murata fuma

the place smells like warm oil and clean linen the second you step inside. soft lighting, quiet music, the kind of expensive calm your friends pooled money for after watching you drag yourself through another brutal week. too many late nights at work. too many things going wrong. they said this spot was famous for melting people into puddles. you didn’t expect the guy waiting in your assigned room to look like he could snap a two-by-four with his bare hands. fuma is already standing by the table when you walk in. broad shoulders, thick arms, dark hair pushed back, calm dark eyes that flick over you once and settle. he’s in simple black pants and a fitted shirt that does nothing to hide how solid he is. you actually pause in the doorway. almost turn around. he notices. “hey. it’s alright.” his voice is low, steady, the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to fill the room. “i get that reaction a lot. promise i’m not gonna break you. just here to take care of you.” he tips his head toward the table. “fully nude session, yeah? clothes off, lie back for me. i’ll step out for a second if you want.” you end up staying. clothes come off. you climb onto the table and settle on your back, arms at your sides, suddenly very aware of how exposed you are under the soft light. the sheet is cool against your skin for only a moment before he returns, hands already slick with oil.

he starts at your shoulders, big palms pressing deep, thumbs working slow circles into the tension there. then lower. over your collarbones. down your arms. every pass brings his hands closer to your chest. the first deliberate graze across the curve of your breast feels accidental. the second one doesn’t. warm, oil-slick fingers slide under the soft weight of it, lifting slightly, thumb brushing the underside before moving on like it’s just part of the technique. you shift. he hums.

“just relax. you’re carrying a lot.” his hands keep moving, oiling your stomach, your hips, then returning to your chest with less pretense. palms cover both breasts fully this time, squeezing once, slow and testing, before smoothing outward again. you can see the front of his pants when he leans in. he’s getting hard and not doing much to hide it. you try to say something — half protest, half question — but he cuts in gently before the words fully form.

“shh. easy.” he reaches for a warm towel, lays it carefully over your eyes so the light and his face disappear. the world shrinks to the sound of his breathing and the slow slide of oiled hands. “special service for clients who need it most. just stay still and let me take care of the rest.”

his palms leave your chest. a moment later you feel him gently spread your thighs on the table, thumbs stroking the sensitive skin high on your inner legs. then higher. oil-warm fingers tracing the soft folds of your pussy like he’s mapping something he’s already decided belongs under his hands tonight.

“pretty thing like you shouldn’t be this tense,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “let me fix that.”

you hear the soft knock, then the door opens and the biggest reason this place stays booked solid walks in.

fuma is tall enough that he has to duck a little under the frame. broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of solid muscle that looks like it belongs on a construction site or a firehouse, not folded politely into your massage room. dark hair slightly messy, eyes dropping almost immediately to the floor once he sees you. he’s wearing a simple t-shirt and joggers, phone still in his hand with what looks like a pokemon lock screen before he shoves it into his pocket like he got caught.

he clears his throat.

“...hi. i have the five-thirty.” his voice is quieter than his size suggests. nervous. he keeps glancing at you and then away again, like he’s not sure where to look. you get that a lot, but not usually from someone built like him.

you tell him to get comfortable. he nods once, strips down to nothing without another word, and climbs onto the table on his back. the white towel settles over his hips. you start the way you always do — warm oil, skilled hands, the V-cut of your uniform dipping as you lean in to work his shoulders and chest. he’s tense at first. quiet. every time your fingers press into the heavy muscle of his pecs or drag down the lines of his abs he breathes a little deeper, but he doesn’t speak. you keep going, professional, thorough, letting your hands travel lower along the deep V of his hips the way you do with every client. the towel shifts. rises. once. twice. by the time you’re oiling the thick tops of his thighs the tent is unmistakable — the soft fabric lifted high by a heavy, thickening cock that keeps twitching the more you work near it.

you notice. you always do.

fuma’s face is already burning. he squeezes his eyes shut for a second, then opens them again, voice cracking slightly with pure mortification.

“i—i’m so sorry. fuck. i didn’t mean—it’s not—i’m not trying to be weird, i swear. you’re just... and your hands are... i’m really sorry.” the words tumble out in a rush, low and flustered. “i can leave if you want. or you can stop. i didn’t think it would—god, this is so embarrassing.”

you reach out and lift the towel away. his cock springs up immediately, thick and flushed an angry pinkish-red, the head already shiny, a slow bead of precome sliding down the shaft as it twitches hard under the open air and your gaze. it looks almost painful, the way it’s straining. fuma makes a punched-out little sound in the back of his throat, thighs flexing once before he forces them still.

his voice comes out quieter now, rough, eyes locked somewhere past your shoulder like he can’t bring himself to watch your face.

“...can you... help me? please. i don’t think i can walk out of here like this.”