can fix it. You always work wonders.” Mr. Hendricks lay on his stomach, atop several layers of sheets, with his face in the cradle, awaiting my touch. A sheet discreetly covered his naked body.
Becoming licensed as a massage therapist was, possibly, the best thing I’d ever done. Sure, I get the occasional commercial and a line or two on a TV show every once in a while, and they pay well, don’t get me wrong, but they don’t exactly pay the rent. My massage business, on the other hand, quite easily covers the rent and keeps me in kibble, so to speak. It’s all word of mouth, really. I work on some of the wealthiest bodies in LA, and they all seem to know each other. I guess they meet at big charity functions and schmooze with each other while walking their dogs in Bel Air. I’m discreet and I make a point never to work on anyone in the business; I don’t need any conflicts of interest between my two careers.
Mr. Hendricks moaned when I began kneading his shoulders. I’d rolled the sheet down to his waist and was standing at his head. I could feel the knots; the poor guy really was a mess. After a while, they began to break up and I could move down his right arm. I worked both of his arms before returning to his back and slowly worked out the smaller tensions I found at his core. Saving his lower back and buttocks for later, I worked on his legs and feet to much oooing and aaahing before returning to the problem area.
There was a lot of wincing as I began to work out the knots above his hips, and some real “Ow’s” when I began to work on his rear.
“All right, I’ll tell you what. Let’s save that for later, shall we? Why don’t you roll over for me now?” I held the side of the sheet up so he could turn over without getting caught in the linens and he scooted down and turned over. I replaced the sheet and started again at the top of his body, working out the stiffness in his chest and arms, then jumped down to his legs and made my way up to his groin.
I know what you’re thinking and, no, I’m not one of those kinds of masseuses. Well, not like you’re thinking, anyway. No, as I said before, I’m an honest-to-god licensed massage therapist. I don’t do lingam and yoni massages. But, nevertheless, Mr. Hendricks started to squirm when I got to that area. I could see a definite bulge in the sheet begin to appear—a bulge that hadn’t been there only moments before.
“Oh, Alice, oh. Oh my god, if you could just move a little closer in. Just…a…little…closer. Oh, Alice.” Mr. Hendricks began to wiggle on the table and strain his pelvic area toward me. “Alice, you’re so good at what you do. I bet if you just touched it…just a little….”
“Mr. Hendricks!” I removed my hands and backed away from the table. “You know better than that! That’s very naughty and you know I can’t just let it go. No. Get off the table, right now,” I commanded.
“No, Alice, I’m sorry, I won’t do it again. Please don’t make me,” he said.
“No, Mr. Hendricks, I’m afraid not. I simply can’t let it go. Now get up and turn around.”
When I ripped the sheet off him I could see his cock at full attention. He’s one of those. Not all my clients get hard or wet. Some don’t get aroused at all. But Mr. Hendricks always gets hard and stays that way.
He slid off the table, cock waving in the air, but I noticed him wince when his feet hit the ground and again when he stood up straight. He really was in a lot of pain.
“Brace yourself, Mr. Hendricks; you know how to do it.” He placed his hands on the edge of the table and moved back a bit, leaning forward. “Spread those legs. You know better than that!” He complied and once he was in position, I began to scold.
“Just how do you think that makes me feel, Mr. Hendricks?” I asked. I smacked his right buttcheek. “I’m no cheap floozy!” I smacked his left buttcheek. “Do you think I’m some sort of whore, Mr. Hendricks?” I peppered both sides of his bottom with hard spanks.
“No, no, I’m sorry, Alice. I don’t think of you that way at all, you know I don’t. I swear! I just can’t help it. You’re so beautiful and, well, you know guys; we’re just sort of built that way. It happens. I can’t help it. Please, Alice!”
I had continued to spank him throughout his apology. “I don’t believe you, Mr. Hendricks. I don’t think you see me as a trained professional. I’m afraid I’m going to have to teach you some respect!” By this time, his bottom was a nice, uniform pink, but it would need to get a lot pinker, perhaps even closer to red, before I could move on to the next phase of relieving Mr. Hendricks’s pain. I slowed my spanks but brought my hand down harder, alternating cheeks to a chorus of squeals and moans and groans, with plenty of “yummy” sounds thrown in.
Mr. Hendricks was a spanko, as are many of my clients. Mr. Hendricks loved to be spanked. For him, spanking was sexual, although it wasn’t necessarily so for many of my other clients. Regardless of whether it was sexual or not, spanking helped to relieve tension for some people.
As I said, my client base had grown through word of mouth and a very special subset of my client base, also grown through word of mouth, relied on my expertise as both a massage therapist and a powerful spanking top. For those clients, spanking helped to release muscle tension and allowed for deeper relaxation. I provided therapy based on the client’s needs and experience.
Mr. Hendricks liked it hard. In fact, a gentle spanking, rather than loosening him up, could exacerbate his already painfully cramped muscles. I always got a workout with Mr. Hendricks, but he really needed it today.
“You stay right where you are,” I said. “Don’t you move an inch.” I walked over to my bag and brought out several implements. Since he hadn’t moved, and therefore didn’t see what was going on, there was a great, excited cry when I smacked his left buttock with my large, leather paddle. My spanks were measured and slow, alternating sides, positioned over the plumpest area of his bottom—the area just above the curve toward his thighs. Keeping the paddle pressed against his skin, after each initial smack, helped to intensify and deepen the pain of the blow. It was that kind of deep pain that would help him to loosen up.
By now, his skin was a dark rose, but I knew he needed more. I replaced the leather paddle with a Lucite one. This produced a much sharper sensation. I spent another ten minutes of solid spanking time with this paddle, covering his entire bottom and ending with a few swats against the crease between his bottom and his thighs, a particularly painful area. All during the spanking, I berated him for his supposed disrespect, knowing this would also help to relax him.
Fairly certain he was ready, I said, “Mr. Hendricks, I know just how naughty you are. I don’t want to see it so don’t you dare turn around. You march right into the bathroom and take care of yourself so I can finish your massage.” Like I said earlier, I’m not that kind of masseuse and I couldn’t very well complete the massage with his raging hard-on. Besides, an orgasm would help to relax him that much more, and this was the pattern with Mr. Hendricks.
He returned with a towel wrapped around his waist. I lifted the sheet up and in front of myself so that he could have some privacy when he dropped the towel and climbed back onto the table. “Facedown,” I said.
Once he was settled, I folded the sheet down to his knees. “Sorry, Alice,” he said.
His bottom was red and puffy. I placed my hands on both cheeks and felt the heat from the abraded skin. Gently, I began to knead the muscles at the top of his buttocks. I could tell they were already much less tight than they’d been before his spanking.
“How’s that feel, Mr. Hendricks? Better?” There were no shrieks and fewer “Ow”s.
“Alice, it’s a miracle,” he sighed. “I don’t know how you do it. Nobody else has ever been able to give me a massage that works. There have been times when I’ve ended up in even more pain than I was in at the beginning. But never with you. If I weren’t already married, I’d propose.”
Of course I knew how I did it. But still, his words made me smile.
I continued to knead and stretch the muscles in his lower back and butt and after another fifteen minutes, I could tell he was feeling much better.
The secret was the spanking. It’s a proven therapeutic fact. At least, I’ve proven it, with my special clients. And the evidence was plain to see, where Mr. Hendricks was concerned: it stopped the noises in his head; it centered him; it stimulated his circulation; it was good pain and that made the endorphins flow. It was like running for an athlete. It took his mind off the bad pain, which let me, at least temporarily, fix the damage his very stressful life had caused.
I’m not even sure he realized what was happening. Of course he knew he was getting a spanking, and that he wanted that spanking, but I don’t think he equated it with the massage. I think, for Mr. Hendricks, it had become about his misbehavior and subsequent punishment. Most of my other spankophile clients recognized it as part of their therapy. But whether they understood that or not, they were getting what they needed. The thing is, I can’t stand to see people in pain and I’ll do whatever it takes to help them, regardless of how they perceive it. After all, it was, at least in part, what my special clients hired me for.
After the massage, I let him relax on the table for a bit while I put away my oils, lotions and spanking implements. I left the room and gave him time to get up and dress in private. I returned with a glass of water to find him standing by the table with a big grin on his face. I handed him the glass and reminded him to drink plenty of water to flush out the toxins the massage had coaxed from his muscles.
I wouldn’t let him help me pack up my table or carry it out to the car. I didn’t want to risk negating any of the gains he’d made, but I was happy to see the spring in his step as he walked me out and waved goodbye.
“See you in a week, Alice?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Hendricks.”
Who am I kidding? He knew exactly what he was getting.