The Incense and the Cleats

Tomohiro wiped the sweat from his bald forehead with the back of his meaty hand, the cluttered massage shop humming with the low buzz of a faulty air conditioner. Shelves sagged under jars of oils and forgotten towels, and the faint scent of incense battled the lingering aroma of takeout from his last break. He'd caught a nasty cold from one of his regulars—a chatty woman who'd hacked through her entire session without a mask—but rent was due in three days, and the landlord wasn't the forgiving type. So here he was, sniffling quietly behind the counter, his round belly straining against his faded polo shirt as he scrolled through his phone during a rare lull.

The porn video popped up in his feed unbidden, a thumbnail of glistening bodies that he clicked before he could think better of it. English subtitles flickered across the screen, but Tomohiro's grasp on the language was limited to basics like "hello" and "massage." Still, the visuals spoke volumes: a woman on all fours, her skin slick with something creamy and white, the man's thrusts producing obscene, wet slaps. White lube, the comments called it. Thick, frothy stuff that made everything look filthy and irresistible. Tomohiro's dick twitched in his pants as he imagined it—how it would cling, how it would amplify every movement. He paused the video, heart pounding, and made a mental note. His next client was due soon: Chasity and her dad. Perfect timing.

Chasity burst through the door twenty minutes later, her blonde ponytail swinging like a victory flag, soccer cleats dangling from one hand by their laces. She was all tanned limbs and sun-kissed skin, the pale lines from her practice uniform tracing faint boundaries across her shoulders and thighs—a map of endless afternoons on the field. Tomohiro's eyes lit up behind his glasses, but he played it cool, gesturing toward the treatment room with a nod and a garbled "This way, please." Before she could head back to freshen up, he caught her arm gently, his broken English tumbling out. "No shower. After practice... good. Natural." Chasity blinked, a flush creeping up her neck, but she remembered their last encounter—the way he'd worshipped her post-game sweat like it was ambrosia. The thrill of it, the secrecy, made her pulse quicken. She nodded, biting her lip, and followed him in.

Her dad, a lanky man in khakis and a polo, trailed behind, looking mildly perplexed. "Chasity, you sure you don't want to rinse off first? You smell like the locker room exploded." He wrinkled his nose, but Chasity just shrugged, her cheeks burning. "Dad, it's fine. Tom's the best—his massages are magic. Remember how Mom raved about him after that house call?" She didn't mention the other details, the ones that had left her rebooking appointments obsessively, craving the way Tomohiro's hands blurred the line between therapeutic and taboo.

The shop's treatment area was divided by a thin curtain, the kind that did little to muffle sounds. Tomohiro had Lena, his boss—a no-nonsense woman in her forties with a knack for knots—set up for the dad on the far side. "You relax here," Tomohiro said to the man, pointing emphatically. "I take care Chasity." The dad settled in, grumbling about the AFCON finals he'd missed on TV, while Lena began her work with firm, efficient strokes.

Chasity stripped down behind the curtain, her sports bra and shorts hitting the floor with a soft thud. She lay face-down on the table, the paper crinkling under her, her body already humming with anticipation. Tomohiro's presence filled the small space, his heavy breathing a mix of his cold and something darker. He locked the door subtly—no interruptions today. "Good girl," he murmured, his accent thick, as he warmed the white lube between his palms. It was new, procured just that morning from a shady online order, opaque and viscous like fresh cream.

He started legitimate, his fat fingers digging into her calves, tracing those tan lines with deliberate pressure. Chasity sighed, melting under his touch—the same magic that had her mom referring him to friends, the kind that turned sore muscles to jelly. But as his hands climbed her thighs, the massage shifted. He poured a generous dollop of the lube, letting it drip along her spine, watching it pool in the dimples of her lower back. The scent was neutral, almost milky, but mixed with her post-practice musk, it turned heady, intoxicating.

Tomohiro's cold made his throat raw, but he ignored the tickle, focusing on her. He leaned in, inhaling the earthy tang rising from her skin—sweat from sprints, grass from the field, and that sharp, vinegary edge from her feet. She hadn't showered, just as he'd asked, and it drove him wild. Her cleats sat by the table, laces untied, and he stole a glance at them, his cock hardening against his pants. The smell wafted up faintly, pungent and real, turning his arousal primal.

On the other side, the dad shifted uncomfortably as Lena worked his shoulders. "This place is a bit... stuffy, huh?" he called out, but Tomohiro just grunted in response, his hands now slicking Chasity's ass with lube. She bit the pillow to stifle a moan as he spread her cheeks, his thumb circling her tight hole before dipping lower. "Relax," he whispered, and she did, her body remembering their previous sessions—the hardcore ones in this very room, hidden from prying eyes.

He couldn't resist. With her face turned away, Tomohiro hawked up a thick loogie from his congested chest, the phlegm frothy from his cold. He spat it discreetly into his palm, mixing it with the white lube before slathering it over his dick, which he'd freed from his pants. The combination was obscene—silky lube laced with his own salty essence, making his thick shaft glisten. He didn't tell her; this was his secret edge, the rawness that made everything feel dirtier.

Chasity gasped as he positioned himself behind her, flipping her to all fours with a firm grip on her hips. "Doggy," he said simply, and she arched her back, pussy already wet from the foreplay. The curtain rustled faintly as her dad cleared his throat. "Everything okay over there? Sounds like... I don't know, wrestling or something."

Tomohiro thrust in without warning, his fat belly pressing against her back as he buried himself deep. The white lube squelched loudly, amplified by the spit, creating a symphony of wet claps that echoed in the small room. Chasity's blonde hair flew as he grabbed a fistful, yanking her head back to expose her neck. "Fuck," she whispered, the word slipping out unbidden, her body jolting with each hardcore slam. Sweat beaded on her tanned skin, mixing with the lube to create slippery trails down her thighs. Tomohiro's own sweat dripped from his brow, his bald head shining under the fluorescent light, his breaths ragged from the cold and the exertion.

The clapping intensified—skin on skin, lube frothing white at the edges of their connection, sweat flying in tiny droplets. Chasity's feet, still in her socks from practice, curled against the table, the odor intensifying with her movements. Tomohiro buried his nose near them, inhaling deeply; the cheesy, acrid scent from her cleats mingled with her pussy's musk, pushing him closer to the edge. It was filthy, perfect—nothing like the sanitized encounters he had with other clients. This was Chasity, his secret obsession, the girl who came back after soccer, raw and unfiltered.

Her dad fidgeted on the other side, the air thickening with the unmistakable stench. It wafted through the curtain—Chasity's post-game sweat, sharp and animalistic, blended with the sex: salty lube, musky arousal, and the faint metallic tang of effort. "Jesus, what's that smell?" he muttered, embarrassed heat rising in his face. His daughter, stinking up the room like some locker-room tryst? He tried to focus on Lena's massage, but the noises were impossible to ignore—squishy slaps, rhythmic and insistent, like meat being tenderized.

Tomohiro pulled out briefly, spitting another frothy glob onto his dick for good measure, the foam bubbling as he stroked himself. Chasity whimpered, pushing back, desperate for more. He obliged, slamming in again, hair-pulling her ponytail like reins, his free hand smacking her ass to leave red prints amid the tan lines. Sweat poured off them both; her blonde strands stuck to her forehead, his shirt clung transparently to his belly. The lube made everything glide, but the friction built—hardcore, unrelenting, her pussy clenching around him as an orgasm ripped through her. She squirted a little, the fluid mixing with the mess, soaking the table.

The dad sat up suddenly, the curtain inches from his hand. "Chasity? That noise... it sounds wrong." His voice cracked with confusion and mortification, the room reeking of his daughter's forbidden heat. Tomohiro's eyes widened, but he was quick—grabbing a spare towel, he draped it over Chasity's back and his own lap just as the curtain twitched. "All good!" he barked in his limited English, forcing a cough to cover the wet pop of his withdrawal. "Just deep tissue. Relax!"

The dad hesitated, face burning, but Lena chimed in smoothly. "Sir, lie back down. It's normal—releases toxins." He grumbled and complied, the embarrassment twisting in his gut as the clapping resumed, softer now but no less fervent.

Tomohiro flipped Chasity onto her back for the finish, her legs wrapped around his waist, feet dangling near his face. He sucked on her toes through the sock, the sweaty flavor exploding on his tongue—salty, tangy, better than any lube. She moaned louder, unashamed in the heat, as he pounded her missionary-style, the table creaking. Sweat slicked every inch; lube frothed at her entrance, white and creamy like the porn he'd watched. He pulled her hair again, arching her neck for a messy kiss, his cold making it phlegmy but passionate.

Finally, he came with a guttural groan, flooding her with a cream-pie that overflowed, mixing with the lube and sweat in a sticky puddle. Chasity shuddered through her second orgasm, nails digging into his back, the thrill of the risk—the dad so close, the secrecy—pushing her over. They collapsed, panting, the room a sauna of their making.

As they cleaned up hastily, Tomohiro's cold betrayed him—a deep, hacking cough that turned into a sneeze right onto Chasity's shoulder. She wrinkled her nose but laughed softly, wiping it away. "You sound awful. Should've stayed home." He shrugged, pocketing the rent money in his mind, but there was a warmth in his eyes for her—the girl who made the sickness worth it.

The dad emerged red-faced, avoiding eye contact as they paid. "Weird session," he muttered, but Chasity just smiled, her body humming with satisfaction. They left, the shop door jingling behind them.

Days later, word reached Tomohiro through a mutual client: Chasity had caught his cold, full-blown fever and chills. She missed her big soccer game, the one that could’ve scouts buzzing. Guilt gnawed at him as he brewed tea in the back, but then his phone buzzed—a text from her, simple and bold: "Your fault. But worth it. Booking next week—no shower."

He grinned, wiping his nose, the shop's clutter feeling a little less burdensome. Rent paid, and something more—a connection that turned sweat and secrecy into something electric. As the sun dipped low, casting golden streaks through the grimy windows, Tomohiro lit a fresh incense stick, already dreaming of white lube and the scent of her cleats. Life, colds and all, had its perks.