Rub Me the Right Way(8)

“No pussy rubbing from the normal masseuses then.” I playfully sighed. “That’s too bad.”

“Yoni is an art,” she said seriously. “It takes years of practice and study to master.”

“I’m sure it does,” I said. “And is there an extra fee to have your pussy rubbed by the master or is that included in the ridiculously-high room rate?”

“If you want a Yoni Massage, you book a consultation with the Master so he can evaluate your chi and ensure you will benefit from the massage and aren’t just looking to have a hot, famous guy masturbate you.”

I held up my hands to slow her down. Either the scotch was working its magic or I had heard her incorrectly. “Wait… so you have to have a private consultation with the Yoni Master so he can determine whether you really need your pussy rubbed or just looking for a good time?”

“It’s all about your chi,” she said, putting the tips of her fingers to her chest and closing her eyes. “Your spiritual center, your source of power.” She held out her hands with her palms facing me and fingers spread. “He puts his hands on your chest and closes his eyes. You’re immediately filled with this feeling of… warmth… peace… and within seconds he will tell you whether or not a Yoni Massage will benefit you. If he feels you’re just in it to get off, he will refuse to perform Yoni.”

I raised one eyebrow and pursed my lips. “Could it possibly have anything to do with the age, looks, and bank account of the woman he’s laying hands on?” I asked, the suspicious lawyer in me shining through. “Let me guess, you have to fill out a financial application of some kind and agree to a background check just to book a weekend there? Supply them with a list of your bank account numbers, your net worth, and so on.”

“Will you stop.”

“Or if you’re broke, but super-hot with big tits, he’ll add you to his pussy rubbing schedule for free, like doing pro bono legal work for the poor.”

She shook her head. “When did you get so cynical?”

“I’ve always been cynical, my darling, but you don’t seem to mind when it puts money in our pockets.”

“Whatever. That’s not how it works,” Lulu said, getting a little defensive. She stuck out a finger and wagged it at me. “The first time I went there he put his hands on me and immediately knew that I had a high stress job. He told me that he could feel the tension in my muscles and the toxins flowing through my veins. He told me my aura was dark because of all the stress in my life.”

“And did he agree that your Yoni needed a good rubbing?”

“Yes,” she said seriously, her eyes looking out the window behind me at the hazy California afternoon. “He said he could help me. And he did. I have never felt so relaxed and serene in my entire life.” She let go a long, satisfied sigh at the memory of it. “And I had never had such a powerful orgasm. It was… incredible…”

I smiled. “Really good, huh?”

“Good does not begin to describe it,” she said with a smile. He spent an hour rubbing my entire body with his special oil. My arms, legs, ass, back, shoulders, tits…”

“He massaged your tits?” I felt a little tingle in my nipples. “What was that like?”

“It was amazing!” she said, cupping her hands to her bulbous tits and giving them a squeeze. “Even before he touched my clit or pussy I was having orgasms. I mean, it’s hard to explain, but just his hands on my skin, the way he gently massaged the oil into my muscles. And when he finally put his fingers inside me and rolled my clit with his thumb and hit my G-spot…” She fell back in the chair and fanned herself. “I literally exploded. Everywhere.”

Now she had my interest. I took a sip of scotch and tried to sound nonchalant, but didn’t do a very good job of it. I could hear the urgency in my voice as I asked, “What do you mean?”

She put a hand to her chest and took a deep breath. She said, “Cass, I had multiple orgasms, one after another, for like five minutes. And here’s the weirdest part… I squirted juice out of my pussy like a fucking firehose.”

I frowned at her. “You squirted?”

“Yes, I squirted.”

The chair beneath me was getting warm. Or maybe it was the heat coming from my twat as I pictured Lulu spread out on a massage table with the gorgeous man’s hands inside her. Don’t get me wrong. I’m not a lesbian, nor am I attracted to Lu, but you don’t have to be a lesbian to enjoy a good porno. I swallowed the scotch and asked, “Exactly what does that mean?”

“It means every time I came my pussy squirted like a fucking water fountain. I mean clear liquid literally squirting out of my cunt. I soaked everything. His hands, the table, my legs. At first, I thought I was peeing, but when I looked down I saw it, clear liquid jetting out of me. It was the most amazing thing I have ever experienced. Ever. And the only time I do it is when I get a Yoni Massage.”

“Wow… And he didn’t mind that you were squirting all over him?”

She closed her eyes and slowly let her head swivel from side to side. “He was totally calm the entire time. He just said, ‘Let it go, don’t be shy’ and so I did. I just closed my eyes and let it fly.”

She slid her hands down her breasts and for a moment, I thought she was going to massage her twat right there in front of me. Instead, she laced her fingers together across her stomach and gave me a dreamy look. I wondered if her panties were as wet as mine. She said, “And that’s not all.”

“Tell me.” I said it quickly. I was eager to hear more and wasn’t trying to hide it.

“After I came five or six times I had this overwhelming desire to pee.” She blew out a long breath. “And he said, ‘Don’t’ hold back. Let it go’.”

“Oh my god, you didn’t.”

“I did,” she said, covering her cheeks with her hands. “I spread my legs and pissed like a race horse. All over the towel and myself.”

I put a hand over my mouth. “What was he doing while you were peeing everywhere?”

“He was massaging my stomach, urging the pee to come out, like it was no big deal.”

“Okay, that’s a little… weird,” I said.

“Weird, but fucking hot as hell,” Lulu said.

I shook my head at her. “This is starting to sound like a bad porno movie of the piss fetish variety. Are you sure this wasn’t something you saw on YouPorn.com?”

“Don’t knock it till you try it, girlfriend,” she said, holding up her wine glass. “It was fucking amazing. I’m going back next weekend. I made the reservation months ago, but I’m sure I can get you added to the room.”

“I don’t know,” I said. The laptop was turned with the screen facing me. The Yoni Master was staring at me, smiling, daring me to come. There was something about his eyes. His gaze was hypnotic, mesmerizing. I had to struggle to look away.

Lulu finished her wine and took the glass back to the wet bar. She picked up a napkin and dabbed the wine from her lips as she walked toward my door. She paused before going through.

“Read about Paradiso this weekend on their website,” she said, nodding at the laptop. “And let me know. No offense, but I’m pretty sure your Yoni could use a little action.”

“Thanks, partner,” I said, back to rolling my eyes. “I’ll see you Monday.”





CHAPTER SIX: Devin


Sometimes I get sick of being called The One…

The Yoni Master…

The man with the magic hands...

The Guru…

What the fuck does all that even mean, anyway? It makes me sound like some holy man from Tibet or India, like I should have a scraggly beard and wear long robes and walk around on hot coals or something. I shaved off the scraggly beard years ago and the only time I wore a robe was when I hung out with Hef at the Playboy Mansion when it was cool to do so.

Guru my ass.

Give me a fucking break.

I’m just a regular guy from Bakersfield, California who was in the right place at the right time and met the right person who put me on what some would call “the path of enlightenment” for the last fifteen years. I am not pretentious. Nor is my ego so large that I believe everything that is written and said about me. All that doesn’t make me a guru. That just makes me one lucky son of a bitch.

Sometimes I wondered what my life would be like today if Genevieve St. Claire hadn’t decided that I was The One.

The One she took under her wing and taught everything she knew about pleasing a woman, even though the two of us had never actually had sex, at least not in the traditional sense of the word.

The One she introduced to Yoni Master Maharishi Yogi in Thailand just two weeks after we met for the first time at the Four Seasons. She paid for me to apprentice with the Maharishi for nearly a year while he taught me the art of Yoni. It was a little like The Karate Kid’s training, only with a different kind of “wax on, wax off”. I honed my craft on local women and female tourists who heard of my skills through the grapevine and sought me out for a private session at a thousand bucks a pop. Once the Maharishi formally pronounced me a Master, Genevieve deemed me ready to take on the world.