Young
Between me and An Changlin
2024-11-15 20:08:41
About half a year ago, a good friend of mine came to Taipei to visit me. We are both passionate about massages — fellow relaxation enthusiasts — and we always like to explore different massage places and share our impressions. That day, we were wandering near Taipei Main Station and decided to find a massage shop to relax. We randomly picked an old-established place, but the environment was dated, and the masseur’s age matched his steady, slow pressure. My friend couldn’t help but text me with a laugh: “At this speed, it might be dawn by the time he finishes.” I smiled secretly, and afterward we tacitly put that shop on our “one-time experience” list.
After that, we chose a better-reputed mid-sized massage place. The space was simple and clean, and they had fifty or sixty therapists — I’d heard their skill levels varied, but the chance of meeting an expert wasn’t small. The therapist who worked on me was a young man. When he came over, my gaze involuntarily lingered on him. He was slightly short and a little chubby, but solid and strong, especially those thick arms that gave off an athlete-like sexiness. His vibe made me think of the Korean judo athlete An Chang-rim — that professional yet casually charming kind of man.
When the massage started and his hands pressed my shoulders, the practiced, delicate pressure immediately put me at ease. His palms were warm, as if they could read every tired spot in my muscles — each press was exactly where it needed to be. I couldn’t help but text my friend: “This massage therapist… I want to lick his forearm.” She rolled her eyes and nudged me with her elbow, but I knew she had noticed his appeal too.
Each time his palms applied pressure, my mind drifted, imagining those powerful arms around my waist or his breath drawing closer when he asked something softly. In that moment, it felt like more than a massage — it was a flirtatious game.
Since then, I started going to that shop frequently. At least twice a week, always choosing late-night slots to avoid other customers so I could have his technique to myself. Judo emphasizes the combination of strength and control, and his massage embodied that. When he worked on my back he often used his elbow — that steady force resembled a judo hold, each push both satisfying and tingling. Whenever he focused on his work, the lines of his arms and the curve of his chest made me steal extra glances, and I even looked for chances to make more contact with his palms.
Once, while he was massaging my thigh, his fingertips accidentally skimmed my skin, and I trembled slightly at that instant of touch. He stopped and asked with concern, “Was the pressure too strong?” I shook my head but couldn’t speak because my heart was racing. Interactions like that made my fantasies grow stronger, as if each massage was testing the seemingly fixed boundary between us.
On my birthday, I decided to go see him for a massage. I arrived at the shop after midnight; the second floor was quiet and it was just the two of us. He smiled and said, “Were you especially tired today? Come, I’ll help you relax.”
I couldn’t help saying, “Today is my birthday.”
He paused for a moment, then smiled and said, “Really? Then consider today my birthday gift to you.”
When the massage reached my waist, I gathered my courage and whispered, “Can I ask for a more special birthday gift?”
He stopped, his tone gentle: “What would you like?”
“Could you hold me?”
He was silent for a moment, then moved closer and held me gently. His arms were firm and warm, giving me an indescribable sense of safety. I rested against his chest and felt his breathing — at that moment my fantasy finally became reality. In that quiet embrace, our relationship seemed to grow more ambiguous.
After the massage, he insisted on accompanying me for a late-night snack. We walked through the night market talking like friends, sharing our stories. Walking the streets near Taipei Main Station, I realized that the desires and fantasies buried deep in me had quietly been lit up that night.
In the days that followed, I still went to him for massages, and that night’s hug became our unspoken secret. Like a silent affection, it added a bit of warmth and softness to my life.
After that, we chose a better-reputed mid-sized massage place. The space was simple and clean, and they had fifty or sixty therapists — I’d heard their skill levels varied, but the chance of meeting an expert wasn’t small. The therapist who worked on me was a young man. When he came over, my gaze involuntarily lingered on him. He was slightly short and a little chubby, but solid and strong, especially those thick arms that gave off an athlete-like sexiness. His vibe made me think of the Korean judo athlete An Chang-rim — that professional yet casually charming kind of man.
When the massage started and his hands pressed my shoulders, the practiced, delicate pressure immediately put me at ease. His palms were warm, as if they could read every tired spot in my muscles — each press was exactly where it needed to be. I couldn’t help but text my friend: “This massage therapist… I want to lick his forearm.” She rolled her eyes and nudged me with her elbow, but I knew she had noticed his appeal too.
Each time his palms applied pressure, my mind drifted, imagining those powerful arms around my waist or his breath drawing closer when he asked something softly. In that moment, it felt like more than a massage — it was a flirtatious game.
Since then, I started going to that shop frequently. At least twice a week, always choosing late-night slots to avoid other customers so I could have his technique to myself. Judo emphasizes the combination of strength and control, and his massage embodied that. When he worked on my back he often used his elbow — that steady force resembled a judo hold, each push both satisfying and tingling. Whenever he focused on his work, the lines of his arms and the curve of his chest made me steal extra glances, and I even looked for chances to make more contact with his palms.
Once, while he was massaging my thigh, his fingertips accidentally skimmed my skin, and I trembled slightly at that instant of touch. He stopped and asked with concern, “Was the pressure too strong?” I shook my head but couldn’t speak because my heart was racing. Interactions like that made my fantasies grow stronger, as if each massage was testing the seemingly fixed boundary between us.
On my birthday, I decided to go see him for a massage. I arrived at the shop after midnight; the second floor was quiet and it was just the two of us. He smiled and said, “Were you especially tired today? Come, I’ll help you relax.”
I couldn’t help saying, “Today is my birthday.”
He paused for a moment, then smiled and said, “Really? Then consider today my birthday gift to you.”
When the massage reached my waist, I gathered my courage and whispered, “Can I ask for a more special birthday gift?”
He stopped, his tone gentle: “What would you like?”
“Could you hold me?”
He was silent for a moment, then moved closer and held me gently. His arms were firm and warm, giving me an indescribable sense of safety. I rested against his chest and felt his breathing — at that moment my fantasy finally became reality. In that quiet embrace, our relationship seemed to grow more ambiguous.
After the massage, he insisted on accompanying me for a late-night snack. We walked through the night market talking like friends, sharing our stories. Walking the streets near Taipei Main Station, I realized that the desires and fantasies buried deep in me had quietly been lit up that night.
In the days that followed, I still went to him for massages, and that night’s hug became our unspoken secret. Like a silent affection, it added a bit of warmth and softness to my life.
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