Training Mac's Hands
Mac got to The Gym early on his second day of training with a backpack full of dirty clothes and high hopes for food.
The laundry facilities were free apparently (he’d even scrounged together two-fifty in quarters, which were now weighing down his pockets). And the kitchen was amazing.
He made mac and cheese, since he knew how to do it, and was almost done when a girl with hair striped in neon pink and neon green walked in.
“You’ve gotta be the new guy. I’m Punky.”
“Punky?”
She tossed her hair. “Yep. That mac and cheese?”
“Yep.”
“You eating the whole thing yourself, or you got some to share?”
He tried to find some hint of passive aggressive BS (like the kind he got from Annabel’s mom every time he made food at the house), but Punky just seemed to be asking.
“Definitely have some to share.”
“Cool.”
Mac wasn’t exactly sure about the etiquette, but he found two clean bowls and dished out half of the mac and cheese into each. When he turned around, Punky was holding out a fork to him. “Thanks.”
They ate in silence, but Punky was mostly playing on her phone. Mac watched the clock on the wall so he’d know when to change out his stuff. It was kind of nice not being at a normal laundromat; everyone here already had more money than he did, so it wasn’t like they were gonna go digging through his crappy T-shirts.
The money. Jesus. If this actually worked out he could find a place to live. That would be amazing.
He switched laundry and went back to the kitchen, where a few more people had arrived. When Jem saw him, he grinned.
“Hey, stranger. Coach wanted me to show you your locker. You meet everyone yet?”
“Not exactly.”
Jem waved a hand and did a round of names Mac immediately forgot. He searched any of their faces for aggression and didn’t find it. Punky and another woman sat at the table with a box of crackers between them, and a couple of jocks were standing around a bulletin board.
“Jem!” one of the guys called. “You renting out a room at your place?”
Jem grimaced. “My sweet gamer chick turned into a psycho thief, so yeah, she’s out. You looking for a place?”
“My brother is.”
“Give him my number.”
“Cool, thanks.”
Something was odd about it. Mac was still figuring it out as they went out to the locker room. Maybe just that he didn’t usually see jock-types talk to Jem-types without being dicks. Let alone recommend their brothers rent a room from them.
“I have kind of a big house,” Jem confided. “I like being surrounded by people, so I rent out the rooms I’m not using. It’s pretty cool, except when people turn into psychos. Okay, this is you.”
Masking tape on the front of the locker with MAC written in black marker.
“You’ll want a couple different sets of clothes. Most of the time we wear basic ‘fitness’ stuff.” Jem made air quotes with his long fingers. “Anything tight is usually good, though I can see you getting away with basketball shorts, too. You’d be one of five people on earth who don’t look stupid in them.”
“Um. So I should buy some clothes.”
“Yeah, Mac. You should buy some clothes.” Another smile. “You’re so funny. You can’t work at a gym in jeans.”
Shit. He had thirteen dollars and payday was Friday, but Annabel’s mom would want rent.
“Ohhhh, no, no, don’t sweat it. You’re good this week and the Professor will cut you a uniform allowance if you need one.”
Mac looked away. These people were too much. It was like joining a cult. A cult of mindreaders who tried to hard to make him feel—something.
“Right, awesome, behold the awkward,” Jem said.
“How do I get out of here to smoke?”
“Yeah, so, technically you go all the way out the back, but some people go up to the roof. The Professor knows they do it, which means Coach probably knows, but anyway take all your butts with you when you come in.”
“He’s really that big a stickler?”
“Yeah.”
“Fine.”
“I’ll take you through to the showers, and then I’ll show you the roof door.”
That was probably a hint. And it was okay, since his laundry would be done soon. He’d cut it a little close tonight, but he could definitely shower and pull on clothes before the official start of the shift.
Not that he gave a shit what Coach thought, really, but whatever. He had to not piss the guy off for a couple of months. All he needed was to get a little bit of money together, then he’d look for something else.
Mac’s key card worked on the door to the roof (so all that was in a computer somewhere; Coach and the Professor could tell exactly where any of them were at all times, creepy). He went up by himself and blew smoke into the sky. There were low walls on all sides, blocking the view to the parking lot, and it was nice, actually. For a moment Mac enjoyed the illusion that he was all alone in the world.
Then the door opened again.
“Hello. You must be the new guy. Mac, isn’t it?”
The woman holding out her hand was wearing high heels, huge round earrings, and shimmering gold lipstick. When he shook, he realized she had on gold nail polish, too.
“Yeah. I’m Mac.”
“I’m Lupe.”
Also, she was taller than him. Probably Coach’s height with those shoes on.
Lupe shook a skinny cigarette out of a pack and raised her eyebrows. “You gonna offer me a light?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Thank you.”
He’d never lit a cigarette for someone towering over him on heels like this, but Lupe smiled and backed away, walking to the edge of the roof.
“This is your second night, right?”
“Yeah.”
She nodded. “And you were with Coach last night?”
“Yeah.”
“That’s a good sign. That means both of them are on board with you.” Lupe aimed her smoke up over the wall. “Now, I’ll tell you a secret. If the Professor finds an excuse to get Coach to ‘help’ you tonight, that’s a really good sign. Most of the people they tag team end up with job security. Some end up with gold stars.”
“Well, I’m just here until I get on my feet,” Mac said. Crap, this felt like a cult.
Lupe laughed, and when she laughed, her voice was lower somehow than when she spoke. “Sure, that’s what we all say, sugar. ‘I can be a whore for a couple of months if that’s what it takes.’ You’ll see. This is the best job you’ll ever have, Mac.”
“So why does anyone leave?”
“Oh, a lot of reasons. Some fall in love. Some move. Some break the rules. Mostly people just get bored and move on, but they still think this is the best job they ever had.” She stubbed her cigarette out half-smoked and slipped the rest back into the pack. “Almost time to work. You should shower and put on a clean shirt. Coach is an absolute menace when it comes to smoke.”
“Thanks,” Mac said.
“Oh, anytime.” She looked at him for a long moment. “You’ll probably do a shadow shift with me next week. At least, I hope you do.” With a slight lean in, she added, “That would be a really good sign.” Then she took her gold nails and gold lips and walked back inside.
Mac finished his cigarette and folded the butt into the pack. Whatever. These people were crazy. He just needed to last for a few paychecks. That was all. Then he could leave and forget he’d ever done this.
He went inside to grab his clothes and take a shower.
* * *
Jem shepherded him to the office next door to Coach’s and stayed long enough to get a pat on the cheek from the Professor before waving at Mac and whispering, “Good luck.”
“He shouldn’t need luck, you!” the Professor called.
“Everyone left alone with you needs luck, Professor!” Jem shot back before escaping out the door.
“Don’t mind him.” The Professor, seated in her desk chair, looked him up and down. “They got on you about smoking, didn’t they?”
Mac swallowed. “I took a shower.”
“I noticed. Your hair’s still wet.”
That wasn’t a question. He didn’t know what to say, even though she was looking at him like it was his turn.
“You’ve also got bags under your eyes. You have trouble sleeping, Mac?”
“Not really.”
She narrowed her eyes at him. “Then why aren’t you sleeping?”
He shifted like he was in trouble, like he was a kid called out in the middle of class for chewing gum. “I have another week at the store. I only caught a few hours in between last night.”
“The store offers at-will employment, meaning you can quit at any time without giving notice.”
Mac shrugged. “Seemed like it was better to give notice.”
The response was met with no change in expression. The Professor continued to stare at him until he got nervous.
“It’s just for a few more days,” he finally said, a little resentfully.
“I told you to quit that place.”
“I did.”
“Obviously.”
So Coach really was the charming one. Though this was part of why he’d liked the Professor when they met; her air of no bullshit wasn’t feigned. He knew that immediately.
“All right. Let’s get started. Will you go next door and fetch my husband, please?”
Mac went very still. “How—how should I do that?”
“Knock,” the Professor said, and turned back to her desk.
Shit. Feeling foolish, Mac left the room and stepped down the hall. He raised his hand to knock, hesitated, then forced himself to do it.
The door opened almost before he’d finished knocking.
“Oh, lovely,” Lupe said. She’d changed into a different outfit, but she still had on gold lipstick.
“Get out of here!” Coach called. “Don’t you have a job?”
“Looks like you have a job, Coach.” She kissed Mac’s cheek as she slipped out the door. “Have fun tonight, hon.”
He had no idea how to react, so he didn’t. He stood there.
Coach laughed. “Hello again. Give me a minute and we’ll go next door. You can come in.”
I don’t want to. Which was both true and not true simultaneously. He stood just inside against the wall and kept the door open.
“You made an impression on Lupe. She doesn’t usually offer an opinion on people until they’re through training. Smoking must be quite the bonding experience.”
Mac said nothing.
“All right, fine. You win.” Coach locked his computer screen and waited until he saw it go dark before straightening up. “We should keep the Professor waiting. It annoys her.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“For the pleasure of it. Don’t worry. She’ll take it out on me, not you.” Coach crossed the room and led the way out the door. He knocked lightly on the Professor’s door before opening it and walking in. “Hello, Professor.”
“I’m so glad you could join us.”
Coach tossed a what’d I tell you? look at Mac. “I happen to have a little room in my schedule.”
“Why don’t you spend some of that time convincing your new protégé to give up his insurance policy? He’s still going to work at his other job.”
Coach’s eyes widened and Mac stared into the middle distance. This conversation could happen without him, clearly.
“Why’s that?” Coach asked.
“He’s working out the end of his notice.”
“Isn’t that responsible of him?”
“Not particularly. I hate coming in second place.”
“Don’t mind the Professor, Mac. She’s teasing.”
“I’m really not.”
These people were insane. Mac controlled his breathing and tried to remember how much money he’d make if he could outlast the weirdness. (The weirdness would ease off after a few days. Right?)
Coach laughed. “Come sit, Mac.”
He followed, trying not to let his hesitation show before he sat beside Coach on a sofa. The Professor’s office was set up a little differently than Coach’s. Where he seemed to have little conversation areas, the Professor seemed to have…performance areas. No coffee tables, just sofas grouped around three different squares. One of them looked like a bed set into the floor. There were two others; one of which seemed to have a padded massage table in the center, and the other had something that definitely looked like an S&M device. A table? A bench? Whatever it was, Mac looked away real fast.
Coach had taken them to the massage table area.
“The man who recommended you to us would be surprised you are as uncomfortable with proximity as you are,” the Professor said, coming over to sit on the couch set perpendicular to the one where Mac and Coach sat.
Mac tried not to feel extremely uncomfortable with Coach on one side and the Professor on the other.
“What man?” He’d been recommended? What did that mean?
“We didn’t pick your phone number out of a hat. You were recommended to us.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
“It doesn’t much matter. Here you are now.” The Professor smiled, a kind smile with a hard edge. “How did you like blowing my husband last night?”
What the hell was he supposed to say to that? Act. Act like it was great. Pretend. “It was hot,” he said through his teeth.
Coach laughed again. “Man, we have got to work on your lying skills.”
Mac couldn’t look away from the Professor, who was watching him like she could read his every thought on his forehead.
“I wish I’d been there. I’m certain I would have found it hot.”
“The Professor likes to watch,” Coach added. “Just in case you somehow missed that.” He waved a hand at the room.
Shit. Was she watching tonight? Is that why Coach was here? Mac tensed. He could do it. He could blow this guy in front of his wife, even though that was pretty fuckin’ weird.
The money. Think about the fucking money. Don’t think about anything else.
“Some other time. Do you know what the most common request is here, Mac?”
Mac shook his head.
“It takes different forms, but it comes down to massage. Some people ask for a back rub, or they say they’ve strained something and can you work it out for them? They’ll sometimes demonstrate the pulled muscle, and ask you if it feels tight.”
“The answer is always yes,” Coach said. “Validate the client.”
“Almost always. A few of them want a challenge, but most of them want an understanding ear. And an understanding set of hands.”
“So—so I should give back rubs?”
“You should meet the client’s needs. Sometimes it’ll be right there on the floor, sometimes they’ll request a private room.”
“You aren’t allowed to take anyone into a private room yet, but when you are, know that they’re all monitored and we have security with eyes-on at all times.”
Mac made a face. “That supposed to make me feel better?”
“Yep,” Coach said. “Like I said yesterday, most of the clients are well-behaved. The ones who aren’t will try to make you complicit with their bad behavior.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Coach.”
Coach stood up and stepped toward the other sofa. “Do you need anything?”
The Professor assumed an entirely different expression. When she spoke, her voice was lighter, not serious. “Are you still in training? That is so cute. I love it when new staff joins The Gym!”
“I’m liking it so far,” Coach said. Coach didn’t have a whole other character in his face; he looked and sounded the same as he had before.
“Listen, is there any way you can help me out with my hamstring? I think I pulled it.”
“Sure.” Coach knelt down. “Let’s see.”
“Well, here’s the thing—I’m a little shy. You know what I mean? There are so many people in here, and I just don’t really want to—I’m sure it’s okay, but it makes me uncomfortable. Can we just take a few minutes somewhere else? I don’t think it will take long.”
Both of them turned to Mac at the same time and he blinked.
“No private rooms, Mac,” the Professor said, back to her normal tone. “Even if it’s just for a minute, or you’re close to the end of probation. Any client who tries to get you into a private room is knowingly breaking the rules.”
“That’s what they’re getting off on,” Coach agreed. “Don’t let them.”
“How will they know I’m in training?”
“Your badge is orange until the end of thirty days. They’ll know.”
“Okay. No private rooms.”
Coach got up off the ground and offered his hands to the Professor. “Are we getting started?”
“I want to know why he hasn’t left that rotten job yet.”
“Careful, Professor. You’ll blow your cover.”
Whatever the hell that meant—and Mac didn’t want to know—it worked. The Professor stood up.
“We’ll work on massage tonight. You’ll get a lot of experience on the floor, but we need you to be a little less reactive when someone touches you or you touch them.”
Mac swallowed and clenched his jaw.
“It’s not a critique,” Coach said. He pulled Mac up by his shoulders and turned him so he faced the Professor. “Some clients want you to remove their clothes. Some want to do it themselves.”
The Professor unbuttoned her shirt and set it aside, then unhooked her bra as well.
“Have you ever been with a fat woman, Mac?” she asked.
That seemed like a question that only had wrong answers. Mac didn’t say anything.
He hadn’t thought of the Professor as “fat” when they’d met before. She was probably in her forties, and to be honest, Mac hadn’t assessed her past that. With her clothes off he could see she had a belly; she had fleshy arms and big breasts.
He suddenly realized he was staring and looked away.
“I like the word ‘fat.’ It’s the way the plump little ‘a’ is sandwiched between two skinny letters. I always feel sorry for the ‘a’ in ‘fat.’” The Professor unbuttoned her slacks and took them off. She had nothing on underneath.
“God, Professor. You turn me on.”
Ew. Old people sex talk. Mac tried to keep his face blank.
“He’s not doing too badly,” the Professor said. “I think you being turned on disgusts him far more than me being fat.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. Yesterday he didn’t seem too disgusted.”
“I’m sure. Mac, eyes here.”
He shifted his gaze to the Professor.
“All bodies, all ages, all races, all genders. If you have negative responses to clients you’ll make significantly less money.”
“I’m not disgusted,” he said.
“I know you aren’t.” This time when she smiled, there wasn’t an edge. “Good boy. In every private room, there’s a cabinet with supplies. We use a specific oil blend for massage. It’s important to wash your hands after using it if you plan to continue into activities that include condoms.”
He nodded.
“You’ll know the cabinets backward and forward after a while. Each of them is identical and we keep them well-stocked. When you’re on the floor and someone needs a rub-down, you’ll use one of the cabinets in the main gym. There are six, and they are all identical to the cabinets in the rooms.”
He nodded again.
Coach moved behind him and placed hands on his shoulders. “An arm or leg should only require one packet of oil. A torso rub will take two or three. If someone requests a full-body, which isn’t likely until you’re able to go in the private rooms, you’ll want to take one of the small bottles. Once the seal is broken, don’t return it to the cabinet. When you’re done, toss it in the recycling cans.”
“Try to resist the urge to bring home samples,” the Professor said wryly.
“Why would I do that?”
She surveyed him in silence and Coach’s hands tightened on his shoulders. “I take it you’re new to sensual massage, Mac?”
“Uh, sensual massage?”
Her eyes flicked to the side for a moment, then back. “People come here for sex. They come here because we listen to their fears and insecurities. They come here because we touch them.”
“We’ll show you,” Coach said.
The Professor went to the towel-covered table and lay down on it, fitting her face into the weird little hole.
“Here.” Coach opened a drawer in one of the end tables. “When you open a packet, use it immediately. You can use the bottles more slowly.”
The packets looked a little bigger than ketchup packets. The bottles were the size of hotel shampoos. Coach pulled out a bottle and set it on top of the table.
“Most people will want to see and feel your skin, Mac,” he said, pulling off his shirt.
Mac idly wondered what oil would do to Coach’s chest plate. Would all the tribal ink flare darker black with oil?
Shit. Stop staring.
“Your skin, Mac,” Coach prompted.
“Oh. Sorry.”
“It’s okay. You’ll get the hang of it.”
Mac left his shirt on the couch and tried not to tense under Coach’s gaze.
“She usually offers commentary. This is the Professor being merciful.”
“This is the Professor saving her commentary for the end,” the Professor muttered.
Coach grinned and gestured Mac over. “A lot of ways you can give people what they need. Someone who asks for a back rub is requesting intense pressure and connection.”
“More than someone who wants sex?” Mac asked.
“Sometimes, definitely. Sometimes a blowjob is just a blowjob, because a guy likes the look of your lips. Sometimes a woman will want you to finger her to orgasm because there’s a hot scene going on in the room and she’s horny. By the same token, sometimes someone really does strain their hamstring and a quick rub will make it so they can walk without wincing tomorrow.”
Why the hell were they making this so complicated? Mac wanted to show up, fuck people, get his money, and go home.
“It’s what we offer here,” Coach said. He went to stand on the far side of the table, and Mac joined him, with only the Professor’s naked back between them. “Plus, everything’s more interesting if you know why you’re doing it.”
I’m doing it for the money. That’s it. Not mind games, not to join the cult, the money.
Coach smiled and offered the bottle of oil. “There’s a warming pad under the oil shelf. It’s your responsibility to keep your hands warm.” Since Mac hadn’t reached out, Coach grabbed one of his hands and pressed the oil to it. “Your hands are warm enough.”
Coach had big, strong hands. He probably gave a hell of a massage. Mac wondered if Coach and the Professor did stuff like that at home. If you own a sex gym, do you even bother having sex at home?
“Oil is a personal thing. Try not to use too much, but if you’ve never used it before it might take time to know how much is enough. Generally, I don’t want the friction between my hands and her skin to heat uncomfortably. Use enough oil to keep everything slick enough, but not slippery. If it leaves a stain when they put their clothes back on, that’s too much.”
“And always use a towel,” the Professor added. “Towels are heated in the bottom of the cabinet.”
“Don’t worry about using more than one if you need to, either. We’d much rather wash more towels than lose a client to a bad fall on oily floors.” Coach gestured to the oil. “Start anytime.”
Right. He unscrewed the oil and spilled some into his palm. So now—now he should—probably touch the Professor.
It wasn’t her age, and it wasn’t her weight. It was that she was the Professor. She was serious and no bullshit. It seemed wrong to touch her like this.
“Rub your hands together. You can leave the bottle closed on the towel, or open on another surface. You’ll need more for a full-body anyway.”
Okay. Mac set the bottle down on the table, careful not to lose any of the oil, and worked his palms together. It was nice, he figured. Not that he knew anything about massage oil.
Coach reached out, slowly, and lightly gripped both of his wrists. “Here.”
It was easier to let Coach guide his hands, press them into the Professor’s skin.
“Use your fingers, and the heel of your hands, and your thumbs. It’s just like everything else; pay attention to her responses and adjust accordingly. She might like it deep. She might like it if you find the tight spots and dig into them. She might need you to find the tight spots and avoid them.”
Mac started working his hands into the Professor’s back, and yeah, okay, he could feel fat and muscle and bone. This wasn’t bad. Coach let him go and watched. After a few minutes Coach retrieved the bottle of oil and offered more.
More oil, but not too much. That made sense.
“Never done this before?” Coach asked, voice low.
Mac shook his head, still trying to work out how much pressure the Professor wanted. She seemed to like it when he pushed in harder around her spine, but when he made it up to her shoulders, she tensed.
“Ever received a massage?”
He almost laughed. “Uh, from who?” Picture Annabel’s mom with the massage oil in her grungy living room. Gross.
This time he used lighter pressure at the Professor’s neck and she didn’t tense up as much.
“We’re going to need more oil,” Coach said.
Mac didn’t think he was going to burn through the entire bottle, but maybe he’d be here a long time. How long did a massage last, anyway? He could already feel the muscles in his forearms starting to protest.
Coach went to the table and pulled out another bottle, but he didn’t return to the table. He stood next to Mac and watched his hands.
“She doesn’t like it when I move too high,” Mac said after a moment.
“Try going lower.”
“You want me to rub your wife’s ass, Coach?”
“She’s the Professor to you, and yeah. Picture the place a pair of pants falls, and imagine dipping under that. Not full-on ass, but lower-back-upper-ass.”
Mac wasn’t so sure he wanted to touch any part of the Professor’s ass with Coach standing next to him, but hell, apparently that was the job.
And wow, yeah, okay, whatever that was, it worked for the Professor. He worked his thumbs into her lower back harder than before and she relaxed even deeper into the table.
“Good, Mac.”
He couldn’t deny there was a sense of power to this, to standing over someone and tempting their body into relaxation. It might not have felt that way with just anyone, but hearing the Professor sigh with pleasure made him feel a little like a rock star, like he’d accomplished something.
“We did good, Professor,” Coach said. He shifted behind Mac and reached for the new bottle of oil. “I’m touching you, Mac.”
Mac froze.
“Let him,” the Professor murmured. “Let him make you feel good.”
“I don’t—that isn’t—is that part of the training?” He still had his hands on the Professor, whose body shook a little. Was she laughing at him?
One of Coach’s hands rested on his neck. When he spoke, his voice was almost at Mac’s ear. “Would it make it easier if I said you didn’t have a choice?”
“Do I?”
“Try it,” Coach said. “Try it once.”
“You really have clients who want to give us massages?” Mac asked sarcastically.
“Oh, Mac. You wound my soul. Yeah, we really have clients who get off on bringing pleasure to other people.”
“Like Coach,” the Professor added. “Not me so much.”
It didn’t sound funny, but Coach laughed. “It’s why we’re so well-matched. Pretend I’m a client, Mac. I want to feel your skin under my hands. I want to make you feel good.”
Mac went back to the massage he was giving the Professor, but his entire body was braced waiting for Coach to touch him.
“Man,” Coach said softly. “I don’t know what your story is, but you’re killing me here.”
His hands were so fucking big. Even with restraint, Mac could feel their power biting into his shoulders. Coach’s thumbs smoothed all the way down his neck and out from there.
He wanted to close his eyes and picture the lines, but he forced himself to keep working on the Professor. It didn’t feel good, it felt intense. He couldn’t make his body stop fighting Coach’s hands, but Coach didn’t seem to be fighting back; his pressure didn’t waver, didn’t increase. Even though he could have forced Mac’s body to submit to his hands, he didn’t.
“Do what I do,” Coach said.
His hands shifted down Mac’s spine, so Mac’s hands followed suit. Coach gave him some of the lower back action he’d been working into the Professor, and when the Coach tugged his jeans down to sagging, reaching for his tailbone, he tried to find the same place on the Professor.
“Good. I’m pulling these off you now.”
Any momentary release fled and Mac went entirely rigid again. He wanted to say no, but Coach was already reaching around, unbuttoning, unzipping, discovering that Mac was hard now, hard from whatever it was they were doing.
He was nearly shaking with the effort of keeping still when he wanted to kick out. He wanted to hit something, but instead he kept his hands flat on the Professor’s back and waited for laughter, for mocking, for some reaction from the man at his back.
The man at his back, who carefully pulled off his jeans and shorts before reaching for more oil.
“I’d get you on the table if I thought for a minute you’d actually let me,” Coach said. “The ass is made of muscle, which makes it a good place for a massage.”
“Speak for yourself, Coach,” the Professor muttered. “This ass ain’t made of muscle.”
“You should let me get you in the pool more often.” His hands landed on Mac’s skin, his lower back again, and Mac took up the same path on the Professor.
When Coach’s hands lowered, Mac chewed on his tongue and did the same thing, kneading the soft cheeks of the Professor’s ass until he found the muscle she claimed wasn’t there. It was harder because he didn’t want to overstep, and that seemed like a distinct possibility here.
“Mac has a lot of muscle.”
“All that standing, undoubtedly.”
Mac realized dimly, while trying not to feel Coach’s hands on his ass, that they were soothing him with chatter. Both of them were putting him at ease.
The thought made his throat close up. He had to get it together. He couldn’t let these people be nice to him when he was naked. That was freaky and wrong and this was a goddamn job, not a fucking therapy session.
“Lower,” Coach prompted.
He’d forgotten what he was doing, hands just staying in one spot on the Professor’s ass while Coach’s hands were in constant motion.
No one could see him blush. That was good.
Lower now, upper thighs. This was undeniable muscle under his hands now. He did one leg at a time, like Coach was doing. Coach, who was now kneeling behind him, working oil into his skin.
It wanted to feel good, but Mac shut down the sensation and focused on the Professor instead.
A steady burn crawled up his wrists, but it felt good, too. This was a workout for fingers and hands and forearms, and it felt the way any workout felt; he was earning his ache, and that was good. Satisfying. If he was still playing, he’d have a hell of a time getting his fingers to the right frets tomorrow. He was gonna be sore.
Coach’s thumbs pressed into the flesh behind his knee and Mac went stiff again.
“No, huh? Okay, it’s okay. Hey, Mac, it’s okay. I won’t do that again.”
A switch flipped. He couldn’t relax. The presence of Coach behind him was too much. Mac slid to the side and held up his hands, an automatic gesture of surrender he hadn’t done consciously.
“Water break,” Coach said. He stood up and went behind the Professor’s desk, then returned carrying three water bottles. He passed one to Mac and squatted beside the table. “Hey, lady.”
“That was good. I like what he does with his hands.”
“Looked like,” Coach told her, smiling.
“I’m up. Be quiet.”
Mac turned away, still naked, while the Professor sat up. There was something awkward about watching her get up off the massage table, and it embarrassed him.
“Thank you,” the Professor said, drinking water in his peripheral vision and watching him. “What’d you do wrong?”
“Touched the wrong spot.”
“Okay. Any obvious triggers?”
“Nope.”
Mac gritted his teeth and wished he had pants on.
“Mac, can I get a better look at your heart?”
His tattoo. Right. He stepped closer, not quite trusting himself to speak. He still couldn’t meet their eyes.
“You didn’t get this done around here, did you? It doesn’t look like anyone’s work that I’ve seen. Coach?”
“I know. It’s different than the others, too.”
The Professor’s touch was firm, not even a little bit gentle. She was also still totally naked. “Very nice.”
“I told him that would be your favorite.”
“Because of the contradiction.”
Jesus, were they still trying to make him feel better? Crap. This was ridiculous.
“You don’t have to keep doing this,” he said tersely. “You don’t have to keep acting like I’m interesting, or whatever the hell you’re doing. It’s fine. Just show me who I’m supposed to have sex with and pay me. That’s all I want.”
“We aren’t pimps, Mac.”
“Aren’t you?” He meant it to sound challenging, but instead it sounded almost pathetic.
“Nope,” Coach said. “Drink your water.”
“Then you’ll blow Coach again and be done with your shift.” The Professor stretched to her toes. “That was excellent, Mac, thank you.” She drank more water and walked over to her desk naked, as if she was oblivious to the fact that Mac’s whole world had just slowed to a stand-still.
He was gonna blow Coach again? Shit. Coach was definitely watching him, but he pretended not to notice even as heat spread across his face and down his neck.
“Your delivery, Professor. God.”
“He’s fine. He’s not a delicate snowflake.”
Mac gnawed on his tongue for another minute, then put his water bottle down and raised his eyes.
“I know you’re not a delicate snowflake,” Coach said. He stepped closer. “Do you need a break?”
Mac shook his head.
“Okay.” Coach rested hands at his neck and began lightly rubbing, the last of the oil heating between them. “Here. Sit.”
He let Coach guide him onto the couch.
“Did you keep your job because you thought you wouldn’t be able to do this?”
“I could do it if it was just—fucking. It was supposed to be just fucking.”
“Sorry we like you too much for that. But it wouldn’t have been, not here.” Coach kept up the motion of his fingertips on Mac’s neck. “Usually people like it when we play with them, you know.”
“I just want to do a job and go home.”
“I think you believe that. But you got here early and shared dinner. You smoked with Lupe. And don’t tell me you don’t like Jem; Jem’s impossible to dislike.”
“I don’t want to join your cult.” Mac stared at Coach’s lips, afraid that if Coach could see his eyes, he’d know he was lying.
“No cult. You can leave anytime. Too bad you don’t want to.” The pressure changed; Coach’s thumbs smoothed over his clavicle. “I looked at men’s throats, sometimes. Wondering if they smelled different than women’s. The throat, the neck. So fucking sexy, on almost everyone.”
“Is there anything you don’t think is sexy, Coach?”
Coach laughed. “Oh, a lot of things. Nothing on you.” He leaned in, kissed the side of Mac’s jaw. “You’re sexy top-to-bottom,” he murmured, and kissed right in front of his ear.
Mac fought a shudder.
“I liked having my hands on you. I liked making you feel good. Did it work at all?”
No. No, fuck you. Mac ground his teeth and didn’t reply.
“By Friday. Give me until Friday. Three more shifts.” Coach nuzzled along his skin, closing in on his mouth, then working back toward his ear. “I won’t insist, but I think you’ll come to it on your own. And if you don’t, that’s okay. You can act. You act all the time, don’t you?”
When Coach pushed his head down, Mac went with relief. A blowjob would be fucking relaxing after all the talking.
He worked open Coach’s belt, Coach’s pants. Shit, yeah, here was Coach’s dick, hard as fuck, making a little wet spot on his shorts. And hot, right, yeah, his dick was fucking hot. As in to the touch. Mac was more confidence today, and he didn’t hesitate this time to take in the head of Coach’s dick. It tasted the same as yesterday, maybe a little deeper, like maybe Coach had worked out earlier. But still not bad.
One hand on the dick, right, and the other hand on Coach’s thigh, like Mac was strong enough to pin him to the couch with just his hand. He pressed down and bobbed his head a little and felt Coach restrain himself.
It became a game to Mac, how far he could push the man he was only pretending to have at his mercy. He slid to his knees for a better angle and yeah, okay, now it made sense. He pushed out on Coach’s leg and reached under for his balls, still sucking lightly on his dick.
Coach groaned. “God, Mac. Yeah. Good.”
It shouldn’t have felt so damn satisfying to make Coach groan (it was a blowjob; how bad would it have to be to be bad?), but still, Mac doubled his efforts and went back to jacking Coach into his mouth, moving faster, ramping it up.
A hand landed in his hair and he tensed, but Coach wasn’t trying to fuck him. Fingertips made little circles on his scalp, almost soothingly, and he relaxed enough to go back to his game of get Coach to lose his cool.
The hand made it easier to tell when he was close. Mac changed up pressure, shifted his left hand to Coach’s balls, sucked deeper, then changed all of it and held Coach’s dick still while he only used his lips, not quite kissing but dragging, running his lips all along the crown.
Coach thrust up and stopped himself. “More, you tortuous little punk,” he rasped.
Mac backed off.
He should have been trying to get this over with, but he wasn’t. It was way more fun to fuck with the guy who’d spent the last two days fucking with him, so he backed off and teased Coach until his fingers dug into Mac’s hair.
“You learn fast. That’s not a compliment. Get me off, Mac.”
An order? A plea? Mac didn’t know, and his jaw was getting tired, so it didn’t matter. He went back to jacking Coach’s dick into his mouth and playing with his balls, and when his finger slid back to Coach’s taint, Coach thrust up again.
Bingo.
Mac didn’t really know what the hell he was doing, but he knew what it meant when Coach couldn’t stop himself from moving, so he did it again, stroking, tickling almost, and sucking harder.
“I’m coming,” Coach said, and now both of his hands held Mac’s head, still loosely.
Yeah, fuck yeah, this time he got it all, this time he didn’t just swallow once but kept swallowing, like chugging from a bottle.
Coach’s hands drifted down to his neck again, still present even when he leaned back. “Kiss me, Mac. I like a kiss after a blowjob that good.”
He flushed. Hell of a compliment. Shit.
“Come on. One kiss for the guy you just unraveled.”
Mac leaned up and allowed himself to be pulled in. He closed his eyes into the kiss and nearly kept going even when Coach’s lips released him.
“Thank you. Hey. Thanks. Good training.”
Right. Mac swallowed and reached for his pants. “Thanks.”
He dressed with his back to Coach. Any second now the Professor was going to say something, he knew it, since this was the longest she’d ever been quiet. But when he snuck a glance at her, she was working at the computer as if they weren’t even there. Still naked.
Mac straightened his shirt. “Should I be doing something else?”
“You’re done. You can hang out in the kitchen, if you want. Get some food before you go home.”
“Okay.”
“See you tomorrow.”
“Yeah. See you.” He glanced toward the Professor again. Did he risk saying goodbye?
“Thanks for the massage,” she said without looking over. “Goodnight.”
Right. “Goodnight, Professor.”
He let himself out of the office and went back to the staff rooms. Even though he kind of wanted to linger—it was light and warm and smelled a lot better than Annabel’s mom’s house—he also needed to get some sleep so he could be at the store at six.
Mac gathered his clean clothes, grabbed two blueberry muffins and a banana, and left.