Unique

by Avery Aster

  “A deep tissue massage, monsieur?” She held out her hands at the empty spa. “We have many openings today.”

  “Would you mind?” Rubbing his neck, it felt tight. “I just worked out.”

  “Take treatment room numéro deux. I’ll be there in a moment.”

  Going into the eight-by-ten, dimly lit treatment room, he closed the door. Inhaling a sedative aroma, the lavender helped him relax. His muscle tension started to subside. New Age music drifted from the walls’ speakers, angelic tunes narrating Celtic legends. He felt as if a mythical fairy might fly out at any minute. All that New Age mumbo jumbo was one reason why he didn’t get massages very often.

  He turned off the waterfall noisemaker plugged into the far wall. The machines made him want to piss. After undressing, he grabbed a terry cloth robe from behind the door and slipped it on. It was too short at the arms and legs. Warner walked over to the massage table, wondering why they made them so short. Spa tables never came long enough for tall people. He owned the joint, yet his legs still hung off the edge. He sat and lifted his foot to remove his gym socks.

  “What the hell?” Half a dozen miniature ruby gemstones were stuck to his sock and shimmered at him.

  Warner rubbed the crystals between his fingers and placed them on his palm. Closing his hand into a fist, he realized he’d seen the gems before. They came from Red.

  Beauty. Warmth. Lust.

  The words they’d exchanged to one another danced in his mind. He’d reflected on Privé Extreme, wondering if he’d hallucinated and Red hadn’t occurred at all. If not for the surveillance tapes, he might’ve believed he’d gone into a trance due to the holiday stress.

  “I’m Red…I’d like to have whatever juice you’re serving…I do love intensity…You may…Dom Perignon Rosé…Back to your place.”

  He’d checked with each hotel on the island, but no resort confirmed the redhead. He never thought to check his own. Wasn’t that always the case?

  In January, Privé Extreme ran the entrance surveillance tapes showing Red arriving with a skinny blonde and leaving with him. The video confirmed he hadn’t lost his mind. The membership card Red had used to obtain club access was reported stolen, perhaps resold without her knowing.

  Looking on the spa’s floor, he saw a gem trail that led to the side cabinet. When he opened it, a colorful tray stared back at him in various blue, purple, green, and yellow shades. But it was the red that spoke to him and echoed, ‘Hello, Big Daddy.’

  Brigitte knocked on the door. “Monsieur Warner, you ready?”

  “Entrez.”

  “Êtes-vous prêt?” Brigitte’s face twisted in confusion. He wasn’t disrobed facedown under the sheet as expected.

  He held his hand out, showing her the rubies. “What are these?

  “Monsieur, those are vajazzling.” She laughed, removing the crystals from his hands, closing the cupboard, and shaking her head.

  “Vajazz—what?”

  “We are the exclusive spa in St. Barth’s offering vajazzling.” She explained the service women booked to decorate their private area with luxurious beaded jewels.

  Unreal! He didn’t know such luxuries existed. “Could you please pull your client logs for New Year’s Eve weekend, say December 30th?”

  “Oui. Is there anything in particular you’re looking for?”

  “You mean…anyone? A woman who received the red crystal application to her…whatever you call it.” Warner hoped he’d finally find Red.

  “Un moment.” She slipped out from the room.

  Excitement charged through him. He sat down to control his breathing and closed his eyes. Relax, Warner. You’ll find her. Inhaling the herbs, he listened to the pixie-like music and waited.

  Anytime he’d seen a long-legged woman with red hair, he’d approached, hoping to find her. Wherever his travels took him, Warner’s mind wandered to Red.

  I can taste you, Red. The tuberose smell in her wavy hair, her velvet tongue kissing his while he cupped those breasts, her sensitive nipples responsive to his every touch. He looked forward to nibbling on them.

  Warner imagined himself carrying Red to his bedroom and unzipping her from the dress. The sheer fabric, a second skin between them, dropped to the floor. He’d kneel, remove each shoe, and admire her calves then kiss her inner thighs. She’d twirl her figure in his face.

  Red, I can’t wait to make your body dance with me inside you. She’d hold her long hair over her bare shoulders. Pose for a minute—naked. Enjoying the view, he’d stroke his cock and ask, “May I?”

  “You may.” He’d place her on his bed against the pillows, her legs spread for him. His two hands would scissor her folds as his tongue tickled her. She’d scream in ecstasy, holding on to his shoulders while he lapped at her cunt. Red, you taste as sweet as fresh cream. Once she became nice and wet, wetter than before, wetter than she’d ever thought possible, he’d give her his cock…

  “Monsieur.”

  Fuck! At the knock on the door, Warner threw the sheet over his crotch and stayed seated on the table.

  Brigitte returned. “Monsieur, the appointment books show it was I who waited on a young woman who booked the vajazzling.” Her cheeks flushed. “I’m embarrassed. I don’t mean to upset you.”

  “What is it?” He sat up but dared not stand.

  “I remember now waiting on her.”

  “You do?” Warner could hear the herald angels singing.

  “The client was a tall model-type, tipped me one hundred dollars. I’m not sure if she stayed in the hotel, but can assume. She came from the United States—Beverly Hills, perhaps.”

  “Makes sense.” Red had embodied 90210.

  “May I ask why you’re inquiring about this client?”

  “I met her on this island. I didn’t get her name, but must find her.”

  Her lips curved into a broad smile of approval. “I understand. I wish I could be of more help. I don’t remember anything else except she insisted on being vajazzled in red.”

  Naturally. “What name did she book under?” Warner could see Red’s name being Eva, Penelope, or Isobelle. He’d even be okay with Prudence, Horace, or Drucilla.

  “Mademoiselle Red.” Brigitte looked at him like, ‘go figure’. “She paid with a credit card, but I don’t have her file at this spa. Everything went to corporate at the year’s end on the thirty-first.”

  “S’il vous plaît, call headquarters. Tell accounting I’m with you. Ask them to pull the spa service transaction records.”

  “Oui, monsieur. Un moment.” She left him alone in the room and closed the door.

  His cock was still hard. Warner jumped to his feet, locked the door, and then laid his head back down on the bed where his thoughts returned to Mademoiselle Red. He reached down under the sheet he’d thrown over himself, tugged at his dick, and continued.

  Red, I’m going to fuck you. He visualized Red taking to his dick with the same pleasure she’d taken to his touches, kisses, and affection for her. She’d lick the head’s slit, moving her juicy lips over the mushroom tip until he was rock-hard. Yanking on his balls, she’d stare at him with those captivating green eyes, hungry. Warner would hold her beautiful face in his hands, guiding her mouth over his shaft, helping her get comfortable. You want to taste me? You like my pre-cum, baby?

  Warner jacked harder under the sheet.

  He’d roll over, massaging her clit’s hood with his fingers. Warner would bring himself down over her, enjoying her moan in his ear, her pleasure, and he’d thrust fast and hard. It would be for her. Having her in his arms would be her experience. He’d drive into her, sensing a throb, she’d swell around his dick. Her slit would swell in response, and she’d tighten her hungry cunt around him, ready to come.

  “Fuck yeah.” He fisted his dick, throwing the sheet to the floor.

  Biting his neck, she’d scream in bliss for him. Warner would lift her ass and get underneath. She’d climb on top, ride him, hugging his cock. He’d bury his
face in her breasts and tug on each rosebud gently with his teeth. His body would thrust, drill, and spread her ass apart with his seed. Red would hold on for dear life as she came while he flooded her with his cum. You wanna come. Come on, Red. I have you. Let go. Come.

  Warner came as the semen fell on his abdomen. He felt his face bead sweat as he released. Red, please come back to me. I have to have you.

  There was a knock at the door. “Monsieur, the door is locked.”

  “One sec.” He washed his hands, tied his robe, grabbed the sheet, unlocked the door, and sat back down, covering himself. He hoped Brigitte wouldn’t notice.

  Eyes rolling, Brigitte’s face whitened as she mumbled pervers under her breath. “New York headquarters started the search. You’ll hear from them in about two weeks or a month.” Brigitte stood in the doorway playing with her wedding band, twirling the metal around her ring finger with her thumb. Perhaps afraid he’d fuck her if she came into the room, she made her commitment obvious. He wouldn’t. Truman Enterprises staffed attractive female employees at all of his properties, but none of them compared to Red, not even close.

  That was just his luck. He gave a tight smile and sighed. “Thanks for checking.”

  Over the winter, Warner had looked for Red while visiting his properties in Sydney, Australia. He could’ve sworn he spotted her sailing once on a boat, not too far from Perast in the Bay of Kotor in Montenegro. In the spring, he’d walked on Xai-Xai coast in Mozambique catching the sunrise. Certain it was Red on the beach, he’d run close to half a mile along the muddy shore to catch her. It wasn’t. Maybe the universe didn’t intend for them to meet again. Possibly he’d never have Red. Warner remembered how the night had ended.

  “I left crazy back home. I sure as hell have no interest in your St. Barth’s drama,” Red had blasted.

  The memory of her as she walked away caused him to shudder. He’d given Red his number, slipped his business card in her handbag, but she never called. Why not? He’d asked himself on many occasions. He considered himself stupid to dwell on it a second longer, though. Warner wasn’t religious, but he thought about the Biblical proverb, “For wisdom is more precious than rubies, and nothing you desire can compare with her.” God aside, his head required a new screw to put it back on tight.

  “Monsieur Warner, they issued a tracking number for this ticket item.” Brigitte stepped forward, placing the note on the counter then returning to her stance in the hallway.

  “Merci.” He didn’t want what just happened to circulate amongst his staff. Especially if Brigitte gossiped about Truman Enterprises’ CEO whacking off in the treatment room. He hoped to change the subject and her mindset before he left. “What are your plans this summer while the resort hibernates?”

  Her face warmed up. “A few of us from the spa are going to Hôtel de France on a spa mobile tour for beauté treatments.”

  “I’ll be in Cannes for the festival, as well. I hope to see you.” Although he found the Cannes beaches too celebrity-centric, Warner always enjoyed his time in France.

  Hôtel de France remained Truman Enterprises’ most profitable property. How? The rooms were always filled to capacity during the Cannes Film Festival by corporate event sponsors.

  “Did you want your massage, Monsieur?” She stepped into the room, hopefully putting his recent ‘door locked, beating off’ session behind her.

  “My back is better. I’ve changed my mind. Thank you, though.” He needed a cold shower.

  “I’ll leave you be to get dressed. See you in Cannes, Monsieur Warner.” Brigitte closed the door on her way out.

  “Au revoir.” Warner wondered if he’d ever see Red again. He took the ticket off the counter. It read, “Barth/Red/Dec30/Vajazz.”

  Who are you, Mademoiselle Red?

  Judith Leiber’s Clutch

  May 18th

  Times Square, New York, NY

  This blows serious chunks.

  Like all the others that year, Taddy’s week rolled over into one big blur filled with work. Her elliptical grew dusty. Every night, she intended to leave the office early and attend Gilad’s Pilates class, but never made it on time. She’d also no-showed two Botox parties hosted by Dr. Fassenbender.

  There were only two men she’d seen on a regular basis.

  The first was her San Juan beefcake chauffeur, José del Torro. In a fire-engine red Cadillac Escalade with her firm’s slogan, “Get fame, get glam, get Brill, Inc.” detailing the doors, José drove Taddy wherever was needed. From her downtown meeting in the financial district with her clients’ investors, to the garment district to help select designs and patterns for her fashion brands, José was there.

  José had a wife and five kids. They were ages eight, five, four, two, and a six-month-old. The del Torro’s lived in the Bronx. Jose, being married, certainly made him off-limits as a romantic interest. Taddy hadn’t a clue when she’d hired him. This oversight became evident one Sunday afternoon when Mrs. del Torro knocked on her penthouse door—uninvited.

  Crap! “Mrs. del Torro, how nice to meet you.” Taddy welcomed her into her home wearing her usual work-from-home weekend attire, a cinnamon and ivory Carine Gilson lace-appliquéd silk-crepe chemise.

  “Hola. Is Mrs. Brill here?” She looked her over as if she’d popped a tart.

  “I’m Miss Brill.”

  “You are who my husband is driving around town?” The shock on Mrs. del Torro’s face over Taddy’s youth and beauty became evident as she confirmed it was her. The woman almost dropped the covered dish entrée in her hands. Perhaps she expected a Miss Daisy or a Leona Helmsley type to chauffeur instead of a Miss Brill.

  “What smells so good?” Taddy’s stomach growled with hunger. Her butler had just quit.

  “Shrimp Paia. I made it to celebrate my husband’s new job with you.” José’s wife set the plate on the nearby table and extended a hug. As her welcoming Puerto Rican arms wrapped around Taddy in a tight grip—one heading toward a headlock—she threatened in Taddy’s ear, “Touch my José and I’ll kill you.”

  Seeking a quick reply to get this bitch out of her apartment, she thought about Kiki and how her assistant would handle such crises. “Thank you for coming by, Mrs. del Torro. If you’ll excuse me, I have to get ready for…uh…church, now.” She bolted for the door, hoping the woman would take a hint. “Yes, Jesus is waiting.”

  “Where do you worship, Miss Brill?” José’s wife asked with suspicion, her gold cross hanging from her neck. It appeared heavy against her cleavage, matching the oversized hoop earrings and gold rings which adorned every finger. Even Mrs. del Torro’s left fingernail was jeweled in a shiny, dangling loop.

  “Ummm.”

  “Where?”

  “I attend…” What the hell is Kiki’s church called? “I go to Save the Bloody Mary. Yup, that’s it,” Taddy lied. She opened the door and pushed the elevator door for her. “Bye now, and hugs to your kids.” Waving her off, she went back inside, locked her doors, and spent the day watching her favorite movie My Man Godfrey.

  At Taddy’s request, Kiki researched José’s wife and confirmed her NYPD rap sheet. Arrested several times for assaulting other women, Mrs. del Torro scared the shit out of Taddy. She did fantasize about José's tool a few times, but she wasn’t a home-wrecker, let alone stupid. His wife was placed on Taddy’s ‘do not ever let this crazy freak up to my penthouse’ list with her building’s doormen.

  Kiki wanted to have José terminated. But Taddy thought about his kids and how respectable it was that he was driving her around town in order to provide for his family. So she kept him on salary.

  The second man in her life was her Moscow-imported butler Díma Revva. Close to the William Powell character in the film My Man Godfrey, he took great domestic care with Taddy’s household needs. The Shih Tzus loved the butler, as he made them doggie stew. In addition, Díma’s thick Soviet accent and square features turned her lower lips out. She appreciated his talents for washing her whites and didn’t want
to mix his business with her pleasure by letting him lick her clitoris. The last time she’d tried to sleep with her domestic staff, they’d sued her for sexual harassment.

  Men aside, she missed her friends, too. Several cancelled lunches, dinners gone cold, and spa appointments overlooked, too busy. Hanging with Lex and Vive had been reduced to text messaging. Lex’s Easton Essentials became the ‘it’ fashion house. That week, Vive was jetting to Chicago to host a Debauchery-sponsored shopping week on Michigan Avenue. Kiki also went AWOL. Since being tasked with shooting photos for Neve Adele’s lifestyle line, she hadn’t come back to the office.

  Taddy grabbed the green Excedrin bottle from her desk and unscrewed the lid. She popped two white tablets into her mouth then downed them with a gulp of Bull Energy.

  Her assistant set a huge box next to her desk labeled, “Kiki’s Accessories.” Shaking her head in protest, Kiki argued, “Those energy beverages aren’t good for you.” She attempted to take it away from her. “I’ve never seen you drink them.”

  “Kiki, darling, it’s the only way I can get all this work done. We have the Candy Land Ball coming up soon.”

  “There’s too much to do. I feel bad for going on vacation.”

  “Don’t be silly.” Taddy took another swig. “I didn’t hear from you this week. You okay?” She sat back in her chair, admiring Kiki’s outfit. A cream-colored sundress from Carolina Herrera’s spring collection, circa two years before, it showed off Kiki’s legs. It was Taddy’s, taken from her closet. She didn’t mind. “I thought Port Authority stopped allowing New Jersey citizens into Manhattan.”

  “Funny, Miss Brill, I came straight from your apartment. Three days nonstop, but I finished the inspiration boards.”

  “Did you eat? You look gaunt.”

  “Your butler fed me. He’s nice.”

  “Díma is a fierce cleaner and my laundry is always perfect. But his kitchen skills are horrific. You ate his cooking, huh?”

  “Your butler uses a communist nutrition book when he cooks.”

  “What on Earth did he make for you?”