t-mobile girl

Without her signature pink sundress or the skintight black leathers with the pink stripe, she didn’t look like the model from the cell phone commercials. Though she had her long brown hair pulled into a bun behind her head, I still recognized her as Carly Foulkes even if the name on the reservation didn’t match. I smiled and she smiled. “If I can do anything to make your stay more comfortable, please let me know,” I told her. It was the same line I had repeated dozens of time each day since I began working the front desk of the tiny hotel. It was the first time I meant it.



“Anything is a big word,” she said. She bit at her little finger as her eyes ran over me in a way I’m unaccustomed to experiencing. She shook her head, as if returning from a short mental stray and when her full lips pulled into a grin, there was no mistaking her for anyone else. “Sorry, it’s been a long week.”



“You should try a massage,” I offered. It was another pre-programmed comment. “We’re famous for our mineral springs and massage therapy.” Since the Roaring 20′s, the elite of Hollywood have fled to this tiny corner of the northwest Arkansas to experience its elegance and the healing waters of the springs.



“Tempting,” Carly said, her eyes again flickering over me. She gave me a big smile, grabbed the handle of her pull along suitcase and strolled towards the elevator. I studied the way her tight jeans hugged her skinny butt, comparing and contrasting the way that ass looked in the commercials after she pulled on her motorcycle leather. Yeah, it was perfect. I glanced again at the name she had used for her reservation and smiled as I read Cathy Jones. Before Carly became the face and voice of the cell phone company, Catherine Zeta-Jones has preceded her. Cute.



We’re known for our discretion and it’s made easier when a famous guest keeps a low profile. Mostly, that means traveling without an entourage. With little effort, the rich and famous can cruise the streets of our little hamlet without being accosted for autographs, photographs or interviews. I’ve never seen a member of the paparazzi in town. I think our local law enforcement may play a role in that, but I don’t have any proof.



For two days, I sat behind the front desk and watched Carly come and go. She shopped the downtown, returning with bags filled with treasure after every trip. Each time she passed the front desk, she’d give me a warm smile. Did she know I had recognized her? Surely she assumed as much. I decided she appreciated my discretion. It was the only thing that made any sense.



I’ve never thought of myself as anything more than average looking. I’m not butt-ugly, but I’m not on par with someone like Carly. I guess everyone has their “it” person; that one, special, attractive model or Hollywood star who does things to you that no one else can. Carly Foulkes was that person for me. I wasn’t worthy of her pretty smiles as she strolled past the front desk. She was my favorite mental “go-to” partner. If she knew how many times I had jerked off to thoughts of her, she would put a restraining order against me and my right hand. I loved seeing her in those pink sundresses, but when they changed to putting her in skintight, black leather; I was done. That was too much for me. A single glimpse of her in a commercial would bring a rise inside my pants. Watching her parading past me a couple times each day had the same effect.



I work the dayshift, starting at 7 a.m. each morning and working through the checkout time and the beginning of check-ins. I’m done at 3 p.m. and after seeing Carly four times that day, I was ready to head home to give myself some relief. Seeing her was torture for my libido and I was happy to hide behind the tall check-in desk. I was collecting my things when the hotel manager buzzed me. “Care to do a massage?” he asked.



Like most of the front desk help, I doubled as a certified massage therapist. It was a nice way to supplement a paycheck. Aside from the fees collected for the massage, there was often a generous tip, too. I groaned. Any other day, I would have jumped at the extra money, but I needed some time to myself. “Can’t Jeff do it?” I asked. Jeff was my relief. “I’ll hold down the front desk until he’s done.”



“He called in sick. Candice is your relief today and I need a male masseuse.”



I sighed. I didn’t want to do it, but I wasn’t going to leave my boss hanging, either. “In the spa?” I asked.



“No. A private massage. In the guest’s room.”



“Great,” I thought as I sighed again. Masseuses are typically assigned by gender. A female masseuse was forbidden from giving a man a massage for obvious reasons. While a female guest could request a male masseuse, it seldom happened and when it did, she was never hot. It was a dick wilting buzz kill either way. I wasn’t interested in brushing off the advances of a horny old man or an overweight housewife hoping to get lucky by requesting a male masseuse. “I need to get changed.”



In an effort to reduce guests’ expectations of hanky-panky during a massage, we were required to wear a faux hospital uniform. I changed into the white smock and white, attendant pants before heading into the manager’s office to pick up a portable massage table and get the guest room. “Dude,” he said, shaking his head at me. “I can see your underwear.”



“Yeah, sorry,” I mumbled. With the hotel being mostly empty, I hadn’t anticipated giving a massage. Beneath my white orderly pants, I wore bright red boxer briefs. Unfortunately, they showed through the white pants. “Do I have time to run home?”



“No. The guest is waiting,” the hotel manager said with a frown.



“I’ll be right back,” I said and I dashed back to our dressing room. I stripped off my red boxer shorts and went commando. It wasn’t a good answer, but I didn’t have a choice. If my manager guessed how I fixed the problem, he was polite enough not to mention it.



“Catherine Jones,” he said, handing me a room key and number. “She specifically requested a male attendant. She’s probably old. Show her a good time.”



I picked up the portable massage table, the bag of oils and lotions, grabbed a couple clean sheets and headed towards the elevator.



I knocked, announced myself and waited for Carly to open the door. I felt as nervous as the high school geek did knocking on the door of the prom queen. Slung over my shoulder was a pouch filled with the lotions and creams we used for our massages. I was too nervous to be excited. Carly wore a tight t-shirt, equally tight jeans and her trademark smile as she opened the door. “Wow, I wasn’t expecting you,” she said, looking surprised to see me.



“You did ask for a male masseuse?” I asked, worried my manager had got it wrong. Carly nodded as she gave me the same appraising look I had gotten from her when she checked into the hotel.



“Most definitely. I prefer a man’s touch.” She stepped away from the door and made room for me. I leaned the table against the wall next to the door and fumbled for my wallet. My fingers felt too fat for my hands.



“I’m required to show you my license,” I explained, still trying to work the billfold from the buttoned back pocket of my workpants. I cursed myself for working the button in the first place, but the pants were loose fitting and if I didn’t fasten the button, I risked losing my wallet.



“It’s okay. I believe you. I should shower first, right?”



“Yes, Miss Jones,” I said. “It will take me a moment to set-up.” A shower cleans the skin and opens the pores for my oils.



“Carly is fine,” she assured me. She turned her back to me and pulled off her t-shirt. She wasn’t wearing a bra. I saw nothing more than her bare back and knew I was going to be in trouble. I was about to give a massage to the woman of my favorite fantasies. I struggled to keep myself calm and at ease while I set-up the table, closed the curtains, adjusted the room lighting and lit a lavender scented pillar candle. I placed a long sheet across the massage table and kept a second sheet folded on top of it.



Carly returned from the shower wearing a large, fluffy robe. “Is it okay if I turn on some music?” she asked. I nodded and waited on the far side of the table, fighting off the urge to get hard. She put on some atmospheric jazz music, moved to the side of the table and turned her back to me. I quickly held up the extra sheet and averted my eyes while she slipped out of the robe and into the sheet. A good masseuse uses the sheet to maintain a client’s privacy and keep the client warm. Carly positioned herself on the table, face down, resting her face and forehead against the pad designed for just that purpose.



I try to read the client with how I start a massage. Unsure where to begin with Carly, I opted for her calves. I folded the sheet up and over her calves, doubling it over her ass and thighs. My hands were shaking as I reached down to touch her flesh for the first time. It wasn’t something she could see. Nor would it be something she felt. As soon as my hands touched her flesh, my training took over. I began caressing and massaging the firmness of her calf and behind her knee.



“That feels divine,” she purred.



“‘Thank you,” I replied. The general rule of thumb during a massage is to remain quiet unless the client speaks. Don’t start a conversation the client might not want to have. Answer questions. Reply to comments so they know they’ve been heard and then shut-up. I didn’t expect Carly to be chatty client.



“You remind me of a boy I once knew,” she said as I worked over her left calf. Working her legs in my methodical technique helped to distract me. Hearing her talk brought me back into the moment of whom I was touching. “It was back home, in Canada. He was my first boyfriend.”



“Couldn’t be me, ma’am. I’ve never been to Canada.”



Carly giggled. “I know you’re not him, but the similarities are remarkable.” I moved to her other leg. “He was my first,” she added.



“Your first boyfriend?” I asked, unsure how to respond.



“My first everything. First boyfriend, first kiss and…” her voice trailed away before she added, “Well, you know.”



“Yes, ma’am,” I said, struggling to maintain my professional demeanor.



“Carly,” she reminded me.



“Yes Carly,” I said and hoped she didn’t hear how my voice cracked when I said her name.



“You have a nice touch,” she offered.



“Thank you.”



“Do we have to use the sheet?”



“It’s for your privacy,” I said.



“It’s okay,” she said. She pulled the sheet off her back and I was left to stare at her bare, perfect ass. She made matters worse by choosing to squirm at that moment. Her ass rose off the table slightly before she settled back down. I was glad her face was hidden from view. That mean she couldn’t see the impact she was having on me. I did her feet. I didn’t linger on her feet. I would visit them again soon enough.



The loose fitting pants I was forced to wear did nothing to hide or restrain my growing hard-on. Helpless preventing or restraining, I was left with doing my best to hide it. Normally, I began a person’s shoulder work by standing at the head of the massage table and working over their head. In this instance, I didn’t dare. I stood to the side and leaned over her. I keep my gaze on the back of her head. Her pretty brown hair looked silky soft. She pulled her hair to her left and exposed her long, shapely neck. I applied a bit of scented lotion to her back and began working her shoulders.



“Fuck that feels good,” she purred.



“Thank you, Carly,” I said, glad to get her name right on the first time. Her swearing did little to help my condition. The fucking T-Mobile Girl had just said ‘fuck’ to me. It did wonders for my hard-on and frustrated me just as much.



“I’m serious. You’ve got a great touch.”



“Thank you,” I said and worked down her back trying to keep my mind off of whose thin body I was caressing. As I neared the small of her back, I turned around. In good news, it put my back to her if she looked over her shoulder. In bad news, I was face to face with one of the ten greatest asses on the planet. I skipped over her tight, tiny ass and went to work on her thighs.



“You’re cheating me,” she said. She raised her ass in the air ever so slightly and I knew what she wanted.



“Sorry,” I mumbled. I massaged her Gluteus Maximus and it tortured me. There was no way for me to touch her without noticing how she was smooth from her most nether regions on down. I struggled to maintain my professionalism, worked her thighs and reworked her calves and feet with the scented oil.



“Mm, that’s nice,” she purred before rolling over.



“Sorry,” I quickly said, scrambling for the sheet on the floor to cover her full frontal nudity. I held it in front of me with my eyes respectfully averted and using the sheet as a shield, hiding the condition inside my pants.



“I think we’re past that,” she giggled. She tugged at the sheet, pulling it from my hands and revealing the tent inside my pants. Carly smiled. “Problem?”



“Sorry,” I said. I held my hands over my front, as if I had left the shower and someone unexpected has walked in on me. I covered myself protectively. I felt ashamed and embarrassed. “We can stop.”



“No,” she said. She ran a hand up my thigh and beneath my hands. “This makes it better.” I couldn’t speak as her small hand caressed my cock and balls through the thin fabric of my pants. I was frozen in place until she spoke again. “Are you going to massage me? I am paying for this.” I nodded, unable to speak. I picked up the oil and smeared it on my hands to warm it before I worked her shoulders from the front. I couldn’t do it without seeing her bare chest. Her nipples were twin, stiff pebbles on top of her small breasts. “Keep going,” she told me. I moved my hands over her tits and felt her nipples raking against my palms. “Yes,” she purred. Her eyes were still on the front of my pants.



My baggy uniform pants left nothing to her imagination and while I was required to stop her, I didn’t. Her deft little fingers tugged at the elastic waistband and moved inside my pants. She stroked my shaft before moving past it to cup my balls. “You’re bigger than he was,” she said with a sly smile on her face.



“Thank you,” I said, unsure what else to say. I was auto-pilot and trying to keep things as professional as I could. I turned away from her hand. I didn’t want to turn away, but I had to do her upper thighs. In a strange way, I felt relieved to have my hands in familiar territory. Yes, I saw her smooth, bare pussy and I saw how puffy her pussy lips looked, but I ignored that and worked on her upper thighs in as professional of a manner as I could. That’s when Carly grabbed the waistband of my pants and pulled them off my ass.



“Take these off,” she said. Her voice was a soft, demanding whisper.



“I can’t,” I moaned as I felt the last piece of my professionalism melting away. Carly didn’t correct me. Instead, she pushed my pants as far down as she could reach. Once they reached my knees, I knew I didn’t have a choice. I kicked off my shoes and stepped out of my pants.



“You realize, if I don’t get a happy ending from this massage, I’m going to complain.”



“Yes ma’am,” I said, not caring that I got it wrong. I moved my hands farther up her thighs until I was caressing the inside of her thigh with my hand while the side of my hand was rubbing against her bare pussy. Her pussy was smooth as silk, the kind of smooth that comes from being freshly shaved or recently waxed. I stood alongside the table, facing her body as I used one hand between her legs and my other hand on her perfect tits. Carly caressed my hard cock with long, lazy strokes.



“If Jon-Paul had been built like you, he might still be my boyfriend,” she cooed. Her small hand cupped my balls. “Have you thought about shaving these?”



“Sometimes,” I admitted. I had tried it once a couple years ago and couldn’t stand the itching when my hair grew back.



“Don’t. A man’s balls should be hairy,” she said, fondling them with amazing gentleness. “Women should be smooth down there, but not a man. Not a real man. Are you a real man?”



“I guess,” I hedged. I wasn’t sure what she wanted from me and was afraid to take what didn’t belong to me. I pressed a finger inside her pussy. She was wet, warm and sighed.



“More,” she purred. I gave her a second finger. “Yes!” I cupped her sex with my hand. I slipped my middle and ring finger in and out of her pussy while rocking the heel of my palm against her clitoris. I pinched at her slippery chest, pulling on hard nipples until they slipped from my oily fingers. She grabbed my cock like a joystick, arched her back and came. “Mm, that felt good.”



“Thank you,” I said, slowly becoming aware of how my cock was throbbing inside her hand. She bounced around on my massage table until she was on her front again. She poked her tight, tiny ass upwards.



“More,” she said.



I moved my fingers between her legs again. I poked at her pussy. Carly kept squirming, pressing her pussy against the table before I got the idea. Did she want me to touch somewhere else? I wasn’t a believer in her needs, but I slipped a single finger across her asshole to measure her desire. She arched and squirmed against my finger.



“Do it,” she moaned. I pressed my finger against her ass and felt the first knuckle sliding inside. “Yes! More!” I pushed my finger deeper inside and she squirmed again. I slipped my finger in and out and she rocked with me. “Yes! Yes!” she panted. I put my other hand beneath her waist, positioning it until I had two fingers against her pussy. I rubbed her clit while sliding my finger in and out of her asshole. She cried out loudly when she came.



I massaged her ass, thighs and lower back as she made soft purring sounds. “I don’t suppose you have a condom, do you?” she asked.



“Sorry,” I said.



“That’s okay. I still want this.” She climbed off the table and knelt in front of me. “Promise you won’t come in my mouth.”



“I promise,” I said before I felt the first lick of her tongue along the length of my shaft.



“I’m serious,” she said, cupping my furry balls in her small hand. “I want you to come on my face. It’s good for the skin. Can you do that?”



“Yes,” I swore, convinced it might happen within the next two seconds.



Carly decided to believe me. She began nursing her full, pouty lips up and down the length of my hard cock. I groaned and fought away the urge to immediately shoot off. It felt like a heroic effort to hold back and enjoy the moment. She tugged and pulled on my balls and that helped.



Carly looked up at me as she sucked my cock. I could see the smile in her eyes and feel the passion of her lips and tongue along my hard cock. This was a woman who enjoyed sucking cock and it showed. She never deep throated me, nor did she need to do it. Instead of forcing me down her throat, she wrapped one of her tiny hands around the base of my shaft and pulled me inside her mouth. It felt like the best part of a blowjob mixed with half a hand-job. I groaned again. I wasn’t going to last. I couldn’t. I had to push her face away from my prick to hold true to my promise. Carly tugged and pulled on my excited cock, keeping it aimed at her face until I came. When I did, I spurted huge, ropey globs of cum across her forehead, the bridge of her nose, on both cheeks, her lips and her chin. She used my cock like a paintbrush, smearing my semen across her face until her pretty face shone with an even sheen of my creamy cum.



“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at me as if I was the one who had done her a favor.



“You’re welcome,” I sighed. My knees felt weak. I rested my hand against the table for support as she stood.



“It’s best if it dries,” she said. She still held my cock, rubbing it. “You did a good job.”



“Thanks,” I said again.



“You know, if you’re up to it, I know a way you can fuck me without getting me pregnant.”

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