#coostarter

Patrick was glad to be at work for a change. He liked that he could massage away people’s worries and focus on just making people feel better. Sure, his life wasn’t difficult but he did like the escape that came from working at a high end spa. He walked through the halls, dressed in his uniform, headed towards his room. Opening the door he walked in and went through the motions of setting everything up. Turning on his warmers he put bottles of oils in them before turning on his scent warmer to set the atmosphere. He heard a knock behind him on the door, thinking that it was too soon for his first client to be here. “How can I help you?” he asked, walking over to the cabinet to pull out the sheet to drape over the table. “You’re not my first client of the day are you?” he asked, looking at his watch.

Shirt, nowhere to be found. The skin of his chest was bared, warm with sun and light brown hair. The picture of relaxation. Not a lesson booked for another half a week. It’s the best gift he’d ever given to himself and his husband -- that, and the square cut trunks barely managing to wrangle the mound between his thighs. For a god-made-mortal, he’s far too relaxed so far from home. It’s when he rolls over that his ass comes into view, stacked high under a swimmer’s trained back, fuzzy from under the lip of the fabric where his cheeks pulled it taut. Thighs? Thick, but relaxed.