All I Wank for Christmas Teaser

Read on for Chapter 1 of All I Wank for Christmas!

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Chapter 1

Holly

I give amazing hand jobs. It’s a gift.

Not everyone can do it well. Most hand job givers are either unenthusiastic or too eager to please. It’s a fine line to walk and get it right. It’s a blessing and a curse to be good at it, but I’ve been thankful for my handy gift every single day since Grant McHammond taught me how to slide all the way up the shaft and follow through up the head during orientation week at Illinois State. He was also the first to teach me that ball play is fair play. Cupping. Massaging. Even a clockwise nuzzle over the ole taint spot with my index finger is all part of the hand job experience. I quickly became known as Holly Happy Hands Hepperdine around my college campus.

I’m especially thankful for my ability now that it’s my family’s livelihood.

Sure, I have a degree in accounting. I may be a certified public accountant. Fat lot of fucking good it’s done me in this small town in the hills of Pennsylvania where nothing happens and corporate jobs are scarce. I had to come back home when Mom fell sick with an autoimmune disorder. Dad did the typical “going out for milk” runner about ten years ago. It’s been hard, but I’ll be God damned if my younger sister, Helena, has to quit community college because of lack of tuition.

Someone has to pay the bills, pay Helena’s tuition, and take care of Mom until the social security office wants to process that disability claim. That same someone also can’t find a remote accounting job to save her life. I guess companies don’t want to gamble on remote workers that just graduated. Maybe they want people to show up to the office the first few years as an accountant to prove themselves. I blame generation bias.

Whatever the reason, I’m back in my childhood town working at the Happy Stroke Club. The club was the only place hiring. My town is too small for a Target or a Walmart. My only other choices were the Chinese restaurant that only hires family members and the rest area by the interstate.

Something tells me I made the safe choice of not working at the rest area. I’d rather give hand jobs in a climate-controlled facility than work a glory hole.

I work in a small massage parlor that you practically need special directions to find. It’s a small brick building with a faded sign and a gravel parking lot. Most clients park around back because the back of the building backs up to the woods. We picked a rural area so clients’ wives wouldn’t drive by on their way to the grocery store and see their husbands’ cars in the lot. It’s sad as fuck, but it’s worked well for the owner, Linda One.

Don’t feel sorry for me, though. Tips are good. I never have to use a calculator. I don’t have to stock shelves. Or mop.

Well, I do have to mop. Sometimes things get…messy. That’s the only drawback of this job, though. I get the job satisfaction of hearing a man who hasn’t been laid in a year moan like an animal as I cup my gloved hand over his dick and catch his load in my hand, often cooing over such a beautiful orgasm. They like it when you compliment the release arc as it moves through the air. After all, if you want good tips at a hand job joint you have to make the men feel like they are the brightest star of your day and their orgasm is exciting and original.

Then again, I think that’s all men.

“Holly!” Linda One yells from the front of the shop, causing me to jump. “Client here to see you.”

I don’t think her name is really Linda. If you go into a massage parlor and every woman in the joint is named Linda, that’s your first sign it’s one of those massage places. At a rub and tug, we’re all Lindas. I’m not sure why I use my real name with most clients. Probably because I grew up here, and the town won’t buy the Linda bullshit with me. It’s awkward to give a fake name to your old high school math teacher when you’re massaging his balls.

Most men know this Linda tip, and I feel sorry for legitimate masseuses named Linda.

Other signs you’re in one of those massage parlors? A fake flower, usually a rose, is on the table in the massage room, the place only accepts cash, and they’re open late into the evening, sometimes twenty-four hours.

Legitimate massage places often deal with men asking to be finished, and it’s a good way to be banned from the premises. You never ask to be finished if you’re in a legitimate joint. If you’re unsure, the rule of thumb should always be to wait for your massage personnel to ask if you want a “full release.”

If you’re wanting your gherkin jerked, you’re in the right place at The Happy Stroke Club. Full release is on the menu board above the desk. Sometimes, I’m not sure how we’ve flown under the law enforcement radar.

Actually, I do know. Sheriff DeWitt, the head poohbah of the county police, and his department come in every Thursday afternoon for “team building.” I guess team building includes separate jerk-off sessions with the ladies here and not trust falls or beer over happy hour. We’re their “happy” hour plan. They keep the feds and the state troopers away for selfish reasons.

I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders, walking to the front of the shop where Linda One smiles at an older man from behind the counter. His hair is white and combed to the side like Donald Trump’s hairstylist did his hair this morning, and he wears glasses with gold frames.

Another man, a younger one, flips through a magazine on the chair in the corner of the waiting room. I do a double take when I come into the room. I’m used to the older guys. I’m not used to a drop-dead gorgeous guy with dark tousled hair, beard stubble, and shoulders like a brick shit house that could get any woman he wants.

He’s not from around here, and he smiles as he puts down the magazine he’s holding, blinks twice, and tilts his head to the side as he runs his eyes over me.

Fuck me.

“Holly!” Linda snaps, causing me to startle again. “This client has a gift card he got a few days early.” She points to the older man and then gestures to the Christmas special display where clients can buy gift cards for their friends. “This man says he needs extra help.”

They all say that.

“Of course,” I say, tearing my eyes away from the hot piece of ass in the corner and extending my hand to the older man. I try not to slouch in disappointment with the knowledge I’ll spend too much time with the older guy, and my coworker, Linda Two, will get to yank the stud. “I’m Holly. I’ll be your service provider today. Come on back.”

I glance one last time at the younger man, and his eyes follow me as I leave the room. He squints and frowns, and it’s obvious he’s sad I won’t be his jerker today. If I didn’t know better, I’d say his face is lined with concern. I half expect him to follow me to make sure I’m safe.

I lead the older man into my room, and he grunts as he climbs on the table without even looking around. Most men want to look at every single thing when they get back here for the first time. I guess they think there will be toys, whips, chains, or something scandalous.

I run my eyes over the walls, bare except for a few pictures Linda One got from a garage sale. I have a white counter that holds clean sheets for the table, gloves, and cleaner. It looks like the standard doctor’s office counter with a small sink attached in case I need water for an especially messy client. Otherwise, the sheet-covered massage table in the room is the only clue of what goes on here.

“What kind of services do you do to help?” the man asks, clasping his hands over his stomach and staring at the ceiling. “I’m desperate. My wife has given up all hope.”

One of those guys. I see a lot of the guys that use a little blue pill. Either that, or they need a twenty-four-year-old woman in high heels and a short skirt to get hard. That’s where I come in.

“I’ll fix you right as rain, sir,” I say, propping a pillow under his knees. “It was nice of your friend to give you a gift card for my services.”

“My wife bought it for me.”

Huh. That’s a little unorthodox. Most wives don’t want their husbands coming here. Maybe his wife likes the idea of him fucking around with someone else and then coming home to her and telling her about it? I get that once or twice a month. One client likes to record the session and stream it to his wife.

Whatever. I don’t kink shame.

“Where would you like me to focus?”

He waves his hands over his torso and down to his thighs. “On the problem.”

“Of course.”

I snap on some gloves, and he eyes me warily. “Is that necessary?” he asks.

“Oh, yes. Things can get messy, and we are safe and sanitary at The Happy Stroke Club.”

“Well, I guess that’s fine,” he says, chewing on his lip. “Will this hurt?”

What kind of sadist has been handling his skin flute? This man clearly needs me, and I should have his wife come in for a lesson or something. “No, sir. I think you’ll find the treatment most pleasant.”

He relaxes and closes his eyes, and I wonder if I should have him take his glasses off. Some guys are shooters and get it all over.

I unbutton my blouse until my cleavage shows. This increases tips, especially if they ask to palm my breasts while I finish them. The men feel like they owe me something extra then, and I’ve never had a problem with it. Nothing wrong with a little afternoon nipple flick.

“You can touch me if you like,” I whisper, massaging up the man’s legs on my way to his fly.

“Why would I touch you? I’m the one getting stroke care.”

“Fair enough,” I say. I move my hands from his knees and up his thighs.

When I get to his pants and start to unbutton them, he gasps and rolls to his side. He swipes my hands away and looks at me like I’ve hurt him. I instinctually step back, and my butt hits the counter behind me.

“What the hell are you doing, young lady? Are you trying to touch my pecker? What does this have to do with stroke care?”

Oh shit. The pieces come together like the last few missing pieces of a puzzle. This happens now and then, so it’s not a new situation, but I take my gloves off with a snap and throw them in the nearby metal can.

He looks at me with a look of revulsion and horror. “I don’t understand,” he mumbles.

“What did your wife tell you when she gave you the gift card?”

He squints and looks at the ceiling like he’s trying to remember. “Well, she said that she found a new place specializing in strokes. She thought it would help me since I had my stroke this past spring.”

I sigh and put my hands on my hips. I force my lips into a straight line. I don’t dare smile or laugh when this happens because that’s a sure way to set them off. “I’m sure The Happy Stroke Club name would be something a woman without knowledge of rub and tugs would think is a rehabilitation facility for stroke victims.”

“It’s not? What kind of place is this?” he asks, swinging his legs off the table and still looking at me with wide eyes.

“It’s the other kind of stroke club.” He looks at me blankly, and I pinch my nose. Some innocent folks are slower on the uptake. “Sir, we stroke dicks here.”

His mouth drops open and he looks around the room as if noticing that he’s in a massage parlor for the first time. He eyes the bottle of cleaner on the table and the box of rubber gloves by the sink. Slowly, he slinks off the table and looks back at it with a grimace, probably wondering if he should go home and wash his pants.

I keep my room as clean as possible, but he should probably run the pants through the hot cycle.

His hands shake, and I’m mildly worried he’ll have another stroke on my floor. I pat his arm. “Let me take you back up front and Linda One will refund the money for your wife’s gift card.”

A gurgling sound comes from his mouth like he’s finding words to say or just trying to catch his breath. He lets me lead him to the lobby, and he looks around the hallway like he’s seeing it for the first time.

When I get to the lobby, the hot guy is still sitting in the chair waiting for Linda Two. Maybe she’s on lunch. Maybe he’s waiting for Linda Three. Whatever the case, he’s still there, and he smiles when I walk into the room. “It’s you!” he says with a smile, dropping the magazine again.

I hand off the older gentleman to Linda One and mouth, “Stroke victim.” She sighs and waves the man over to the counter for a refund. I don’t think the man has blinked since I tried to touch his cock.

Walking to the gorgeous man, I tilt my head and smile. “Do I know you?” I ask.

“Nope,” the man replies with a little shake of his head. His eyes light up like a spotlight, and he gives me another look up and down my body. He clears his throat and focuses on my face. Only then do I remember my shirt is still unbuttoned enough for my C-cup breasts to pop out.

“Oh, I just thought maybe we knew each other since you seemed to know me just now.”

He shrugs. “I just saw you a few minutes ago. I was hoping you’d be my masseuse, but you went back with that guy. I guess I was disappointed when you left and felt happy when you came back.”

What. A. Cinnamon. Roll.

“That’s sweet. Did a Linda come and get you yet, or are you waiting for a specific masseuse?”

“I think I’d like you if that’s alright.”

My heart drops to the floor. I only get to jerk off guys this hot when I have an actual Tinder date and choose them myself. Gorgeous men who look like they could model on the cover of GQ don’t exactly rush into a small-town rub and tug. Maybe he’s someone’s bored relative who has nothing better to do in our town over Christmas and is only surrounded by cousins who would be unsuitable for hand jobs.

“Have you recently suffered a stroke?” I ask, not wanting to have a repeat of the last man.

“No.” He furrows his brow and frowns. “Does that matter?”

“Nope. Just checking. Come on back,” I say, turning and waving for him to follow me. “Welcome to The Happy Stroke Club.”

I don’t expect him to tell me his name. None of the men do. Sure, I know the police department, my math teacher, my old gym teacher, the deacon at my childhood church, and the guy that runs the fish fry. But they don’t say their names, and I don’t say them during the procedure. It gets weird. It’s probably like the town gynecologist pretending they’ve never looked inside your vagina or given you a breast exam when they run into you at Taco Bell. What I do is a business transaction, end of story.

It catches me off guard when I hear a husky whisper behind me. “I’m Jasper.”