by Amy Brent
“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 d
oze 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…
Famous Yoni Master Fucks Woman To Death In Dive Bar Restroom…
Film at eleven…
But when I opened my eyes and looked in the mirror I saw her smiling back at me. Her mouth was hanging open. Her tongue was out. She was panting like a dog. Her face was drenched in sweat. And she was smiling like the Cheshire Cat.
She blew a strand of hair out of her face, wiggled her plump ass against me, and said the two words I needed to hear most at that moment.
“The best….”
The best.
It was the kindest compliment I’d been given in a very long time.
That was a year ago. Since then Lois and I had had sex in that restroom five or six times, in the front seat of her car, in the back of my car, in the alley out back of the bar with her back pressed against the brick wall and her legs around me, and once inside the bar itself in a dark corner while a dozen other patrons milled around without even giving us a second look. I sat back in a chair and took out my hard cock and she pushed her miniskirt up and her thong to the side and rode me to the rhythm of What’s Love Got to Do With It coming from the jukebox. It was very nearly the best sex of my life and gave rise to a new-found respect for the music of Miss Tina Turner.
The downside to it all was that I could only get an erection when I was with Lois now. I could only blow a load when my cock was deep inside her. Hell, I couldn’t even coax my cock to get hard with a Hustler Magazine and a tube of lube anymore, the sex tools of my misspent youth.
I was not Devin McMasters when I was with Lois.
I was just me.
A guy that the world had no expectations of.
A guy the world put no demands on.
Lois just wanted me to fuck her.
Because I was the best.
Funny.
I thought the same thing about her.
* * *
It was nearly midnight when I slid onto a stool at the far end of the bar and ordered Coors in the bottle, because I didn’t trust the cleanliness of Pete’s glasses. Pete, who had the personality of a corpse on Quaaludes, set the bottle on the bar in front of me and plucked the ten-dollar bill from between my fingers. I took a sip of the cold beer and let it slake down my throat slowly. I only drank when I came to Pete’s. The rest of the time I had to watch everything I ate and drank to keep in shape and to up the appearances that went with being a guru—a word I had grown to hate, but tolerated because it added several zeroes every year to my bottom line.
The beer tasted good going down. I thought briefly about ordering a burger, then thought better of it. God forbid TMZ shoot video of me with a bottle of Coors in one hand and one of Pete’s greasy burgers in the other.
I licked the beer from my lips and looked around the bar for Lois. Other than me, there were a dozen or so other regulars lined up to the bar and another dozen or so sitting at the little round tables or hovering around the worn pool table. My heart sank a little when I didn’t see Lois, who claimed to practically live at Pete’s. When Pete brought my change and set it on the bar in front of me, I held up a finger to catch his attention.
“Seen Lois?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
He narrowed his eyes at me for a moment, like he’d never seen me before even though I had frequented his lovely establishment every few weeks for the past year. He glanced at the Dodger’s cap, then looked me in the eye and shook his head. “Don’t guess you heard.”
I had the beer bottle to my lips. It froze there. I sucked in a quick breath and held it. “Oh shit… what happened? Is she…?”
“Married,” Pete said with the same grimness as if he were announcing her death. “Last Tuesday. Moved to Waco to marry some guy she met online.”
“Married…” I blew out the breath and forced a smile. “Thank God. I thought you were gonna tell me she had died or something.”
“Same thing,” Pete said with a grunt. “Anything else?”
“No, thanks,” I said, toasting him with the bottle. Shit. How could Lois leave me? I mean, we had a good thing going. How could she just get up and marry some gut she met on the fucking internet? And why was I feeling like the jilted lover
who never saw it coming.
Because you’re an arrogant asshole, the little voice in my head said, reminding me of something I already knew. I didn’t even know Lois’ last name. I didn’t know where she lived or if she had ever been married or if she had kids or family or a dog or a cat... I didn’t know shit about the woman and she didn’t know shit about me.
She was just a woman I fucked every time I came into town. And I had the audacity to be pissed off that she met another man and moved onto hopefully a better life?
Yep, I was an arrogant asshole. And now I was an arrogant asshole who would probably never get another hard-on in his life. I guzzled the beer and held up the bottle to signal Pete.
“Another?” Pete asked, giving me the eye that looked in my direction.
“Hang on,” I said. I took the wad of bills from my pocket and peeled off a couple of hundreds. I set both bills on the bar and slid them toward him.
“What’s this for?” Pete asked as he set the fresh bottle of Coors in front of me. He eyed the money, then eyed me. “You trying to buy the place?”
“We’re celebrating Lois’ nuptials,” I said loud enough to get everyone’s attention. I picked up the bottle and held it in the air as if it was a trophy for all to see. “Drinks on me!”
I was suddenly the most popular guy in the place.
And the most miserable.
CHAPTER EIGHT: Cassandra
The week flew by. Lulu managed to add me to her reservation, which turned out to be a near miracle because Paradiso was completely booked out nearly a year in advance. Lulu assured them that we could comfortably share the king-sized bed in the suite she had paid six-thousand-dollars for, and agreed to pay an additional twenty-percent surcharge for my meals and other freebies, which two-percent would have easily covered.