Fitz has a face. His is the kind of face every guy falls in love with: the surfer-boy blond hair, the cornflower blue eyes, and those high cheekbones that stand out even when he has a tan.

Not that the rest of him wouldn't stop your heart, though all I could guess at when I first saw him was his sweet, round butt. Fitz was wearing loose, gray pants, yoked in back so the cloth defined his crack. And bounce — yeow! He was shimmying and shaking to some hot Latin music, just for the fun of it, dancing for himself, and getting an audience in the bargain. Especially me.

One look and I could feel yet another of my world-class obsessions firing up. I thought I'd been cured the time before. But here I was, back again, in for a fresh bout of pain.

Why do I do it to myself? You see, I don't have a face that folks fall in love with. Polite people say my looks are "distinctive," but by normal standards I'm ugly.

Ugly.

Sure, I've grown used to my appearance and am even fond of my face, blotched and odd-shaped as it is. And after their initial hesitation, once new acquaintances see who's behind this mug, they relax. But every once in a while, my face is a complete barrier to friendship.

That's how it was with Fitz. I asked him to dance that first night — but no dice. By checking around, I learned his name and where he was likely to hang out. I contrived to be there the next time he was — but I received not one flicker of recognition. Even after I turned the charm up, all I got was a cool, monosyllabic conversation lasting all of two minutes, and a frosty "no thanks" when I suggested we have dinner together some evening.

And so I resigned myself to having him only in my fantasies, which, I admit, I indulged most nights for the next couple of months. Sometimes I dreamed of creaming his ass doggy-style, with his face jammed into the pillow and his head bumping up against the wall. Sometimes Fitz took me, straddling my face and dick-whipping me with what I imagined was a heavy, uncut tube of meat, gruffly ordering me to suck on his balls or rim his cherry hole.

Sweet dreams, sure, but it was frustrating as hell that my ogreish face was keeping fantasy from becoming reality! I knew we could have a blast in bed if only there were some way to land him there. And besides, this obsession wasn't fading away like the others had.

I guess that's about where matters would have stayed if Fitz hadn't tangled with a pickup truck while riding his ten-speed. It turned out to be a case of that old bad news-good news combo. The bad news was that in addition to suffering all kinds of cuts, scrapes, and bruises, Fitz took a helluva knock on the head, which detached the retina in his left eye. This meant he would have to stay flat on his back, quiet, and with both eyes bandaged, for at least a week. The good news? His doctor ordered a daily massage, for toning. This is where I came in.

You see, apart from writing ad copy, I'd free-lanced as a therapeutic masseur for the past five years. And one morning, my friend Marta, who refers her overflow clients to me, called to ask if I would do the last massage of a client's treatment series, since she had to leave town on very short notice. I almost said no because I was already booked up, but Marta snared me by mentioning that the patient was a "cute young guy."

She picked me up on her way to the airport. When we rang the bell at the guy's apartment, a strong voice hollered above the classical music, "C'mon in…door's not locked." We let ourselves inside. After turning down the stereo, he called out again: "I'm here in the bedroom. Jane got me all ready before she left…"

"I've got a surprise for you, Fitz," Marta warbled as she led me into the room, but I don't remember the introduction because my head was whirling. That was the Fitz stretched out on the bed! All of him! He had on a blindfold and the usual dinky masseur's towel across his lap, and that was it.

His face was still kind of scraped up, with a row of tiny stitches on his chin. A fading, multicolored bruise ran down the whole left side of his face.

Across his deeply muscled chest spread a broad butterfly of blond hair. It trailed to a little ribbon in the valley between his solar plexus and the towel. As for that towel: I could easily see the outline of his cock, flopped up onto his belly, and nothing could have masked his balls.

I swallowed hard and shook his hand. But my eyes strayed over his thighs, which were stout, hairy, and tan. Just where they dove under the white towel, at the sheet, they offered a glimpse of that smooth, round butt, set off by a crisp tan line.

The first thing I did, after locking the door behind Marta, was pop into the bathroom to slip out of my underwear, then get back into my sweatpants. A massage on a bed is a clumsy thing at best, and you get really close to your subject. The size and state of my equipment was one thing I could ensure was not left up to Fitz's imagination. I'd work it so he couldn't avoid copping an "accidental" feel — then play it from there.

Back in Fitz's room, I took a deep breath and a palmful of lotion and tried to concentrate on what I'd originally come for. It wasn't easy, having my slippery hands all over him, and sure enough, when I propped him sideways to get at his back, the rascal gave me a brazen grope.

"Try to relax," I coaxed, but I wasn't setting a very good example. Staring down at his white ass, I could also see the head of my own cock as it nosed out at the waistband of my sweats. I eased Fitz onto his back again and almost laughed out loud: He was trying to conceal his boner under the towel. Just like a goddamn teenager in a school shower.

"That felt great…" he choked down a dry swallow. "Do you, er…do you do any other kinds of massage?"

"Other kinds?" I asked, pretending I didn't catch his drift. "No, just this kind," and with that I started in on his pectorals, making sure the heels of my palms gave a special twisting attention to each of his nipples. Fitz groaned and shuddered.

"I'm sorry — too hard?" I asked. His stomach was tensing and relaxing in ladders of muscle.

"Oh, no, not at all," he gasped, "feels great…yeah…ooh!"

I backed off a bit then, teasing, making it last, and then switched to his face and neck. This always turns 'em to Jell-O, and Fitz was no exception. He sort of melted back into the mattress. But before too long he "happened" to brush his hand past my cock again. It was fully erect by then.

"Your hands are a lot stronger than Marta's," he cooed. "They feel great. So tell me, how do you make a living at this kind of work?"

"I don't," I explained, "I'm a writer, a sort of storyteller." That wasn't so far from the truth, and it served my purpose.

"Oh…maybe you can tell me a story too," he said, grinning, taking the bait.

"OK, I will, but I also really enjoy this. Working with guys' bodies gives me a certain satisfaction and, er…a special pleasure."

"I can tell…"

By now I had started down that grid of tensed belly muscles, and I was pressing every erection button I knew. Worked like a charm. Out snaked that prize cock from under the towel: not huge, as I'd dreamed it, nor uncut, but a beauty nonetheless, tapering from a thick, veiny base to a narrower neck with a red rattlesnake head.

"I haven't gotten my rocks off in a week," he mumbled to the wall.

"Hmm…long time," I observed cooly. "Why the big chill?"

"Well, at first I was just too sore and not very interested. Now I'm not supposed to move around a lot, and I don't know if I can manage."

"Sure, you can. How about if I help you?" So generous.

I took hold of the bulging cock with a slippery hand. "What if I tell you a hot little story, eh?" I gave the plump head a quick jerk, which made his hips strain up in pleasure.

"OK…yeah, that'll be great." He smiled, and his hand felt along the edge of the bed, patting the sheet in search of me. I sat down to take off my shoes, close enough so he could get a real feel of the merchandise.

My cock is not long, but it's so big around that I'd think twice about getting plowed by it myself. Fitz slipped his fingers into my sweats, grabbed my dick, readjusted his grip, and realized he'd been right the first time. I pumped him up a gob of precome. He gave out a low little sigh.

"Once upon a time…" I began, removing his hand and standing up to slip my pants off, "there was a prisoner who had been magically tied to his bed by a wicked sorcerer. The prisoner could be moved around by others, but he was helpless to move himself. So, you be him, OK?" I swung his lush butt over to the edge of the bed, and he let his right foot slip to the floor. I massaged his belly.

"Everything about this poor fellow," I continued, "was limp but his dick, which was always hard. And every day an ugly old jailer would stroke it a few times, teasing him, and sometimes the prisoner would almost come, but the jailer knew and would always stop just short, like this."

I had already squirted lotion noisily, obscenely, into my left hand and had given Fitz's rod a half dozen barber-pole twists. Now, when I saw his nuts begin to rise into firing position, I stopped. He let out a big breath, long pent up.

"Jeez," he muttered and shifted closer to me. "Don't stop — go on."

"Yeah, that's it, he was helpless and on fire until he didn't really care what that burly ogre did, if only he could shoot his load."

I alternated pumping his cock with blowing on it lightly, and I watched with pleasure as fine beads of sweat broke out on his temples, shoulders, and belly. I was feeling a little cruel and detached, so I ringed his ruddy balls tightly with my right thumb and forefinger and pulled down as I stroked his shaft. That made him arch up off the bed again, but not purely in pleasure. Once, twice, three times I brought him to the brink and then tugged him back by the nuts.

Fitz was getting restless and reached for his cock, but I quickly pinned his hand to the bed. "Oh, no," I whispered, "not so fast. Because one day this cruel jailer began to take an interest in the prisoner's beautiful butt." I slid my free hand in between his thighs and — bingo! — found the pucker with a ferret's accuracy, first time.

I stirred Fitz's lovely wrinkles round and round, toying, while I played with the head of his cock. He wriggled and moaned. Then I gave him just the tip of my finger, a little pressure against the resisting ring of ass muscle. In and out I gently worked it, till I could feel him loosen up; and each time he did, I'd gain a little ground. Finally I popped my finger in and began stroking deep to the prostate. He squirmed a bit with delight but otherwise lay still and passive.

"Every day that jailer would say the same thing, Fitz: 'Soon my big meat is going up your tight asshole.' And every day he worked a finger, a thumb, two fingers, and finally three into the prisoner's ass while he let him feel how big the thing really was."

I guided Fitz's hand to my drooling, hard cock and let him play the loose skin up and down a couple of times. He breathed quicker and moaned a little. By now I wasn't feeling so detached anymore. I was breathing pretty hard.

"Finally, when the prisoner thought he'd burst if he went another minute without relief, the jailer kept his promise."

Carefully, I lifted Fitz's leg onto my shoulder, almost losing my load at the sight of his cherry pucker. Then, half standing up, I brought the oozing tip of my meat to his hole. Lubing my dick head and all the shaft with lotion, I wedged it back and forth till it went clean home. Fitz quivered, his head thrown back now, mouth gaping wide, belly tensed and nipples fully erect. His skin awoke into goose bumps, but he held still. I couldn't believe his restraint.

"Then the big guy fucked him, like this, long strokes and just for his own pleasure, until the prisoner thought his skin would split from the urge to cream. He fucked him and fucked him and fucked him and…"

At that moment I felt Fitz's asshole contract sharply, and, guessing what was about to happen, I choked out, "Until finally the prisoner and the jailer were released at the very same moment." Well, almost.

"Oooaah!" he moaned, and I grabbed his throbbing cock around the head. He didn't just shoot; hell, he flooded! I've never seen such a hefty load of come, and the sight, smell, and feel of it gushing creamy and hot through my fingers pulled my trigger deep inside his beautiful white butt. I gave him the full nine yards, my belly slapping hard against his ass cheeks and my eyeballs rolling up blank. Jeez, my poor knees were quaking like September aspen leaves.

"Great story, guy…great  job…wonderful," he finally managed to pant, and I could see he was dozing off, released. Me, I popped it out, wobbled around the place, and got things tidied up. I even remembered to slip the towel under his rosy little behind. He woke up enough then to ask how he could get hold of me again.

"Oh, I guess you'll figure it out somehow." I told him as I tucked him in. Funny, now it was me who felt more cool and in control.

"But, but…" he started to protest.

"Yeah, I know your butt's a little sore," I quipped, "but it'll glow in the dark for a week."

"More like a month.…" he mumbled and drifted back asleep with a silly grin on his face. Fitz's face. I let myself out. Needless to say, I was glowing too.

It didn't take him long to come looking for me; guess he got my name and number from Marta. Anyway, he came strolling into our office one afternoon (it's a crazy, disorganized place), and I had a chance to watch him for a few seconds before he headed toward me. My heart was racing, and I could feel my palms start to sweat. I waited until his crotch came into my peripheral vision at the front edge of my desk.

"Are you Nat?" he asked politely. His voice sounded so sweet.

When I looked up, though, I could read repulsion on his face. It usually stings, that look, but somehow this time I wanted to see it. I let a smile spread over my face.

"So the prisoner has been released," I said.

"Well, I'll be dipped in shit!" he mumbled, blushing crimson. Then, shyly, he offered his hand.

Fitz and I have been fuck buddies ever since, ten years now, and, you know, that boy still likes to tie on a blindfold, lie real quiet, and listen to a good story now and again.