My masseur boy

My Thai masseur kid has this habit that curls my toes - in a good way. He drizzles warm oil across my soles, takes his sweet time, and those steady thumbs press deep. Grip tightens. I read every signal. He is thinking one thing. I let him believe he's subtle. I play along, pretend I don't notice how his hands drift higher, inch by sly inch. The oil slick spreads. Fingers trace that sensitive ridge at my heel, and the first little spike of pleasure climbs my spine. He wants my full attention. I'm giving him the show of patience while something thicker, harder, thicker, hard, pokes up beneath the towel he draped across my hips. He feels me twitch. One slick palm drags a slow circle around my instep, and the heat in my core tightens. When his thumb ghosts higher, slips under the towel's edge, I'm already wet and ready. He smiles - innocent, like butter wouldn't melt - but his grip is pure trouble, and we both know exactly where this rub-down is headed.