The North Sea it was not. The setting sun flamed the waters in a last burst of color as darkness spread over the gentle surf closer to shore. The lights of the beach hotels and condominium towers flanking her to either side seemed to gather themselves to cast their light onto the increasingly inky waters. A stray breeze shimmered across the pool waters; gentle lapping sounds and a ruffling of the leaves in the pool gardens. Caressingly it caught the grey fabric of her bias cut dress; the silk felt cool and gentle across the skin of her bare legs. It also caught her perfectly cut shoulder-length blonde hair. A tendril of hair strayed over a high cheekbone – her face was a classic Nordic frame - and into one of her jade green eyes.
She replaced it with an athletic economy of motion that spoke to her continued training. At 41 she was as toned and fit as she had been 15 years earlier. Her marathon times were testament to that, though her body had a soft rounding at hips and breast rather than the severe frame of the hard-core runner . She tensed and relaxed her legs – lean, long, fit (still supply strong enough to win the odd "for fun" ski race on the annual trips to the Alps).
She turned and the plate glass fronting the pool offered up her reflection. Middlingly tall, she peered at herself severely. Her man of many years insisted that, having mellowed from the freshness and angularity of youth, she had grown into one of those lasting Northern beauties. "Superb" he would always say. Soft, natural, much more alluring and with a naturalness a vast gulf away from the Barbie or the Stepford wife. "You are my bohemian top executive, my model who can outrun me in a marathon." And he would go on as he caressed the length of her back with his nails, or a silk tie. He admired her and praised her, at length. She turned sideways and scowled at the distant reflection. For her part her bum was too big and her B cups ("gently swelling perfection he called them") a shade smaller than she'd like. The hairdresser had added a tad too much curl to her hair, which irritated her (she'd been doing emails at the time).
The North Sea it was not. Normally she ran early or with a group of serious runners in remote places. Today she had run along the beach (bikinis but almost no toplessness, the Americans were such prudes) and back on the hotel-side road. She had been wearing black tight shorts and dark pink t-shirt. Today she was more aware than ever of the bounce of her breasts. She had noticed cars slowing down; and occasionally she had made eye contact with male drivers rubber-necking to get a look. She had pulled her shoulders back slightly, to accentuate the bounce. Thereafter cars had slowed even more, those turning out of junctions to kindly allow her to pass and then accelerated very slowly behind her. She had smiled; it felt good to be thus admired.
The din of the event grew. The cocktail hour had spilled out of the bar area. They had taken over much of the hotel. The two organizations had brought senior teams to celebrate the partnership. The other side was an odd one, well-travelled people from New York and Midwesterners of very different values.
She ought to go back. Taking a deep breath and luxuriating in the heat of the evening, she refocused. As Chief Operating Officer she was also acting chief of staff to the hyperactive, perfectly coiffed CEO. As chief of staff she had to keep the event on schedule. It was time.
Their room was directly above the pool, with a broad terrace facing the ocean. She glanced up at it, expecting some sign that he had tired of the sheer corporateness of the event and was rebelliously nursing a drink. She smiled. Years ago he might have done that. Instead she saw his profile and his well cut suit several windows down left of the restaurant door, not far yet probably ten minutes if the throng were to be navigated. He was focusing intently on two people she had identified as important, gently articulating something (probably her virtues) and looking every inch the partner of a global firm that he was.
She had a long and determined stride, and covered the distance to the terrace in short order. The breeze gathered pace and it stiffened the nipples under the silk of her dress. She progressed through the increasingly dense knots of people, past the temporary bar towards the restaurant. She looked for the Manager.
He was from Geneva. They spoke French as they huddled between two vast potted trees, which did not provide the hoped for sound barrier. As their exchange drew to a close she noticed a tall man in a dove grey summer suit standing, shades of Shakespeare, behind the tree. The severe white of his shirt and silk handkerchief were complemented by a soft blue textured tie. What struck her most was a sense of muscled tension, and his dark complexion. A lean face. Dutch East Indies perhaps?
He was looking, no staring, at her with intense appraisal and, it seemed, admiration. She met his eye expecting him to flinch. Instead his dark eyes locked on hers. She had a severe face when she discussed business matters – a protective mechanism from years of building her career – and she knew she was armored in it now. Yet it did not seem to put him off at all: a gentle smile was playing at the corners of his mouth. The Manager touched her arm. She turned back to him and swiftly settled the outstanding matter.
Turning back she saw that her admirer had not moved, indeed he had pulled a wayward branch aside and was slowly appraising her up and down. "He is undressing me with his eyes" she thought "how fucking brazen is that for an event of this type?". She locked eyes with him again. And then she had to turn.
Dinner was predictably dull. Afterwards she and her love had a whisky together on the terrace and stared at the ocean. They spoke in soft tones – there were other balconies within earshot – and were able to leave half complete sentences in the air, thoughts left unsaid. They were tired and had leisurely, gentle sex. She asked to go on top and came quickly when he pulsed his cock in her.
He was up early for his run and had left her a note wishing her success. "Imagine me cupping your perfect ass during your speech." he wrote. "I'll be on a conference call in the room much of the afternoon. We have a table at the Matador Room at 8 – looks slightly absurd but worth a whirl. Love." All that is his semi-legible scrawl.
She mulled that over. She'd be done by 11 and decided to book a massage for 2pm. She glanced at the ipad brochure. Lots of white. "Pampering among the palm trees...art deco and exfoliation...and the absolute best Brazilian bikini waxes on the planet... Expect thousands of square feet of tension-fighting facilities.." blah blah " bienvenido a Mi-'aah'-mi!". Really? She'd had a Brazilian just before coming. She liked the feeling of smoothness, the sheer naughtiness of having herself completely exposed. She loved it. So did he. He always liked to tongue her after a Brazilian, tracing along her labia. But pampering?
"Treat yourself, your mind and your body to almost two hours of pure bliss, the ultimate relaxation session. Recommended for athletes." She rang down. No she did not mind that no masseuses were available for that treatment. The sports masseur would do.
She was done by noon because the CEO engaged in another example of high-energy chaos. She brought matters back to order. Half the senior team were now her direct reports, leaving her better able to manage things.
She went to the gym, over air-conditioned as it was, and did weights after running sprints on the new self-powered treadmill. The Dutch East Indian (?) was at the rowing machine. She admired his muscled arms and back as it rippled under a lycra t-shirt. At one point he glanced up and stared at her, but more abstractly. This time she had been smiling. His face was impassive. He glanced at her tight t-shirt. Involuntarily her nipples stiffened and she felt a small rush of blood.
The spa lay beyond the gym, long white corridor.
As she walked towards the locker room she saw the rower had left his machine and was at the far end of the gym in line with her. Staring. Assessing.
She checked in at the desk. She felt his eyes burning in her. As she left she heard footfalls and, glancing, saw him enter the men's locker.
In the ladies locker room she showered and put on the paper granny panties she'd been given. Robe tightly belted she went to the treatment room, silent footfalls in a silent corridor, left and then right.
The masseur was all American muscle, but athletic like a European football player not an American one. He was pushing 2 meters in height. A white, white smile had made some Miami dentist richer. He was also a decade and more younger than her.
"Ma'am please lie face down" She nodded – and unspoken I-have-done-this-before. "I normally cover with towels." His sentence left unspoken. A smile.
Miami was a tremendous ego boost. Tall dark and handsome men undressing her with their eyes, drivers focusing on her not the road, and a thirty year old jock eager for her to lie naked before him.
She let the silence of the room sit between them. He turned to allow her to arrange herself. She could see he had a view in the mirror and angled herself to best effect. She dawdled about the unknotting of the belt before shrugging the robe of her shoulders. She let it slip down in the mirror, a slow exposure of back and of side of breast. She loved massages and the slight hint of naughtiness they offered.
She lay down, face in the padded rest, closed her eyes and began to relax. He draped a towel over the paper granny panties and began to trace his fingers over her scalp. Long lines of gentle pressure from her hairline, through her long blond mane along to her neck. One hand then the other, slowly and rhythmically.
She felt warm oil puddle on between her should blades and then fingers began to spread it in soft waves up to her neck, over to her shoulders, down her back, a starburst of relaxation. Fingers softly tracing vertical patterns. She fell into a dreamy trance.
There was a click of the door. A tensing of surprise in the fingers and, presumably, the rest of the masseur. A voice, unfamiliar, slightly accented. Eyes opened she saw freshly showered dark legs and the bottom of a white robe.
"My wife had asked if I could help". It was not her husband. No indeed it was not. A crinkle of paper being passed. Presumably nods. How fucking self-assured is this rowing fellow? Did he really assume she'd accept this?
Yet before she could raise her head from the rest she felt a new set of hands gliding along her feet even as her masseur moved ahead of her and again began to trace fingers up and down her back.
"She's a lucky lady, and beautiful too Sir"
Fucking men. This masseur, barely out of his youth, was shamelessly sucking up to the staring rower and ignoring her as though she was a submissive object. And yet the stroking felt good.
"Where are you from, Sir?"
