Deep Tissue: Chapter One

A free chapter for all subscribers. Injured before his big race, Bryce meets Leo—a ripped daddy physical therapist who looks remarkably like his own father—his technique redefining "deep tissue."

Until 5/25, annual subscriptions are 50% off—enjoy $40 for a full year.

xx DS

—

I glanced in the mirror, the thought crossing my mind for the millionth time in the last hour.

How the fuck did I end up here?

There I was in the reflection—fully naked, straddling the end of the massage table, body slicked and glistening with oil. My legs were spread, dick locked into position directly downwards.

Trapped. Pulsing. Dripping down the edge.

My hole was fully exposed—one finger already inside, another primed to enter.

And the fingers in question?

Well, they belonged to Leo, the PT I’d met only so many minutes before.

Dark. Mediterranean. Ripped. And still fully dressed in his workout attire—the embodiment of professionalism, the sinews of his body just evident underneath the thin microfiber. A mere suggestion.

“Such a good boy,” he said quietly, his voice low.

He was the man who’d promised to fix me, who resembled a man all too familiar.

My father.

How the fuck did I end up here?

My voice was clipped.

“Please,” I said. “Please.”

I wanted him. All of him. I wanted....

“More?” he asked.

I nodded, fully given over, held just at the brink.

Edged.

That was what you’d call it.

I closed my eyes. I was ready.

How did I end up here?

I’ll tell you.

—

“Fuucccccck!”

Pain shot up my leg, my body grinding to a halt mid-jog along the rim of McCarren Park.

It seemed to be the word of the day. But we’ll get to that.

“What happened?” My buddy Jamie slowed down, his face marred with concern.

“Something’s fucked.” I hunched over, shifting my weight from side to side.

“Hamstring?” he asked.

“No,” I replied. “Worse. IT band.”

“Come on,” Jamie said, nodding toward some open grass. “Let’s lie down.”

It was three weeks before the New York City marathon, and this was supposed to be the home stretch. I’d hit my longest run in my training regimen—20 miles—and now began the taper, shorter and shorter runs before the epic 26.2 of the final race. This afternoon should have been nothing. Six miles, a light cruiser, something to keep my body moving.

It was not meant to spell doom and the end of my training.

I positioned myself gingerly on the ground, angling my leg just so to ease the discomfort.

“You been stretching?” James asked.

I shook my head sheepishly.

“Yoga?”

No.

“Fuck, dude,” he said, shaking his head. “No wonder you’re jacked up. What have you been thinking?”

I didn’t have an easy answer. Stretching seemed like a waste of time, and yoga…how fucking boring.

“You should see my guy.”

Of course, Jamie had a guy. He always had a guy. He was just the kind of person who naturally balanced out all his hard work and discipline with proper self-care. He probably flossed every night, too.

Fucker.

“Leo’s amazing. PT, massage therapist. He will change your life. He works with professional athletes.”

“Fine, fine,” I said, tiring of the hard sell. “Just give me his info.”

James picked up his phone. “He’s just maybe a bit…unconventional.”

I glanced up. “Unconventional?”

“You know, mind-body connection. Touch your elbow to fix your knee, shit like that.”

I laughed. “I don’t give a fuck what he does so long as I can race in three weeks.”

It was my first competition, my first marathon period. The only thing I’d really trained for in my entire life. And when I’d told my Dad, his response was typical.

You think you can do that?

His words set me off, the rage ran through me like wildfire. Of course, he didn’t believe in me. He never had. And so I’d undertaken the most intense regimen I could, pounding out run after run. I was relentless.

I wasn’t just gonna finish. I was gonna kill it.

I was gonna come in at a record time for a beginner, that fucker be damned.

But now here I was, potentially injured weeks before the race. My head was spinning. I couldn’t afford to fuck this up.

“All right,” James said. “I shared the number.”

My phone pinged in my pocket. I grabbed it and clicked the contact immediately.

Leo Diamond, PT.

“Any chance you have some time available this afternoon?” I wrote, adding that the referral came via Saint Jamie.

“He’s a heavy dad vibe. Sometimes he talks to my body parts.”

I blinked. “What?”

“He…talks to them. Tells them to loosen up.”

“You’ve got to be joking.”

I was about to call the whole thing off when my phone vibrated in my hand.

“Hey Bryce, you’re in luck. I had a cancellation for my last appointment. 5 pm?”

I was on the hook. No turning back now.

I started typing a reply. “Am I gonna hate this guy?” I asked Jamie as I begrudgingly confirmed the time.

He shook his head. “Nah, he’s amazing. A unicorn. You’ll be tuned up in no time.”

Saying goodbye, I hobbled back to my apartment, rinsing off the salt slick of my epidermis and changing into a fresh set of clothes before walking the few blocks to Leo’s just in time for the appointment.

His office was on the third floor of a larger suite of medical offices, all of them cleared out for the weekend. It was Sunday after all.

I peered my head in through the front door.

“Hello?”

It was a full PT setup—treadmills, medicine balls, treatment tables. It looked fancy, impressive, like he had an entire team. This guy clearly knew what he was doing. It was his name on the door, after all.

“Bryce?”

My gaze was drawn to a doorway deep within the space and the man directly within it.

My stomach lurched.

The man in question was probably 50, deeply tanned, with a thick head of brown hair. His nose was prominent, taking up most of his face. And he looked…familiar. Maybe too familiar. Another red-blooded Mediterranean—Italian? Greek?—just like my father and me, if about ten years younger than him.

I’d always had a thing for older guys. for guys just like him. But somehow it had never come to pass. I assumed it was because I wasn’t their type. Older guys, maybe they didn’t want someone boyish like me.

But Leo, he was the type. If I could have conjured up my ideal, he would be it.

“I, uhhh—let myself in.”

“Of course,” he said enthusiastically, walking over and extending a hand. “I’m Leo. Great to have you, buddy.”

I received his handshake. It was firm, remarkably firm, my thumb tickling the hair along his knuckles before pulling away.

While he may have had my father’s features, the similarities ended there. There was an immediate warmth within him, a kindness far removed from my dad’s austerity.

“Thanks for, uh, fitting me in.”

“Any friend of Jamie’s is a friend of mine.” He nodded behind him. “Come on back.”

As he led me through the office, I realized he didn’t have the body of my father, either. No, Leo was clearly an athlete, his the sort of lean muscle that I hardly believed existed in real life. At whatever age he was, he had a better body than I’d probably ever achieve in my entire life. Compact, tight muscle, not roided and puffed up like some dudes.

The treatment room was simple, if more clinical than a spa—a long table with a full-length mirror at one end, a cabinet with different resistance bands.

Leo sat on the edge of a stool as I hopped on the table. “So, tell me what’s up?”

“I’m training for the marathon—”

“Wow!” he interrupted. “So impressive. Done a few in my time. Training’s a bear.”

There was something so unapologetically encouraging about him.

It was impressive, wasn’t it?

“—but my legs are all jacked up. The left really took a hit this afternoon. And now I’m afraid I’m fucked for the race.”

“Nah. Look at how fit you are.” I blushed at the compliment as he gestured before him. “Walk for me.”

I rose, awkwardly hobbling a couple of paces forward and back.

Was I doing it right?

“I think I see what’s up. How much have you been running?”

“Six days a week.”

He shook his head. “That will do it. Overtraining.”

I started to defend myself, my efforts, but before I could, he rose, standing close—uncomfortably close—and placing a hand on either of my hips, massaging with his thumb and forefinger.

“It’s not a criticism,” he started, looking away as he rode into the muscle. “Believe me, you’re in the majority. People want results, so they push too hard.”

He pressed in harder—deeper—his mouth just before mine.

“You feel that?” I nodded, trying not to let on how disarmed I was. “Bodies need a little kindness along with their beating, you know?”

The way he said it—sly, cajoling—bordered on cute.

Is this where he starts talking to my body parts?

“I promise we’ll get you sorted out,” he said, pulling away. Somehow, I believed him, this man whom I’d barely met before. “Strip down, make yourself comfortable, and then hop under the towel. I’ll be back in a few.”

And with that, he left.

I regained my composure, slowly doing as I was told—removing my t-shirt and my shorts until I was finally naked.

I caught a glimpse of myself in the full-length mirror beside the table. The training had changed my body, that was for sure. While I was always athletic, I’d never really actualized it before.

Running 20-25 miles a week was a start.

After the months of prep, my upper body had leaned out and become more toned for sure, but my legs and my ass were…huge. Bigger than huge. Giant, almost comically too big for the rest of me.

“You’re like a centaur, dude,” Jamie had said a few weeks back.

He was right. I’d taken to wearing sweatpants most of the time to save myself from having to buy new clothes.

“The irony,” Jamie said, shaking his head as we bounded up over the Williamsburg bridge. “A dump truck ass on the most reluctant bottom.”

On that count, he was wrong. I did want to bottom, but I was intimidated. I’d watch guys getting railed in porn, pounded over and over, and wince.

I could never do that.

But guys started to stare at me in the locker room and on the street. They were noticing how much my body had changed. Part of me loved the attention, but it felt like false advertising, or worse, like I was a cocktease. If I were ever gonna bottom, I’d need someone I could trust. And the other 23-year-olds I met out at bars in Bushwick weren’t gonna cut it.

A knock shook me out of my thoughts.

“Ready?” came Leo’s voice through the door.

Not exactly, I told myself, but I hopped onto the table anyway, throwing the towel over my dump truck virgin ass and inviting him to come in.

“All right,” he said, making his way inside. “Now I know you want me to focus on your legs, but lemme work your top half first. It’s all connected.”

I nodded into the cradle, a silent yes.

“Is anywhere off limits?” he asked.

I blanched. That was a funny question. This was practically a doctor’s office. But then I remembered James’s callout—his unconventional methods.

“Nope, you’re good.”

From the moment his hands met my body, I relaxed. It had been months since I’d been touched—like really touched—and even then, the sex in question felt transactional. Mostly dudes from Grindr who came, busted a nut, and left. Hardly the stuff of dreams, or any kind of real sensuality.

This felt…different. Intimate. Like I was being held.

He began with my shoulders, cradling my head as he worked his thumb and forefinger along my traps, the muscles willed slowly to release.

It was beautiful and…awkward, my head pressed against his forearms, his breath light against my neck.

I could feel an awakening between my legs.

“How’s that?” Leo’s voice.

“Great,” I replied, perhaps too enthusiastically.

I shifted on the table, my dick slowly rising to attention.

“So is this your first marathon?”

“Yep,” I replied, trying to focus. “First time.”

“Your friends and family must be proud.”

Now that was a boner killer. I exhaled. “My dad’s not proud of anything I do.”

Leo’s hands slowed. “I’m sure that’s not true. Training for something like this is huge.”

I shrugged. “Tell him that.”

“Maybe I will.” A shiver went down my spine, and then I felt him lower close to me, his mouth just to my ear. “I’m gonna need you to do something.”

Jesus, had I already fucked up?

“What’s that?” I asked, looking up at him, anxious.

“I need you to…breathe.”

I softened, laughing.

“Oh.” I relaxed, even if my dick was now fully hard between my legs. “I think I can do that.”

He grazed his hands along my back.

“I get that you’re tight and your body’s all amped, but you’ve gotta relax to make this effective. And you’re really gonna need to let go when I go deep into your legs.”

He took my hand and placed it to his chest, my palm gripping lightly enough to feel the muscles beneath his shirt.

Hard. Tight.

My dick twitched.

“Do it with me,” he said, closing his eyes. “In…”

He sucked in slowly, his chest rising beneath my fingers.

“And out…”

And he released, letting go.

I replicated the effort.

“Good,” he replied. “Keep it going.”

I lowered my head back into the cradle, Leo working in rhythmic strokes, a fine balance of intensity and tenderness. He held my stomach as he kneaded my lats, intertwined his fingers in mine as he worked my triceps.

And the rest of me, well…it was letting go, too. My dick was raging against the table. The sensation of being held, of the slight jostling of my body against the table—it only inflamed me further.

It was no use fighting it. The more I willed my dick to recede, the harder it got.

At least I could keep it hidden. I’d be mortified to let this straight dude see how little it took to get me going.

How pathetic.

“Yeah, my Dad was tough, too,” he continued. “I think that’s why I became a trainer. To give the kind of encouragement I never got.”

I nodded. In fifteen minutes, he’d been kinder and gentler with me than my father had ever been.

He moved to the base of the table, placing his hands on my ankles.

“All right. Now for the hard part.”

He drizzled oil along my right leg and then put both hands on my calf, pressing along its full length.

“Damn,” he said, watching as I squirmed along the table, my jaw clenched. “You really are tight.”

“I’m sorry.”

He laughed. “Stop apologizing. That’s what I’m here for.”

He placed an elbow at the top of the hamstring, lowering his mouth just by the skin.

“All right, leg, I need you to relax.”

My body shook at the feel of his lips just grazing me.

“Be a good boy and breathe for me.”

A good boy.

The words landed with a thud. The diminutive might have been emasculating, but it wasn’t. Quite the opposite. It went straight to my dick.

I…liked it.

Obediently, I let in a long inhale and exhale.

“Goooood,” he said approvingly as he ran his elbow the full way down my leg—head-on, unrelenting.

Fuck.

I grunted, biting my upper lip.

He laughed. “How we doing?”

“Fine,” I replied—smarting, lying.

“Brutal, but necessary. Let’s try it again.”

I let in another long inhale and exhale, and then he repeated the effort, finding his way along my leg, the result only slightly less painful.

“Thaaaat’s it,” he said, noticing the difference. “You’re learning.”

I felt him shift further up, just below my ass, working along the ridge where my leg ended and the cheek began.

He was dangerously close to my balls, hard and tight against my base, my dick pulsing every time he got closer.

“Okay if we lose the towel?”

A panic shot through me. They were the last words I expected to hear.

I was riding against the table, my dick already slick at the head. Being fully naked? That would put me over the edge.

“We can put it back on when you turn over,” he added, as if reading my mind. “Just gets in the way as I work on your glutes.”

I hesitated, my mind saying no but my body saying yes. And then…

“Sure,” I replied, only half-certain.

He slowly removed the towel, every nerve ending on my skin suddenly cast alight. The sensation of being so exposed was…intense, electric.

I’d seen videos of guys face down with their asses in the air in massages like these, the vision conjuring up conflicting feelings. It made me jealous and also…uncomfortable. Why did it scare me so much?

Leo hardly hesitated, applying oil to the right glute, letting it run all along the face as if it was nothing.

He rubbed the oil in with his hand, slicking the entire cheek.

Fuck. That felt nice.

I felt his face again close to my skin, his breath warm.

“All right, glutes,” he commanded. “Loosen up.”

I might have found it dorky or weird, the way he talked to my ass. But somehow it was the opposite.

Hot.

I did as I was told, exhaling as he pressed his elbow directly into the muscle, that divot at the center, finding the exact spot where all the nerve endings connected. That one hit caused my leg to spasm, my entire body twitching, all the muscles along it releasing as my dick ground harder into the table.

Pulsing. Leaking.

“Theeeeere we go,” he said quietly. “That’s the spot. Good boy.”

And then he released, his elbow running up the cheek counterclockwise. It felt good. It felt…amazing.

And then, just when I thought he was finished, he circled down, his elbow finding his way into the crack and landing directly on my hole, resting there for a half second that felt instead like an eternity, the knob of his arm pressing me apart, gently willing my rim to open.

What the…?

And then, just as quickly, he worked his way back around, returning to the cheek, all as if nothing had happened.

My mind raced.

Had I…imagined it? Had he lost his way?

I hardly had time to think before he was back on that divot, going again.

“Breathe,” he instructed, pressing into me with even more of his body weight, pinpointing the muscle with expert precision.

I grunted into the table, cock pressing even harder against my stomach, pre-cum pooling as I did my best to maintain my composure and breath, my entire leg mercifully releasing.

And then Leo pulled back, circling around once again, this time slower, his elbow sliding down into my crack and resting, lingering, the perfect plug for my hole.

Bullseye.

Fuck.

And then, just as before, he was gone.

I didn’t know what the fuck he was doing, but it was working. My ass was the lock, and he was the key—the key to releasing my entire body.

He pulled away, leaving me reeling. Nothing had ever felt better than that tease, the way he’d given me just enough and then pulled away.

I felt a hand run down the outer edge of my thigh.

“All right, I’m gonna go a bit deeper.”

I swallowed. Deeper?

He lifted my leg, turning it into a fire hydrant position, knee hanging off the side.

There was no mistaking it. My hole was now in clear view—no ass cheeks clenched together, no towel draped to hide it.

I flushed with embarrassment. This guy—this hot, straight guy—could see all of me.

But he didn’t seem to mind at all. The air in the room was as comfortable and normal as it had been, save for the fact that my cock was raging beneath me, dripping, my balls tight up against the base.

I shook my head. Those were probably visible too.

“I’m gonna hit your IT band,” he said. “It’s gonna be intense. Be a good boy and breathe.”

I nodded, dutifully inhaling like the good boy I was.

He placed his forearm at the outer edge of my thigh, the position of my leg affording him a perfect angle, and then slowly, with exacting pressure, he worked his way down.

“Fuuuuuuuuck,” I grunted into the table, squirming. It was the worst feeling I could imagine, four months without stretching coming to bear.

And then he pulled away, running his fingertips along my thigh.

His voice came softly by my ear. “Relax….relax…you got this.”

He replaced his forearm at the top of my thigh, preparing for another run. I gritted my teeth, trying my best to let go everywhere.

But just before he was about to start, I felt it.

The grazing, subtle at first, and then direct contact.

His other hand between my legs.

Was he…?

I shook, my dick tightening beneath me.

He was.

I felt the slightest graze along my balls, and then the distinct pressure of his thumb at my hole, rubbing just against it, teasing it as he had with his elbow.

I gasped, but before I could react, he ran his forearm along the edge of my thigh, finding his way once again to my knee, testing the bounds of my pain threshold as he balanced it with the light pressure against my hole.

This time, instead of suffering, the distraction made the entire effort tolerable, my ass absorbing the intensity as my leg gave way to his touch.

“Goooood boy,” he said quietly, pulling away. “Knew you could do it.”

I could. I did. And now I was hungry, desperate, my hole puckering between my cheeks. What had been punishment had turned into something else.

Reward.

My eyes shifted side to side within the cradle, awaiting more. I wanted more.

But then he shifted my leg back into position, ass closed together again, moving on once again as if it had never happened.

My mind reeled. Maybe I was imagining it all? This was all in my own twisted, sick head?

He moved to my second side, drizzling me with oil, rubbing it in once again before starting to work the hamstring and calf, the intensity equally as intense, if not worse. This was my bad side, the one that had really been injured.

I bit into my lip, taking it as best I could.

By the time he reached my glute, I’d worked myself into a rhythm, consistent inhales and exhales preparing me for what was next.

When he found the same divot with his elbow, the sensation was even more intense than the last.

“You feel that?” he asked.

I nodded. It unlocked the entirety of my leg, and the pain instantly dissolved.

And then he circled, finding my hole with his elbow at each interlude as he had on the right.

This time, I was prepared. Every time he rode into me, my ass rose off the table to meet him, his elbow digging deeper into my hole.

It was probably obvious, but I didn’t care.

The combination of sensations was too good. I was in it, I was vibing…

Then he hoisted my left leg up off the table, my hole exposed yet again. I was so relaxed that I had given in. I was pulsing outwards, searching for him, no longer clenched.

No, the opposite. I was practically gaping.

I knew he could see it even in the confines of the head cradle. I knew that I was giving him a show. And I didn’t care.

He ran a hand down the edge of my thigh, lowering his mouth to my ear again.

“Might need a little extra here,” he said.

I nodded.

Gently, he found the ridge of my IT band with his forearm. And then, just as he had before, his free hand once again found my balls, and his thumb pressed atop my hole.

I gasped, my cock tightening, the sensation almost too much.

And then, as he began working his way down to the knee, he pressed his thumb inside, those two short inches massaging along my interior, the most beautiful hold.

I barely concealed my moan, every inch of my body convulsing as he rode the muscle, my ass contracting around him, the perfect complement to the pain.

“Goooooood boy,” he said.

I whimpered, my dick tightening even further.

Good boy.

This time, his thumb didn’t leave. No, it remained, still pressing within me as if trying to touch my dick from inside, his arm returning to my outer thigh as he repeated his two long strokes, finding the full length of me, my entire leg releasing.

“Fuccccck,” I grunted, each time, unable to keep it together. My stomach was now fully slicked with pre-cum, my mess barely concealed.

I paused, even breath long abandoned, as he rearranged his fingers, letting them graze along my balls, tickling them just so as he pressed harder in.

The entire energy in the room shifted. Any uncertainty dissolved. We’d officially entered into unknown territory. This was no longer purely therapeutic.

This was…something else.

“This okay?” he asked.

I nodded into the headrest, words evading me, my ass raising further upwards.

Gingerly, he used his free hand to move my right thigh off the side to mimic my left. Now I was evenly spread, entirely exposed, nothing left to the imagination as I humped the table.

He guided me towards him, my legs skirting back, back, until they finally met the edge. And then he reached below for my cock, turning it so it hung off the end—pulsing, slicked, hard—just below my asshole and balls, every sensitive part of me presented in one long line.

I lifted my chest off the table, coming up onto my hands and glanced back, our eyes finally meeting.

He looked mischievous, the slightest smirk across his lips.

“Hi.”

My gaze trailed down his body, to his pecs pressed against his t-shirt, half soaked through with sweat, his nipples hard and pointing. To his shorts, stretched tight across his thighs, his bulge barely contained by the thin fabric.

Fuck. He was hard.

“Hi,” I replied. I hardly knew what else to say.

He shifted closer, so close I could feel his body heat, his face just along my shoulder as he pressed harder on my prostate.

“Feeling better?” he asked, grin widening.

My breath caught in my chest. “Much.”

He glanced towards the mirror, my eyes landing on the image of me reflected along its surface.

Jesus.

There I was, fully naked, ass spread, the cheeks mountainous and slicked with oil, my hole puckering around his thumb.

“So fucking beautiful,” he whispered, nodding through the pane.

I’d never seen myself like this before, so on display, in complete submission, my face broken—shattered.

I wanted him. More than that. I needed him.

A full smile broke across his face.

“More?” he asked.

I nodded. “More.”

—

Read the next chapter of Deep Tissue here.