Read Online The Trainer by Jamie Lake - Free Book Online

always smells like tie dye or potpourri mixed with hospital soap. This stuff is like nothing you’ve ever smelled. It’s medicinal grade Tibetan frankincense. It’s good for depression, anxiety, and scaring away malevolent energies, if you believe in that kind of stuff,” Mason smirked.
    “No, I do actually,” Chris said, clearing his throat.
    The older man sat down next to Chris; close enough that his weight sagged the couch and made their thighs press against each other.
    “Ready?” Mason asked.
    “Don’t I need to lie down on a massage table or a...bed?” Chris asked, nervously.
    “Oh, no. I’m sorry . This is reflexology. I only need your hand,” Mason said, grabbing Chris’ right hand. Chris tried to hide his disappointment, but hey, a free massage was a free massage.
    Mason scooted closer, placing Chris’ hand in his lap, just centimeters from his crotch, which Chris couldn’t help but stare at for a moment. Mason was wearing some cut -off jeans that hugged his groin and ensconced his package. For the first time, Chris really saw a suggestion of how bulging that package was. As if he had x-ray vision, Chris could see almost immediately how big the soft, fully-fleshed jewels and thick member must be, that was hidden beneath those denims. Overwhelmed with the desire to turn his hand over and grasp it, he looked up, took a deep breath of the wafting smoke, and stared at the poster of the Buddha. That’s right, he thought. Nice and cool and calm. Meditate.
    Mason flipped the bottle of lube open and squeezed a dab into his hand, placing it down on the coffee table and emulsifying it between his palms.
    “You see, each part of your hand,” he explained, his deep voice , making Chris' body vibrate as he began to work his lubricated thumbs into Chris’ palm, “connects to a different part of your body.”
    Chris’ disappointment at not getting a full body massage quickly disintegrated in the waves of pleasure that radiated from his palm, up his arm, and into the rest of his entire body. He began to moan involuntarily in relief at the focused pressure of Mason’s fingertips pressed into the webbing of two fingers, or the pad of his thumb, or certain spots along the edge of his hand. The way Mason worked through so thoroughly, it was as if each pore of his hand was a conduit to the rest of his whole body, relaxing him from head to toe and arousing him as much as any amount of heavy petting applied elsewhere.
    “This,” Mason said, sliding up and down the tips of his fingers, “connects to your head and neck. It relaxes you whenever you have one of those really tense days.”
    “Like today?” Chris said, closing his eyes and relaxing.
    “Exactly .  And this,” he said, knuckling into the side of his hand, “connects to your heart.”
    “Ouch,” Chris winced.
    “I’ll be gentler,” Mason said, “I know it’s broken.”
    “Yeah,” Chris whispered. He tried to resist it , but involuntarily, tears welled in his eyes. Just for an instant.
    “Don’t worry, Chris. I won’t hurt you,” Mason said softly.
    Chris wondered if he heard exactly what he thought he heard, or if he’d just imagined that. The intent, the words, the message:  it made sense. They both knew it too.
    “Fuck, you’re good at this,” Chris said, leaning back, closing his eyes and relaxing into the cushions of the couch.
    The smoke curled, and the smell of sweet, spicy, sacred frankincense filled the room. Outside, the tropical birds sang their long and short choruses. The fan whirred overhead and the stereo switched over to another CD.  This time, it was Brian Eno:  a nice ambient album.
    “I think it’s sweet that you’re a writer,” Mason said spontaneously.
    “Really?” Chris said, surprised. Usually, people thought it was strange, or they pretended that it was cool. It sounded romantic, but most people quickly admitted that they thought it was probably a waste of time; or that, like so many writers, he was a