CHAPTER FOUR: Cassandra
I left the office just before seven and was feeling pretty loose from all the scotch. The booze had dulled my senses a bit, but my muscles still felt like they were twisted in knots. My back ached, my neck, my shoulders, my legs, my poor feet. Christ, I was only thirty-eight. How was I going to feel after a rough week when I was forty-eight? Or fifty-eight? If things kept going the way they were I’d end up in a tight ball under my desk before I was sixty.
Lulu was always telling me that I worked too much and didn’t play enough, and she was probably right, but I wasn’t sure what I would spend my time doing if I didn’t work. I mean, it’s not like I have a life or anything. I can’t remember the last real relationship I was in.
I had occasional sex with Brad McKinney, a lawyer five years younger than me who worked in the public defender’s office. But there was no future there. Brad was holding out for a sweet, young thing he could knock up a few times and sock away at a house in the suburbs while he fucked his mistress at an apartment in the city. We just fuck when we run into each other at the occasional social function or association meeting. It was just a “fuck and run”, which was kind of like a “hit and run” only with quick sex. Not to be confused with a “hit or miss”, which described most of the relationships I’d had over the years.
It wasn’t that I was averse to a serious long-term relationship. Or even marriage and children. I’d be open to squeezing a few rug rats out of the old vaj if the planets aligned and the right man came along. It was just that, well, to be perfectly honest, I’d never met a man who even made me think about settling down. Call me picky, call me shallow. I’d rather grow old alone than spend my life with a man who was just “there”. Settling down didn’t have to mean settling for, at least not in my mind.
I turned off the lights, locked the main door, and rode the elevator down the fifteen floors to the lobby, leaning against the wall because I was a little tipsy. There were a few people milling around the lobby, but for the most part, everyone had cleared out and gone home for the weekend. As usual, I was the last to leave Casey & Roman and one of the last to evacuate the building.
Just another day in the life of Cassandra Casey, Attorney at Law…
I had called for the car service thirty minutes earlier and the black Town Car was waiting at the curb when I came out the door.
I used the same car service every Friday and always requested the older Town Car with the big backseat to stretch out in and my favorite driver, an older black gentleman named Carl. He was used to seeing me wiped out at the end of the week, but I must have really looked like hell because he gave me a concerned glance in the rearview mirror and looked back over his shoulder to check on me, something he rarely did.
“You doing okay this evening, Miss Casey?” he asked. His slow delivery and resonant voice always reminded me of Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy, which sort of made me feel like an eighty-year-old white woman being driven to the beauty parlor in the back of a 1949 Hudson sedan. It was funny. Lulu had ridden with Carl countless times and didn’t get the Morgan Freeman thing. Maybe it was just how he sounded in my mind. Miss Daisy. Miss Casey. Sometimes I imagined things that weren’t there. It was a quirk that had served me well as a lawyer over the years (a healthy dose of suspicion and paranoia are good traits for a divorce lawyer), but had been the torpedo that sunk many a relationship (see what I did there?).
“I’m fine, Carl,” I said with a tired sigh. “Thanks for asking. Just a rough week.”
“Some are rougher than others I’d expect,” he said as he pulled away from the curb and into the late afternoon traffic headed uptown. “You just settle back and I’ll have you home before you know it.”
I had an hour to kill and should have spent it reading one of the client briefs in my briefcase, but I’d done enough work for one week. I took out my iPad and fired up the web browser, then opened a search page. With hesitant fingers, I typed in YONI MASSAGE. To my surprise, there were tens of thousands of results. Apparently, Lulu wasn’t the only woman who saw the benefits of having her pussy—I mean, yoni—massaged.
I was suddenly very self-conscious. It was silly, Carl could not possibly know what I was looking at on the iPad, but I got a little paranoid (see, told you) when I glanced at the rearview mirror. Carl’s eyes were on the road. I couldn’t tell you why I was nervous. It wasn’t like I was masturbating in the backseat or anything (at least not yet). Still, I shifted in the seat so he couldn’t see that I was fiddling with my iPad.
Devin McMasters and Paradiso Resort & Spa were at the top of the search return list. I would research the man with the healing hands and his magic playground later. For now, I wanted to read what normal women—were they really normal if they blogged about a pussy massage—had to say.
I scanned the results and clicked on a link that led to a forum post by a woman named Tess, who went into great detail to describe her first experience with Yoni Massage. She used many of the same words that Lulu had. Amazing… Never felt so relaxed, so serene… Experienced multiple orgasms… Squirted… Peed… Blah, blah, blah…
I clicked on three more links and read three more first-hand accounts (again, no pun intended). In every case, the women described the experience as not simply sexual, but spiritual, life changing, emotional. Some said they cried uncontrollably and felt totally cleansed and free afterward. Some described feelings of euphoria, like having an out of body experience. More multiple orgasms. More squirting. More peeing. More glowing reviews about something I was still having a hard time wrapping my head around.
The plush, leather seat beneath me was getting warm. I wondered if the seat warmer was on. I checked the button on the door panel. No, the seat warmer wasn’t on. It took me a second to realize that it wasn’t the seat that was generating the heat, it was me, or more to the point, my pussy, which was rising in temperature like a blast furnace on high. I could smell my juices as they flowed from deep within me, soaking my cotton panties and the crotch of my panty hose. I nervously glanced at Carl, who’s eyes were still on the road. There were air conditioning vents in the back of the front seat. I adjusted the vents and pointed them in my direction, hoping to cool the sweat that was dotting my upper lip and keep the smell of my sex up-wind from Carl.
I went back to the search results page and clicked on a link to an article in an online medical journal. I’d had enough reading about horny women squirting and pissing all over the place. I needed to read something clinical, something dry, something that wouldn’t make my cunt flow like a rushing river.
The title of the article was, Yoni Massage: Fact or Fetish, written by a woman identified as Sexologist & Clinical Practitioner Dr. Genevieve St. Claire. There was a picture of St. Claire along with a brief bio. My eyes were drawn to the image for some reason. I clicked to enlarge it and her face filled the screen with the bio below. She was movie star beautiful, with long blonde hair and a warm smile and large eyes… living in Paris… age 64—what, there was no fucking way this woman was 64… I leaned in and squinted at the image. Her skin was flawless. Her face did not bear the plastic mask of surgery and Botox like so many women her age (and mine). I could see tiny laugh lines and crow’s feet, but otherwise she looked utterly amazing. And a hell of a lot better than I did at two-thirds of her age.
I clicked the image to close it and started reading the article, which detailed what St. Claire claimed to be the numerous benefits of Yoni Massage, which she credited, at least in part, to her overall excellent health and enduring beauty (her words, not mine).
I read the article aloud in my head.
I imagined St. Claire reading to me in a clipped French accent.
“Yoni Massage helps break down blockages and releases toxins to increase blood flow to sexual organs.”
No shit. If a hot guru was fingering me and tweaking my clit I’d probably be releasing all kinds of toxic stuff, especially if I was squirting and pissing, which I still thought was just ridiculous.
I read on. “Yoni Massage increases blood flow and releases hormones that stimulate the subject sexually and mentally.”
I shifted in the seat again. My panties were soaking up the juices like a Bounty towel.
“Yoni Massage may help or prevent memory loss, back pain, poor circulation, decreased libido, impotence, difficulty in urination and painful menstruation. It has even been known to open a closed mind.”
“Okay, I’m calling bullshit, Genevieve,” I said out loud, huffing at the screen. This bitch was starting to sound like she was rattling off the side effects of some new miracle drug.
“You say something, Miss Casey?” I looked up to see Carl’s dark eyes studying me in the rearview mirror. His forehead was cut into deep lines of concern. I didn’t care what Lulu said. To me, Carl sounded just like Morgan Freeman, at least in my brain.
“Sorry, Carl,” I said with an embarrassed grin. I held up the iPad and rolled my eyes. “Just legal stuff.”
He let his head bob for a moment and put his eyes back on the road.
In my head, he said, “Don’t you worry none now, Miss Daisy. I’ll have you home in five minutes.”
I turned off the iPad and shoved it back into my briefcase just as Carl pulled to the curb in front of my building. Genevieve St. Claire’s voice still echoed in my mind.
“Yoni has even been known to open a closed mind,” I imagined her saying. “Perhaps, Cassandra Casey, it can even open yours.”