by Amy Brent
“Like the Mandalay case?”
“Exactly like the Mandalay case.”
“So, you’re going to book a weekend there.”
“I am.” She studied me with her eyes. “Do you want to come along? My treat?”
My brain started going through the reasons to say no. Money was always the big one for me so I started there. I was well on my way to becoming wealthy, but I still pinched every penny until it screamed. I asked, “How much does it cost?”
She waved at the question like it was a bad smell. “It’s six-grand for the three days and worth every penny.”
“Six-grand? As in six-thousand dollars? Jesus, Lulu, are you stealing money from our firm?”
She grinned. “If I was stealing money I’d be going to Milan for the weekend with the Italian models, not the mountains north of San Diego.”
“Six-grand is a lot of money,” I said.
She shrugged with the wine glass at her lips. “You’ve seen my place and my car. I live frugally. I spend money on things that make me happy.”
“Like a pussy massage.”
“Yes, smart ass, like a pussy massage.” She cocked an eyebrow at me. “And don’t try to pretend that you’re not interested because you are. I can see it in your eyes.”
“Fine,” I said, holding up the tumbler in consent. “Tell me about Paradiso and this Yoni Master.”
“Okay, so you arrive on Friday night and leave on Sunday night. The place is unreal, in the mountains north of the city. They have private villas, like cabins, and a main resort that’s like a luxury hotel.” She turned the laptop toward me again. “You can read all about it on their site.”
“I will,” I said with a dismissive wave. “Get to the pussy massaging.”
It was her turn to roll her eyes at me. “Fine. Okay. They offer all guests different options for massages. Full body, back and legs, neck and shoulders, body wraps, mud baths—whatever you need. They have a staff of highly-trained and certified masseuses who handle that. But if you want a Yoni Massage, Yoni Master Devin is the one who administers that.”
“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 wh
ile 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.
Genevieve’s fame reached far and wide, and she became my biggest fan and promoter. I accompanied her on her book and speaking tours, where she introduced me onstage to the thousands of women in her audience as her personal Yoni Master.
She referred her rich and famous friends to me for private sessions, done freely in exchange for public endorsements on their TV talk shows, in magazines, and online.
She introduced me to countless celebrities and socialites who would brag of my skills to their friends.
She let me live in her Malibu beach house for free while I built up my reputation and my bank account.
She introduced me to her literary agent and her publisher and helped me secure my first book deal and produced the infomercials and DVDs that pretty much made Devin McMasters a household name.
She gave me the name Devin McMasters.
Before I met Genevieve, I was just plain, old Devin McMasters, a name she deemed too common for the master she was molding me to be.
It was Genevieve who arranged the financing that allowed me to buy the old resort in the mountains north of San Diego and spend millions turning it into one of the premiere resort and spas for women only called Paradiso: Italian for paradise.
Genevieve and I were fifty-fifty partners in Paradiso, though I was totally in charge and just sent her business manager a check four times a year for her share of the profits. And the profits were huge and flowed like a river without an end. In the millions of dollars each year.
Women came from all over the world to experience Paradiso’s magic healing powers. They came full of stress and toxins and negativity and left realigned, rejuvenated, and redefined, whether my hands ever touched them or not. Some called their time at Paradiso a religious experience. Others said it was spiritual, others said it was simply the most relaxing place on earth.
Whatever, women paid tens of thousands of dollars to spend the weekend at Paradiso and more for the various services and merchandise we offered, like a six-ounce bottle of massage oil for $150, or a Paradiso t-shirt for $95, or autographed copies of my books, Yoni for Couples, Yoni for One, and Everything You Ever Wanted To Know About Yoni But Were Afraid To Ask for just $195 for all three. Throw in an autographed photo of yours truly for an extra hundred bucks.
I know.
Crazy.
I should have been ashamed of myself. I should have been, but I was not. Who could blame me for charging ridiculously-exorbitant prices when clients gladly paid them and then come back for more. And who could blame them for coming back and spending all that money?
There was no place on earth like Paradiso.
And there was no one like me.
I was The One, whether I liked it or not.
All that crap aside, I was very proud of the work my staff and I did at Paradiso, and confident that no client had ever left dissatisfied. Their every need and comfort was seen to by my excellent, handpicked staff and executive director, Ben Chin, my old college roommate who first introduced me to Genevieve all those years ago. Ben was more than a friend and employee. He was like a brother to me and worked even harder than I did to make Paradiso not just a place, but an experience, a memory to treasure. That’s why I put so much trust in him. He ran Paradiso like a fine machine. All I had to do was show up at orientation to greet the guests and administer Yoni to a few select ladies that I deemed truly worthy of my time and touch.
Scratch that.
Worthy isn’t the right word.
That just sounds arrogant as hell.
It’s more about a woman’s sincere need Yoni, not her want for it. Hell, most women wanted it, but only a select few needed it and would truly benefit from it. Those were the women I sought to help. The others could get fingered in any bar any night of the week.
So, as Ben would say, “If you’re here just to get your pussy rubbed by a famous guy, you’re in the wrong place.”
I’m not a human vibrator, for Christ sake.
I’m not a professional masturbator.
I am a Yoni Master…
The Yoni Master …
To offer Yoni to every woman who wanted it would be like Picasso passing out Xeroxed copies of his art.
It would negate the value of Yoni.
It would negate my worth as the master.
And that could be the end of everything Genevieve, Ben, and I have worked so hard to achieve.
So, I practiced what the Maharishi taught me to do when I was indiscriminately selling my skills to every woman in Thailand who came along with a fistful of dollars.
It’s hard to explain, but he taught me how to lay my hands on a woman’s face and neck and tell if she really needs Yoni or if she’s just looking for a good time.
If she just wanted a pussy rub—a happy ending, it was generally called in the massage business— I had a staff of h
ighly-trained masseuses who could handle that job to her utter satisfaction. It wasn’t Yoni, but nobody ever complained. It also didn’t cost $2,500, which was the going rate for an hour of my time.
To ensure the client’s satisfaction, I had personally trained each masseuse on how to quickly bring a client to a happy ending, and though they did not have my skill or my touch, they were quite capable of making a woman cum in less than a minute.
I’d been asked many times how I keep from getting excited myself while performing Yoni on clients. To be honest, I get no sexual satisfaction from Yoni because in my mind it is not a sexual act, at least not for me.
Does a male gynecologist get an erection when examining a patient? Perhaps the first year out of med school, but after that it becomes routine. Yes, believe it or not, even pussy can become routine.
Besides, my master in Thailand taught me to resist the look and taste and smell of a woman’s pussy while performing Yoni. It was an interesting journey, training my brain not to alert my cock when a pussy was spread and squirting its warm juices like a fountain.
I won’t lie.
In the beginning, there were a few times when I thought I was going to cum in my pants without even touching myself, like a waking wet dream. But as the Maharishi explained when I asked him what to do, “The mind controls the body,” he said in his thick Indian accent as he tapped a skinny finger to his graying temple. “The brain controls the cock. It’s when the reverse occurs that men get into trouble.”
