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My First Client (pt. 1) - The story of a masseuse in New York with a talent for stress relief
🕑 Added 2020-08-10 17:50:03 +0000 UTC
I loved every little submissive conquest on my table, wet and slippery under my hands as I would guide them exactly how I wanted. I’m Ben Kylmerdale, maybe the most in-demand masseuse in New York City, for reasons both job-related and not so job-related.
Soon word spread like wildfire all over the United States. I became the talk of the country, discussed in code in mums’ forums, shared quietly in celebrity circles and renowned even in royalty.
I let the lifestyle take me away completely as things began to steamroll. The sessions on the private jets over to Monaco, the password parties at London mansions and the decadent yacht gatherings of the Bel Air class.
But she would always be my first. The one who drew me in to all of this.
My first client, well, my first non-conventional client. I used to be straight edge, but it was difficult to keep that ruse up when she was on my table, her body writhing and drawing me in to transport her to places she had never been before.
Christina Gomez. A firebrand. A whirlwind of heat, passion and contradiction rolled into one tight and sexy package. The girl I tried my hardest not to mix business and pleasure with and failed miserably.
This story is a little bit about me and her, how we came to meet and who we came to be.
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Masseuse was never the title I expected on my CV.
On graduating high school I had had no idea that that was who I would be. I’d always been good with my hands, fixing things, mending things around the house and the farm where I grew up but I’d never really known where to take it, only that I wanted to be working on something with my hands all day long, day in and day out. Moulding something or sculpting it maybe, it was all a vague dream.
Rural Missouri was a far cry from where I wanted to be, I needed a change, a way to explore a side of myself quashed out in the countryside. I wanted to hit the city and do something completely different.
My friend told me about massage and some of the money to be made working with higher-end and more demanding clientele. I was more than a little intrigued and I became obsessed, studying the art furiously, reading into the early mornings and practising in the local area, getting my first few paying customers. I’d found a natural talent.
I took a risk and set up my own masseuse business far away in New York City, starting off in a small building and gradually working up to the glitzier neighbourhoods where the city’s wealthy and famous would all congregate.
I was good, very good. Work was slow at first but soon picked up pace as people learned of my skills and my satisfied clients, mostly girls, mostly younger women, models, ballerinas, high-flyers in the city, all manner of girls. I never saw myself as a natural casanova or a lothario but each week working on the aching muscles and sore tendons of beautiful girls, all exposed and almost naked on my table, it lit a fire under me. Of course, I never mixed business and pleasure, a massage was a massage, nothing more.
Everything was going smoothly, business was churning away, our client base was expanding and things were looking up for our most profitable year ever. But one girl changed all that, one girl who booked an appointment on a seemingly innocuous late Tuesday evening.
Her name was Christina Gomez.
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“Ben, I’ve got your next client, erm, 6pm? Does that work for you?”
Rinsing my hands in the basin, I shout back to my receptionist. “Six is fine, can’t go much past seven though, dinner in Manhattan with an old friend.”
I’d been thinking about dinner all day, a ribeye, some wine and catching up with Demetrious, one of my best buds from high school who was travelling up from Florida for the week. It was going to be a simple and relaxing evening. No stress, no work, no phone buzzing away, just good old fashioned guy chat.
The minutes ebb by as I work my hands into the last appointment’s trap muscles and knead against her shoulder blades. One of my older clients, Katy, a Wall Street banker, who had been with me since the very beginning, we didn’t talk much but she always left a satisfied customer.
6.12pm. Last client of the day and we’ve gone way over time. I get lost in my work more often than I’d like to admit. I drag my palms against her oily exterior and dive my thumbs deeper against the surface of her skin, eliciting a little murmur and groan of satisfaction from her as I tenderly rub her down, letting her feel each stroke and the softening of each pressure point. She wriggles on her stomach and bucks her hips slightly in the air, reacting to the sensation of my busy hands.
“Miss Trent, I think we’re done here, here’s a towel, there’s refreshments on the counter if you’d like and I’ll leave you in peace to change in the side room.”
She opens her eyes and wraps the towel around her, covering her breasts and wiping down some of the moisture from her tight stomach and back.
“Thank you Ben, amazing as always.” She beams widely at me. “I don’t want to tell you what to do but I think you should clone those hands, make multiple copies of you, the world needs you. I tell my girlfriends down at Citi about you all the time.” Shaking her head, she coils her hair back into a neat ponytail and fastens her bra, adjusting her breasts against the nylon.
“You’re welcome.” I smile back at her and swing through the door back to the reception area to wait on the next client. Looking down at my phone I see a text from Demetrious.
He’s met a new girl, she looked cute, petite, braids, very nice body, good for him. He hadn’t always been a ladies man but he was getting better, much better. Throwing the phone back into my pocket I look around at all of the chairs but no one is there.
“What’s the name?”
My receptionist, Sarah, scrambles away at the keyboard, searching through the CMS database. After a few clicks she brings it up on the screen.
“Christina. Gomez. Christina Gomez.”
I nod and plant my hands on my hips.
The receptionist shrugs and I shrug back equally as perplexed. It was very rare for a client to be more than 5 minutes late in New York, time was at a premium. Nearly 15 minutes was completely unheard of.
“Tell her to come straight through when she arrives. But if she doesn’t arrive in 10 minutes I’ll head off and re-schedule with her. Leave her number on the top.” A few minutes pass and nobody arrives, I check my watch and go back to reception.
Katy walks out from the side room in her smart work dress and pencil skirt and waves goodbye.
“Thanks again Ben. Same time next week?”
It was like dating with this girl, except dating consisted of rubbing her down till she murmured with jolts of pleasure under my thick hands.
“Sure thing, don’t work too hard Katy.”
She smiles and flicks her handbag to her side, easing through the front door and hitting the sidewalk with a determined spark in her step.
I’m distracted by Katy’s swaying hips and a voice calls out from behind me with no warning.
“Sorry Mister Klymerdale. I thought I would let myself in, faster that way.”
I turn around to notice the door swinging freely and the voice going into the room without a face to match it. She hadn’t even bothered to check in, just stealthily slipping past both me and Sarah. My last client has an attitude to her, a strong accent, Mexican maybe, I couldn’t tell. I’d soon find out.
“Hey, Miss Gomez? Please, make yourself at home take a seat on the table. Sarah you can go home if you want, we’ll be finished here soon, go catch a movie or something.” I shake my head at the audacity of my last client and motion pointing a gun to my brain to Sarah.
My receptionist smiles and logs off the system quickly before shoving her chair under the table. It was rare I let her get off work early but I was feeling generous. She grabs her purse and double checks she has her apartment keys before shoving them into the bag.
“Thanks Ben. Have a good evening.”
“Movie night with Ryan?”
“Movie night with Ryan.”
She gathers her handbag and piles out of the front door with her high heels, swinging to the right to head to the subway. The heat is stifling, not insane for New York’s typical Summers but still blasting through the window with an unbelievable consistency. I put my hands on my hips and walk back into the massage room. I’d have to ping Demetrious, looks like I’m going to be late.
Part 2 coming tomorrow just for patrons!
