Or perhaps it was all just a wonderful dream.
Perhaps he was never really there.
If it weren’t for the scent of the oils on my skin the next morning and the big wet spot on the sheet between my legs, I might not have believed it to be true.
Whatever the case, I woke up alone.
And I never saw him again.
CHAPTER TWO: Devin McMasters
The first time I made a woman cum just by massaging her body was fifteen years ago, when I was a struggling premed student at UCLA. I was twenty-five at the time, single, broke, sleep deprived, perpetually horny. I had long supplemented my school loans and grants working as a freelance masseuse and personal trainer at Gold’s Gym. I had a handful of clients willing to pay me twenty-five bucks for an hour spent counting their reps in the gym or massaging the kinks from their backs afterward.
I was paid for other things, too, by certain female clients. That leads me back to previous statement. I made this particular woman cum by massaging her body and certain other parts of her anatomy, but without using my mouth or cock, following her instructions and not my own instincts.
“I’ll show you what to do,” she told me with a smile, lying naked on the bed, amused by the look of confusion on my face. It was my first introduction to Yoni Massage. At the time, I had no idea there even was such a thing. Now, I’m considered the world’s foremost Yoni Master. Modern Masseuse Magazine even dubbed me, “The man with the magic hands”. Silly, I know, but I am very good at what I do.
I can charge thousands of dollars an hour for my time and expertise. People will pay even more to learn how to do what I do and to become “certified” by me. Women line up around the block to buy my books and DVDs, hear me speak, and simply touch my magic hands. They’ll pay tens of thousands of dollars to spend a weekend at Paradiso, my private resort and spa, more if I choose to give them Yoni.
But I digress…
The woman’s name was Genevieve. She was almost twice my age, but had the knockout body of a thirty-year-old yoga instructor. I had no idea the night she opened her hotel room door and welcomed me inside that my life was about to change forever, along with the lives of tens of thousands of people I would touch both physically and spiritually in the years to come.
I won’t admit to being a gigolo back then. I considered myself to be a business man of sorts, an entrepreneur, providing a much-needed service in exchange for much-needed cash. I had three things going for me. I had the good looks of a California surfer, the strong hands of a healer, and a cock that would stay hard until I told it to go down. Mental Viagra, I called it. I could get myself hard and stay that way until I was ready to pop. Maybe I should have been a porn star. That’s what Genevieve said after our long night together. But then, I wouldn’t be the man I am today if Genevieve hadn’t shown me a very different path, if she hadn’t taken my hand and taken me under her wing and taken a deep interest in my life. I would probably be a doctor or a physical therapist of some kind. Or maybe own a chain of massage parlors. It is with great certainty that I can say that I would not be the man most famous for making women cum for money.
My rendezvous with Genevieve was arranged by a desk clerk at the hotel, a friend of mine named Ben Chin, who also happened to be my roommate at UCLA. Ben worked the night shift at the Four Seasons while studying for his Master’s in business during the day. He was very dedicated to his clientele, especially those of the wealthy, female variety. If there was something they needed, no matter how outlandish or unusual, Ben would do his best to provide.
Ben also looked out for me, primarily because he wanted me to have my share of the money each month when rent came due. So, whenever a rich, lonely lady happened to check in, Ben would ask if they would like to book a personal training session or private massage, or perhaps (wink wink), something a little more… personal. I was surprised at how many women knew what he was talking about and were receptive to the idea. Several times a week, I was paid quite handsomely to come to a guest’s room to offer them my array of highly personal services.
It was nearly midnight when Ben called the apartment, excited to tell me that Genevieve St. Claire had checked in and requested that I immediately come to her room. I had no clue who she was. He explained that Genevieve was a world-renowned sexologist, bestselling author, and an expert in the art of Yoni massage. She was to be the keynote speaker at a women’s event over the weekend called, “Your Body, Your Mind”, which, according to Ben, a couple thousand women had paid several hundred dollars a pop to attend.
“Dude, you can make a fortune this weekend if you can get her to hook you up,” Ben said, whispering into the phone. “This bitch is made of money.”
“Just hang on a minute,” I said. “What the fuck is a Yoni massage?”
“What?”
“You said she was an expert on Yoni massage. What the hell is a Yoni massage?”
“Fuck, dude, I don’t know and I don’t care. She wants you to come to her room now. Get your ass over here.”
“Now? I have class tomorrow,” I said.
“And if you get your ass over here now you might make enough to pay for next semester’s classes,” Ben said, yelling through a whisper. “Dude, she is fucking loaded. And she’s fucking hot. Like this fifty-year-old MILF that looks twenty-five. She gave me a boner just looking at me.”
I took a deep breath and sighed it out slowly. At that moment, I was lying on the couch in our shitty little apartment in my boxer shorts watching ESPN and scratching my balls between bites of Cheetos. I wanted to tell him to fuck off, but I knew he was right. I needed every penny I could get. Passing up an opportunity to service a wealthy celebrity who could refer me to her equally wealthy friends was something I could not afford to do.
“Fine. I’ll get my shit together and be there in thirty minutes.”
“She said not to worry about bringing anything,” Ben said. “Just your hands.”
“What does that mean? I shouldn’t bring my massage table and oils and lotions?”
“She just said to show up. She would have everything ready.”
“Okay, I’m on my way. What room is she in?”
“She’s not in a fucking room,” Ben snorted. “She’s in the presidential suite. I told you, man, the bitch is loaded.”
* * *
I took a quick shower and put on my masseuse uniform: white Chinos, white t-shirt, and tennis shoes. I looked like an orderly from a crazy farm, but the ladies loved the way my chest and shoulders filled out the tight t-shirt and the Chinos showed off my cock nicely, which Ben called my “money maker”. Ben could be a real asshole, but he wasn’t wrong. I made most of my money fucking women, not massaging them. It was a tough way to make a living… not!
I picked up my backpack full of oils and lotions just in case and headed out the door. I drove my shitty Nissan Sentra to the Four Seasons and parked in the employee lot at the back. A few minutes later I was standing at the door of the presidential suite, which Ben said rented out at five-grand a night.
I heard music coming from inside the suite. Soft, melodic, soothing. I licked my lips and knocked softly on the door. When the door opened I literally felt my bottom lip drop open. I wasn’t sure what I had expected, but not this. The woman standing before me was radiantly beautiful. Ben said she was in her fifties, but she could have easily passed for a woman half her age. Her hair was long and blonde, silky. It cascades around her shoulders as if methodically placed there by the loving hand of an artist. Her face was naturally beautiful and devoid of makeup. Her lips were full and moist. There were tiny lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes, but otherwise her skin looked smooth as silk. Her eyes were cat-like, and the deepest blue I’d ever seen. And she was completely nude.
Her body was as magnificent as her face. Perfect tits with large strawberry nipples. A narrow waist, round hips, and long legs that tapered into perfect ankles. Her pussy was shaved clean. The hood of her clit was long and pink. Her body glistened in the low light. I could smell traces of coconut and lilac oil.
“You must be Devin,” she said with a warm smile, obviously much more comfortable in her nudity than I was. She stepped aside and hitched her head to the side. “Please, come in. I’m ready for you.”
“Uh, thanks,” I said, swallowing hard. I stepped inside so she could close the door, then walked into the suite. My backpack was slung over my right shoulder.
“You can leave that here,” she said. “You won’t need it.”
“Oh, okay.” I let the backpack slide to the floor and stuck my hands in my pockets because I didn’t know what else to do with them.
“The bedroom is this way,” she said, crooking a finger at me. I couldn’t take my eyes off her ass, which was round and firm and without a flaw that I could see. I felt myself getting hard despite my best efforts not to do so.
“This way,” she said, looking back over her shoulder at me. She glanced down at my crotch and smiled. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, fine,” I said, pushing my cock down with my hand in my pocket. I followed her into the bedroom, which was thankfully dark except for a dozen or so candles burning in small holders set around the room. The room smelled like a million rose petals.