Sweet Muse

by Ava Cummings

  Damien jumps up and opens the door for an attendant carrying a massage table.

  “Bye, Starr. See you in an hour,” Damien says, giving me a wink.

  “Bonjour, Madame,” says the attendant. “I am here to set up your treatment table. S’il vous plaît, there is a robe in your bathroom. You can get ready there. Then, lie down on the table, face down to begin, and your therapist will knock on the door in a few moments.”

  “Merci,” I manage to squeak out. I haven’t had a French lesson since eighth grade, and I’m not very confident when it comes to accents.

  I go to the bathroom, get undressed, and put on the robe. Panties or no for the massage? Well, we are on the Riviera—the land of skin and sun, where they sunbathe topless. Hey, I say to myself, when in Rome—or Cannes, as the case may be.

  After some knocking around, the attendant says, “Au revoir,Madame,” and I hear the door click closed.

  I peek awkwardly around the corner of the bathroom door. At a spa, at least you’re in a room with candles and soothing music. But once I enter the living room, I see it’s been set up beautifully. The shades are drawn, the lights dimmed. In the center of the room sits a cushy treatment table made up with soft sheets and a light blanket. And there are even rose petals scattered around the floor.

  I take a deep breath, telling myself to allow this to happen. I’m on the French Riviera with the man I love, who booked me an in-room massage because he wants to take care of me.

  I shyly remove my robe, set it on the bed, and scurry to the table. Lifting the beautiful, crisp cotton sheet and the light blanket on top, I shimmy under the covers and make myself comfortable on the cushy table. I’m enveloped in a warm cocoon, thanks to a heating pad underneath the sheets, and begin to relax for the first time in days, maybe even weeks. As I close my eyes, I try to empty my mind and be present in the moment.

  Seconds later, there’s a quiet knock on the door.

  “Madame, may I come in? It’s Jacques, your massage therapist.”

  “Yes…I mean, oui, Monsieur,” I say, with what I’m sure is a horrendous accent. I don’t want to be that obnoxious American tourist who assumes everyone speaks English, even though I would hardly understand him if he did speak French. Still, I want to make the effort.

  He keys the room and enters.

  “Just relax, Madame. No need to move. I’m Jacques, and I will be your massage therapist today. We will make sure you have a lovely treatment.”

  I don’t fight his advice; I just lie there, not even opening my eyes. The jet lag has hit me and, between that and the drama of the past few days, I can’t even lift my head up.

  “Merci, Jacques. I’m Anna,” I say.

  “Pleasure to meet you, Anna. Now just relax and let me do the work.”

  He gently pulls the top sheet down to the bottom of my back. I hear the sound of lotion being dispensed and then feel his strong hands plying the stress from my muscles with his gentle yet firm strokes.

  “Too aggressive, Madame? Just let me know.”

  “Non, c’est bon. Merci,” I say.

  Jacques has magic hands. As he expertly releases each muscle group, I feel as if I’m floating above the bed, lolling in and out of a light, restful sleep.

  I’m startled back to consciousness when his hands move to my lower back and slide down an inch or so past what I’d expect; he’s just verging on touching my butt. He makes large circular motions up my back and then back down, and each time he does, he goes a little bit lower. It feels heavenly, but I immediately think back to my experience in New York with Jose, the slightly perverted masseuse.

  But it feels so good, I stay relaxed, figuring that European massages are maybe just a little bit more, um, thorough than what we’re used to in the States.

  Once Jacques finishes my back, he moves down to my legs. Applying more lotion, he slicks one leg and runs his hands up and down along the hamstrings and calf.

  “Oh, very tense, Madame,” he says, seemingly somewhat to himself.

  As he continues to move his hands quickly up and down my left leg, he goes higher and higher each time, verging onto my hip and butt. He sweeps my leg and applies more pressure to my butt, working the cheek on the side and then…at the bottom.

  “Very nice, Madame. Just relax. Enjoy,” says Jacques.

  It actually does feel tense, but this has gone too far. I know Damien got the massage especially for me and wanted me to enjoy it, but I think I have to say something.

  I’m lying on the table mustering up the courage to tell Jacques to keep it G-rated (and figuring out how to explain that in my broken French), when I feel both his hands sweep up the back of my legs and grab my butt. Then one hand quickly slips down between my legs, and he slips two fingers up inside me.

  Instantly, I scream and jump up, awkwardly hoisting myself up, trying to turn around and, at the same time, grab a stitch of sheet or blanket to cover myself.

  When I finally flip myself over and look up, I see a familiar form lowering himself on top of me.

  “Was that pleasing, Madame? Jacques likes to pleasure his lady.”

  I burst out laughing.

  “Damien!”

  Once it sinks in that I haven’t been inappropriately touched by a stranger, I go from freaked out to turned on in a matter of seconds.

  “I liked it very much,” I say, starting to play along. He gently presses me down onto the table and flips me back over onto my stomach—this time with no sheet or blanket on top.

  “Please, Madame. Let me continue.”

  Damien puts more lotion into his hands and runs his warm palms up and down the length of my body, so I’m slick from head to toe. He moves his hands around on me and in me, exploring every square inch, using his hands as if to catalogue every contour, every curve and bend, into his memory.

  Eventually picking up where he left off, he pushes my legs apart and slides one hand up in between me, while the other massages my butt.

  I turn my head to the side and open my eyes. He’s moving methodically and intensely, almost like an artist in creation mode bringing to life his next piece.

  Damien spots me watching him and smiles devilishly.

  “Does the lady like her service?” he says, using Jacques’s seductive accent.

  “I could use more down there.” I point between my legs. “It feels like it needs…more attention.”

  “Certainly, Madame. Let me get to work on it.”

  Damien flips me over onto my back, bends my knees, and spreads me as far as he can on the table, exposing me. I throw my arms up over my head and surrender completely to him.

  He stands beside me, next to the table. He places two fingers inside me while circling my cleft with his thumb. With the other hand, still slick from the lotion, he massages my breasts. My body responds like a computer waking up from sleep mode—fully on and ready to roll. A rush of heat runs through my body, and I start to move my hips in time to Damien’s hand movements.

  “Stay still. Don’t move,” he commands.

  I comply dutifully and relax, letting him own my body, giving me the most X-rated massage the walls of this room have ever seen. Thinking of him as a dirty masseuse, just here to please, sends me flying.

  With his magic hands, he moves his fingers around inside me and on me in a way I’ve never experienced. I start to pant, and inside I can feel myself contracting. I’m about to come from just the touch of his hands. No man has ever been able to do that to me.

  “I know you’re close, Anna. Just let go,” says Damien, leaning down and whispering in my ear, as he nips my lobe and moves his mouth to mine, devouring me. Our tongues dance together in a passion so strong, it sends me over the edge, and I cry out as the most freeing, releasing orgasm rolls through me. As the waves of pleasure wash over me, he moves his fingers inside, stroking me and extending each wave.

  “Was your treatment satisfactory, Madame Starr?” he asks.

  Hearing his sexy French accent brings me back fr
om the outer reaches of pleasure, and I open my eyes slowly, feeling a deeply satisfied smile spread across my face.

  “Oh, yes, Jacques. Très satisfactory. The best massage this girl has ever had. I’ll have to tell your boss that you are one of a kind.” I wink.

  Damien rips off his shirt, scoops me up in his arms, and carries me to our king-sized bed.

  After he lays me down, he slips out of his pants, standing before me with his gorgeous, chiseled body. He’s fully ready, and he’s glorious.

  He jumps onto the bed and pulls me onto him. “All I want in this world right now is to watch your body move while I’m inside you,” he says, with an emotional intensity pitched higher than ever.

  Slowly, I take his sizable length inside me. Damien interlaces his fingers in mine and we hold hands as I begin to rock back and forth. He watches me as I move, and it drives me wild. Gently, we unwind our hands. He pulls me down to him and dives into my mouth, kissing me passionately. My moves become even stronger and more urgent in response. He places his hands on my hips and rocks me on him as he begins to move in time with me.

  The pleasure is so intense, I feel him growing harder inside me and feel my body responding, the tension building in my belly, the small contractions erupting from deep within me. Damien and me together, this moment, moving as one—it feels like we’re becoming one being, fused together. We are two energies entwined as one, two spirits joined, two souls touching. My body tingles with an electricity that begins at the base of my spine and travels all the way up my body, releasing through the crown of my head.

  Damien sits up. He’s trying to get closer, as close as two bodies can. He wraps my legs around him as he adjusts his. He moves me on him, within him, as he encloses his arms around me and covers me in sensuous kisses. I wrap my arms around his sculpted torso and press my breasts, the nipples taut, against his chest. He lets a groan escape, and we rock together, back and forth, in a slow, rhythmic, erotic dance.

  Damien nuzzles my neck, his hot breath warming me as he places several achingly sweet kisses below my ear, and the energy suddenly shifts from urgent to tender.

  He mutters into my neck, but I hear it clearly.

  “Anna, I love you. With all my heart.”

  He pulls back and gazes into my eyes. We stop moving, and savor each other—how we feel together, how we fit together, the intense pleasure of being connected like this, so close and so intimate. I’ve never allowed myself to be this close to anyone. I didn’t even know how, until he came along. I couldn’t open myself up, make myself vulnerable like this, physically and emotionally, but with Damien, it just happens.

  As we begin to move slowly again, I feel as if I’m being reborn. A new Anna is emerging. A more trusting, confident, deeper version of me—the real me, the one that should have come out earlier and probably would have, had it not been for the hurt caused by my dad’s abandonment.

  Damien presses me to him, and it brings me back.

  “Oh, Damien, I love you, too.”

  He begins moving furiously inside me and I respond in kind. Our bodies fully entwined, we’re moving like two wild animals together, panting, groaning, fulfilling our most base desires. Damien pumps inside me, deeper and deeper with each thrust. But we stay connected, close.

  The contractions grow stronger and stronger until I cascade into a sea of pleasure, as the waves of an intense, rolling orgasm course through me. I cry out in pleasure. Damien holds me as my body goes limp, and as my climax winds down, he releases inside me, and it sends another explosion of pleasure rocketing through me.

  My body begins to shudder with emotion, and I’m sobbing like a child. This time, I can’t hide it the way I did at the Plaza. It’s too intense. Tears stream from my eyes.

  “Oh, Damien, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. This was the most amazing…”

  “Shhh, baby.”

  I feel comforted by his words. Slowly, the intensity dissipates, and I pull myself together.

  “It’s okay,” he continues. “I did some research on this, after last time. You tried to hide it, but I saw. But it doesn’t necessarily happen because you’re sad. It happens when the orgasms are really intense. It’s your body’s reaction to the intense pleasure.” He gives me a tender look, gently lays us both down, rolls me off him, and holds me tight.

  “You mean I’m not a basket case?”

  “Far from it. It’s me. I’m just a love machine.”

  He kisses the tears on my face, and we laugh.

  “With magic hands,” I say smiling, nuzzling into him. “Where did you learn those moves on the massage table? You gave me an orgasm with your hands. I’ve never heard of that before!”

  “Ancient Chinese secret,” he says and grabs me for a kiss.

  Quietly, I walk over to the window by the bed and pull a small corner of the curtain aside. Peeking out, I squint my eyes almost shut from the shock of the intensely bright Riviera sunlight. Another picture-perfect morning on the Côte d’Azur gradually comes into focus, azure blue and emerald green as far as the eye can see.

  Damien’s still asleep, recovering from last night; I’ve been up tossing and turning, trying to process it all. His opening was amazing. He was the darling of both the art world and Hollywood. The international press was all over him. We met so many people, from well-known artists to famous actors, and Damien kept me by his side the whole time, introducing me to everyone as his girlfriend. I hug my arms around myself, remembering the warmth and beauty of every moment.

  We saw Mandy and had a chance to tell her the whole story behind her story. She couldn’t believe what I’d gone through. She was so thankful for our efforts and, as she put it, the “heroic lengths” we went to in order to protect her reputation that she introduced us to an important producer who said he wanted to do a movie about it.

  Damien was invited to be the artist-in-residence at the Museum of Modern Art for a year. His dealer said it was the offer of a lifetime. It comes with an apartment in Tribeca, a car and driver, a housekeeper, and even a personal chef. They want him to focus on his art without the distraction of life’s daily chores.

  He asked me to move in with him. A fresh start with Damien sounds like a dream come true. Everything is falling into place. Things were so crazy and extreme. Now, life is finally starting to make sense. I feel like I can relax for the first time in months. I feel like Damien and I can accomplish anything together. He will become the world’s biggest artist, and I…well, I want to be an investigative journalist. Where and for whom? I don’t know yet. But I know I’ll figure it out.

  And I want to look for my dad. I need to reconnect with him, to make me whole. Now that I have Damien, I have the support and the strength to take the first step. Last I heard, my father was running a yoga retreat out West. If I can resolve the past, I might finally be able to embrace the present and the future with openness and honesty.

  There’s a knock at the door. Damien jumps up out of the cocoon of our bed and throws on a robe, tying it loosely at his waist. It hangs sexily open in the front, his tanned, sculpted chest peeking through. He opens the door to a team of three people bearing a magnificent breakfast, along with a gorgeous arrangement of peonies and lilacs. They have it set up outside on the balcony within minutes.

  “I ordered it for us,” Damien says in his gravelly morning voice.

  He jumps back on the bed, pulling me with him, and we tumble into a sensual cuddle.

  “How are you this morning, Starr?” he says, taking his usual care with me.

  “You’re the star. You’re the art world’s biggest star. Did you know that? You were amazing last night. It was incredible.”

  “It was the best night of my life—because you were there with me.”

  Damien looks into my eyes and pulls me to him with a magnetic force, placing his lips onto mine, sharing an endless depth of emotion. When he pulls away, I’m dizzy, breathless. I’m still not used to the power and intensity of our connection.

 
“Now, breakfast. I ordered the works.”

  Damien grabs another pristine, fluffy hotel bathrobe hanging in the closet and holds it out for me, as if helping me with my coat. I snuggle into it. He grabs my hand, and we pad out onto the balcony and take in the idyllic morning.

  The International Herald Tribune, the English-language newspaper based in Paris, is sitting folded on the table. I grab it, hungry for the day’s news and for any coverage of Damien’s show. Taking in the top headline, my eyes nearly pop out of my head: “Hackgate: Phone Hacking Scandal Rocks US Publisher Ty Oldenhouse’s Empire.” I quickly go on to read the accompanying story:

  In the wake of what’s been termed “Hackgate,” megapublisher Ty Oldenhouse has shutteredhis largest and most profitable magazine, Celeb, after itwas revealed that one of its top reportershasallegedly been tapping celebrity phones. Thesophisticated crime ring involves layers of people inside and outside the organization and payoffs to doormen around New York City. Targets included everyone from personal trainers to top celebrities and their publicists; the goal wasto get inside scoops before the competition in the cutthroat celebrity news business,as the public thirst for information regarding celebrities’lives has grown unquenchable.

  Several people have been arrested in conjunction with the scandal, including Chelsea Peters, senior reporter at Celeb, and former private detective GlennGoodall, along with several doormen in the city’s top buildings,who were allegedly part of the ring, paid off to allow access to apartments and offices. Editor in Chief Bernadette Roberts has been taken in for questioning.

  One source close to the situation, who asked to remain anonymous, says Roberts “will never work at a major publication again”and that she’s considering taking the top post at Walking magazine, a small, specialty publication whose circulation is a fraction of Celeb’s.