The front door opens. Just a crack. The gold-plated security chain pulls tight. A face peeks past the edge tilted at a forty-five-degree angle. A waterfall of straight, black hair rushes down several inches past her shoulders angling away from her face. Her deep, dark eyes intriguing in their blackness.
"Brandon?" she quizzes.
"Yes. Brandon Beasley. . . Diana?" I respond, hypnotized. Her black lipstick and multiple ear piercings, especially the sterling silver skull and crossbones catching my attention.
"Just a sec," she says closing the door.
Several seconds of metallic scraping sounds later the door opens fully, her face still poking around the edge.
Unsure of stepping onto her spotless white shag doormat with my wet sneakers I hesitate but she invites me to come in. Directly in front of me is a beautiful natural wood, oak stairway with a white shag runner. Parallel to the stairway the Oak floored hallway runs to the kitchen.
On my right side an archway leads into the living room with its exquisite white, wall to wall deep shag carpeting, far too pristine to have ever hosted a human foot. The Maple coffee table, the overstuffed sofa and love seat and the matching Maple chairs with hand their carved armrests appeared virgin as well.
Closing the front door, she engages the lock and the deadbolt before sliding the security chain into place.
Extending her right hand, she offers a more formal greeting, "Hello Brandon."
Standing there she has a powerful witching power over me. Her black satin shift dress flows freely off her shoulders and over her tall, slim, small breasted frame, its scalloped hem hanging just below her knees. Her black spike heels sport crisscross black lacing all the way up her calves.
Mesmerized, I stare into her dark eyes while reaching out to shake her hand.
"Please remove your shoes and leave them over there," she says, pointing toward the corner. "Then head on up the stairs and turn right at the top," she continues.
Removing my wet sneakers, I start up the stairs noting that she is following about four steps behind, her eyes level with my butt I cannot help but wonder if that is intentional. Halfway up I get my answer. "Stop. But keep facing forward."
I comply, just a bit confused.
Closing the distance between us she places her hands on either side of my hips. Sliding her hands ever so slowly down the outside of my hips she traces the lower curves of my butt cheeks before running her thumbnails up along the center seem of the seat of my jeans.
"Oomph!" I exclaim startled as she unexpectedly grabs and pinches both butt cheeks. But inside something else is happening and I think to myself, 'Whew!' as there is a stirring in the front my jeans.
Turning back to look at her, she smiles and says, "O-o-o. . . Kay. Continue."
Turning right at the top of the stairs she tells me, "First doorway. That one, right in front of you."
I can already see part way into the room. There is a low dresser with a mirror, and two high back, padded seat, wooden, high back chairs. The dresser has some items on top but not sure exactly what they are. In the middle of the room is a freshly prepared massage table with white sheets.
As we enter the room, soft, serene, soothing music is playing at a low volume. She instructs me, "Undress. . . To your level of comfort. . . You can place your clothes on either of the chairs." Pointing to the face cradle at one end of the massage table she continues, "Once undressed lie up here, face down and place your face in the cradle and the sheet over you to keep you warm."
Acknowledging her instructions, she then continues, "I'll be back in a few minutes."
"Okay," I respond and she exits the room closing the door behind her.
Undressing, I look around the room. Several bottles of lotions and other accessories are arranged on a mirrored tray on top of the dresser. In the far corner of the room a small wooden phone stand has a number of small, rolled up hand towels on the lower shelf. On the top of the stand is the source of the music. . . a small CD player.
Along the front wall there is a window. The mini-blinds are partially open, angled upward allowing the sun to bathe the room in bright, soothing warmth while blocking visibility into the room from the street.
Next to the window stands a carved wooden stand, matching the design of the chairs, with a dozen or so larger towels, rolled up on the lower shelf. On the top is an odd-looking device. Unzipping my jeans, I pull them off, walking over to get a closer look. It is a towel warmer/steamer. The see-through lid is mostly steamed up but through the inner condensation I spy several towels already warming.
I am now stripped down to my boxers. I would prefer naked but I am just a little uneasy about going all the way since have never done this before. Climbing onto the massage table I pull the sheet up over me and get comfortable staring at the floor, my face resting in the cradle.
