Sometimes things just happen. I lived in Chicago, but was transferred to the Bay area by my company. They paid for my wife to move with me, but that was in doubt - our relationship had been on the rocks, and though we hadn't communicated directly, it was likely she would not be joining me.
So for the time being, I stayed in a residence hotel - full bar, breakfast in the morning, and a full kitchen in my room. I liked company, however, and usually cooked at the hotel's grill, eventually making friends with other long-time residents and the hotel staff.
The good news: the hotel bartenders were talkative and cute, and we got to know each other well. The hotel also drew clients that stayed for long periods of time, and many of them were pretty damn good looking. Furthermore, the company I worked for paid me well enough to enjoy any number of life's pleasures... good food, good wine, travel, sporting events. And good bourbon... love good bourbon.
The bad news: although still married, and respecting of both wife and vows, our marriage was pretty much shot, though we struggled to accept the thought of it. She's a good woman; I likely don't deserve her, but the fact is we grew apart. Blame it on the Service. Our sex life had ended a few years earlier... was she having an affair? Probably. Sadly, I didn't care. Actually, not true - if she was, I was glad she found a lover that brought her pleasure. Years of trying, and fact is, we just weren't sexually compatible. For her, sex was a ceremony... an act of religious devotion. For me, it was supposed to be a party... you know - music, laughs, surprises. Maybe a friend or two.
About me: Retired Navy. Had a good run of it, and a taste of the aphrodisiac that power is to women. Never acted on it, but saw the effect played out in front of me. Usually in my office, but just as often in a San Diego bar or on a plane. But my god... the temptation... I'm early 50's and keep my body in shape with running and yoga, and my brain in shape with reading and teaching. I consult for an international firm.. it pays the bills, but I don't care for it. Fact is, I'm good at selling, and that's worth real money in the private sector. I'm 6 feet tall, and weigh in at about 180. Bald, and I tan well. And, to be honest, I give in to temptation. This is the story of those temptations.
Olga.
Never had a massage in my life, until my last years in the Navy. Thought they were ridiculous. But as the old sports injuries wore on and the "battle rattle" (body armor) took their effect, the thought appealed. Actually, it was my wife's idea. When we finally got to Chicago after retirement, and the pains became daily, I acquiesced. I was walking along LaSalle toward my "el" stop and noticed a small day spa. Nothing unusual or noteworthy, except on this hot August day. The receptionist had the front door open.. maybe the AC was down, and I caught her eye. She was stunning. Porn Star stunning. Literally stopped me in my tracks.
So, this was awkward. Raven-haired, big brown eyes, full lips. We were staring at each other, her with bemusement, and me with "deer-in-the headlights" eyes. What could I do? I stepped in, and introduced myself. My second mistake.
She was wearing a small, sexy receptionist desk-like dress one might expect from the likes of a Hollywood agent's office. My god.. the cleavage. I think she was used to the effect... she simply smiled, and asked if I had an appointment.
"Well, no, but... do you guys do massages?"
"Of course!" She beamed even more brightly. Eastern European accent. Fuck.
So I pressed... "And... are you the masseuse?" Brighter smile. Breasts pressed forward as she leaned toward me.
"I can be... when would you like your appointment?"
"Soon, I said... I can make time at lunch or just after working hours... after 5 PM any time for the next week." She looked over her calendar. "Well, there are any number of therapists available in the next week..."
"But what about you?"
"Hmmm. Sorry," she said. She leaned forward and scoured over her computer... breasts pressing into her dress," I'm not available till next Thursday." The accent alone was making me hard. Fuck. I'm giving a sales pitch next week on the West Coast.
"OK - how about the week after?"
