Rating:

Explicit

Category:

M/M

Fandom:

Bad Buddy

Relationship:

Pat/Pran

Tags:

bad buddy exchange 2023, fingering, masseuse, pudgy pran, rimming

Stats:

Posted on:

2023-04-23

Words:

6,069

It’s not every day Pat gets a new client—his name is Pran, according to the form filled out on Pat’s website. There are a lot of guys named Pran. Pat decides not to wonder, but can’t help himself from lingering in the lobby several minutes before Pran’s first appointment.

He’d wanted to start the business for fun, for something to do—his father finally let him escape the family business, after one too many arguments that left both of their egos bruised. Pat knew his dad could tell that the family business wasn’t his passion, and that he’d joined just because he’d always been expected to. But after a while, it got stale and boring, especially when it’s something he’s been doing all his life. His life’s been easy, is the thing, since junior year of high school, since—well, anyway, he’d lived up to his father’s expectations well. So well that he was starting to get bored of it.

When he left his father’s company with no idea what to do, Korn said, You should start your own business. And Pat had said, Business for what? And then Mo had said, Hey, remember when you gave us all massages during every exam season?

It was silly and stupid and spontaneous—but so is Pat, and so are his friends. So here he is now, with Mo as his receptionist in the small suite they’ve rented out as a massage parlor, pretending to look busy at the desk.

Mo says, “I’m doing some research on your new client. Pran. He’s an…architect?”

That sounds like Pran. Well, Pat reminds himself, he doesn’t know if it’s the same Pran.

“Oh?” Pat asks.

“Ooh, he designed a bunch of things in Singapore,” says Mo. He starts clicking excitedly. “Rooms…hotels…this guy looks like a big deal.” He looks up at Pat. “I found his LinkedIn. Wanna see?”

Pat comes around the desk. Mo’s scrolled down so he doesn’t see a profile picture, but he does see an impressive resume of a graduate school in Singapore, and some very official looking Architecture firms, before the current careers, one of which is a freelance designer, and another one in Bangkok. Pat doesn’t know anything about the architecture scene, but he’s sure he’s supposed to be impressed. Well, he hopes he can impress this Pran as a client, too.

The door opens then, and Pat and Mo look up.

“Hi,” says the man who just walked in. “Uh. 555 Massage, right? I have an appointment.”

When he and Pat look at each other, Pat can’t tell—maybe there is a flicker of recognition in his eyes, but Pat doesn’t need to think twice. He doesn’t have to squint to know that this is the same Pran, the one from his childhood—the one he last saw at a Christmas concert nearly twenty years ago, and hadn’t seen since. He has the same eyes, same soft cheeks, the same controlled-that-it-nearly-looks-uncomfortable way of holding himself up, back straight. It’s so strange, because after years of not seeing him, and then before that, only allowed to see him without the threat of their parents hovering over them—now it doesn’t matter, because they’re adults, and it’s not like Mo, who’s glancing between them, is going to care.

Still, Pat doesn’t know if Pran recognizes him. Or if he does, he might doubt himself. And there’s a chance that if Pran did know it was Pat, he’d call the whole thing off and leave. And Pat’s kind of curious to see how things will go.

So he smiles brightly and says, “Yeah! Pran, right?” The way his name rolls off his tongue fills him with delight, as does hearing it out loud in the small room. “I’m Pat, and I’m the masseuse here.”

“Oh,” Pran says. His eyes dart around the room nervously. He’d always been a nervous kid. “Right. Nice to meet you, Pat.”

He offers his hand out, and Pat takes it. A good handshake, at least.

Pat says bye to Mo, then starts leading them out of the lobby and into the massage parlor. “Have you ever had a massage before?” he asks Pran.

Pran shakes his head. “No, it’s my first time,” he says.

Pat’s heart skips at Pran saying first time—Pat being his first time—but he ignores it. “I’m honored then,” he says with a little chuckle as they make their way into the room. “Why did you want to get one then? If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I don’t.” Pran looks around the room, and Pat gestures to a chair that he can set his tote bag in. “I’ve had a lot of work lately that it’s been pretty stressful, and one of my coworkers suggested that I should get a massage.” He shrugs.

Pat smiles at him. “That makes sense,” he says.

He dims the lights in the room and lights the candles, allowing the ambience to settle before turning to Pran, who’s watching him. “I’m gonna leave to go get some supplies,” he tells Pran. “If you want, you can strip down to whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

“Oh.” Pran’s eyes widen, like he hadn’t thought of that. “Um. All of my clothes…?”

“Your shirt and pants at least.” Pat gestures to the massage bed in the middle of the room. “You can leave your underwear on, or you can take them off. We have towels, too, don’t worry.” It’s the same speech he gives to every client, but it feels weirder saying it to Pran. He and Pran had seen each other at various stages of undress when they were kids; who knew they’d end up here, at Pat’s massage parlor, with Pat asking him to take off his clothes as a client?

Pran still looks hesitant, but nods. “Okay,” he says.

“When you’re done, lie on your stomach on the bed, with your face in the cradle.” Pat gestures to the face cradle at the end of the bed, and then turns to the door. “I’ll be right back.”

Pran nods again, and Pat makes his way out of the room. When he leaves, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

Pran looks—good. Despite the obvious nervous energy and need for a massage, he’s tall—still the same height as Pat—and he’s certainly filled out since high school, more fat than muscle but either way Pat wants to touch. He usually doesn’t feel this way about clients, shouldn’t, since he’s supposed to be a professional. It’s just that it’s been so long and there was always something about Pran that drew Pat to him, especially now as Pran’s hair is parted and soft and his hands are big like an architect’s should be and Pat is sure that under Pran’s clothes, his body will have more than enough fat and meat that Pat can’t wait to explore.

When he comes back to the room with towels and oils and lotions, Pran is lying face down on the massage table, only in his boxers. His clothes are neatly folded in the chair, along with his bag.

Pat says, “Pran? I’m back.”

“Okay.” Pran’s voice comes muffled from where his face is in the bed cradle.

Pat sets the towels on the table and uncaps one of the lotion bottles, warming it between his hands. “This shouldn’t be cold, but I know some people have sensitive skin, so I’m warning you anyway,” he says. “And don’t worry about relaxing your muscles—I’ll do that for you.”

“Alright,” Pran says again.

Pat puts his hands on him. Pran doesn’t respond, so he figured that’s probably a good sign, in terms of temperature. He rubs his palms down Pran’s back, feeling the smooth, brown skin there, the expanse of it so warm beneath his hands. Pran’s stomach is flattened out, some of the pudge rolling out from underneath. Pat wants to pinch, but that’s not really in the itinerary. He wants to bite, but that’s definitely not in the itinerary too.

Pran’s not much of a talker; Pat would be, except he’s mesmerized by how much of Pran’s body there is. His arms are thick, fat, and Pat actually can pinch there when he massages, though he still can’t bite. Underneath his armpits is a veritable amount of black hair, and Pat’s suddenly overcome with the urge to lean down and stick his face in there. It’s not that he hasn’t been attracted to his clients before, but that his clients usually don’t give him this much of a response—the utter fascination he has with Pran’s body, nearly twenty years later. With his legs, Pat starts at his ankles and makes his way up, rubbing lotion onto his dry calves that are light dusted with black hair. The dip in his knees are so cute that Pat resists the urge to bend down and kiss; then when he gets to Pran’s thighs, the sheer weight of them, full in his hands, makes Pat remind himself that he has to be a professional.

Because it’s hard, when each of Pran’s thighs are so thick that not even both of Pat’s hands—which he considers to be quite large!—can fit around them. The fat on his thighs is soft and squishy, even though half of them disappear under his boxer shorts, that Pat physically has to stop himself from slipping his fingers under to see how they feel under Pran’s clothing. He makes himself focus on lathering Pran’s skin up, gripping and squeezing the thick meat of his thighs a normal, regular amount, then pulls his hands away, once Pran is covered in the lotion.

It’s kind of thrilling, having Pran like this, face down and lotioned up, at his mercy. Pat had never thought of Pran as anything beyond a vague rival partner, but now that he’s half naked on a bed in front of him, all sorts of new thoughts are popping into Pat’s mind. Ever since he realized that he didn’t really care about gender when it came to relationships, he’s hooked up with a handful of men (and women) before—but no one ever gave him the innate desire, want, like Pran does right now.

He tamps down his feelings. Pran’s still his uptight self; and he’s Pat’s client, so it’s extraordinarily unprofessional, he reminds himself. Plus, he doubts that Pran ever thought of him that way, especially when they weren’t even really friends in high school. He gets to the oils and decides to focus on the massage, not anything else.

Pat does the same as before: starting with Pran’s back, he uses his large hands to rub the oil in, harder this time, using the heel of his palms. Pran lets out a groan, and Pat immediately stops.

“Did that hurt?” he asks, worried.

Pran grunts.

But then: “No, keep going.”

“I can stop if it hurts,” Pat offers.

“Keep going,” insists Pran.

Pat sighs, but smiles a little—that’s his Pran from usual, the Pran he knew in high school who wouldn’t back down, take no for an answer from Pat, the same way that Pat wouldn’t from him. He digs his heels into the very prominent knots in Pran’s back—even harder this time—and Pran moans. Still no protest. Pat rubs circles with his palm, then uses his knuckles, massaging a slow, heavy rhythm onto Pran’s back, easing out the tension and tightness of his muscles.

Another moan escapes Pran, and it’s getting—well, Pat reminds him, he has to be professional. It’s totally normal for Pran to moan, especially if he’s never had a massage before. He’s got tons of tension in his muscles, and Pat just has to be the guy to get them out, nothing else. So what if the limitless expanse of Pran’s pudge feels so good to finally squeeze and pinch all he wants, since apparently Pran likes that, likes it when Pat goes harder? So what if he goes with it when Pat presses his lower back down so that more of his belly fat rolls to the sides, that Pat can dig his palms into them and Pran just lets him, lets him touch all he wants? Pat gets to his arms and rolls the fat upper part between his fingers in both hands; into his armpits to ease the tension of muscle there; resists the temptation to touch when a bit of Pran’s fat at his upper chest rolls over, squished against the bed, looking so pinchable. Pat massages Pran’s hands with his own, working through his knuckles, flexing and pushing them so that he can hear some of them crack.

“Pat.” It comes out like a breathless sigh, like—Pat can’t let his mind go into that direction again. He chuckles.

“Don’t worry, I won’t break your fingers,” he says to Pran. Then, remembering that he’s not supposed to know what Pran does—Pat’s pretty sure Pran was worried about being able to use them to draw for his job—Pat asks, “What do you do, if I might ask?”

“Architect,” Pran says sleepily. “I like the…I like to draw. And it’s practical. My parents really wanted me to get into a good program, too.”

“That sounds cool,” Pat says, working Pran’s fingers through his own. “I did engineering, but then my dad just wanted me to run my family’s business, so I haven’t done too much with it.”

A little laugh escapes from Pran’s mouth. Pat looks up at the back of Pran’s head. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” Pran says. His syllables are slurring together, like he’s really enjoying himself. “You’re just…Now you’re a masseuse.”

Pat chuckles to himself. “Yeah, I am,” he says. “It wasn’t even my idea anyway. But I’m good at it.”

“Mm,” Pran says.

“What?” Pat replenishes the oil, then goes around the bed to work on Pran’s neck and face. “I am. You’re enjoying yourself, aren’t you?”

“We’ll see,” says Pran, but then lets out another breathless gasp when Pat puts his fingers from both hands on either side of the back of Pran’s neck, rubbing hard.

He rubs circles in, deep, to the top of Pran’s spine, feeling the tension slip beneath his fingertips. “How about that?” he asks Pran.

Pran replies, low and breathing slowly, “Pretty good.”

Pat will take that. He smirks to himself as he finishes Pran’s broad shoulders, before going back down to his legs, starting with his ankles. Up to his calves, making his skin shiny and damp, covering all his milk tea skin with a sheen of gloss it’s like when they were in high school and sweaty after soccer practice. The thought had maybe crossed Pat’s mind once, then, the look of Pran’s sweat-soaked legs and thighs, dampening his shorts as they rode up, exposing more of his leg. He hadn’t thought of it much at the time, even though he’d really ever thought about it while jerking off, letting his mind wander as it’s prone to do.

But now it’s all he can see, all he can think about—watching as Pran’s legs, relaxed and spread on the bed, glisten in the candlelight as Pat kneads the oil onto them. He wishes desperately Pran had taken his boxers off, as he only skates his fingers underneath, the slightest bit of temptation, letting himself touch the chubby skin as it squishes onto the bed. He wants to see more, wants to see how thick Pran’s thighs can get, on full display; the huge, tempting round mound of his ass, and in between his cheeks—

Pat makes himself stop thinking. His dick has already chubbed up in his shorts, half-hard, and he has to calm himself down before Pran gets up again, or else Pran might never come back. He touches Pran professionally, where he’s allowed to touch, massaging what he can of his legs, and thinks of unsexy things like careers he could be having that aren’t this.

There are still several knots on Pran’s back, so Pat goes back to those, dutifully ignoring the moans that slip past Pran’s lips. He’s not even sure if Pran notices. He sounds so wanton, and desperate, like Pat’s doing such a good job. Pat wants to, he wants Pran to come back; maybe eventually he’ll even bring up that they used to go to high school together, be neighbors. But right now that doesn’t matter, only his hands on Pran’s body, exploring and relaxing until Pran’s body finally goes limp that Pat’s pretty sure he’s never done a more thorough job.

He glances at the clock. Shit—he accidentally went a half hour more than the hour he promised. “And we’re done,” he eventually says.

Pran makes a drowsy sound, but tries to pick his head up. He’s so damn cute. “Take your time,” Pat says in a gentle voice. He grabs a towel and starts wiping Pran down, smoothing off the lotion and oil, scrubbing into the nooks of his body. Fuck, and when he pulls it away, he catches a whiff of strong scent—is that what Pran smells like? Pat might not wash this towel before he takes it home tonight. Well, he usually doesn’t take towels home from work. But there’s a first for everything.

He cleans up the rest of Pran’s body, with separate towels for his hands and feet, rucking off anything left. His smell is strong and woodsy with a tinge of sweet, and Pat is going to have to hide it from Mo, too, so he can’t ask any questions. “You’re all done,” he announces to Pran, when he’s done. “You feel better?”

“Yeah,” Pran admits, shifting. “Um. Can you…I have a problem.”

“What?” Pat asks, but then notices how Pran’s pelvis seems particularly pressed into the massage bed, like he’s hiding something. Pat can’t help himself from chuckling. “Oh. That’s normal, it happens. But I’ll leave to let you change.”

“Thanks,” Pran says gratefully, and Pat disappears with the dirty towels.

Once alone again, he dashes to the bathroom and opens the cabinet, stuffing the dirty towels from Pran in there. Mo won’t look in here—he never does, Pat’s had to remind him several times that’s where the toilet paper is—and he can pick it up later before he leaves. The smell of the lotion and oil is nothing compared to the smell of Pran, and Pat can’t wait to get home and rub his dick raw while stuffing his face in the towels. He gives Pran a few minutes, dawdling outside the room, before returning.

Pran, as expected but still disappointingly, is fully dressed. He looks much more relaxed now, and smiles at Pat.

“Thank you,” he says to Pat. “What do I owe you?”

Pat gestures, and leads him to the door. “You can check out with Mo,” he says, and they go into the lobby.

As Pran checks out, Pat goes into the back office to take a breather. There was so much of Pran he got to see, got to touch that Pat’s mind doesn’t know where to begin. There’s more to him than Pat expected; plus, now that their families are a non-issue between them, it’s reachable. It’s still forbidden, though, because Pran’s paying him. But Pat knows he’s never wanted anything more, so much so that he feels bowled over.

He gathers himself and comes back out just in time to hear: “…another appointment?”

“Sure,” says Mo, pulling up Pat’s schedule on his computer. “How far in advance would you like to book?”

“What’s normal?”

“Two weeks.”

“Two weeks, then,” Pran says with a nod and a little bite of his lip. When he spots Pat, he seems embarrassed to be caught.

Pat says, “Looks like I did a good job after all.”

Pran rolls his eyes. “Sure,” he says, but he’s smiling. He takes his arms off the counter and starts to leave. “I’ll see you in two weeks.”

“You could come in one week if you want,” Pat says, and Pran chuckles a little and leaves.

When he’s gone, Mo says, “He really might, you know.”

“Hm?” Pat peers down at him over the counter. “Why do you say that?”

“Look at your tip.”

Mo brings up the invoice, and Pat leans down to read it. His western style massages are 300 baht—even though Chang keeps insisting he should price them higher—but Pran still left him a 1000 baht tip.

);)

Two weeks isn’t typically very long—but suddenly with Pran back in his life in the most unexpected way possible, it feels like forever. Half a month, Pat realizes, after the first week passes and he’s going to have to wait for another week before he sees Pran again. He stuffs his face in his towels and jerks off more than he has sex for what feels like the first time in ages. Even after that first week he still doesn’t wash them, even though they’re starting to smell like him more than anything else. There’s just something about Pran’s scent that drives Pat insane, that makes him want to crawl into Pran’s body and taste as much of him as he can.

Eventually one week does turn into two and Pat can’t wait for his four PM appointment on Saturday—same as the first appointment. It makes sense, being Pran, who still likes routine and organization after all of these years. Pat could probably spot him halfway across a crowded street, so it’s lucky that now that they’re running into each other again, it’s secluded, in a space that he can control.

Pran seems happy to see him, brightening up when he sees Pat in the lobby again. It’s funny, because Pat didn’t think Pran was so easy to read when they were younger—but more than several years apart and adulthood changes a lot.

He does have that strain in his shoulders again, visible and more intense than Pat usually sees of his clients after two weeks. “Hi,” he says to Pat, and nodding to Mo, who’s looking between them suspiciously.

Pat smiles back. “Hi,” he says. “Shall we get started?”

Pran nods, and Pat leads him back into the massage room. While Pran puts his bag down on the chair, Pat asks, “Do you want me to go through the spiel again?”

Pran laughs. “I think I’m good, thanks,” he says.

“Alright,” says Pat. “I’ll leave you to change your clothes.” He leaves to get the towels and lotions and oils as usual; he’d finally thrown the dirty towels in the laundry today, Pran’s scent long gone. But he’s excited for today, because he’ll get to have a new set. It’s kind of creepy, he knows, but he justifies it in that he’s never been normal about Pran, not really.

When he returns to the room, he’s nearly taken aback at the sight in front of him—because today, Pran’s opted to take all his clothes off, including his boxers. His round, bare ass makes Pat dizzy for a moment, not to mention the delicious top of his thighs, thick and flattened on the bed. It’s only a little bit more, proportionally, than last time, yet the blood that’s starting to rush straight to Pat’s cock descends with alarming speed.

“Oh,” he manages out, mouth dry. “No underwear today?”

Pran hums. “No, it felt weird having the rest of my body massaged except for um, the top of my legs.” He coughs. “I hope you don’t mind.”

“No! No, not at all,” Pat says quickly, and stiffly moves across the room, setting the towels down. He takes a deep breath, hoping it’s not audible. “I’ll put a towel over you. For your dignity.”

“Thanks.” Pran sounds amused, as Pat grabs a towel, folds it, and lays it across his butt. He doesn’t even have to see Pran’s face, but Pat’s neck flushes with embarrassment anyway, especially since the towel over his ass… Pat can’t promise himself he’ll wash it afterward.

He clears his throat. “Rough week?” he says instead, uncapping the lotion and rubbing it into his palms. “You look tense again.”

Pran sighs. His body deflates with the moment, some of the fat rolls at the side of his body squishing further across the bed. Pat wants to bury his face in. Among other things.

“Yeah,” Pran says. “I’ve been working on two large projects, and it’s not coming together as smoothly as I’d hoped. And both clients are kind of being a pain, not to mention my coworker and I can’t seem to agree…this is pretty boring, I’m sorry,” he adds, sounding embarrassed.

“No, no, it’s not,” Pat says quickly. “That does sound stressful.”

“Yeah,” says Pran, but doesn’t follow it up with anything else. He’s less tense when he’s quiet, anyway, so Pat decides not to push, instead focusing on making Pran feel physically better—that seemed to do the trick last time. He lathes the lotion across Pran’s back and arms, trying not to linger too long around his armpits, the fat rolls and wiry hair, that Pat could so easily just lean down and “accidentally” get a face full of. But he doesn’t. And he squeezes Pran’s love handles a normal amount too, not thinking about what it would be like to hold onto him while fucking Pran, or getting fucked by him—just a normal, platonic grip around the fat of his back as Pat continues to make his way down Pran’s body.

Pran starts making little groaning noises when Pat starts on his legs. His ankles have knots like something fierce—he’s probably been doing a lot of standing and walking lately, especially judging by the tension in Pran’s calves. When Pat gets to his thighs, it feels limitless, the amount of skin he can touch, the amount of skin that’s there. Pat blinks through the sweat in his eyes and his hardening erection, breathing through his nose as he lathers Pran’s thighs up a normal amount, careful not to grip too much or too high. The towel only covers his ass so when Pat touches his inner thigh, so high up, his fingers slip down and accidentally graze against Pran’s ballsack. But Pran says nothing, so Pat does as well, very, very aware of how different this is than last time.

The oil is next, and Pat’s palms feel clammy from the sweat of touching Pran so much, of wanting him so much it’s ridiculous. He shakes his head and tries to focus on the task at hand—massaging Pran, relaxing the tension in his body, nothing else. He pushes his hands hard into Pran’s back, the large heel of his palm punishing. Pran moans, and then whimpers.

Pat’s cock twitches.

Pran still says nothing.

Maybe he doesn’t even know the noises he’s making. Pat knows he’s good at giving massages—when he did give those massages to his friends during exams, they moaned a lot too. But then, that was funny. This is hardly funny, the way the low noises escape Pran’s mouth with each particular press, as Pat undoes all the knots in his back, relaxing his muscles and his limbs go limp. It’s hardly funny, the way his brown skin glistens in the candlelight, shiny and dripping down the chubbier parts of Pran that Pat wants to lick it all off. If Pat really looked (which he definitely doesn’t), he could even see the enticing, squished mounds at the top of Pran’s chest and nipples, his tits. Pat’s mouth waters. But he focuses his hands on Pran’s body, making him feel good, digging his thumbs into the smaller knots, pressing his fists into the larger ones, as Pran sinks more and more into the massage bed.

Pat gets to Pran’s calves, kneading the fat, saving Pran’s thighs for last. Maybe he presses too hard, or maybe Pran’s legs accidentally shift—because he doesn’t know how it happens, but the towel falls off Pran’s ass, and onto the floor. “Oh,” Pat says, and takes his hands off Pran. “I’ll get that.”

Sleepily, Pran says from the head cushion, “It’s okay.”

Pat doesn’t know what that means. But Pran’s ass is on display, and Pat’s so in his head, in Pran’s body, that he can’t help but give into his greedy desires, just once. “It’s okay?” he asks, and Pran makes a small noise of contentment.

Eagerly, Pat returns to Pran’s body. He makes his way up his legs, squeezing at his knee. Then his thighs, huge and on display for him, so much fat that Pat lets himself get lost in them. His dick is hard in his sweatpants but he doesn’t care, not when Pran’s thick thighs are covered in lotion and oil, glossy and huge, and Pran doesn’t say a word when Pat’s hands go up even further and squeeze the bottom of his ass. Pat can’t stop looking, can’t stop touching, watching the way the insides of his thighs jiggle, bouncing with the movement of Pat’s hands. Pat wants so much, that he feels like it’s his imagination as Pran’s legs slowly spread, his thighs, until his fingers are getting to the crack of Pran’s ass, as the oil slips into the crevice, and there’s a lot more to see than before.

Pran doesn’t say anything. Neither does Pat, as he slides a thumb in between, testing the waters. Pran doesn’t protest or slap him away or kick him, so Pat goes more, grazing Pran’s hole with an oily thumb.

Still nothing.

Pran’s hole is shaven, which should surprise Pat more than it does. He doesn’t know if Pran likes men or not, but it certainly seems he at least grooms back here, and something possessive rises inside of Pat. He decides to deny Pran for now, instead tracing his finger further down between Pran’s thick thighs, to his perineum, oiling him up. He’s dripping and slick and wet, and there’s an undeniable fullness to Pran’s balls, with his dick pressed against the massage mat. Pat’s mouth is dry. He’s so hungry.

He brings his thumb back up, tracing around Pran’s rim so much that it glows shiny in the room. It flexes and stretches, as if hungry, empty. Pat’s so nervous and excited at once—and Pran’s not doing a thing to stop him. He’s definitely awake, though, by the way he finally says, “Are you going to do something?”

Pat swallows. “Yeah,” he says, even though he doesn’t know what he wants to do. Everything, really. He starts with sliding his oiled up middle finger in, making Pran moan again. Fuck, he’s so hot. Pat watches, hypnotized, as his long, slick finger slides in and out of Pran at a steady pace, glistening as it goes in and out, drenching Pran’s insides with oil. Pat gets more, drizzles it on his fingers. Pran’s practically humping the bed now as Pat fucks him with the finger, wanting to see what else Pran can do.

Pran lets out a little desperate whimper when Pat takes his finger all the way out. “Pat,” he says unhappily.

Pat smacks his ass a little, making Pran moan again. “Patience, baby,” he says without thinking, and Pran ruts against the bed again.

Pat’s so hungry. He spreads Pran’s thighs even more and kneels over the table, getting his face into Pran’s ass. He bites the top of Pran’s thigh and Pran groans, not pulling away. There’s so much of Pran, so much thick thigh muscle and fat, his brown skin that Pat can’t stop himself from kissing and biting, wishing, hoping no one else has done this to Pran before. He knows it’s not true, but he’s allowing himself to be delusional just this once. Pat can’t stop tasting him, his musky, honey smell filling Pat’s nose. His teeth sink into the fat like nothing else, and Pran’s moans are filling the room, loud and uncontrollable at this point.

Fuck. Pat goes to Pran’s ass cheeks, spreads them apart so he can see his dark, greedy little hole again. He licks and Pran sobs; Pat grabs each globe of his ass in a hand to keep Pran’s hole out in the open, so he can dive in with his mouth and stuff his tongue in as much as he can. Pran cries out, thrusting against the bed. Pat closes his eyes and buries his mouth in, unable to stop himself from making hungry little noises, vibrations against Pran’s skin. It doesn’t take long, with his hands squeezing at Pran’s ass, then sliding down to his thighs to squeeze, then back again; or with his mouth, his lips and tongue trying to taste as much of Pran inside as he can, for Pran to thrust against the bed and cry out suddenly—then his body locks up, shakes, and Pat knows he’s come.

Fuck. He’s so fucking hot. “Can I—” Pat tries to ask, breathless.

“Whatever you want,” Pran says desperately.

Pat shoves his sweatpants down and kneels onto the bed, sliding his hard cock against the wetness between Pran’s ass cheeks, rutting into him desperately. It takes nearly no time at all until he’s grunting and coming across Pran’s ass, his back, painting him in ribbons of white.

As his cock goes soft, Pat slides himself off the bed, grabbing the towel that dropped off the floor before picking up a new one. He cleans Pran’s back, and then a little between his ass cheeks, which are less covered in oil than in Pat’s body fluids at this point.

Pran says, “Do you do that with all of your customers?”

Pat huffs out a laugh. “Just the special ones,” he teases.

Pran turns on the bed, so he’s facing Pat for once. His cock is also slightly soft against his stomach, wet and messy with his cum. He smiles at Pat, though.

“How many special customers do you have?” he asks.

Pat rolls his eyes. “Are you flirting with me?” he asks, as he puts the towel down. “Because as far as I know, that’s not very professional.”

“I think this massage stopped being professional a while ago,” Pran says, making grabbing motions with his hands. Pat hands him a towel, and Pran wipes down his front. “I didn’t take off my underwear for you to do that to me, you know.”

Pat smiles as he finishes cleaning Pran’s feet. “Yeah, I usually take people out to dinner first,” he says.

Pran eyes him carefully. “Are you asking me to dinner?”

“Do you want to do dinner?” Pat says with a laugh.

To his surprise, Pran frowns a bit. “Pat,” he says. “You should know…”

But Pat already knows what he’s going to say before he finishes the sentence. “I know, Pran Parakul,” he says, and Pran’s eyes widen a little. So he hadn’t really expected that, even though Pran clearly recognized him. Hm. “Yes, we were neighbors, yes, our families hated each other, yes, I haven’t seen you since high school.”

“Since the Christmas concert,” says Pran.

“Since the Christmas concert,” Pat amends. “But I don’t think any of that matters now.”

Pran relaxes. The fat rolls of his tummy squish out as he leans back on the bed, and this is a sight Pat could really get used to.

“It doesn’t,” Pran agrees. “I don’t really care about that either. But,” and he narrows his eyes at Pat, “I have one more thing to say.”

Pat raises his eyebrows, but smiles at Pran anyway. “What?”

“You can take me to dinner,” Pran says, “as long as I’m the only one you touch like that.”

“You’re coming for my job?”

“I’m asking you on a date!”

Laughing, Pat sits with Pran on the bed. Their hands touch, and Pat lays his pinky over Pran’s. Pran smiles at him too, wide, and the dimples from his childhood come out in full force.

Pat’s so happy that he can lean in to kiss them, despite Pran’s instant nose scrunch. And then he kisses Pran on the mouth, too.

“Yeah, okay,” he says to Pran. “Deal.”

He sticks out his wet, oily fist out to Pran—and Pran, his perfect Pran, finally back into his life, bumps his back.