Blind Arousal

The Blind Massage sign in the hotel lobby had me salivating when I trudged back in all sweaty and stiff from another day enduring the unrelenting heat and rubble-strewn dysfunction of Indonesian cities.

I was aching from riding the cramped and thumping old buses that serve as public transport and tight-necked from being on guard against the thieves and bandits forever hunting foreign prey.

So I booked the masseur to come to my room in about half an hour - time enough for a shower. Blind people across the archipelago work as masseuses and masseurs – it is one profession they can do in a country which has little or no welfare and even the able-bodied find hard to traverse.

My wife and I visit the country each year on business, and she often has her back and shoulders kneaded in little curtained stalls at airports while we wait for flights. If you travel the country you will become accustomed to seeing teams of these people at transport hubs, clad in bright white doctors' smocks and jet-black sunglasses.

However, this time I was travelling solo and had been on the road for a few long weeks. I was stiff and lonely and longed for the touch of anyone but the pinching, insistent, grey-fingered beggars.

The fact the hotel offered a masseur instead of a masseuse made it easier, freeing me as it did from any sexual tension which might arise with a woman visiting my room, and any married guilt about enjoying another woman's touch.

But I also suppose the hotel offering a masseuse would have been unlikely given I was visiting a sternly Muslim area.

In my room upstairs in the wretched rabbit warren, I switched on the only barely functioning window-box air conditioner and showered away the day's grime and sweat.

Wrapped in a towel, I barely had time to sit before I heard the click-thump of the masseur working his way to my door with the aid of a walking stick.

"Hello, sir, my name is Rafik," said the late-middle aged man, his eyes hidden behind black glasses. He felt for the chair and propped his cane against it. "Do you like lotion?"

"Sure."

He felt around in his small bag, took out a dirty little bottle and asked if I was ready. Self-consciousness hit for a moment and I stood with my thumb hooked in the towel. Something felt mischievous about stripping before a blind man.

He was not looking at me or anything else when I pulled the towel away. I looked down at my invisible body, the lines of my stomach muscles, my hanging penis and balls, and then stretched out on the cheap spring bed.

Rafik slicked up his hands with the watery-looking lotion, sat and settled beside me and felt along my back.

His fingers were off-putting, rough and scratchy, and when he pushed up towards my shoulders I smelt a heady waft of nicotine, poverty and grime. But he had a deft touch, unlocking the day's strains and aches.

Rafik's blindness was doubly, triply, relaxing – it removed all male competitiveness, all sense of being judged or needing to hold myself well. I melted into the sheets, allowing my stomach to spread a little. Being naked before the blind was liberating. So my back and butt were hairy. So I hadn't been working out recently. So I was too pale. So what?

Yet from time to time I could not help but crane my neck to see Rafik not-seeing, just to reassure myself that he was in the dark as he worked his hands.

Rafik faced the wall with a tired, bland grin, lost in his thoughts.

He caressed my feet and pushed his hard fingers between my toes, along my soles, around my ankles and up my calves, squeezing the muscles. One after the other, he lifted my legs and bent them back, pressing my heels towards my arse, then spread them back out, gently clawing and stroking the backs of my thighs.

To my disquiet, blood began to stir, especially when Rafik ran his rough, stained hands around my buttocks, grabbing them and working them in slow, wide circles, my anus blinking a little with each outward push.

Had he not been blind it would have been embarrassing.

But he could not see, so I felt sort of OK, kind of protected, and it was surely just an autonomous side effect that my cock was growing uncomfortable under my stomach, hardening and thickening.

I peered back and Rafik was as neutral as ever, unseeing, just doing his job. So I adjusted myself, lifting my pelvis a little to make room below.

Nevertheless, it honestly felt weird to be getting a hard-on from the manipulations of an old blind man.

Is the body such a slave to sensation? It must be, and thank god Rafik could not see. I would have had to end the service, otherwise.

"Sir, would you like to turn over?" he said. It was with amazement at the world's unsettling surprises that I rolled over, my heavy throbbing cock springing up and bouncing as I settled. Rafik remained, of course, oblivious.

With a pillow under my head I studied the man. He was mid-fifties, perhaps a touch older, with a deeply furrowed and pock-marked face, greying hair, grey clothes, and a long-suffering but dependable air.

I looked down at my jutting cock, marvelling at how only I knew it was there.

Rafik squirted more of the cheap, watery lineament onto his hands and slid them along my arms and chest. I worried his elbow would bump my prick and make him think I was gay and getting off on this. My erection was meaningless. It would deflate any minute.

Rafik moved back down to my feet, washing his worn, discoloured working-man's fingers in slow, firm lines up to my knees.

He pushed hard and worked the front of my thighs, up and down and back to my feet.

Then he lightly slapped my inner thigh, cupping and rubbing.

I stared in amazement at a prick which was growing even fatter and harder, the head bulging, and I was deeply confused as to its motivations.

This was not a gay experience: Rafik did not know how my body was reacting and a reaction was all it was: my body's blind and meaningless response to therapeutic touch. I willed as hard as I could for the blood to drain away. I closed my eyes and thought through bus timetables, insurance policies, and every turn and traffic light between my home and office.

Yet my body was too excited to pay attention and when I opened my eyes my erection was straining up just centimetres from his hands. Even as I ran again through the mundane distractions, my thighs drifted apart, spreading as he pushed his palms up them.

My breath grew fast and shallow, my chest tight. Rafik matter-of-factly did his work, smiling blandly beneath his impenetrable shades.

"Feels good," I said, alarming myself in doing so.

"OK, sir," he said, pressing on.

His hands slid up my thighs, palms pressing in, and I spread wider, liberated by his unseeing. I felt the noisy air conditioner's mildly cooler breeze gust across my perineum.

One of his thumbs bumped my scrotum and the base of my cock. It meant nothing to him – his expression was rock steady. But pre-cum was beading at the head of my prick, jewelling like liquid pearl.

I had an urge to grab his hands and slap them on my want, but that would have violated his professionalism, his handicapped nature, and my heterosexuality.

Nor did I want to betray my wife by pushing the massage into the realm of cheating, so instead I just gaspingly repeated it felt good.

"Good, sir, yes." His hands worked the meat of my hips and loins, millimetres from my swollen, aching frustration.

Still his expression was unchanged.

This was going too far. I was losing control; my balls tightening.

As he pushed up again, I wiggled my arse to one side and his hand brushed my scrotum's electrified hairs. Damn it, I thought, just give me a fucking hand-job. There is not even any need to work up a sweat or get too committed. No need to grab a fist-full and jack it or anything like that. All you have to do is touch the tip and I will cum.

But Rafik was absolutely professional, discretely bypassing the penis to press my lower abdomen, slowly curling from the navel down to each thigh and back again.

I squeezed my eyes shut and thought of my wife, trying to make the arousal heterosexual, but with his coarse hands and workshop smell there was no denying it was a man manipulating me.

As Rafik dug his rough fingers into my pale, fresh flesh, drawing from the outskirts of my pubic hair down towards my knees, my mouth went bone dry. My head whipped from side to side as I tried to thrash free and stop my body from letting go.

But it was beyond my control and I gasped softly, almost apologetically, thrust my hips and surrendered, vanquished by need, my prick pulsing jet after flicking jet of sticky, hot, white cum.

I was shocked by the eruption, the backlog of weeks without release. My mouth hung open, my fingers clawing the mattress. Rafik's only reaction was a slight flaring of his nostrils. His head was closer to my cock so perhaps he smelt a millisecond before me the sharp tang of semen cutting into the warm blur of the tropical night and across his own haze of nicotine, sweat, cheap lineament and age.

After I saw his nose twitch at the release, my eyes rolled back and then I too was a blind man, one with cum spurting onto his stomach and chest, a blind man writhing on a grimy bed as the masseur kept on with his work, folding forward to stroke the loins, each push somehow coinciding with a gush from my cock.

When I was spent I felt fear. I was afraid he thought I was gay; that maybe I am gay; that I had cheated on my wife; that the hotel would know everything; and of course terrified of the incriminating pool of cum in my navel and warming my skin.

"Thanks, Rafik," I said as casually as I could. "That's fine."

"Yes, sir." He removed his hands, stood and felt his way to the bathroom.

I lay, legs spread, cock relaxing, cum up to my nipples.

When he had washed his hands and returned I paid him six or seven dollars and he shuffled out with his bag and stick, thanking me for the appointment and saying to book again with reception if I wanted.

Then he shuffled out, felling his way along the corridor and then click-thumping down the stairs.

I pulled a towel over the semen and lay wondering if I had had a homosexual experience, an affair, or if it was really just a natural massage to which my body had reacted so strongly.

How would my wife's body have reacted? Would she be carried along by a stranger's touch? Would she feel liberated lying naked and spread before a blind man, his hands indifferent but intimate, using senses other than sight to know her?

Would my wife feel a thrill at the breeze of air conditioning on her exposed cunt and arsehole as an aged man presses into her hips, and rolls the globes of her butt?

Would she get wet? Would she start moving? Would her mound lift from the bed? Would her eyes roll back? Would she get pleasure from an old man's rough, smelly hands working around her core?

Would she gasp?

Or is it just me?

Twenty minutes later I jerked off, freeing more cum in contemplation of these questions, then stood under the cold shower for a long time while pulling sticky clumps of semen from my pubic hair. I wondered if I would book Rafik again. I wondered if whether after years of penetrating my wife's smooth, soft flesh, it was the coarseness of a man's hands which had gotten me so unstoppably turned on.

Or just exposing myself before the blind.