The slim cellphone on my desk rang. I picked it up and looked at the screen. "BOBBY", it said. Smiling, I tapped the green button. "Hi, Bobby," I began.
"Oh, hi, Ms. Brown. Are you still on for the massage tomorrow afternoon?"
"Bobby, I'm Anne. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah! Sure, Anne!"
"Yes, tomorrow's still fine. My place, at two. Can you remember the entrance code?"
"Sure. Double-oh-two, six-five-four."
"That's it," I smiled, a tingling thrill making its way from my stomach up to my chest. "You got it."
"Right, fine. See you then."
"Sure, Bobby. See you tomorrow." I breathed in deeply. "I'm looking forward to it."
"Me, too, Anne. See ya -- bye!"
"Bye." I smiled again, looked at my phone, tapped the screen and put it down. Good. My plan was about to start.
I cleared my desk, a large faux-mahogany affair in a leafy, brown-walled office with a big window overlooking the street. Thank goodness it was Friday. Eight years working for Stimpson, Ajax and Partners Realty had been a good career move but now I'd been Deputy Sales Manager for three years already and was wondering whether I should move on and find something else. John, the Sales Manager, was sixty-one, and my boss. I looked over at the door to his office. It was closed. He was stubbornly refusing to take early retirement, meaning I had at least another four years to wait before I could replace him. I'm thirty-five already, for goodness' sake. I'd be a "woman of a certain age" by then. Huh, I thought. So many women in Hollywood, with their facelifts, plastic surgery and fake, silicone breasts, could claim to be "women of a certain age" - hark at Tina Turner, singing that in "I Don't Wanna Lose You" - a song she sang when she was fifty! The fact was, traditionally, back in the days of Audrey Hepburn, Gina Lollobrigida, Sophia Loren and women of that ilk, "a certain age" was exactly that -- absolutely certain. It was thirty-nine. Stuff that -- I wasn't going to wait until then just to be Sales Manager at some real estate firm in downtown Dallas, Texas. I'll be making some calls on Monday to find a new job, I resolved. Making a mental note of that, I grabbed my large, white, fake-leather handbag -- why is everything I own fake? - and headed for the door and the weekend.
I caught my reflection in a long mirror near the door -- goodness knows why John installed it. Ostensibly, it was so he could look himself over before heading to the CEO's office for a meeting but a pudgy, moderately overweight, balding, grey-haired man like him was hardly the kind of looker anyone would care to see. As for me, I saw my long, wavy, brown hair, the ends reaching my bustline. A white, slightly crumpled blouse was buttoned down the front, enclosing an ample bosom. 36F nowadays, in fact. F! When I was twenty, I used to be DD cup but after I put on weight, my boobs just ballooned to this size. Actually, the girls used to be bigger, but four years' hard labour in the gym have left me more svelte than I had been, so now my waistline has shrunk. The boobs, too, but I was rather thrilled that they hadn't gone back to their original size, leaving me with this more curvy appearance. A sensible, brown, calf-length pencil skirt encased hips slightly wider than my breasts, the material not quite skintight against my butt, which was well-shaped after all the yoga I'd been doing for the past six years. That had been well worth the effort, plus the women at yoga class were fun and friendly. Long, shapely legs led down to low-rise brown leather shoes. I was getting slightly wider in the thigh, I noticed. Hmmm -- I might have to do something about that. I'll ask the personal trainer at the gym.
Come on, let's go -- let's get out of this dump! I flung open the door and strode into the corridor. Stabbing the elevator button, I took the car to the ground floor. Out in the parking lot, my Merc was waiting. I flung the car door open, threw my handbag on the passenger seat, got in and drove off.
Home was an apartment in a ten-storey building in the 'burbs. Impatiently, I thrust my key in the lock and went inside. A living room with sofa, TV, a couple of armchairs, some square-framed pictures on the wall and some bright windows greeted me. Flinging my handbag down on the sofa, I entered the bedroom, where there was a duvet-covered queen-size double bed, with floor-to-ceiling wardrobes on one wall. Hastily, I unzipped the brown pencil skirt encasing my butt and let it fall to the floor. Unbuttoning my blouse, I ripped the flimsy garment from my torso and reached behind my back to unclip my bra.
Always the best moment of the day, that -- men would never know how good it feels to release your breasts from their confinement and let the girls free. My hands ranged over my breasts, revelling in their fullness, squeezing them, and briefly pulling on the nipples. Suddenly remembering the stress of the working day, I decided it was time for a shower. Removing my panties, I walked naked towards the bathroom, more than ready.
The hot, steaming water fell with the exhilaration of an open-air hot spring upon my flesh as I stood in the bathtub, the shower curtain shielding me from any handsome intruder who might show up. Fat chance of that ever happening, I thought. The creamy shower gel cleansed my skin and its scent and the steam filling the room enveloped my senses. My hands roamed across my now-silken skin. Feeling turned on, I slid my hands up my thighs, across the toned expanse of my gym-trained stomach to the fullness of my breasts. The heat had given them a flushed-red appearance. My thumbs and fingertips brushed across my wide areolae to my nipples. Surprising me with their hardness, I felt a sudden flash of pleasure. Rubbing my thumb across the sensitive, bare nubs, a raw, crying need rose up within me. Moaning softly, I kneaded my breasts hungrily, the girls sensitive to my touch, thirsty for more. I indulged them, using the whole palm of my hand to squash them together, cup them underneath. Soon, a roaring need made itself known.
Trembling slightly, my hands headed southwards across the plain of my stomach down to the trimmed triangle of hair that led to the pleasure palace below. My fingertips reached my hungry clitoris. Crying out with pleasure, I pleasured the hot nub, my practiced hands milking every ounce of pleasure out of her. Moving faster and faster, finally, I plunged my fingers into my hungry pussy, the walls trembling, wet with the water, the steam and their own copious juices. Surrendering to the pleasure, I felt the walls of my pussy grip my fingers as a huge wall of pleasure built higher and higher, more and more, until a wave of ecstasy rose to its peak and crashed through my body. Almost losing my balance, I screamed out in pleasure as my orgasm roared through my body. I rode the wave, undulating my body with the rhythm of my own release, until the waves subsided and my body was spent.
Recovering for a few minutes, I then switched off the water, dried myself and headed back to the bedroom, my body flushed from the heat and the orgasm. I sat down on the large bed. Now, on with the plan, I thought.
Lying down flat on the bed, still naked, I considered the situation. A new beginning awaited. The job search would start on Monday but that wasn't the main deal. At thirty-five, I needed a new start. I wanted excitement, a thrill, something exhilarating, fun, wild, outrageous! I'd been feeling in a rut lately, overwhelmed, stressed, and had developed a crick in my neck from hunching over my laptop at the office all day. In addition, there had been, just a few weeks ago, some lower back pain, and a heaviness in my legs. My yoga teacher had given me some tips initially, so I had applied myself. After a few days posing when I could at home, it had suddenly occurred to me that it would be great if I could just delegate this task to someone else and let them take care of it.
I had decided on a massage. Six weeks ago, I showed up at this clinic downtown. The masseuse I had received on my first visit was great. Her hands were obviously practiced and expert and the full-body massage I had paid for had been worth it by the end. However, over the following week, I had realized that I would need a second session, since some aches remained. I had planned to tell her to go a bit heavier with the pressure, but when I showed up the following week, the masseuse was off sick.
The receptionist listened patiently to my request and recommended this male therapist. Bobby Adamson, his name was. He was young, still studying for his therapy certificate. He was two years in, he told me. This meant he was twenty years old. He was about five feet eleven inches in height, medium build, with dark brown, nearly black, curly hair that was not too long. He stood sturdily before me. He wore the typical therapist's attire of white T-shirt, white slack pants and white plimsoll shoes. I could see he worked out. His firm, strong arms were not overly muscled but well-shaped, with definition, his veins slightly traced going down his biceps, and that wonderfully thick vein that guys have that makes them look so athletic. His skin was smooth and young-looking. He had a fresh-faced complexion, and a few freckles on his nose.
At first, I felt reticent. I wasn't sure whether I wanted a guy touching me. However, the female receptionist reassured me that he was very professional, with rave reviews from clientele. She even showed me the visitors' book, where I read glowing reviews from a range of clients. A few had been men but around eighty percent of the comments were from women. "He can give quite a strong massage," she went on.
"OK," I had suddenly decided. "Let's do it."
