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First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition

Here’s a sample from the beginning of First-Time Jocks Get a Happy Ending: A Wrestler Tradition, a new story by Happiest Ending!

 

Every year, the wrestling team told their new freshmen about the “happy ending tradition”. They were told that they had to get a “happy ending” from Charlie, the team masseur and physical therapist. He used to work in a massage parlor nearby, but now just worked directly for the team. He was available after every game and every practice — and at many other times, depending on his schedule.

It wasn’t really a rule, at least not one that anybody enforced. The seniors told the freshmen it was a rule. But it wasn’t like the seniors monitored everyone’s cocks to see who got handjobs from whom, and Charlie refused to say. He claimed medical confidentiality. So no one had any way of knowing who had done it and who hadn’t.

But the freshmen only figured that out gradually. When the seniors told them it was required in September, the ones who were comfortable with it did it right away. The rest put it off and eventually forgot or pretended they had already done it. The seniors occasionally asked for updates on who had done it, but they never had any way of checking.

So when the freshman Delroy showed up after one practice, Charlie felt duty-bound to tell him he didn’t have to go through with it.

“They won’t check, man, and I promise I’ll tell them you did it if they ask,” Charlie said.

“Really? Oh holy shit, thanks, man,” Delroy beamed. His tangled mop of brown hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat. His singlet was soaked too, crumpled on the floor, his youthful muscles bulging through the fabric. Delroy was a freshman, but he had been a poor student his whole life and had failed two years of grade-school (held back in fifth and eighth grade), so he was older and much bigger than other freshmen. He had a tuft of coarse black chest hair that just barely poked out from his singlet when he wore it — Charlie fantasized about sucking on that bit of chest hair every time he saw Delroy in the singlet.

Charlie felt a pang of regret: He had a feeling he could have told Delroy anything was mandatory and he’d have done it. He kneaded Delroy’s muscled shoulders. When he gave a massage, he didn’t much think about sex, even if the men he massaged were sexy — he was a professional, and he did it so often that it didn’t feel sexy.

But Delroy had been talking about sex and generally making it hard to avoid thinking about it. His pre-shower post-practice musk filled the air, making it difficult for Charlie to focus.

“I was gonna try to find you tonight, like see if I could come to your place,” Delroy said with a groan as Charlie worked a knot out of his back. “I’m getting drunk at the Halloween party tonight. I thought I could get a blowjob from a gay dude if I was drunk.”

“Uh-huh,” Charlie said. “You know it doesn’t have to be a blowjob?”

“What? I’m not doing anal.” He scoffed.

“No, I mean a handjob.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yep.” Charlie nodded though Delroy’s eyes were closed so he didn’t see.

Delroy fidgeted on his back, eyes closed. His fingers rubbed each other and he shifted his weight. Charlie had to suppress a giggle.

“Really? Just a handjob?” It sounded like he didn’t believe it.

“Yeah, that’s all they expect. That’s what a ‘happy ending’ is,” Charlie said.

“Oh… Is that… ? I mean, like… you’re gay, right?”

“Yes.”

“So do you…?” He blushed. “I mean… do you like… want to?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I don’t know what gays are into. I mean, dudes. I know that. Gays are into dudes. But like… do you like giving handjobs?”

“I do.”

“Why?” He laughed and blushed. He opened his eyes and looked down over his expansive chest. He still wore his jockstrap, which was dingy gray. His cock twitched. “Sorry.”

“Delroy, do you want a handjob?”

He bit his lip. “I mean… I ain’t think you would do that. I guess I thought you’d make me put it in your mouth. I can’t do that. That’s too gay. Okay? Don’t do that.” He paused. “Yeah. Yes. You can jack me off.”

Twink on Top: The Native American Masseur

Here’s the entirety of Twink on Top: The Native American Masseur, a hot tale of Indian sex, rough trade and a massage with a very happy ending! This is part of the Native American Masseur series, which is all available along with much more in Gay Masseur Erotica, Vol. 1!

Timmy was surprised by how nice the massage parlor was. He tried not to act like a New York elitist; that was not easy to do here in Anchorage. It was a nice little town, but it looked like a village as far as he was concerned. There were few cabs, no Thai restaurants, like two black people in the whole city; there was no live theater, at least not while he was here; there was a university, but it didn’t seem to have much impact on local culture.

So he thought the massage parlor would be some low-rent dive. When he saw the Asian women who scurried about in beautiful kimonos, he wondered if he had made a mistake — was this a brothel? He had called and spoke to the front desk. Of course he didn’t ask directly if it was a brothel, they would never have said yes anyway. But he asked about their services, and it sounded like a real massage parlor.

He acted as flamboyant and twinky as possible, just to be sure. He didn’t want any awkward situations with a Chinese woman trying to give him a handjob. He wasn’t positive the girl at the front desk was familiar enough with American culture to get that he was gay, but he gayed it up to the best of his ability. Timmy had always been a pretty blatantly gay man, so he thought he had gotten his point across.

Now he wasn’t sure it was worth it at all. It might have been better to just use the back massager he had gotten for Christmas last year, but he had never really liked it. He genuinely needed a massage — his shoulders were tight, as they often were. His doctor had recommended an occasional massage, which usually worked.

“Sir,” said a gruff, deep voice. Timmy turned around and his jaw dropped. There was a man in front of him — not an Asian man, an American, an Indian, it seemed. “Patuk,” he said by way of introduction. Then he nodded towards the rooms in the back of the massage parlor, and Timmy followed.

Timmy was shocked for a couple reasons. First of all, Patuk was a man; he was not Asian; he was unlike everyone else who worked here. Even more than that, he was sexy. He was ungodly hot, Timmy thought. He was tall and broad-shouldered, with long, straight black hair. His jaw was square, his cheekbones high, and he had a thick scar on his neck as though someone had tried to decapitate him.

He led Timmy down the hall, wearing a tight pair of jeans that framed his ass. He wore a plain brown shirt that ended at the shoulder. He looked more like he was on his way to job as a farmworker than a masseur, Timmy thought. Had he come into the wrong place after all? Maybe Patuk was the owner, not a masseur?

“Lie down,” Patuk said. It was impossible to tell whether he was happy with this or not — he looked rather like he was already bored of this massage.

He certainly had that Native American taciturnness, Timmy thought, shivering a little with delight. Patuk had on a sleeveless shirt, so his lumberjack-like biceps were plainly visible. Timmy wanted more than anything to kiss them, but it was obvious Patuk was straight.

“I have trapezitis,” Timmy said. “That means my shoulders are-“

“I know what it means,” Patuk said, glaring at him. “Lie down.” After flipping on a stereo and waiting for New Age music to fill the air, he rubbed oil into his hands. His powerful biceps glistened with baby oil as well, or maybe it was sweat, Timmy couldn’t tell from where he lay on the massage table.

Timmy gulped and laid on the table as ordered. Had he offended Patuk? His brown face was still, like he was thinking about something very important and paying no attention to Timmy. Timmy settled into position on the table.

Laying on his belly, Timmy couldn’t see Patuk. He felt tense though. Patuk was not a very good masseur, Timmy decided before the massage began — he seemed almost hostile. He wasn’t sure he could relax at all. This was not the kind of environment that he usually found in massage parlors. Masseurs were supposed to be kind, friendly, evoking a calm and relaxed atmosphere. Patuk seemed as likely to chop him up with a hatchet as give him a massage, but Timmy was too scared to consider leaving.

But then the New Age music became a bit louder and more engrossing, and the smell of burning sweetgrass filled the air. Timmy felt a momentary surge of relaxation. He had been through enough massages that he was primed to feel the tension melt away when the atmosphere approached that of a more typical massage parlor. He sighed as Patuk finally touched his skin, and calmness flooded his system.

The feeling only intensified as Patuk’s strong hands began kneading Timmy’s back. He was a good masseur, Timmy realized with a start. He sighed. The tension began to drain from his shoulders.

Patuk’s hands were callused and rough, beneath the massage oil he used. He felt like a roughneck, Timmy thought, like he should be working on an oil rig, not in a massage parlor. But since Timmy was gay and Patuk was sexy, he didn’t mind at all. The extra friction from his fingerpads actually made the massage feel a little better, he thought.

His hands moved down Timmy’s back and Timmy had an urge to remind him that he really just needed shoulder-work. But Patuk either forgot or didn’t care, and Timmy was rather enjoying himself. Patuk’s hands worked the flesh of his ribs and his lower back, and he even got close enough that Timmy felt Patuk’s breath condensing on the back of Timmy’s neck.

Then Patuk’s hands reached Timmy’s ass, concealed only by a towel. Timmy shivered with anxiety at the realization that Patuk wasn’t stopping. As a flamboyantly gay man, Timmy certainly had no reason to tell Patuk to stop touching his ass, but he was shocked just the same.

When the towel came off, the warm air made the sensitive skin of Timmy’s ass pucker. The sparse short hairs there stood on end, and Timmy’s whole body quivered with desire.

Much to his surprise, Patuk didn’t just rub his cheeks a bit and move on. A lot of masseurs did that. Instead one of those big, rough hands worked its way between his cheeks. Patuk grunted, but didn’t say anything.

Timmy moaned and blushed as Patuk’s finger teased the rim of his asshole. Timmy’s back arched. He wondered for the first time if Patuk’s machismo, his gruff exterior and his Indian stoicism masked homosexuality. He wasn’t sure — both Indian culture and Alaska itself were different than anything Timmy had known before, so he had no idea how gay men acted here. Maybe this was normal, he thought.

Timmy was so relaxed that when Patuk turned him over, it was like dead weight. He just flipped Timmy onto his back. Timmy’s lean, pale body trembled, his bare dick sticking straight up. Patuk frowned as though he had expected to see a vagina.

Then before Timmy could say anything, Patuk kneeled between his legs and swallowed his dick. His dark eyes flashed upward at Timmy, who moaned. Patuk’s craggy face vibrated as he licked Timmy’s shaft and produced copious spit.

There was something almost machine-like about Patuk’s blowjob, Timmy thought, like he had scientifically determined the best way to get Timmy off and was now following through on the plan. Timmy writhed, his climax already approaching even as he leaked his first drops of precum.

But before he could cum, Timmy guided Patuk’s head down. Patuk licked Timmy’s shaft and then suckled on each ball in turn. He licked Timmy’s smooth sac (Timmy shaved his crotch bald every week) and the first hint of a smile appeared on his face.

Seeing his dark eyes only reminded Timmy how shocking this was. Patuk was as straight-acting as any man Timmy had ever seen. He had rough skin and ropy muscles; he wasn’t hairy, he was too Indian for that, but he had a swarthy complexion, and a few colorful tattoos covering his chest and back. Most prominent was a large eagle — not a bald eagle, but some other kind Timmy didn’t quite recognize — whose wings outstretched from his back, up over his shoulder, to end over his heart.

His mouth moved back up to Timmy’s cock, and he sucked with fervor and abandon. Spit dribbled past his lips and down Timmy’s shaft, pooling there on this bare balls. Patuk let out a low, slow growl, not loud or even especially passionate, but in comparison with his otherwise silent demeanor, it was a compelling sound that made Timmy shudder with anticipation.

“What, uh…-?” Timmy intended to ask what is this? But his mind was distracted by pleasure coursing through his veins, and he couldn’t form the last half of his sentence. It didn’t matter, he thought, since Patuk didn’t seem likely to answer anyway.

Then Patuk pulled off his cock. He looked at it like it was his final meal, and licked its shaft as he stroked it. He spat onto his hand for lubrication — he didn’t spit like a gay man, Timmy thought, he spat like a baseball player or a redneck.

“I, uh… I can’t pay you for this-“

“I am not prostitute,” Patuk said. He glared at Timmy. Despite that, his tone was flat, with no indications that he was offended.

“Oh. Okay, it’s just-“

“I am not prostitute,” he repeated, this time sounding angry enough that Timmy gulped and fell silent.

Patuk climbed up onto the massage table with more limberness than his big body suggested. His broad muscles barely fit up there, but he easily stood around Timmy’s body. He continued to glare right into Timmy’s eyes as though frustrated, and one of his hands wrapped around Timmy’s throat.

For a moment, Timmy panicked. Maybe this was a case of gay rage, he thought, and Patuk was going to kill him because he knew that Patuk was gay. But that didn’t seem likely — ‘masseur’ was hardly the ideal job for someone who wanted to accentuate his heterosexuality, and in any case, Timmy knew Indian culture approved of gays. It didn’t make any sense for an Indian masseur to be a self-hating gay.

“I am not prostitute,” he said again, this time squeezing Timmy’s neck just a little bit. He hovered above Timmy’s crotch, his tight brown ass resting there. Timmy’s dick spasmed and jerked as though trying to find a hole to penetrate.

“Oh, uh, okay,” Timmy said. “I’m gay. I’m sure you figured that out. I, uh… it’s okay to be gay. There’s nothing wrong with that.” Shut up, Timmy, you’re babbling.

Patuk nodded as though he had been waiting to hear that. He leaned in closer, keeping his hand on Timmy’s neck, and kissed him on the lips. He was still crouched over Timmy’s body, his flexible limbs stretching to reach Timmy’s face.

Hesitating, Timmy clutched Patuk’s back, savoring the feel of the corded muscle like coiled rope, and he fingered that eagle tattoo. Then he thrust his tongue into Patuk’s mouth. They both moaned together, though Patuk’s was a low, barely audible sound that made Timmy’s back shudder.

Then he lowered himself down, letting his ass land right on Timmy’s cock. Timmy moaned as his dick disappeared inside the big Indian, who closed his eyes and moaned, the first sound he had made since this began.

Patuk’s craggy face winced a little in pain, but he mainly remained stony as he rode Timmy’s dick. He stroked himself off as well, until Timmy took over, playing with Patuk’s dick with one hand and hefting his balls with the other.

He was uncut, which Timmy liked. He wondered if that was normal for Native Americans. Timmy stretched out the man’s foreskin and played with his sensitive head, which made Patuk writhe above him. Patuk’s muscles flexed all at once.

The first few drops of Patuk’s precum dribbled down Timmy’s hand. He brought his fingers to his mouth to suck on them, only for Patuk to beat him to it. In the end they both sucked Timmy’s hand clean, as Patuk’s heavy balls dragged on Timmy’s smooth belly.

There was a knock on the door, and Timmy gasped. He held his breath.

A Japanese woman’s voice filtered through the doorway. “Patuk? Patuk? Do you have a client in there?”

His voice was clipped and strained, whether from pain and pleasure at being penetrated, or from annoyance at being interrupted, Timmy didn’t know. He scowled. “Yes,” Patuk said.

There was a long pause. Timmy wondered if the Japanese woman knew what was going on in here, or suspected it at least. Maybe that was why it took her a long time to answer.

“Mrs. Donnelly is here,” the woman said. “She said she has a massage scheduled with you,”

“Yes.”

“She asked me to make sure you have… uh-“

“Yes.”

“The coconut oil, and uh… She asked if you did your tongue stretches. Maybe that was a joke? She laughed-“

“Yes, Kimo, that is fine. Tell her I will be ready shortly,” Patuk said. “Tell her to prepare herself. She will know what that means.”

The Japanese woman outside waited a long time before leaving, without saying another word. Patuk looked momentarily embarrassed. Timmy had trouble focusing with the pleasure of his cock throbbing in Patuk’s tight ass — but Timmy did realize what was going on: Patuk must have sex with all of his clients, or at least many of them, apparently including at least one woman.

“Are you, uh… going to have sex with her?”

Patuk didn’t answer, but from the stoic stare he produced, Timmy suspected the answer was yes. Was he embarrassed because it made him look like a slut? Or because it made him look bisexual? Or some other reason.

As Patuk began lifting his hips again, using his entire body to ram his ass up and down on Timmy’s dick, Timmy felt the man’s erect nipples. They kissed again, and Timmy stroked Patuk’s hard cock.

“Are you going to be able to cum again? With her, I mean?” Timmy asked just because he wondered if he was only going to eat her out — maybe that was why she had asked about his tongue. But he was too aroused to be articulate, so his point wasn’t clear.

Regardless, Patuk didn’t answer. He put his hand back around Timmy’s throat and growled, “Stop talking. I will do my job.”

Timmy didn’t need to be told twice — he didn’t want Patuk to get annoyed and stop. In any case, his climax approached and Timmy moaned. His balls crawled up in sac, as his hand in Patuk’s crotch felt his balls do the same.

They both finally reached orgasm at once. Timmy had an animated reaction. He blushed and gasped; he yelped; he bit his tongue so hard he drew blood; his fingers clenched into claws that clutched at Patuk’s nipples and the tattoo of an eagle that hovered above his heart. Patuk threw his head back, his long hair flowing in front of his face. The crags of his cheeks and chin shook as they both vibrated in sync with each other.

The sound that emanated from Timmy’s mouth was so loud he was sure the Japanese masseuses heard it, but nobody responded outside the room. Timmy writhed, his throat clenched as the most powerful orgasm of his life wracked his mind and body.

“Oh, god, Patuk!”

Hot cum coated Patuk’s insides just as Patuk’s own load sprayed right over Timmy’s chest and mouth. The flavor of his juice coated Timmy’s tongue, and he licked enthusiastically, getting every drop that he could. His muscles flexed all at once, while Patuk’s entire body rippled, from his stoic face down to his tattooed chest and trunk-like thighs. His smooth flesh was dappled in sweat, and a loud euh jumped out of his throat — it wasn’t much, but Timmy suspected it was as powerful an orgasm as Patuk had had in a long time.

Then Patuk pulled himself off. He stretched as he got down off the massage table. He walked stiffly to the counter, where he withdrew a tissue and wiped his ass clean. His powerful cheeks jiggled and he threw the used tissue in a trash can. Then he frowned at Timmy.

“You are done,” he said. He crossed his arms over his chest, accentuating his pecs and that eagle tattoo, which rippled as his skin shifted. His bare cock shimmered with remnants of his cumload. Timmy got up, intending to put his clothes back on, but found himself sinking to his knees in front of Patuk.

It was just because he was so used to being a bottom, Timmy felt he needed to worship that cock. He hadn’t even tasted it. He kissed the tip, and licked it down to the root. Patuk sneered a little as though surprised, maybe a bit annoyed at the delay.

“You are done. The massage is complete.”

“Oh… okay,” Timmy said. “Well, that was… uh, good..” This has been a sudden transition, he thought. He was still feeling aftershocks from his orgasm as he hurriedly put on his pants. He could feel Patuk’s awkward stare, glaring at him for not getting his clothes on quickly enough. Timmy was unsure of what had just happened. “Was, uh… was that okay? Is that what you always do?”

Patuk scowled. “You have your massage, sir. Please leave.”

“Oh, I just-“ Timmy started towards the door. His pants were on, but he still carried his shoes and his socks, and his shirt was draped over his shoulders.

“Hush. You may return if you wish,” Patuk said. “Ask for Patuk.” He shoved Timmy outside and slammed the door shut. Timmy was so shocked he stood there for a moment, then headed towards the front door.

Mrs. Donnelly, Patuk is ready to see you now.

Mrs. Donnelly was a plump, yet still attractive white woman with dark hair and a thick ass. Timmy was sure that was who she was because she hurried back as soon as the clerk said her name, and she had a slightly embarrassed blush on her face as though wondering if everyone here knew what went on in the backroom.

He smiled. He was so surprised by what had happened that he hadn’t noticed until now that his shoulders felt better. He grinned. He’d have to get another massage from Patuk next time his shoulders felt that way. He was glad he’d found a good masseur here in Anchorage.

And you thought this town would be boring…