The Small Regular
An SPH Experience by Illustrious_Pen_7964.
Here’s what Charlene saw the first time she pulled the towel off me: about an inch of soft dick, tucked up shy and small between thighs the size of most guys’ torsos, like it was hiding from all that muscle and didn’t want to be associated with it.
I want to tell this right, so let me start at the beginning.
I found her ad on one of those classified sites — MATURE MASSAGE, PRIVATE STUDIO, DISCREET, WARM TOWELS — the kind of ad where “discreet” is doing a lot of heavy lifting. Her place was a converted garage behind a little ranch house, the kind of setup where you park on the street and walk down the side path feeling like everybody on the block knows exactly why. Inside it was warm and smelled like lotion and a crockpot somewhere. A little radio played soft rock. A space heater hummed in the corner. It was, honestly, the most relaxing room I’d ever been in, which is important, because of what the room was for.
Charlene was late fifties. Frosted blonde, short in that wash-and-go way older women master. Big soft tits that she did not strap down so much as arrange. Wide hips, a big round ass, a soft belly she’d rest a forearm on when she stood talking to you — zero apology in any of it. You could look at her and just know she’d been absolute trouble in 1985. She was still trouble now. Just slower, and better funded.
First visit was professional. Genuinely good massage — strong hands, forearms like a dockworker, thumbs that could find a knot from across the room. She worked my back and made these appreciative little noises at my lats, called me “big guy,” and I relaxed, and I thought, okay, this is fine, I’m just a big guy getting a massage.
Then the flip. Then the towel came off.
The pause.
If you’re my size, you know the pause. It’s a specific silence. She looked down at it. Then up at my chest, my arms, the whole 230 pounds of me. Then back down at the inch of me, soft and pale and shrinking a little further under the attention, because even my dick has survival instincts.
And then the corner of her mouth did the thing that would go on to define the next two years of my life. The grin. Not cruel, exactly. Amused. Deeply, permanently amused, like I’d told her a joke she’d be repeating at church.
“Well,” she said. “That’s a surprise.”
She took it between her fingers and thumb and lifted it, turning it a little as if she were checking a price tag. “All these muscles,” she said, and gave my pec a squeeze with her free hand, “and this is where the budget ran out?”
I got hard in about four strokes. Which, at three and a half inches, meant she still had fingers to spare. And I came about forty strokes after that — I felt it coming and there was nothing to do but announce it with a grunt like I was repping out a heavy set. She caught it in a warm towel with the calm of a woman who’d caught ten thousand of them, and she turned her head and actually checked the clock on the wall, and then she made the sound—the tongue against the teeth.
Tut-tut.
Like a nurse. Like a schoolteacher finding gum under a desk.
“Aw, sweetheart.” She shook her head slow, wiping me off with the gentle efficiency of somebody changing a diaper. “Babydick and a hair trigger. Well. You’re not the first.”
I booked again before I left. That’s the part of this story I’ve never been able to explain to anybody, so I’ll just state it as fact: I stood at her little counter with my card, still smelling like her lotion, ears still burning, and I said, “Same time next week?” And she grinned that grin and wrote me in.
—
The routine developed over months. She’d work my body first, and she was legitimately gifted at it, and she’d talk the whole time. And the talk always, always came around to the same place.
“I’ve got a regular comes Tuesdays,” she said one afternoon, leaning over my back, her big soft tits pressed flat against me while she ground a knot out of my shoulder. “Skinny little thing. Computer guy. Arms like spaghetti. You’d step on him at the gym without noticing.” Her breath at my ear. “Biggest cock I have ever seen in my life, and I’ve seen some. Beer-can thick. I need both hands, and I still can’t get around it. Takes me twenty minutes and he moans like a diesel the whole time.”
I made a noise into the face cradle. She laughed — I felt her whole soft belly shake against my back.
“You,” she said, and reached around and flicked my soft nub with one finger. Flick. Like a light switch. “You are my small regular. He’s my big regular. That’s how I’ve got you filed in my head.” The grin again — I could hear it, at that point. “You want to know the funny part, sweetheart? If I saw you two standing in a line-up, I’d bet my house you were the hung one. All this—” she patted my back like judging a used car, “—and God said, eh, we’re done here.”
I came on the flip that day before she’d finished the sentence. Obviously, she checked the clock again. She was going to keep checking that clock for two years, and we both knew what she was doing, and we both knew I was paying for the privilege.
—
Here’s the thing about the prejac part, and I need you to understand how bad it actually got, because “premature” doesn’t cover it.
Sometimes I’d finish before I was even hard.
She’d have me on my back, and she’d take the two fingers — that’s the whole handshake, two fingers and a loose thumb, that’s all my equipment requires — and she’d barely get the oil warm, and I’d feel it coming up through me with the unstoppable momentum of a sneeze. And I’d spurt soft. Three, four little pumps, this tiny twitching button spitting onto my own stomach, over before her wrist even got involved. My dick never made it past half-mast, sometimes not past a third.
And she’d tut-tut. Every time. That sound is going to be played at my funeral, I’m convinced of it. She’d shake her head slow, and wipe me up with a warm towel, and deliver the line in this fond, sad, grandmotherly voice:
“Babydick prejac. Can’t even get hard before he makes his little mess.”
Once she did it while watching TV. I’m not joking — she had a little flatscreen on a shelf, and her stories were on, and she decided she wasn’t going to miss them, so she jerked me off with two fingers while watching over my body, half her attention on the screen, doing me the way you’d pet a cat you weren’t that into. Absent. Wrist loose. Eyes on the show.
I lasted ninety seconds. She didn’t even look down for the finish — just swung the towel over blind, caught it, tut-tutted at me the same way she’d just tut-tutted at a game-show contestant, and said, “There he goes. Good boy.”
I paid for a full hour. She mentioned, once, that I was her best customer per minute of effort — “least work, most money, sweetheart” — and I laughed, and she grinned, and neither of us offered to change the arrangement.
—
The session I think about most, though — the one that lives in my head rent-free — was the day she ran an experiment.
She’d caught me looking at her tits for months. Of course she had; they were right there at eye level when she worked my shoulders, big and soft and pale, and she knew exactly what they were doing to me because she was a professional with twenty years of data. So one afternoon she wiped her hands and said, “Let’s see something.”
She reached back, unclasped her bra, and let them drop out. Heavy, soft, big pink nipples, a little lower than they’d been in 1985, and she knew it and did not care. She leaned over me so they hung right there, swung them a little, side to side, and said:
“You don’t touch. You just look. I want to see something.”
What she wanted to see was how fast.
I was fully soft. One inch. She hadn’t laid a finger on me. She just let them swing and said, “C’mon, sweetheart. You know you want to,” in that voice, and I felt it come up through me like a wave, and I came untouched. Soft. All over my own stomach while my dick never got past a twitching little button, and my hips bucked under her like I was doing crunches, and this tiny thing spat everything it had at the ceiling of a converted garage.
Charlene put her hands on her knees and laughed until she had to sit down. I mean the full-body laugh, wheezing, tits still out, pointing at me with one hand.
“Untouched!” she wheezed. “I didn’t lay a finger on you! Oh — oh, sweetheart.” She caught her breath, wiped her eye, and gave me the tut-tut, the gentlest one she ever gave me. “What am I going to do with you?”
The answer, it turned out, was to tell her Tuesday guy about me. She admitted it a few sessions later, casually, while I was face-down and helpless: she’d told her big regular all about “her little bodybuilder who pops off soft, untouched, before you can say good afternoon.” She said he laughed for five minutes. She said she’d described the two-finger technique and he’d asked if she meant two fingers total and she’d had to confirm it.
I don’t know if any of that’s true. I choose to believe it’s true, because it’s what I thought about every single day for the next two years, and I’m not going to ruin a good thing with skepticism now.
—
Here’s the part I couldn’t have explained to anyone in my life at the time: I could deadlift five hundred pounds, and every other Saturday I drove forty minutes across town to be flicked like a light switch by a grandmother and called a babydick prejac. I’d sit in my truck afterward, engine running, absolutely mortified, face hot for the whole drive home.
And I’d book the next appointment before I got out of the truck.
That’s the honest shape of it. I’ve cycled everything that’s ever had a nickname at my gym. Nothing on the menu grows the one muscle I actually needed. And somewhere along the line the shame and the arousal got braided together so tight I stopped being able to tell you which one was which, and Charlene — professional that she was — spotted it inside two sessions and monetized it beautifully. I don’t resent her for a cent of it. She gave me the most honest half-hours of my life. Nobody at the gym ever looked at me and saw the truth. She saw it, flicked it, tut-tutted at it, and charged me ninety dollars, and I tipped.
It ended when she retired. Sold the ranch house, moved down by her daughter, crockpot and all. The last session, she worked me over the same as always, and I finished the same as always — soft, fast, two fingers, tut-tut — and she wiped me down and patted my stomach and said, “You were my favorite small regular, sweetheart.”
I said, “You only had one.”
She grinned the grin. “I know. That’s what makes it funny.”
On the way out, last words I ever heard from her, she patted my cheek: “Take care of yourself, baby. And be kind to your little guy. He can’t help it.”
—
I still lift. Still 230, still the guy strangers ask for spots. And some mornings, when I’m the only one in the gym mirror, I’ll catch the whole silhouette — the shoulders, the chest, the arms — and I’ll think about her checking the clock. Two fingers. The tut-tut. The way she filed me.
I’ve got a new massage place now, closer to home. Nice lady. Very professional. Towel stays on.
I always leave a little disappointed, and I’ve never once been able to explain to her why.
The End.
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