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I know this is short. It's really more of an intro to a longer story I have in mind. I figured maybe posting it now would give me incentive to hurry up and finish it. Comments and ratings greatly appreciated.
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I was idly flipping through an old copy of Maxim, not really registering the words on the page. I had been kind of depressed for a while. Even though I really liked working at Bramble Ridge Country Club, after working there through college I had really been looking forward to getting a "real job". But the economy tanked and no one was interested in hiring a brand new graduate from a crappy state university.
Things were alright really. Working for the country club would never make me rich but the money was okay. Unlike a lot of my friends I had a job. And while in college I had a tuition scholarship so all I'd had to pay for was books, food and rent, which meant I didn't have to worry about student loans. So, all in all, things were okay. Still, I was in a deep funk over being a college grad working the desk at a spa in a country club. Boo-hoo, poor me, right?
My one person pity party was interrupted when Larry speed walked past the counter, muttering, "Dude. Heads up. Wicked witch."
"Shit!"
I stuffed the magazine into a drawer and gritted my teeth in anticipation, or dread. "The wicked witch" is Amy Holcomb. She used to work here as a massage therapist before one of the members snapped her up as a trophy wife during my sophomore year. She was beautiful, but that didn't make up for the fact that she had always been my bitchiest coworker, and was now hell on wheels as a member. Feeling as if I was awaiting my doom, I reflected on how strange it was that the old money New England aristocracy that made up the bulk of the membership were, by and large, pretty decent to the staff, and that the worst people to deal with were the trailer trash trophy wives like Amy.
I was startled out of my reverie by five foot three of curvy, blonde evil clearing her throat and tapping her overpriced manicure on the green marble counter top in front of me. I managed a polite smile that didn't touch my eyes.
"Hello Amy, what can I do for you today?" I found myself using every ounce of willpower at my disposal to look away from her perfect, bra-less, handful sized breasts, topped by erect nipples that were clearly visible poking through her pink golf shirt.
"Well first,
David
," she sneered my name making it sound like an insult, "it's Mrs. Holcomb to you. Second, you can get your eyes off my tits, ya fuckin' perv. And third, you can get put some extra towels into number three. And if I catch you in there again, I'll report you for harassing me and get your ass fired. I'll be right back, so get to it." With that she stormed off. Larry stuck his head out from behind the divider between the front desk and the staff area and hummed a snippet of the Wicked Witch's theme from the Wizard of Oz. I laughed in spite of my foul mood, grabbed a stack of towels and headed for shower three.
The spa had a series of private shower rooms which put most studio apartments to shame. Each of them had a shower big enough for an orgy (well, a small orgy anyway), a Jacuzzi tub, a massage table, an assortment of exotic plumbing fixtures. Everything was made of marble, gold or crystal. As I'd overheard one of the members put it once, the club's showers were "as simple and understated as a pimp on Easter."
A few weeks ago I had been cleaning up number three when Amy, fresh from the sauna and wearing nothing but a towel and a sour expression, walked in on me. I had hung a sign on the door handle that said the room was being cleaned, and she could have gone into any of the others. Instead she walked into mine, kicked me out, and then raised a stink with my boss that I was "lurking around the showers trying to get an eyeful". My boss accepted my explanation of what had really happened. But a complaint from a member goes in your file no matter what. I knew that he might not be able to save my job if she made another complaint. She knew the same thing, and used that fact to keep me jumping.
I set out the towels on the cushioned changing bench and turned to leave when I heard Amy's fake laughter outside the door. Shit. I don't know why I didn't just leave through the door. On reflection later I realized that she never would have reported me for "lurking" again. She's the type who would prefer to hold it over my head and make me dance. But in the moment I panicked, and ducked into a closet full of plush bathrobes.
I closed the door on the closet just as Amy opened the door to the shower room. Fuck. I was a dead man. If she found me in the fucking closet there would be no way I could keep my job. Hell, there was probably no way I could stay out of jail. She stood in the doorway talking to someone in hushed tones. I couldn't make out anything she was saying but I recognized the voice of the person she was speaking to as male. Her husband never came to the club in the daytime during the week. Part of me wondered if she was fooling around. Most of me just hoped neither of them wanted a bathrobe.
She entered the room alone, and I dismissed my suspicions, returning instead to praying she didn't open the closet. I could just barely make out her outline through the louvered slats on the closet door. She was stripping over by the changing bench, carefully folding her clothes and setting them on the bench. She walked over to the sink and started rubbing her naked body with one of the exotic unguents we set out for our wealthy clientele. I could smell the spicy lightly floral scent of the oil she was rubbing all over her naked body. Like I said in the closet I could just barely make out her outline. But just knowing she was naked, rubbing some exotic-flower scented oil into her tits and, judging from her current posture, her pussy, was making me hard.
Amy stopped rubbing herself (and tormenting me) at a light tapping on the door. She turned and grabbed a towel, wrapping it around her body, and opened the door. She looked up and down the hall outside, and ushered someone inside, whispering and giggling. "Ah, here it comes," I thought to myself. Well now at the very least if they caught me I could maybe protect myself by offering to protect their secret. I couldn't see the guy's face, but his silhouette made him look tall and well built. Her husband was short and starting to go round and saggy about the middle. He was also an incredibly wealthy fifty-three year old workaholic with no kids. I doubt he'd be thrilled to learn his expensive arm candy was stepping out on him.
I leaned back against the wall, waiting for them to finish what they were here for, and hoping they didn't find me. I had a scare when Amy walked right toward the closet, but she went into the one next to mine and pulled out a folding massage table. After setting it up in the middle of the room she helped her friend strip and pushed him face-down onto the table. From what I could see she was giving him an incredible massage, rubbing him with her breasts and her pussy more than her hands. I found myself getting aroused again. I looked down and closed my eyes, pinching and rubbing the bridge of my nose. I was also getting a headache. I needed to get the fuck out of there.
