Content Advisory: This work of erotic fiction is intended for adults only. The story contains the following themes: magic; romance; therapeutic & erotic massage; naturism; stripping; nudity dares; nude art photography; exhibitionism; voyeurism; only one naked (OON); embarrassment (ENF & ENM); oral sex (MF & MM); intra-, extra-, and pre-marital sexual intercourse; straight & gay sex; group sex; mixed bathing; skinny dipping; and even spooning! My!
Disclaimer: This is fiction. To the extent that there are people or places named in this book that exist in the real world, they are not as described here. The author recommends that you do not take practical advice from fictional persons.
Dedication: This book is for the body servants. I do not envy your difficulties in addressing client needs under the culture’s demands.
“Fire burns, and water refreshes; heavy bodies descend, and lighter substances fly upwards, by the necessity of their own nature; nor was the invisible hand of Jupiter ever apprehended to be employed in those matters.”
— Adam Smith
Kaitlyn and I were naked, hauling our carful of possessions back into our house, having just graduated from massage therapy school up in Salt Lake. Nude because it’s easier for a mage to heal scrapes from the physical work than to clean the consequent biological products out of our clothing. Under Moab’s noonday spring sun, clothes were more hindrance than help to us at the moment.
Our house sits atop a sharp rise from highway level, perhaps ten meters above the road surface and sixty or seventy meters back from it. Since we couldn’t see the top of the occasional jeep or SUV as it whooshed past on its way out to the deep Southern Utahan canyonlands, it stood to reason that they couldn’t see us, either.
If someone were to drive up the dirt and gravel path that led to the house, they’d see us readily, but the only people we knew well enough to be visiting us here already knew we were part-time nudists and had seen us naked before.
We didn’t exactly proselytize. We simply practiced our therapy skills on all of them, and we believed in the reciprocal nudity doctrine of massage, being that you should get to ask your therapist to be naked if you take your massage that way. Fair’s fair, right?
? Pikka-tink-ta-link! Pikka-tink-ta-link! ?
“Argh!” Kaitlyn growled in exasperation, vaulting up onto the front porch, bypassing the front steps in her haste to dig her phone out of the clothes pile we left in the living room shortly after getting home. Her leap had a predictably wonderful effect on her buns and breasts as she disappeared rapidly indoors to answer the call before it went to voicemail.
“Ahhhh,” I sighed in appreciation. I thanked Gaia every day that I had the sense and good luck to marry her.
I am Devindra Bhat, nature mage; Davie to my friends, only half of whom know about my magical powers.
It’s no exaggeration to say that we wouldn’t be married if Kaitlyn wasn’t also a mage, but I’ve chronicled that story elsewhere.
To our knowledge, there is only one other nature mage currently practicing on the planet. This massage therapy scheme is part of our plan to find a fourth, a fifth, and so on.
You see, magic can only be done at a sufficient distance from technological artifacts, which is why there is so little magic in the modern world. A piece of clothing is far from the most high-tech thing in our lives, but it is usually the tech closest to the body, and for most modern humans, that coverage is all but complete, all day long, excepting only brief periods to change clothes or bathe.
Bedclothes count, so this even applies to those that sleep nude. To the magic, the only functional differences from wrapping your body in Milanese haute couture versus a fraying Walmart sheet set come down to the fabric type, coverage, and distance.
As for type, the higher tech the fabric is, the worse it is for a mage. That’s basic. All-natural fabrics are better for mages than synthetics, but no fabric at all is best.
Quantity also affects our magic. A mage bundled up on a winter night, her nude body tucked tight between 100% cotton sheets with two hand-woven woolen blankets and a silk-shelled hempen-batt duvet on top to keep her nice and toasty will be magically impotent even though her bedding’s all-natural.
That’s not a guess, that’s an experimental result: Kaitlyn tried it last February while we were up in Salt Lake.
Me? I can barely do magic in bed with a single cotton sheet draped over me. I’m a lot more capable if I throw off that top sheet, but there’s still the fitted mattress sheet below, not to mention the mattress itself, so it’s not an ideal working environment. To do serious magic, I have to take my work outside.
Through further experiments, Kaitlyn and I have confirmed that magic follows an inverse square law: halve the distance between a mage and a technological artifact and you quadruple its damping effect on the mage’s talents. A mage Porky-Pigging it in a cotton shirt and nothing else is still going to have trouble doing magic, the fabric being so close to his skin, touching it most places, tenting just above it in others.
We’ve spent a lot of time over the past year nailing down the principles of magic one by one, and we’re beginning to uncover some of its laws. We expect this process of discovery to take the rest of our lives, but this much is already clear: magic is scientific. The only mysterious part about it is the form the energy takes and how it must be wielded.
And so, we went naked whenever we could get away with it.
Kaitlyn emerged from the house carrying a small lump of mage kryptonite, that being her smartphone. There are higher-tech items in the world, but there is scarcely another thing manufactured that puts as much high tech into as small a space, which is also regularly carried by normal people. The last time we measured it, Kaitlyn lost all ability to do magic when I brought her phone within 1.2 meters of her bare body, down from 1.4 when she was a new mage. With it clamped to her head like that, she was as incapable of doing magic as any normal person despite being absolutely naked.
“Yeah, mom, everything’s good here,” she was saying into it as she walked back out onto the front porch.
“Yeah, we’d love to. We’ve got maybe another half hour of work here to do before we can leave, though.”
“I don’t know what we can bring… The fridge’s empty… Our renter didn’t leave us any leftovers.”
“Sure, the unsalted sort, right?”
“All right, see you then, mom. Thanks; bye!”
I guessed, “We’ve been invited to your parents’ house.”
“Bingo,” my wife confirmed. “She wants us to swing by the grocery store on our way through town and bring her a pound of butter for a recipe she’s trying.”
“Small ask,” I commented. “Is this party for us? Some kind of welcome home thing?”
“She didn’t say, but I know my mom: she’s got an ulterior motive.”
“Hmmm!” I replied with a waggle of my thick, dark, and oh-so-evocative Indian eyebrows. “Well, let’s get back to it.”
We were unpacking the last of our things when Kaitlyn said, “Oh, I almost forgot: mom was very clear that she expected us to bring the massage stuff. I don’t think she’d turn us away if we arrived without it, but…” She trailed off with a small ironic smirk.
“Tables, too?” I asked, referring to our heavy massage tables, which were decidedly not bike-portable despite the manufacturer molding the word “Portable” into their undersides.
“Mom said no but wouldn’t explain why not. She wants us to bring all the rest, though.”
Considering the amount of gear we’d both accumulated through our schooling, I replied, “I’d rather not repack our massage kits into the bike panniers. Let’s take mi burro.”
This being my 1984 Toyota Land Cruiser FJ45, the uncommon short-bed pickup truck configuration, my little beast of burden. We took only Kaitlyn’s Subaru up to Salt Lake, leaving my ride sitting idle by the house for the seven months of our schooling, and I missed driving it badly. Noisy it is, and a gas guzzler it is also, but it is so very expressive. The machine speaks clearly enough that even a deaf person can understand its growls and rumbles, up through the seats and gear shift, feeling the machine speak.
She didn’t object to my desire to put some miles on the FJ, so I went on, “I hope your family doesn’t have unrealistic expectations, between our magic and our schooling. We’ve healed all of them as well as we could back at Christmas. I expect we’re kind of plateaued with them all at the moment.”
“Oh, don’t fret,” she chided. “They’ll be plenty happy with whatever we can deliver. C’mon, let’s go get cleaned up.”
We put the last of our things away, went out into the backyard, called up a sand shower, scrubbed ourselves clean, dressed, tossed our massage kit bags behind the seats of mi burro, and got back onto the road.