Julie takes a last hit off the joint. She holds the sweet smoke in her lungs and lets it do its work. Luxuriating in her buzz and her bath, she lays the roach in the soap dish and slides down through the bubbles. She's inwardly floating now, her mind rising as her body sinks. The scalding water tantalizes and tortures her sensitive flesh, a blend of pleasure and pain, leaving her simultaneously blissful and horny. She almost knocks over the champagne flute sitting on the rim of the tub but reflexively grabs it by the stem. She'd intended to indulge in weed OR wine, but fuck it, today is about pleasure. And John's been so nice, helping to plan everything. She swallows a mouthful of bubbly and relishes how sensuously the golden liquid slides down her throat.
The Spotify app on her phone pumps her secret playlist through the wireless speakers mounted on the walls. Nobody but her knows the common denominator: the songs she made out and made love to in high school and college. She can still remember how each one made the list, from the Foo Fighters playing while she and Kyle took each other's virginity to achieving her first truly extraordinary orgasm with Jose to AC/DC. The songs may be oldies now, but they still get her going like no other music can.
Lying in the bath, she feels the tension in her muscles start to dissolve under the influence of hot water, cannabis, and alcohol. She slowly raises her right foot, then her left, out of the foam and admires the bright red polish on her nails. She pokes one of those scarlet toes under the surface to push the button on the tub wall that starts the jacuzzi jets. They roar to life, pelting her with bubbles until she tingles all over.
Time vanishes in a blissful haze. Until she hears a ping on her phone. She grabs for it. Fuck. She's missed three texts in the last fifteen minutes.
>I'm at your door.
>Still here.
>???
Shit. She hopes he hasn't given up and left. It's cold AF outside. Her thumbs fly across the screen.
>B rt dn 2 let u in
Her phone pings immediately.
>I'm okay. Your hubby gave me front door code. Sitting outside your bedroom door.
Julie smiles. She takes her time writing back.
>Come on in, then. Get comfortable. I'll be there in a minute.
She finishes the champagne and refills the flute from the bottle by the tub. Rising out of the bubbles, she steps onto the soft rug. She takes stock of her candlelit reflection in the bathroom mirror and sees a sex goddess. Dark areolas and pert nipples crown full breasts that taper down to fertile hips. A neatly trimmed patch of hair covers the secrets between her legs and promises wonders within. She eyes her robe hanging on the wall hook but decides to wrap herself in the big towel instead. Then she slides open the door to the bedroom and pads in, barefoot and dripping.
He's standing by her bed. Holy shit, he's as handsome as she'd hoped he'd be.
"I'm Julie," she says, introducing herself and smiling the way she used to when she met men in bars. (She never smiles at John that way anymore; why would she?)
"The agency sent me," he says. Okay. No name. That's fine. It's a service. "Your husband has covered all the fees, including a generous tip. So you can relax and I'll do my best to earn it."
His smile is the kind she thinks she would have responded to in the bar years. She feels something dangerous stir inside her, but with the weed and the wine it's easy to just go with it.
"Your husband said not to bother bringing the table, you enjoy massages on the bed. Is that okay with you?"
"He knows what I like," she says, smiling to herself. She sips more champagne and sets the flute onto the bedside table. Should she offer him a glass? Hey, he's just the guy from the agency. It's not a social visit.
"Why don't you lie down on your stomach, then?"
She does. It's easy to take orders from this guy. He's confident. Seems to know what he's doing.
"I'll arrange the towel to keep the places I'm not working on warm," he says. He folds the terry cloth sheet down to expose her back but keep her moist skin covered from her butt to her feet.
"Any places need special attention?"
"My neck's hella tense," she says. "I hope you can loosen it up. And my feet get sore," she replies. "My husband tries, but he doesn't really know what he's doing. That's why we booked you. The agency says you have skills."
He nods without comment. Then he squirts warm oil onto her back from the bottle that hangs from his belt. It feels nice. First with palms and then with fingers, he spreads the oil across her flesh. He traces the muscles on either side of her spine and presses into the soft spots under her shoulder blades.
The moan she lets out takes her by surprise. His touch feels wonderful, but he hasn't done that much. Must be the weed, making her hypersensitive.
His strong hands work her back before they glide up to her shoulders. When she's warmed up, he presses more deeply into her neck muscles. She groans with pleasure. Only after the fact does it occur to her that she sounds like she's doing voice overs for a porn film. She wonders whether she comes across that way to him. She lifts her head to peek at his reaction. He's lost in concentration, focused on his work, which is to say, on her.
He notices that she's looking at him. "Too much pressure?" he asks.
"No. It's perfect," she says.
After working his magic on her upper body, he draws the towel up to cover her back and butt. Positioning himself at the end of the bed, he applies the oil to her right foot and begins slowly massaging her pads and toes and sole.
"That feels good," she says.
He repeats the treatment on her left foot. Then he spreads oil onto her calves and begins rubbing up and down. When he dwells on a spot on her left ankle, she realizes he's found her tattoo.
"It's nice," he says. "Working oil into it from time to time is a good thing."
"Mmmmm... Thank you," she purrs.
"Does the bird have a meaning?"
"Yeah. It means I was nineteen, shitfaced, and hadn't spent all the money I'd saved up for spring break." He laughs. "My mom freaked," she goes on. "Now she likes it."
He murmurs something she can't quite make out and then slides his firm hands up her calves to her thighs. The release of tension sends shivers through her body.
"Oh my god," she says. "I didn't even know that was sore."
"Do you do a lot of walking?" he asks. She doesn't answer. He works the muscles up to the point where the towel covers her butt.
His firm touch on her thighs feels distinctly sensual to her. She smiles to think how easily she can keep her arousal her little secret. How many times has she seen guys at the pool embarrassed by obvious boners while surrounded by women in bikinis? Or in offices when a female colleague wears a short skirt? She knows that, if her husband had a hot chick rubbing his thighs the way this guy's doing hers, his cock would be hard as a rock. She, on the other hand, can revel in the delicious wetness between her legs, but the masseur is as clueless as he is sexy. Thank god for the scented oil, or her pheromones would give her away. Eucalyptus, she thinks. Very thoughtful.
Because she's beyond aroused. She's wildly horny. She loves his touch and aches to be fucked. But nothing is going to happen. Not with this guy. She can bang the hell out of her husband later.
The masseur's talented fingers work the flesh at the top of her thighs. She notices that he's stopping at the edge of the towel, like it's a border he won't cross. "You know, my glutes feel really sore," she says. Where did that come from? she wonders. She just asked him to rub her ass. Maybe she's not as in control of her desires as she'd like to think.
He lifts the towel off her body, exposing her butt. "Do you mind?" he asks.
