Gay Massage in Egypt: Masseur Milks Young Man

Egypt. My first real vacation alone. I was twenty-one, curious about the world but not particularly adventurous.

My hotel was right on the Red Sea, and after a few days of sun and swimming, I felt sluggish. So I booked a massage. Nothing fancy—just some relaxation.

The masseur’s name was Karim. Tall, broad-shouldered, dark eyes under thick brows. His skin was bronze, his beard neatly trimmed.

When I met him in the small massage room, I was immediately aware of how much bigger he was than me. I was slim—not weak, but next to him, I felt slight.

“You need a strong massage,” he said in a deep voice. “You look like a boy who holds a lot of tension.”

I wanted to protest, but before I knew it, I was lying on my stomach, only a towel covering my hips.

The room smelled of sandalwood. The air conditioning hummed softly. Karim stood beside me, his presence heavy, undeniable.

I heard the quiet trickle of oil. Then his hands touched my back.

Big. Rough. Firm.

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His fingers pressed deep into my muscles, gliding over my skin with the warm oil. It was hot. Not uncomfortable, but intense.

He kneaded my shoulders, working his way down, and I felt my body slowly surrender under his touch.

“Very tense,” he murmured. His fingers dug into my lower back, so deep I had to hold my breath. “You must learn to let go.”

His hands moved further down. He pushed the towel aside. I froze for a second, but Karim didn’t react. He massaged my hips, my thighs.

His thumbs skimmed close to the curve of my ass. My breathing quickened.

“Good?” he asked.

I barely managed a hoarse, “Yeah.”

His thumbs kept moving lower, following the lines of my muscles. The heat of the oil, the strength of his hands, the pressure—it was too much. My body responded before I could stop it.

I felt it. And I knew he felt it, too.

His fingers paused for a moment. Then he let out a quiet chuckle.

“Very sensitive, huh?”

I clenched my jaw, searching for something to say, but it was pointless. I lay there, half-naked in front of him, my body betraying me.

Karim took his time. His hands moved slowly down my legs before he gently turned me onto my back.

My face burned. I reached for the towel, but he held it in place with a firm touch.

“No shame,” he said. His eyes roamed over me. “This is normal. It just means you enjoy it.”

His voice was calm, almost amused. I couldn’t move. His gaze lingered on my hardness, then met my eyes. A shiver ran through me.

Then he reached for more oil.

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I didn’t know whether to resist or surrender. But when his large, oiled hands wrapped around me, there was no escape.

Slowly, with firm control, he began to stroke me. His fingers slid over my aching hardness, slick with hot oil. His grip was perfect—strong but not rough. My breath hitched, my muscles tensed.

“Good boy,” he murmured. “Relax.”

His thumbs teased the tip, his touch growing smoother, more precise. I tried not to make a sound, but it was impossible. My body jerked under his movements.

“So much tension,” he said quietly. “Let go.”

I felt it building—hot, intense, unstoppable. Karim’s hand worked me with devastating skill, his fingers finding every sensitive spot. My hips lifted, my breath came in ragged gasps.

Then I exploded.

I came with a strangled groan, my body shuddering, and he didn’t stop, stroking me through the waves of pleasure until I was completely spent, sinking into the table.

A quiet laugh.

“Very good,” he said. I felt him clean me with a warm towel. “Now you are truly relaxed.”

I couldn’t speak. I could only stare at him, my heart pounding.

He grinned. “Would you like another session next week?”