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My name is Martin. Characters and events in this story are fictional.

Chapter One


I'd spent twelve of my thirty-two years in Miami, Florida. I'd taken a job at an exotic car dealership after completing an Associate's degree in Sales and Marketing. I began as a floor associate, greeting and engaging the high-end walk-in clientele. Then I moved into the service department. Now I was in my third year as a pure salesman of Ferraris, Porsches, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, and a Bentley or Maserati every so often.

With this day of work done, I was headed to a massage studio I'd been using once a week since my baptism-by-fire as a salesman. It was a small shop, just the owner, Monica, and her niece, Cindy. A sign above the door read, Master Hands Massage Studio. This was their ninth year in business. Monica was a pro, and her wealthy clientele and the longevity of her business was a testament to her skill, talent, and enjoyment of her work.

I pushed the door in after a three-block walk. Cindy was at the front desk, several feet from the front door. But the space wasn't so large as to seem impersonal. Cindy greeted me with a smile and a hello that had a comfortable ring of familiarity. To the left and right of the door were sizable windows that let in the natural light and the sun. In front of the windows were four chairs each, but Monica only ever had one customer at a time in any one of those chairs. Business closed at six p.m., with final daily appointments booked by five. Most of the time, I was her closing customer on Thursdays.

Monica's single massage room was left of the door, on the wall perpendicular to the front of the building. The room contained a lay-out table and the common adjustable, angled chair. On the wall straight opposite of the entry door was another door was the restroom, which I'd used a few times.

Upon hearing her niece greet me by name, the massage room door opened and the customary muted light spilled out as Monica exited. "Hi, Martin," she said to me. "How're you, Monica?" I responded affably. I was polite and courteous and professional as my job required, but I employed as much relaxed dialogue as I could, along with demeanor, there. This place was informal and inviting, and I wasn't overly formal by nature, which made me settle on this place for my weekly massage appointmenrts, as opposed to a highly commercialized, grab-the-greenbacks establishment.

"I'm all set, if you're ready," Monica said to me.

"Yeah, definitely," I answered, waving to Cindy as I strode toward the treatment room. Cindy was getting through college while working here, studying to be a specialized physical therapist. Apparently both of these women wanted to help people be pain-free or minimize physical discomfort in day-to-day living. Good for them. I was betting Cindy would be popular with patients if she was anything like her aunt.

Monica closed the door and directed me toward the lay-out table. She usually did twenty minutes here and forty in the more upright inclined chair. Before lying down I stepped behind a privacy screen and stepped out with a towel cinched at the waist. I laid out on my belly, resting my chin on my forearms.

Monica started by firmly but gently rubbing my feet, kneading into the soles with her fingers and thumbs and working the palms of her hands along the tops.She carefully worked the ankle area and along the meaty part of my lower legs. She rubbed and prodded my thighs front and back. She skipped across my buttocks and worked diligently at my lower back. My back, shoulders and neck were my entire reason for weekly massage appointments. My job wasn't stressful for me personally, it's just that I experienced tightness and tension there regularly.

I switched into the chair to let Monica work my middle and upper back with the same techniques she had used on my legs. She moved into my shoulders and got very gentle and focused while she tended my neck. As she moved around me, I noticed she looked uncomfortable and her movements weren't as fluid as usual.

I didn't know her current relationship status, but I had become fond of Monica over time, and affectionate without intruding. I even felt a moderate level of physical as well as sexual attraction toward her. I knew she was forty-five years old, from prior conversations, and that Cindy was twenty-seven and working on her second college degree after a Bachelor's in Business Administration. She'd gotten that to help Monica run this place, and was obviously successful, and would likely continue as long as her theraputic career wasn't a crazy demand on her time.

Not liking to see someone I cared about beyond the average suffer or struggle with discomfort, I carefully asked if she was okay; maybe in need of her own services?

"No," she answered, "I've actually been...constipated for a couple of days," she admitted.

"So the last time you relieved yourself in the proper way was three days ago? How often do pursaklar escort you get that way for two days or more?" I asked.

"Dr. Martin, in the house," she said with a quiet chuckle. "To be honest, I usually go every other day and probably get out of pattern a couple times a month, with two or three days where I can't go. At those times I usually use a fiber supplement. I'm accustomed to plenty of fluids, so that isn't an issue," she finished.

"And your body has trouble relaxing to help things along," I guessed.

"Yes. I noticed that reading can help. I used to laugh at that, but not anymore," she said. "My body is sending signals right now. I've noticed over time that your presence or even just your voice makes me more relaxed than average."

"So thinking of me or playing my voice in your head while you're tending to business has helped you do number two? I'm flattered," I said sincerely. "Relax. I get it, and I'm not gonna go tell the world what you confided," I assured her.

"I have used that method," she said in answer to my question. "And thank you. I didn't figure you for the gossipy type. More introverted unless certain circumstances are present," Moncia stated.

"You figure correctly. Congratulations," I said. "Please, go try to make yourself more comfortable. We're about done anyhow. I'll wait if you like and settle the bill."

"Thank you," she said, turning and walking across the room to the bath area door, saying she'd try not to be long.

More than five minutes went by. Monica remained in the bathroom. I did my best to give her her privacy.

But soon I heard her call through the door, "Martin, are you there? Can you come to the door?"

"Yes, I'm here, and I will if that's what you want," I said.

"Please do," she confirmed. I strode over to the door and asked a very obvious professional question through it. "Did I seem overly tight in the back and shoulders this time?"

"No more than usual, and you aren't the most tense person I've ever had to work on," came her reply.

"All right, not that I've felt worse than usual," I said. I suddenly caught a hissing sound from behind the door, and I heard a quiet grunt followed by a rather audible splash of toilet water. I retreated back across the room. Two minutes later, I heard Monica washing her hands, and very shortly she stepped back into the main room.

"Better?" I asked as we exited the room and moved to the desk to pay my bill.

"Much," she answered. I stood in front of the desk and handed Cindy cash to cover my appointment.

"Good. Listen, would you maybe like to go have dinner one evening?" I asked her.

"I suppose I could if I had a couple days notice," Monica replied.

"I was thinking we could go next Thursday, after my appointment and after you close up shop," I told her. She agreed. With that, I said goodbye to the two ladies and walked six blocks to my house.

Chapter Two</p>

Every day at work the next week, until quitting time and my appointment with her on Thursday, I thought regularly of my upcoming dinner with Monica. Walking down and entering her studio, I let her give the usual treatment, and as she finished, I asked if we were still on for dinner. Yes, we were, she assured me.

I squared the bill and all three of us departed after locking up. "There's a nice Italian place a couple blocks down from here," Monica mentioned. I responded that I liked Italian. So it was decided. I assured Cindy that she was welcome, just as much a friend of mine as Monica was. She didn't argue.

We made the walk and entered the eatery by twenty minutes to seven in the evening. Rossini's was nice, but not super formal and walk-ins were welcome. We were seated and enjoyed a light white wine before ordering the meal. Portions of cavatils and marinara sauce, spaghetti, and lasagna met our mood for entrees.

We let food settle over coffee, and then paid the bill and left. During the walk, Cindy led the way, and Monica and I kept pace with each other. She didn't seem uncomfortable, and so I posed a question.

"How has your digestion been lately?"

"Dr. Martin, back by popular demand. Honestly, last time I took care of business was Tuesday afternoon. I wouldn't be surprised if things cleared again later tonight or tomorrow morning," she added. "Would you like to come back to my place for a glass of wine?" she questioned.

"If you're okay with that, I'd accept your offer," I answered. I'd never noticed a car, so I asked, "Are we in walking distance?"

"Four blocks down the street that runs perpendicular to the back of the studio," she said with a smile. I told her I walked to work as well, and also from work to her studio, and that I liked being able to do so; she agreed that it wa sa nice option to have.

Half an hour later we stood outside Monica's front door, and she unlocked and we entered. She told me that Cindy was staying rize escort with her while completeing her schooling; she was in her third year of her Bachelor's for PT. She had also stayed with Monica while completing her first four-year degree, because Monica had offered the position at the shop, handling appointments and finances. Her hired help before Cindy had all moved into other jobs, not through a bad fit or unhappy circumstances, more that it just happened.

Shit, was my first thought. I had wanted to admit my affection and attraction for Monica and then broach a more personal desire because I thought she possessed the open-mindedness that would allow me to share it and not be embarassed or feel ashamed.

We had entered the living room and removed our shoes. The room was a deep square. Four feet to the right along the wall was a loveseat. At the open side adjoining the kitchen, there was one recliner, angled toward the TV on the wall opposite the loveseat. On the wall directly across from the recliner were three doors, likely two bedrooms and the bathroom.

There was a half-wall on the other side of the recliner that led along a short hall to a short flight of stairs, leading up. Monica noticed me inspecting the layout.

"The office/den area is up there, along with the master bedroom and bath. It's a big square that occupies as much space as the living/kitchen area down here. I really use the master bed and bath as Cindy's room, and she studies in the office. One bedrooom down here is mine. The other is a guest, with a bathroom behind the farthest door down the wall."

I nodded. I was told to make myself comfortable and chose the end of the loveseat farthest from the front door. There was a low coffee table between the short couch and the TV stand. I located a coaster and placed it where I figured I'd put the wineglass. Monica disappeared to the far side of teh kitchen where she uncorked and poured wine.

Cindy declined politely any wine and with affable ease, excused herself and disappeared upstairs. Monica returned with two glasses, setting each atop a coaster on the coffee table. She joined me on the loveseat and pulled her legs up under her. Each of us sipped wine and set our glass aside.

"I'm not a wine expert," she said to start conversation.

"Neither am I. But you are a massage expert, and I am something of a car expert. Picking two out of three, the wine doesn't make the cut. Massage is more interesting, cars are more fun. In most social environments, those two are better topics of discussion," came my response.

"How long have you done that, anyway? The cars. What do you sell?" she asked.

"I've been at that dealer for five years. That starts to become a long time, but I enjoy it. I'm passionately interested. It is my calling, and I'm lucky to both enjoy what I do and to be doing something I have passion for and interest in. That means it isn't really work."

"I get that," Monica said, "I enjoy massage therapy and I'm skilled. I still think of it as work, but even after nine years, I'm not bored, and that's enough for me. I'm content to be where I am and make my living till I can't anymore," she finished. Both of us had a few more swallows of wine as conversation progressed.

I answered the second part of her question, and as I did, I noticed Monica begin to fidget. "Any of the sterotypical expensive stuff, we sell it. Ferrari, Porsche, Lamborghini, Maserati and Bentley occasionally, along with Aston Martin on a regular basis."

"An impressive list of very nice cars. Some worth more than this house, others you could buy two of for real estate money," she commented.

"It is, and that's true. I work amongst the exotics, and live comfortably. I'm far from poor, but can't be called wealthy. Above wealthy is rich. I'm very happy with my salary, and content with my job and life in general," I answered. Then I shifted the subject matter. "You seem uncomfortable again. Your insides?" I asked.

She said, "I'm getting signals. Bathroom time." She rose and looked at me a long few seconds. I tried to read her. "Would you like me to come along?"

"If you would," she decided. I rose and follwed her. I stopped outside the door and she entered. She looked at me with another long pause. "Come in," she suggested. I stepped inside. She made her way to the toilet. She slid her slacks and panties down and completely removed her blouse, doubling it over. I took it and put it on the vanity between double sinks.

She sat. She asked me what colors were popular with our cars, and what my favorite shades were. I told her we sold silver Porsches and Astons really often; I liked Astons in burgundy and British Racing Green. I liked Porsches in their own shade of deep forest green or a shade of dark navy called Midnight. We sold these, but they were somewhat less common. The deep hues really gleamed in any light and looked especially flawless and worthy of staring enviously for minutes ankara rus escort at a time.

During the Q