by Amy Brent
Now, after many years of meditation, training and practice, I can massage a woman’s pussy and G-spot while she coats my hand and arm in her pungent juices and not feel a twitch in my cock.
And perhaps that was my problem.
Perhaps that was why I was so fucking miserable, despite the wealth and fame.
It had all become too clinical for me, as routine as shining my shoes. No number of scented candles and special oils and moaning women and squirting vaginas could ease the boredom I was feeling with my craft and ultimately, my life.
I was starting to dread the weekends and the women who looked at me with desire and desperation. It was becoming like factory work. Like putting nuts on bolts. Stickers on a Rubik’s Cube. Fingers in pussies. I was starting to hate Yoni and though I had not said anything to Ben or Genevieve, I was thinking about disappearing.
Not going away, mind you.
Not taking a sabbatical or a vacation.
I mean literally disappearing.
As in dropping off the face of the earth and never being heard from again.
I’d just walk out the door and into the night and out of existence.
I could do it easily now.
Other than the businesses, which would survive without me, at least for a while, I had nothing to tie me down, no attachments of any kind whatsoever.
I had never had a serious relationship because my career consumed me and sucked me dry.
I had no family and no friends other than Ben and Genevieve, whom I rarely saw anymore because she now lived off the coast of France with some twenty-year-old French painter named Pascal and I spent most of my time in California. Genevieve was in her sixties now and had developed an odd fear of flying over the last few years, or so she claimed. I think it was just an excuse not to travel.
She had a good life and I was now on the periphery of it, even though much of her good life was financed by my hard work, which was fine for a long time, but was getting a little old now that she wasn’t contributing anything to the mix.
Ben calls me petty when I bitch about it, says I’m just jealous and reminds me that if I had not met Genevieve that night at the Four Seasons, none of this would have happened. I won’t lie. It was not about the money. There was more than enough money to go around. The truth was, it was hard for me not being central to Genevieve’s life. This was the woman who was once the center of my universe and now she might as well live on Mars given the time and distance between us.
So yeah, sometimes I think about just walking away…
Money certainly wouldn’t be a problem.
I am rich beyond my wildest dreams, worth tens of millions of dollars.
Maybe I could crawl back into the skin of Devin McMasters and start anew without the weight of Devin McMasters on my shoulders.
Maybe I could learn how to respond to a woman again in a normal way.
Maybe I could meet a nice girl and fall in love. Maybe even get married and start a family.
Have kids.
A dog.
Mow the grass.
Go to little league games.
At least then I wouldn’t have to put on a fucking disguise and troll the bars for women who didn’t want a fucking massage just to get my rocks off; women who just wanted to fuck without strings and mystic expectations.
I envied them.
More so, I envied the guys who fucked them.
I wished I could be like them.
I wished I could be one of them, rather than being The One.
CHAPTER FOUR: Cassandra
I left the office just before seven and was feeling pretty loose from all the scotch. The booze had dulled my senses a bit, but my muscles still felt like they were twisted in knots. My back ached, my neck, my shoulders, my legs, my poor feet. Christ, I was only thirty-eight. How was I going to feel after a rough week when I was forty-eight? Or fifty-eight? If things kept going the way they were I’d end up in a tight ball under my desk before I was sixty.
Lulu was always telling me that I worked too much and didn’t play enough, and she was probably right, but I wasn’t sure what I would spend my time doing if I didn’t work. I mean, it’s not like I have a life or anything. I can’t remember the last real relationship I was in.
I had occasional sex with Brad McKinney, a lawyer five years younger than me who worked in the public defender’s office. But there was no future there. Brad was holding out for a sweet, young thing he could knock up a few times and sock away at a house in the suburbs while he fucked his mistress at an apartment in the city. We just fuck when we run into each other at the occasional social function or association meeting. It was just a “fuck and run”, which was kind of like a “hit and run” only with quick sex. Not to be confused with a “hit or miss”, which described most of the relationships I’d had over the years.
It wasn’t that I was averse to a serious long-term relationship. Or even marriage and children. I’d be open to squeezing a few rug rats out of the old vaj if the planets aligned and the right man came along. It was just that, well, to be perfectly honest, I’d never met a man who even made me think about settling down. Call me picky, call me shallow. I’d rather grow old alone than spend my life with a man who was just “there”. Settling down didn’t have to mean settling for, at least not in my mind.
I turned off the lights, locked the main door, and rode the elevator down the fifteen floors to the lobby, leaning against the wall because I was a little tipsy. There were a few people milling around the lobby, but for the most part, everyone had cleared out and gone home for the weekend. As usual, I was the last to leave Casey & Roman and one of the last to evacuate the building.
Just another day in the life of Cassandra Casey, Attorney at Law…
I had called for the car service thirty minutes earlier and the black Town Car was waiting at the curb when I came out the door.
I used the same car service every Friday and always requested the older Town Car with the big backseat to stretch out in and my favorite driver, an older black gentleman named Carl. He was used to seeing me wiped out at the end of the week, but I must have really looked like hell because he gave me a concerned glance in the rearview mirror and looked back over his shoulder to check on me, something he rarely did.
“You doing okay this evening, Miss Casey?” he asked. His slow delivery and resonant voice always reminded me of Morgan Freeman in Driving Miss Daisy, which sort of made me feel like an eighty-year-old white woman being driven to the beauty parlor in the back of a 1949 Hudson sedan. It was funny. Lulu had ridden with Carl countless times and didn’t get the Morgan Freeman thing. Maybe it was just how he sounded in my mind. Miss Daisy. Miss Casey. Sometimes I imagined things that weren’t there. It was a quirk that had served me well as a lawyer over the years (a healthy dose of suspicion and paranoia are good traits for a divorce lawyer), but had been the torpedo that sunk many a relationship (see what I did there?).
“I’m fine, Carl,” I said with a tired sigh. “Thanks for asking. Just a rough week.”
“Some are rougher than others I’d expect,” he said as he pulled away from the curb and into the late afternoon traffic headed uptown. “You just settle back and I’ll have you home before you know it.”
I had an hour to kill and should have spent it reading one of the client briefs in my briefcase, but I’d done enough work for one week. I took out my iPad and fired up the web browser, then opened a search page. With hesitant fingers, I typed in YONI MASSAGE. To my surprise, there were tens of thousands of results. Apparently, Lulu wasn’t the only woman who saw the benefits of having her pussy—I mean, yoni—massaged.
I was suddenly very self-conscious. It was silly, Carl could not possibly know what I was looking at on the iPad, but I got a little paranoid (see, told you) when I glanced at the rearview mirror. Carl’s eyes were on the road. I couldn’t tell you why I was nervous. It wasn’t like I was masturbating in the backseat or anything (at least not yet). Still, I shifted in the seat so
he couldn’t see that I was fiddling with my iPad.
Devin McMasters and Paradiso Resort & Spa were at the top of the search return list. I would research the man with the healing hands and his magic playground later. For now, I wanted to read what normal women—were they really normal if they blogged about a pussy massage—had to say.
I scanned the results and clicked on a link that led to a forum post by a woman named Tess, who went into great detail to describe her first experience with Yoni Massage. She used many of the same words that Lulu had. Amazing… Never felt so relaxed, so serene… Experienced multiple orgasms… Squirted… Peed… Blah, blah, blah…
I clicked on three more links and read three more first-hand accounts (again, no pun intended). In every case, the women described the experience as not simply sexual, but spiritual, life changing, emotional. Some said they cried uncontrollably and felt totally cleansed and free afterward. Some described feelings of euphoria, like having an out of body experience. More multiple orgasms. More squirting. More peeing. More glowing reviews about something I was still having a hard time wrapping my head around.
The plush, leather seat beneath me was getting warm. I wondered if the seat warmer was on. I checked the button on the door panel. No, the seat warmer wasn’t on. It took me a second to realize that it wasn’t the seat that was generating the heat, it was me, or more to the point, my pussy, which was rising in temperature like a blast furnace on high. I could smell my juices as they flowed from deep within me, soaking my cotton panties and the crotch of my panty hose. I nervously glanced at Carl, who’s eyes were still on the road. There were air conditioning vents in the back of the front seat. I adjusted the vents and pointed them in my direction, hoping to cool the sweat that was dotting my upper lip and keep the smell of my sex up-wind from Carl.
I went back to the search results page and clicked on a link to an article in an online medical journal. I’d had enough reading about horny women squirting and pissing all over the place. I needed to read something clinical, something dry, something that wouldn’t make my cunt flow like a rushing river.
The title of the article was, Yoni Massage: Fact or Fetish, written by a woman identified as Sexologist & Clinical Practitioner Dr. Genevieve St. Claire. There was a picture of St. Claire along with a brief bio. My eyes were drawn to the image for some reason. I clicked to enlarge it and her face filled the screen with the bio below. She was movie star beautiful, with long blonde hair and a warm smile and large eyes… living in Paris… age 64—what, there was no fucking way this woman was 64… I leaned in and squinted at the image. Her skin was flawless. Her face did not bear the plastic mask of surgery and Botox like so many women her age (and mine). I could see tiny laugh lines and crow’s feet, but otherwise she looked utterly amazing. And a hell of a lot better than I did at two-thirds of her age.
I clicked the image to close it and started reading the article, which detailed what St. Claire claimed to be the numerous benefits of Yoni Massage, which she credited, at least in part, to her overall excellent health and enduring beauty (her words, not mine).
I read the article aloud in my head.
I imagined St. Claire reading to me in a clipped French accent.
“Yoni Massage helps break down blockages and releases toxins to increase blood flow to sexual organs.”
No shit. If a hot guru was fingering me and tweaking my clit I’d probably be releasing all kinds of toxic stuff, especially if I was squirting and pissing, which I still thought was just ridiculous.
I read on. “Yoni Massage increases blood flow and releases hormones that stimulate the subject sexually and mentally.”
I shifted in the seat again. My panties were soaking up the juices like a Bounty towel.
“Yoni Massage may help or prevent memory loss, back pain, poor circulation, decreased libido, impotence, difficulty in urination and painful menstruation. It has even been known to open a closed mind.”
“Okay, I’m calling bullshit, Genevieve,” I said out loud, huffing at the screen. This bitch was starting to sound like she was rattling off the side effects of some new miracle drug.
“You say something, Miss Casey?” I looked up to see Carl’s dark eyes studying me in the rearview mirror. His forehead was cut into deep lines of concern. I didn’t care what Lulu said. To me, Carl sounded just like Morgan Freeman, at least in my brain.
“Sorry, Carl,” I said with an embarrassed grin. I held up the iPad and rolled my eyes. “Just legal stuff.”
He let his head bob for a moment and put his eyes back on the road.
In my head, he said, “Don’t you worry none now, Miss Daisy. I’ll have you home in five minutes.”
I turned off the iPad and shoved it back into my briefcase just as Carl pulled to the curb in front of my building. Genevieve St. Claire’s voice still echoed in my mind.
“Yoni has even been known to open a closed mind,” I imagined her saying. “Perhaps, Cassandra Casey, it can even open yours.”
CHAPTER FIVE: Cassandra
I kicked off the high heels the moment after I came into my apartment and closed the door, then picked them up by the straps and let them dangle from two fingers as I walked into the kitchen with my briefcase in the other hand. I could almost hear my feet sighing as they hit the cool tile of the kitchen floor. It felt wonderfully soothing through the confines of the panty hose. I wiggled my toes to get the feeling back into them as I set the briefcase on the kitchen island and the shoes on top of it.
My stomach was growling, but I ignored it. Instead, I poured myself a tall glass of Chablis and sipped it carefully as I walked into the bedroom with the heels and briefcase now in one hand. I set my briefcase and the glass on the dresser and went into my big walk-in closet. I set the heels back in their designated spot (I’m a bit OCD) and peeled myself out of the pencil skirt and matching jacket, which I hung on a rack inside the closet door so I would remember to have my maid take then to the cleaners on Monday. Unless I missed my guess, my skirt was ripe with my scent, just as the pantyhose and panties were. I took off the white silk blouse and bunched it to my nose, inhaling. It smelled of sweat and perfume. I tossed it in the hamper.
Things felt really icky between my legs. I rubbed my crotch with the tips of my fingers. Wet. Hot. Sticky. I momentarily thought I had wet myself or started my period, my pantyhose and panties were so hot and damp. But that wasn’t the case. I had just oozed juices everywhere, something I had not done in a very long time, especially riding in the back of a Town Car with my version of Morgan Freeman behind the wheel.
I stripped off the panty hose, panties and bra and dropped them all in the clothes hamper, then walked back into the bedroom. I took a few deep breaths and stretched my arms toward the ceiling. I got up onto my tiptoes and tightened my leg muscles. I had been a dancer once, eons ago, and had even dabbled in yoga. Maybe if I’d stuck with either of them I wouldn’t feel like my body was getting old before its time. I heard bones in my back faintly popping as I stretched. I figured I’d done enough yoga for one day.
I went into the bathroom and turned on the hot water in the soaker tub and poured in some lilac oil. I lit a few candles and went back into the bedroom to retrieve my glass of wine and the iPad from my briefcase. I thought about taking it into the bath with me, then decided not to, then decided to go ahead. I was either drunker than I thought or losing my sense of reason. Maybe I was just more tired than I thought. Whatever, I pulled the iPad out of the briefcase and took it with me into the bath.
When the tub was full, I stepped into the steamy water and lowered myself in slowly. For some reason, I jumped a little when my twat hit the hot water. It wasn’t a burning sensation. It was something else. Something strange. Something sexual. I didn’t orgasm, but I felt a familiar shudder. I guess listening to Lulu and reading the confessions of the women who detailed their Yoni Massage experience had gotten to me. I was horny for the first time in… well… I didn’t know when. My breasts were swollen and my nipples pl
ump as they slid beneath the oily surface of the water.
I had a plastic tray that sat across the tub with a book stand on it. I set the iPad on the book stand and sipped the wine as it booted up. I set the glass on the tray and picked up a washcloth from the side of the tub and wet it under the water, then leaned back with my head resting against the side of the tub and the cloth over my eyes.
The hot bath felt wonderful. The heat was easing the tension in my muscles, but the fire between my legs raged on. With the cloth still over my eyes, I slid my hands down to my breasts and gave them a good squeeze. My nipples were warm and hard, sensitive to the touch. I rolled them between my fingers and pinched them until the pain made me stop. My left hand lingered on my tits as my right hand started down across my stomach, into my bush of dark curls, down the length of my clit. Then the fucking iPad pinged. I couldn’t believe it. I tugged the wash cloth from my face and stared at the screen. It was Lulu Facetiming me. I thought about ignoring her, but knew that if I didn’t answer she’d just start calling my cellphone. It was easier to get away from a pack of bloodhounds than Lulu. I dried my hands on a towel and tapped the button. Lulu’s face filled the screen.
“What?” I asked.
“Don’t what me,” she said with a grin. She moved her face closer to the screen. “Are you in the tub?”
