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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Full Release


An imprint of Torquere Press Publishers

PO Box 2545

Round Rock, TX 78680

Copyright 2011 by Marshall Thornton

Cover illustration by Alessia Brio

Published with permission

ISBN: 978-1-61040-197-5


All rights reserved, which includes the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. For information address Torquere Press. Inc., PO Box 2545, Round Rock, TX 78680.

First Torquere Press Printing: April 2011

Printed in the USA

Chapter One

Just by making the call I surprised myself. It wasn’t the sort of thing I did. As my ex, Jeremy, told me during the worst of our break-up, I was “too vanilla.” And, though the remark stung, I had to admit there was some truth to it. Or, at least, there had been when he said it to me. It was the day before Halloween, exactly one year since Jeremy had moved out, and Eddie, the masseur I’d called to celebrate this dubious anniversary, was five minutes late.

The anniversary was easy to remember; Jeremy and I were on our way to a costume party. I had dressed as Clark Gable in Gone with the Wind: slicked-down hair, penciled-in mustache, vaguely 19th century outfit I’d borrowed from a neighbor who’d once been a costumer. Jeremy was dressed as Cher circa 1967: straight black wig, hip-huggers, fringed leather vest, too much make-up.

Things had been rocky for months. Jeremy was sullen and moody, and I’d lost all patience with him. In the car, somewhere along Franklin Boulevard, I insisted on some answers, the vanilla comment was made among others, and by the time we got to the party, Clark Gable was suggesting a trial separation while Cher was tearfully agreeing.

Cher’s makeup ran all over the place, and Jeremy peeked through. A former boy scout, he dug through his purse for cosmetics and managed to pull himself together. We went inside to the party, and I don’t remember a thing about it.

That afternoon, I peeked out my kitchen window for the tenth time, hoping I’d see Eddie pull up. Nothing. The street was quiet. To be honest, hiring a masseur had not been my idea. My best friend, Peter Warren, insisted I do it. We’d been friends for less than a year, having met on an Internet date gone wrong. Though the date didn’t work out, we found that we had enough in common to be friends. Not just because we’d both gotten divorced around the same time, but also because we were both mid-level studio executives, Peter in television marketing, me in features accounting.

“For my divorce anniversary I hired the most amazing escort I could find. Tall, muscular, piercing blue eyes. It was a scandalously expensive, but delightful, two hours,” Peter had said about two weeks before, during our daily call.

“I can’t afford an escort,” I replied, hoping that would be the end of it.

“At least get a sensual massage, then. They’re cheaper, but the end result is the same. If you know what I mean,” he purred suggestively.

After we hung up, he sent me a text with the link to massageformen.com. For the two weeks prior to the anniversary, I’d window-shopped obsessively telling myself I had no intention of actually hiring a masseur. And I probably wouldn’t have, except two days before Peter asked, “So are you doing anything for your anniversary? I mean other than sitting around your backyard with a bottle of wine moping over lost love.”

Since those were pretty much my plans, I said, “No. I’m going to hire a masseur, like you suggested.” After that, there was no turning back.

I fidgeted in my living room, trying to make myself comfortable on the sofa, jumping up and looking out the window again. I wondered if Eddie would look like his pictures and braced myself in the event he didn’t. His posting on massageformen.com had included two photos. One was a body shot, cropped at the neck and showing a husky, tan torso with black chest hair that spread across his pectorals then dove like an arrow down his tight belly to his naval. He wore a fancy pair of designer underwear that clearly showed his impressive, semi-erect cock stretching all the way out to his hipbone. The second photo was a shot of his face, and though the body shot appealed to me, it was his face that sold me. Though Hispanic, his eyes were an unexpected blue that was arresting next to his dark skin. He gave the camera a sexy, crooked smile.

The ad had been simple, straightforward:


Hi! I’m Eddie 5’ 9’’ 185 lb. Latino muscle cub. I offer a relaxing Swedish massage done on a table and in the nude. $120/140 in/out. Full release. Hit me up. You won’t be sorry.

It included information about his “training” and a short statement about how good he was going to make me feel. There were several reviews below Eddie’s listing. He was well liked.

After he emailed me his phone number, I called him. “Hi, my name is Matt and I’m calling about your ad on massageformen.” For some reason, I felt like a high school nerd calling the prettiest girl in the class.

“Hey, Matt,” Eddie replied. His voice was sweet and had a slight cadence. “How’s it hanging?”

I laughed nervously.

“Why’s that funny?”

“I don’t know,” I said, mostly because I didn’t. “It just is.”

“You want to book a massage, Matt?”

“Yes,” I replied, then we worked out the time and I gave him directions to my house. I spent the next three hours getting ready. I could have saved twenty bucks by going to him, but -- since this was my first time -- I thought I’d feel more comfortable if the massage took place

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