CHAPTER FIVE: Cassandra
I kicked off the high heels the moment after I came into my apartment and closed the door, then picked them up by the straps and let them dangle from two fingers as I walked into the kitchen with my briefcase in the other hand. I could almost hear my feet sighing as they hit the cool tile of the kitchen floor. It felt wonderfully soothing through the confines of the panty hose. I wiggled my toes to get the feeling back into them as I set the briefcase on the kitchen island and the shoes on top of it.
My stomach was growling, but I ignored it. Instead, I poured myself a tall glass of Chablis and sipped it carefully as I walked into the bedroom with the heels and briefcase now in one hand. I set my briefcase and the glass on the dresser and went into my big walk-in closet. I set the heels back in their designated spot (I’m a bit OCD) and peeled myself out of the pencil skirt and matching jacket, which I hung on a rack inside the closet door so I would remember to have my maid take then to the cleaners on Monday. Unless I missed my guess, my skirt was ripe with my scent, just as the pantyhose and panties were. I took off the white silk blouse and bunched it to my nose, inhaling. It smelled of sweat and perfume. I tossed it in the hamper.
Things felt really icky between my legs. I rubbed my crotch with the tips of my fingers. Wet. Hot. Sticky. I momentarily thought I had wet myself or started my period, my pantyhose and panties were so hot and damp. But that wasn’t the case. I had just oozed juices everywhere, something I had not done in a very long time, especially riding in the back of a Town Car with my version of Morgan Freeman behind the wheel.
I stripped off the panty hose, panties and bra and dropped them all in the clothes hamper, then walked back into the bedroom. I took a few deep breaths and stretched my arms toward the ceiling. I got up onto my tiptoes and tightened my leg muscles. I had been a dancer once, eons ago, and had even dabbled in yoga. Maybe if I’d stuck with either of them I wouldn’t feel like my body was getting old before its time. I heard bones in my back faintly popping as I stretched. I figured I’d done enough yoga for one day.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the soaker tub and poured in some lilac oil. I lit a few candles and went back into the bedroom to retrieve my glass of wine and the iPad from my briefcase. I thought about taking it into the bath with me, then decided not to, then decided to go ahead. I was either drunker than I thought or losing my sense of reason. Maybe I was just more tired than I thought. Whatever, I pulled the iPad out of the briefcase and took it with me into the bath.
When the tub was full, I stepped into the steamy water and lowered myself in slowly. For some reason, I jumped a little when my twat hit the hot water. It wasn’t a burning sensation. It was something else. Something strange. Something sexual. I didn’t orgasm, but I felt a familiar shudder. I guess listening to Lulu and reading the confessions of the women who detailed their Yoni Massage experience had gotten to me. I was horny for the first time in… well… I didn’t know when. My breasts were swollen and my nipples plump as they slid beneath the oily surface of the water.
I had a plastic tray that sat across the tub with a book stand on it. I set the iPad on the book stand and sipped the wine as it booted up. I set the glass on the tray and picked up a washcloth from the side of the tub and wet it under the water, then leaned back with my head resting against the side of the tub and the cloth over my eyes.
The hot bath felt wonderful. The heat was easing the tension in my muscles, but the fire between my legs raged on. With the cloth still over my eyes, I slid my hands down to my breasts and gave them a good squeeze. My nipples were warm and hard, sensitive to the touch. I rolled them between my fingers and pinched them until the pain made me stop. My left hand lingered on my tits as my right hand started down across my stomach, into my bush of dark curls, down the length of my clit. Then the fucking iPad pinged. I couldn’t believe it. I tugged the wash cloth from my face and stared at the screen. It was Lulu Facetiming me. I thought about ignoring her, but knew that if I didn’t answer she’d just start calling my cellphone. It was easier to get away from a pack of bloodhounds than Lulu. I dried my hands on a towel and tapped the button. Lulu’s face filled the screen.
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t what me,” she said with a grin. She moved her face closer to the screen. “Are you in the tub?”
“Yes,” I said. “I’m trying to relax. What do you want?”
“Show me your tits,” she teased.
“Lu, two seconds.”
“Fine, fine. I wanted to know if you had thought anymore about going to Paradiso with me next weekend to get your Yoni rubbed.”
I was not about to tell her that I had thought little about anything else. “No, Lu, I have not.”
“Well, I found something online and wanted you to watch it. Maybe it’ll convince you to go with me.”
“Fine,” I said with a huff. “What is it? A website? Text me the link and I’ll look at it later.”
“It’s a video of Yoni Master Devin McMasters talking about Yoni Massage,” she said, looking down from the camera. I could hear her tapping on the computer keys. “Okay, check your messenger. Watch that video. I think you’ll like what you hear.” She grinned at me from the screen. “And I think you’ll like what you see.”
“Fine. If I get time this weekend, I’ll watch it.”
She leaned in to the camera again and looked down as if she were peeping through a window at me. “So, you’re not going to show me your tits?”
“Bye, Lu. See you Monday.” I tapped the button and Lulu’s smiling face disappeared. The messenger window had popped up to display the link to the video. My pussy was still waiting for my fingers to rejoin the party, but my curiosity to see the video of this so-called Yoni Master got the best of me. I tapped the link and waited for the video to load. When the strikingly handsome face of Devin McMasters filled the screen, I got the feeling again that I knew him somehow, or had met him somewhere. The memory was cloudy, but it was there somewhere in the fog, like a ghostly figure just out of view. I’d figure it out eventually. But now, I had something else in mind. I tapped the button and the video began to play.
It was a BBC documentary on Eastern and holistic medicine. The segment was an interview with a BBC journalist, an attractive young blonde with a clipped British accent and very short skirt. She was seated across from him, her long, perfect legs crossed. I noticed her foot bouncing nervously. I did that sometimes when I had to pee, or when I was a little drunk and horny. I wondered if Devin McMasters was working his magic with her.
“So, Mr. McMasters,” she began, frowning down at a notepad that was resting on her thigh like she was deep in thought.
“Please, Erica, call me Devin,” he said, his deep voice resonant through the tiny speaker. He gave her a warm smile that made the bath water between my legs heat up. It got to her too. She giggled and pushed a strand of hair back over her ear.
“Yes, well, Devin…” She was trying to keep it together. She straightened in the chair and cleared her throat. “Um… let’s start with the obvious question. What do you believe, Yoni Massage is much more than masturbatory sex?”
I smiled. So did he? I chuckled to myself. “Masturbatory sex? I’ll have to use that one in court someday.” I picked up the soap and started lathering my shoulders and chest as my eyes remained on the screen.
McMasters leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “Well, Erica, have you ever had a Yoni Massage?”
She blinked at him. “No, well… no.”
“But you have had masturbatory sex?” He said it like there was no arguing with the point. Hell, who hadn’t been fingered or diddled themselves silly.
“Well… I mean…” She was squirming in the chair. “That doesn’t really answer the question.”
I watched Devin McMasters’s handsome face as he looked at her. He was smiling slightly, just the hints of a curl at the corners of his lips. The man was incredible looking with his sweeping long blonde hair, deep blue eyes that cut through the video, big smile, perfect teeth, deep rich tan. He looked like a thirty-something surfer who just happened to be a professional pussy massager.
He was wearing a white silk shirt open at the collar and sleeves, a pair of white Chinos, and sandals. I supposed it was a fitting uniform for the world’s foremost expert on, well, you know.
“To answer your question, Erica,” he said, letting the smile drop as he leaned in again, this time with a serious expression on is handsome face. “Masturbatory sex is just that: sex. The purpose is to orgasm, or at least try to.”
“Yes,” she said, hissing out the word, probably because she had been holding her breath waiting for him to answer. She put a knuckle to her lips as if to shush herself.
“The purpose of Yoni Massage is to cleanse the body, mind and soul of tension, toxins, negativity, suppressed emotions.” The camera came in close on his tanned face. I felt my nipples tingling in the water. The soap was still in my hand. I soaped up my breasts and massaged my nipples until they were fully erect and hard as gumdrops.
“So, you’re saying that there is more to Yoni Massage than simply the touching of the female’s genitalia,” the blonde said, doing her best to keep a serious expression on her face. I had to smile. I was pretty sure she was as moist in the twat just sitting across from him as I was watching the video.
“You make it sound so clinical,” he said, the smile flashing again. “It’s been medically proven that women tend to store suppressed emotions inside the vagina. Toxins. Negativity. Years of suppressed emotions that lead to stress, and we know that stress can lead to high blood pressure, heart problems, anxiety, death.”
“And Yoni Massage can help prevent that?” she asked, uncrossing her legs as she asked the question. She repositioned herself so that she was sitting facing him with her knees spread as wide as the tight skirt would allow. My left hand remained on my breast. My right hand slid the soap down my stomach, across my curly bush. Finding my clit hard, I drew slow circles around it with the soap.
“Yes, such emotions can be released through Yoni,” he said, leaning back and spreading out his big hands… his big magic hands… his big magic healing hands… I slid the soap between my pussy lips. I could feel my cunt releasing hot juices into the bathwater, warm and oily, like an oil spill in the floor of the Gulf. I slid the soap inside my opening and slowly moved it around, then replaced the soap with a finger.
“Can you describe what happens during the Yoni Massage?” blondie asked. Her voice cracked a little. Bless her. She was probably cumming in her chair.
“First, we set the mood,” he said, leaning in again and lowering his voice just above a whisper. The blonde and I both swallowed hard. I slid two fingers inside my pussy as my left hand gave my nipple a squeeze. “The room is lit by candles, soft music playing, a comfortable surface on which to lie.”
“Am I naked?” she asked suddenly, as if the words were forced from her lungs. “I mean… um… the person getting the massage…”
He smiled at her, like a hunter smiling as the prey fell into his trap. His teeth showed pearly white as his lips curled back over them. I imagined that he had fangs. He would have made a lovely vampire.
I slid my fingers out and slowly back inside my pussy. My body was heating up. Drops of sweat formed on my forehead, above my lip, on my neck… I imagined him licked the sweat from my skin and humming as he did so.
“Yes, the person is nude,” he said. “Covered by a thin sheet.”
“I see.” She was trying to get herself together. She tapped the pen to her chin and gave him a thoughtful look. “Then?”
“Then, the woman gets comfortable on the table, lying on her stomach. I use a special oil, my own secret sauce, if you will. The oil is kept in a warmer to keep it warm at all times.”
“You put the oil in your hands…” At first, I thought the blonde had said the words, then I realized that I was talking out loud. The fingers in my pussy picked up the pace, sliding in and out faster. I clutched at my breast and massaged it roughly, squeezing the nipple until the wonderful pain forced me to stop.
“Yes, I put the oil in my hands, not directly on the skin of the woman,” he said, holding up the big hands again, the fingers so perfectly long and slim. “I warm the oil in my hands, then the massage begins.”
“Begins… where?” she asked.
My breath was getting heavy. My breasts were rising and falling with each gust. The fingers in my pussy were plunging in and out. I brought my left hand down to rub my clit, sending a shockwave through my body that nearly made me cum. I was getting close, but not yet, not quite yet…
“I begin where the tension is centered the most, sometimes the feet, sometimes the shoulders and back” he said, talking with his hands. I could feel them on my breast. On my clit. Inside my pussy. My fingers quickened the pace. I was gushing hot juices into the bath water. I didn’t need the lube of the soap anymore. My body was oozing with its own lubricant.
“Then the arms and hands,” he said, his voice quieter now, seductive. I could imagine that the blonde was as close to cumming as I was.
“Then I move to the feet and work my way up the legs, over the calves, the backs of the thighs, then to the buttocks.”
“You massage her derriere,” the reporter said officially, like she was confirming some vital fact she didn’t want to the audience to miss. She tried to wrinkle her forehead, but the Botox prevented it. “Then what? Do you move to the vagina?”
I smiled. My fingers went deeper inside my cunt. I tugged my clit between my thumb and forefinger and milked it like a small cock. The orgasm was coming. My body was on fire. My toes were curling. My twat was suctioning around my fingers.
“No, not yet,” he said with a smile, looking directly into the camera. I imagined that he was talking to me. I slowed the pace of the thrusts in my twat. I didn’t want to cum too soon… not yet… not yet…
“When I am finished with the posterior, the woman moves to her back and the massage is repeated on the front,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “First the feet and legs, then the arms and hands. Then the breasts and stomach…”
“You massage my—her—breasts?” The blonde crossed her legs, probably because her pussy was oozing all over the back of her tight, white skirt.
“Yes, massaging the breasts is vital. The breasts are a large muscle and can hold an enormous amount of tension,” he said, cupping his hands out front of him. I imagined him cupping my breasts.
“I see,” she said, trying to look pensive with the pen at her chin, her head slowly bobbing. “And then?”
“Then down to the stomach muscles, then to the pubic area, then to the vagina.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his long legs, then laced his fingers over his knee, as if he was finished with the tour. The blonde waited for a moment, glanced at the camera, then leaned in toward him with her hands out. I was right there with her, on the brink of orgasm, ready to cum at any moment.
“And what then?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her clipped proper accent.
“Then…” He spread his hands and smiled. “Bliss.”
“Fuck…” The video ended on his face, his blue eyes burning into the camera. I stared at the frozen frame and hammered my fingers into my pussy.
I stiffened my index finger of the other hand and rolled it over my clit as quickly as it would go, hard, sending vibrations through my clit, up my stomach, to my breasts and out of my mouth.
My moans echoed off the bathroom walls. I came in waves as I stared into his eyes. It was his cock inside my pussy. His hands on my clit, on my tits. I imagined his tongue in my mouth.
My body shuddered so hard I splashed water all over the floor. When it was done, I soaked for a few minutes, then dried off my hands and picked up my phone.
“Lu, it’s me,” I said, still breathless. “I’m in. Book the trip to Paradiso for next weekend.”