by Amy Brent
“Yes,” I said. “I’m trying to relax. What do you want?”
“Show me your tits,” she teased.
“Lu, two seconds.”
“Fine, fine. I wanted to know if you had thought anymore about going to Paradiso with me next weekend to get your Yoni rubbed.”
I was not about to tell her that I had thought little about anything else. “No, Lu, I have not.”
“Well, I found something online and wanted you to watch it. Maybe it’ll convince you to go with me.”
“Fine,” I said with a huff. “What is it? A website? Text me the link and I’ll look at it later.”
“It’s a video of Yoni Master Devin McMasters talking about Yoni Massage,” she said, looking down from the camera. I could hear her tapping on the computer keys. “Okay, check your messenger. Watch that video. I think you’ll like what you hear.” She grinned at me from the screen. “And I think you’ll like what you see.”
“Fine. If I get time this weekend, I’ll watch it.”
She leaned in to the camera again and looked down as if she were peeping through a window at me. “So, you’re not going to show me your tits?”
“Bye, Lu. See you Monday.” I tapped the button and Lulu’s smiling face disappeared. The messenger window had popped up to display the link to the video. My pussy was still waiting for my fingers to rejoin the party, but my curiosity to see the video of this so-called Yoni Master got the best of me. I tapped the link and waited for the video to load. When the strikingly handsome face of Devin McMasters filled the screen, I got the feeling again that I knew him somehow, or had met him somewhere. The memory was cloudy, but it was there somewhere in the fog, like a ghostly figure just out of view. I’d figure it out eventually. But now, I had something else in mind. I tapped the button and the video began to play.
It was a BBC documentary on Eastern and holistic medicine. The segment was an interview with a BBC journalist, an attractive young blonde with a clipped British accent and very short skirt. She was seated across from him, her long, perfect legs crossed. I noticed her foot bouncing nervously. I did that sometimes when I had to pee, or when I was a little drunk and horny. I wondered if Devin McMasters was working his magic with her.
“So, Mr. McMasters,” she began, frowning down at a notepad that was resting on her thigh like she was deep in thought.
“Please, Erica, call me Devin,” he said, his deep voice resonant through the tiny speaker. He gave her a warm smile that made the bath water between my legs heat up. It got to her too. She giggled and pushed a strand of hair back over her ear.
“Yes, well, Devin…” She was trying to keep it together. She straightened in the chair and cleared her throat. “Um… let’s start with the obvious question. What do you believe, Yoni Massage is much more than masturbatory sex?”
I smiled. So did he? I chuckled to myself. “Masturbatory sex? I’ll have to use that one in court someday.” I picked up the soap and started lathering my shoulders and chest as my eyes remained on the screen.
McMasters leaned in slightly and lowered his voice. “Well, Erica, have you ever had a Yoni Massage?”
She blinked at him. “No, well… no.”
“But you have had masturbatory sex?” He said it like there was no arguing with the point. Hell, who hadn’t been fingered or diddled themselves silly.
“Well… I mean…” She was squirming in the chair. “That doesn’t really answer the question.”
I watched Devin McMasters’s handsome face as he looked at her. He was smiling slightly, just the hints of a curl at the corners of his lips. The man was incredible looking with his sweeping long blonde hair, deep blue eyes that cut through the video, big smile, perfect teeth, deep rich tan. He looked like a thirty-something surfer who just happened to be a professional pussy massager.
He was wearing a white silk shirt open at the collar and sleeves, a pair of white Chinos, and sandals. I supposed it was a fitting uniform for the world’s foremost expert on, well, you know.
“To answer your question, Erica,” he said, letting the smile drop as he leaned in again, this time with a serious expression on is handsome face. “Masturbatory sex is just that: sex. The purpose is to orgasm, or at least try to.”
“Yes,” she said, hissing out the word, probably because she had been holding her breath waiting for him to answer. She put a knuckle to her lips as if to shush herself.
“The purpose of Yoni Massage is to cleanse the body, mind and soul of tension, toxins, negativity, suppressed emotions.” The camera came in close on his tanned face. I felt my nipples tingling in the water. The soap was still in my hand. I soaped up my breasts and massaged my nipples until they were fully erect and hard as gumdrops.
“So, you’re saying that there is more to Yoni Massage than simply the touching of the female’s genitalia,” the blonde said, doing her best to keep a serious expression on her face. I had to smile. I was pretty sure she was as moist in the twat just sitting across from him as I was watching the video.
“You make it sound so clinical,” he said, the smile flashing again. “It’s been medically proven that women tend to store suppressed emotions inside the vagina. Toxins. Negativity. Years of suppressed emotions that lead to stress, and we know that stress can lead to high blood pressure, heart problems, anxiety, death.”
“And Yoni Massage can help prevent that?” she asked, uncrossing her legs as she asked the question. She repositioned herself so that she was sitting facing him with her knees spread as wide as the tight skirt would allow. My left hand remained on my breast. My right hand slid the soap down my stomach, across my curly bush. Finding my clit hard, I drew slow circles around it with the soap.
“Yes, such emotions can be released through Yoni,” he said, leaning back and spreading out his big hands… his big magic hands… his big magic healing hands… I slid the soap between my pussy lips. I could feel my cunt releasing hot juices into the bathwater, warm and oily, like an oil spill in the floor of the Gulf. I slid the soap inside my opening and slowly moved it around, then replaced the soap with a finger.
“Can you describe what happens during the Yoni Massage?” blondie asked. Her voice cracked a little. Bless her. She was probably cumming in her chair.
“First, we set the mood,” he said, leaning in again and lowering his voice just above a whisper. The blonde and I both swallowed hard. I slid two fingers inside my pussy as my left hand gave my nipple a squeeze. “The room is lit by candles, soft music playing, a comfortable surface on which to lie.”
“Am I naked?” she asked suddenly, as if the words were forced from her lungs. “I mean… um… the person getting the massage…”
He smiled at her, like a hunter smiling as the prey fell into his trap. His teeth showed pearly white as his lips curled back over them. I imagined that he had fangs. He would have made a lovely vampire.
I slid my fingers out and slowly back inside my pussy. My body was heating up. Drops of sweat formed on my forehead, above my lip, on my neck… I imagined him licked the sweat from my skin and humming as he did so.
“Yes, the person is nude,” he said. “Covered by a thin sheet.”
“I see.” She was trying to get herself together. She tapped the pen to her chin and gave him a thoughtful look. “Then?”
“Then, the woman gets comfortable on the table, lying on her stomach. I use a special oil, my own secret sauce, if you will. The oil is kept in a warmer to keep it warm at all times.”
“You put the oil in your hands…” At first, I thought the blonde had said the words, then I realized that I was talking out loud. The fingers in my pussy picked up the pace, sliding in and out faster. I clutched at my breast and massaged it roughly, squeezing the nipple until the wonderful pain forced me to stop.
“Yes, I put the oil in my hands, not directly on the skin of the woman,” he said, holding up the big hands again, the fingers so perfectly long and slim. “I warm the oil in my hands, then the massage begins.”
/> “Begins… where?” she asked.
My breath was getting heavy. My breasts were rising and falling with each gust. The fingers in my pussy were plunging in and out. I brought my left hand down to rub my clit, sending a shockwave through my body that nearly made me cum. I was getting close, but not yet, not quite yet…
“I begin where the tension is centered the most, sometimes the feet, sometimes the shoulders and back” he said, talking with his hands. I could feel them on my breast. On my clit. Inside my pussy. My fingers quickened the pace. I was gushing hot juices into the bath water. I didn’t need the lube of the soap anymore. My body was oozing with its own lubricant.
“Then the arms and hands,” he said, his voice quieter now, seductive. I could imagine that the blonde was as close to cumming as I was.
“Then I move to the feet and work my way up the legs, over the calves, the backs of the thighs, then to the buttocks.”
“You massage her derriere,” the reporter said officially, like she was confirming some vital fact she didn’t want to the audience to miss. She tried to wrinkle her forehead, but the Botox prevented it. “Then what? Do you move to the vagina?”
I smiled. My fingers went deeper inside my cunt. I tugged my clit between my thumb and forefinger and milked it like a small cock. The orgasm was coming. My body was on fire. My toes were curling. My twat was suctioning around my fingers.
“No, not yet,” he said with a smile, looking directly into the camera. I imagined that he was talking to me. I slowed the pace of the thrusts in my twat. I didn’t want to cum too soon… not yet… not yet…
“When I am finished with the posterior, the woman moves to her back and the massage is repeated on the front,” he said, as casually as if he were discussing the weather. “First the feet and legs, then the arms and hands. Then the breasts and stomach…”
“You massage my—her—breasts?” The blonde crossed her legs, probably because her pussy was oozing all over the back of her tight, white skirt.
“Yes, massaging the breasts is vital. The breasts are a large muscle and can hold an enormous amount of tension,” he said, cupping his hands out front of him. I imagined him cupping my breasts.
“I see,” she said, trying to look pensive with the pen at her chin, her head slowly bobbing. “And then?”
“Then down to the stomach muscles, then to the pubic area, then to the vagina.” He sat back in the chair and crossed his long legs, then laced his fingers over his knee, as if he was finished with the tour. The blonde waited for a moment, glanced at the camera, then leaned in toward him with her hands out. I was right there with her, on the brink of orgasm, ready to cum at any moment.
“And what then?” she asked, a hint of desperation in her clipped proper accent.
“Then…” He spread his hands and smiled. “Bliss.”
“Fuck…” The video ended on his face, his blue eyes burning into the camera. I stared at the frozen frame and hammered my fingers into my pussy.
I stiffened my index finger of the other hand and rolled it over my clit as quickly as it would go, hard, sending vibrations through my clit, up my stomach, to my breasts and out of my mouth.
My moans echoed off the bathroom walls. I came in waves as I stared into his eyes. It was his cock inside my pussy. His hands on my clit, on my tits. I imagined his tongue in my mouth.
My body shuddered so hard I splashed water all over the floor. When it was done, I soaked for a few minutes, then dried off my hands and picked up my phone.
“Lu, it’s me,” I said, still breathless. “I’m in. Book the trip to Paradiso for next weekend.”
CHAPTER SEVEN: Devin
I was glad that not every woman on the planet had a clue who I was. Sure, I was famous all over the world, but the truth was that the majority of women had no idea who Devin McMasters was. That was a fact that used to bother me to end when I was young and egotistical (okay, I’m still egotistical, I’m just not as fanatical about it). Now I was fine with the fact that most women didn’t know me from Adam and didn’t know what a Yoni Massage was. And even if they did, most couldn’t afford the outrageous fees we charged at Paradiso. We catered to the one-percenters, those wonderful self-indulgent ladies who had more money than sense and didn’t mind spending it on things like diamonds, furs, Botox, and Yoni Massage.
Sure, they might have seen me on TV or passed the display of my books in an airport book store, but they barely glanced at me when I slipped into the smoky, dive bars where the one-percenters rarely go, with a Dodgers baseball cap covering my blonde hair and dark glasses covering my eyes. Rather than my usual white “uniform” I wore a black t-shirt and jeans, and scuffed hiking boots rather than what Ben called my “Jesus sandals”.
I also let my whiskers grow in between sessions at Paradiso, which were now scheduled for twice a month since doing them every week was taking its toll on me. The sandy stubble hid my face well enough.
Still, sometimes a woman would say, “Hey, do you know who you look like?” I would pretend to have no idea who Devin McMasters was, then I’d proceed to fuck her in the restroom or back at her place or in the back of my car in the parking lot.
It bothered me sometimes that the only way I could get an erection now—and actually shoot a load—was with a strange woman in a strange place far from Paradiso. As much good as Yoni had done for my clientele—and for me personally and financially—it had pretty much killed whatever normal sex drive I once had. It was a psychological thing, I knew that, but I had no control over it. There was a time when I was the master of my own cock, commanding it to rise, serve, and fall at my will. Now, well, my cock had a mind of its own. And usually it was of a mind to just doze like a fat drunk when a woman’s legs were spread wide and the scent of pussy was in the air.
I read an interview once with a famous porn star by the name of Big Dick Long. He claimed that he could only get it up when the cameras were on. The rest of the time Angelina Jolie couldn’t coax a hard on out of him after swallowing a truckload of Viagra.
I remembered at the time thinking how stupid it sounded.
Now…
Well…
It wasn’t so funny anymore.
* * *
Pete’s was a dive bar on a side street that you’d miss if you didn’t know it was there. It was one of those hole-in-the-wall neighborhood joints where the locals hung out to watch the game and drink beer and do shots and smoke cigarettes and just kick back and enjoy time away from the world that was waiting just outside the door.
It was not one of those places like Cheers where everybody knew your name. To the contrary, it was one of those places where nobody gave a fuck who you were or what you were doing there. That’s why I liked going to Pete’s. Once I passed through the front door I was immediately anonymous. I wasn’t the famous Yoni guru. I was just a guy looking for a cold beer and a shot of rye and maybe a little hot pussy, if one or all were available.
The place was dark except for the mismatched assortment of neon lights behind the bar and the fluorescents above the pool table. The patrons didn’t look at you too hard, if they looked at you at all. They didn’t want to fill your ear with their sad stories and they sure as fuck didn’t want to hear yours. They just wanted to drink and chill. And occasionally, fuck your brains out.
Lois was of the latter variety.
That was all I knew about her, just her first name, and that she liked to have her hair pulled when being fucked from behind in the men’s restroom.
Lois looked to be in her early forties, two or three years older than me. She was probably beautiful in her youth. Not that she was unattractive today. She could still turn most heads as she sashayed by in the miniskirts and fuck-me-pumps she wore to Pete’s. She just had a worn look about her, like she’d been around the block a few too many times and had the cum-stained t-shirts to prove it.
She was a full-figured, dye-job redhead with wide hips and a nice cushy ass, and a hairy pussy so tight I had accused her of
having it tightened. She just gave me a raspy laugh and said it should be tight from all the exercise it got.
I tried to rub her back the first time we fucked in the tiny restroom and she asked me what the fuck I was doing. I had her bent over the sink with her thong around her ankles and her miniskirt pushed up over her ass. I was holding onto her hips and ramming my cock into her tight box so hard it made her entire body jar against the sink. I couldn’t tell you why I did it. It was just habit, I guess. My hands were on her sides. I moved my hands under her crop-top and up her back and started massaging her lower back with my thumbs. Lois grinned at me in the mirror.
“Fuck the massage, surfer boy,” she said, mouth hanging open, eyes dreamy. “Focus on fucking my cunt. Not my fucking back.”
I’ll never forget those words so long as I live.
Focus on fucking my cunt… Not my fucking back…
I couldn’t explain it if I tried, but I found the words to be freeing, as if they opened up a long-plugged wellspring in my loins. I dug my fingers into her soft ass cheeks and thought about nothing else but my cock in her pussy and fucked her like there was no tomorrow.
I lost control, ramming hard into her gushing cunt without regard to hurting her, ignoring her grunts and gasps as I pulled her ass toward me and rammed my cock in as far as it would go.
I exploded deep inside her for what seemed like minutes, until my balls tightened and the rest of me went limp. I opened my eyes slowly, fearful that I had hurt her badly. I could just picture the headlines in my mind…
