Life here in Manchester was quite normal before Karylou joined us for a 6 month assignment from our Charlotte office. Most of us are New Englanders and we didn't quite know what to make of Karylou's decidedly southern outlook on life. She had the subtlest wit of anyone I'd ever known. She'd lull you to sleep with that southern accent and feigned helplessness, and wham - she'd zing you and not even acknowledge that she knew what she'd said.
Her mastery of ambiguity, never giving a straight answer, played well in the business world and she was always our first choice for delivering bad news to a customer. She'd leave customers feeling like our 2-week delay in delivering our product was the best news they'd ever heard. Given a simple yes/no question, she'd often answer with some euphemism that left us all in complete bewilderment as to the answer. If not for the Internet, I'd never known that river cooters do indeed live in Bull Neck swamp and therefore she was indeed heading home for the Fourth of July weekend.
Asking her to explain her expressions usually proved futile - she assumed that these were so common that I was just pulling her leg by questioning her. Several times she'd called me "sly boots". I had no idea why shoes would be clever, but when I asked her to explain, she just rolled her eyes as if I was the stupidest person in the world, and with exasperation she replied: "because they have long tongues silly" as if this made perfect sense and fully answered my question.
Karylou certainly teased and flirted with everyone, but she seemed to take special pleasure in targeting me, especially when we were alone together. Maybe because my fiance' was away in Pittsburgh doing a post-doc, she seemed to especially enjoy making me feel the frustration she must be feeling being so far away from her husband.
When others were around, she'd talk about how she missed her cat Dansko back home in North Carolina; but when it was just us, she'd tell me, without any hint of double meaning, how her pussy was lonely and loved to be petted and stroked. At work she'd talk about her two nieces, but alone with me it was always "the girls" and how they loved to be tickled and how much she liked to go to the beach and let the scantily clad girls play in the sun. And she often bemoaned how her husband didn't pay near enough attention to her pussy or the girls.
From anyone else, this would be obvious propositioning, but she said it with such a straight and uncomprehending face, and she would give such a disapproving look when I responded with any innuendo of my own or any indication of there being anything other than friendship between us. With that thick southern accent of hers, I couldn't help but think of Brer Rabbit in the Uncle Remus tales - how he'd always say one thing when he wanted just the opposite. Deep down I suspected that Karylou had Brer Rabbit's heart, and I was constantly searching for opportunities to find out, but so far, like Brer Rabbit, she'd outwitted me at every turn.
I never learned, she always seemed to best me. I'd try to zing her, she'd respond with some incomprehensible southern expression, flash a smile that'd make anyone melt, and without batting an eyelash (actually with a lot of batting eyelashes) she'd zing me back or worse get me to reveal something about myself that she'd use to her advantage. I'd managed to keep it a secret from most friends, but within 2 weeks she'd found a ruse to get me to reveal that Bill wasn't short for William, but rather a nickname for Blair Billingsly Worthington Fowkes III, and of course she'd kid me about it every chance she could. It was hard to rib her about the name Karylou Labrue, when I had that moniker to cope with.
During a casual conversation one day, she learned that I had worked my way through college giving massages at a day spa. She bragged about the spas back home, how much she missed them, and before I knew it, I'd broken my vow of keeping all that in the past, and had agreed to give her a massage the following night at my house. I got almost no sleep that night digging up my old massage table from the basement and clearing out the spare bedroom - something that I'd procrastinated about cleaning for months.
My mind was in overdrive fantasizing about the night to come. She often dressed conservatively at work, but that day she wore my favorite outfit, one she'd only worn once before: a simple white v-neck t-shirt that revealed just the tiniest hint of her ample cleavage, and a short, full black skirt. By the time she had followed me home from work, her dark brown hair was free of the barrettes she usually wore and hung teasingly to her shoulders. Her incredible green eyes were glowing as she handed me a bottle of wine when she came in the door.
After a glass of wine, we moved into the massage room, bottle in hand. I lit some candles, turned off the lights and added some soft, sensual music. Meanwhile she took off her shirt and skirt, carefully folded them on a chair and quickly jumped face down on the padded massage table, quickly covering her panty-clad rear with one of the Turkish towels I'd stacked nearby, taking another to lie her head on. She reached back, unhooked the lacy bra she was wearing, slipped her arms out while keeping the bra underneath her, and in her flirtiest accent, said "OK Bill, give me your best".
My mind was racing with what was to come, but knowing Karlyou, I knew I had to take it slowly. It had been many years since I'd last given a real massage, but it came back quickly. I started with her hands, neck and face before moving down to her back and ultimately her feet and backs of her legs. The feel of her skin against mine, the glow of the warm oil on her back in the candlelight was incredibly erotic. I couldn't help but stare at the sides of her breasts which mounded under her weight, and were quite exposed with her arms comfortably folded under her head.
I had always been professional in my massages at school, and even though some of my customers had indicated they'd welcome "something extra", I never wanted to risk anything tainting my school record. And I had stayed "professional" with Karylou for the most part. On the few occasions I had allowed my hands to go further down her sides and near the soft flesh of the beginnings of her breasts or too close to her towel covered rear, she had either shifted uncomfortably or made a comment about that spot being too sensitive. So, as much as I had hoped this was going to be a fantasy come true, true to form with Karylou, this was about as far as it was going to go.
Sensing the massage was over, she re-clasped her bra, covered herself with a towel and quickly hopped off the table and got dressed. Then, with a hearty thank you and nothing more, she was off. I was left standing with what I would unfortunately come to not so fondly refer to as Labrue balls.
She talked me into another massage two weeks later, and without even knowing how it happened, this turned into a ritual every other week. She just assumed it was a regular thing, and I couldn't say no. Every time was nearly the same, although each time she seemed to find a new way to flirt with me, to make me think this week might be different and therefore get me to give extra energy to the massage, only to be left watching her cute butt from behind as she walked down the walk from my house to her car. Despite the fact that she was near-naked in my apartment every other week, she'd never allowed it to go any further than just a massage.
At times it was so frustrating, I wanted to stop. But each time she'd play me so well, I'd melt like jelly and end up looking forward to yet another evening of frustration.
