Downsized

Downsized. Let go. Laid off. Terminated.

After fourteen years with the firm, they let me go, and they said it was because they had to downsize. Fourteen years of doing everything for them, smoothing over disputes among coworkers, working late to get last minute briefs together, even bringing coffee and babysitting. I did it all, and I did it gladly, cheerfully. And then I was downsized.

I stood there holding a cardboard box with fourteen years of knick-knacks and photographs, staring at my empty cubicle. And then I had an idea. It was a stupid, sophomoric idea I guess, but I logged onto my computer one last time and changed the password for the entire office from 'password1' to 'kissmyass.' 'Fuckingasshole' was too long, it had to be ten characters or less. They would have to pay to have an IT guy to come in and straighten it out. Serves them right.

Anyway, anyone who knows me knows that I don't stay down long. The moment I got my pink slip, I hitched up my big girl panties and started working on the next step.

Now, I've always enjoyed a good massage, and I've been told I give a good one, too. You know friends, family. Informally. So I decided to get formal training. Two of the local technical colleges offered eighteen month courses, so I called one and enrolled.

I loved it, absolutely loved it. And I found I was good at it. I enjoyed being able to give people fifty minutes, eighty minutes of heaven. It was a success when I could hear them drift off to sleep, when I had to wake them up when I was done. I was slowly growing a clientele.

My reputation got out, and I moved from one spa to another quickly, finally to Spa Cecilia, the most prestigious spa in town. The one with the best relaxation room, the biggest menu of services, the largest staff.

But then I crossed the line. I certainly knew it was wrong.

One day this guy came in. Cute guy, nice body, thirty, maybe. Well, he was really complimentary about my work. Oh, you have good hands, that's really good. I love your technique, that kind of thing. And I don't think that was the only thing he loved, judging from the outline under the sheet, if you know what I mean.

Anyway, at the end he says, Can we keep going? At first, I thought he was joking. He's sitting on the side of the table all shiny with massage oil and he gets up. The sheet is just sort of hanging on him, his backside is half exposed. He reaches in the pocket of his robe and pulls out a hundred dollar bill and says again, Can we keep going? His hands were shaking a little, I don't think he had done this before.

I looked at the money. I had bills to pay. I still hadn't paid off technical school. My unemployment benefits from the firm had run out after a year. It was my own moment of truth.

I took the money and said okay, lie back down, but not a word, understand? He laid back on the table.

What's that? Okay, how much detail do you need? Everything? Okay, here it goes. Stop me if you've heard enough.

So anyway. Where was I? Right.

He laid back on the table. I folded the sheet down to his mid thigh. He was completely exposed. He had gone soft again, maybe because he was nervous about going out on a limb to ask me for 'extra.' I had him lay on his back, and I ran my palms from his chest down to his thighs in big sweeping efflurage strokes. My thumbs plowed through the scratchiness of his pubic hair, and down between his sack and his inner thigh. I made sure my thumbs brushed his penis on the way. And his nipples. I've learned you don't forget a guy's nipples.

I did that three or four times and he was hard again. I lubed up his shaft, giving him long smooth strokes. I whispered to him, how's the pressure? Great, he moaned. This guy had a really nice, firm six pack and I continued with smooth strokes along his abs with one hand while my other hand slipped up and down on his shaft.

He was breathing hard now, and his abs were tightening. I worked him faster, and then I felt him tremble. He gasped as he came. It must have been a while since he'd had any, because he kept coming and coming and coming. On himself, on my hand. There was so much of it.

You said you wanted all the details. Just stop me if it's too much. Okay? Okay.

Finally he gave me the stop sign with his palm for me to release him. I sat on the stool in the room with his come, I mean semen, on my hand, watching his unit twitch. I thought, well, you've done it now. I knew there was no going back.

I was at a loss for a minute. But then I got up, and washed my hands. I got some warm wet washcloths and cleaned him up. I covered him up and whispered, not a word, you hear? We would both be in trouble.

Okay, okay, he said. But I'd like to come back sometime. Was a hundred enough? Well, I said, two hundred would be better. I didn't know. I never really thought about stuff like that. But I knew I could use two hundred bucks.

Acclimatization. I think that's what the psychologists call it. You know, when you do something you know is wrong, and it becomes a little less wrong, and then you do it again, and it's even less wrong. It never becomes right, just, you know, not wrong. It was like that.

The next week he came back, and it was easier, a lot more relaxed. I managed my time better and brought him off more slowly. I found that twenty minutes was about right, you know, enough time to make them come. So after thirty minutes of legit massage, we would go with twenty of 'special occasion' massage. It got so that he would come once a week. Come in, I mean. And come. Whatever. You know what I mean.

I guess word got out. That's when I developed a system to see who was interested.

On the front desk form under 'reason for service' there were several blanks, you know, relaxation, so forth. Well, there was a box called 'special occasion.' Like for an anniversary, birthday, batchelorette party, that kind of thing.

Well, in the room I would go over my spiel. Any health problems? Any areas of concern?

Those interested in something more would check 'special occasion.' I would ask, are we celebrating something? And they would say, 'I'm celebrating my retirement.'

Where did you just retire from? I would say. If they were interested, they would say 'from Slattery and McGivens.'

You guessed it. My old employer.

We used to jokingly refer to the firm as 'S and M.' It made Mr. McGivens mad, but I don't think old Mr. Slattery knew what 'S and M' was. If he did, he probably would have tried it and liked it.

So where was I? Alright. Then, after I put the scented mask over their eyes, I would check the pocket of their spa robe. There would be two hundred dollar bills. I would put them in the pocket of my smock. And then I would go to work.

It would start out like a legit massage, but I would 'cut the corner' around certain places. You know, nipples, buttocks, groin. Then with about twenty minutes left, I would move the sheet down. Usually they would get the 'special occasion' massage supine, I mean, lying on their back. But some of the women, and a couple of the men preferred to be on all fours, usually so I could tease their bottoms. The guys I would reach under to stroke their cocks. I mean penises. It's okay if I say cocks? All right.

I would say that over the last year and a half that over five hundred people have retired from Slattery and McGivens. Not bad for a firm that only employs forty or so. And the amazing thing is that some were as old as seventy-five, some as young as twenty-one. And I gave every last one of them a massage, most of them multiple times.

Each week one or two more would come in. At my peak, it was about ten or twelve a week. Black, white, Asian, young, old. I had quite a variety of clientele. And I must have been doing a good job. Very few only came in once.

After several months, this lady came in for a service. She was about fifty, a little heavy but otherwise in good shape. Well, on her form it says 'special occasion.'

Oh, great, I said. What are we celebrating, I asked?

'I just retired,' she says, 'from Slattery and McGivens.' Well, my heart just about did a flip in my throat, but I didn't show it. I knew I'd never seen her at the old firm. I get her set up, and after I put the scented mask on her face, I check her robe pocket. Sure enough, two hundred dollar bills.

I put them in the pocket of my smock.

I'd never played with another girl's stuff, only with mine. I knew what I liked, what got me off, so I just took it from there. I'd rationalized everything to the point where it was just, 'this person wants to relax, and I can do that for them. This is a service I can provide.'

At about the thirty minute mark, I pulled the sheet down to her mid-thigh and whispered in her ear, let me know if you get cold. She had this big grin on her face and said, 'Okay, I'm fine' and wiggled on the table a little. Anticipation, I guess.

I started on her chest, big smooth strokes, bypassing her tits, I mean breasts, which were kind of tubular and floppy. I would come back to those later. My hands spread the oil over her stomach down to her pussy. 'Pussy' is okay for me to say, right? It was shaved, and the oil made it glistened. On the next pass down, I made sure to touch the outside of her breasts, down to her pussy again, and on the next pass, I actually lubed up her nipples and pulled on them.

It's like I could see her the lips of her pussy swell when I did that. I just kept pulling on her shiny wet nipples, watching her fidget in agony. I knew she needed some contact on her pussy, but I was enjoying watching her suffer. Finally, my hands slowly, real slowly made their way down to her bare mound. She opened her legs without any direction.

I pinched her clit between the folds of its hood. Not hard, just good, firm contact. I start moving my thumb and forefinger over it in real small motions, like I was jacking it off, like it was a cock. I could feel it swell even more. A finger inside, she croaked. She had kind of a smoker's voice, you know, kind of gravelly.

I slipped a finger inside, and I thought her hips would hit the ceiling. I thought she would break my finger the way she moved her hips around. Seriously, it was like something out of the rodeo. She was the bull and I was the cowboy. Cowgirl, actually. Somewhere in all that she came. She became a regular. To myself I called her Rodeo Lady.

The money was real good. Definitely, it was real good. Like, I was the only therapist driving a Lexus.

If I couldn't bring them off with my hand, I would whisper in their ear and ask if they had any fantasies. If they did, I would construct stories that I would whisper in their ears while I played with them. You'd be surprised the things that would appeal to people. This one lady, a lady you might recognize from the society page, wanted to hear about two gay men getting it on. So did a couple of other women. That never would have occurred to me. Some women wanted to hear about being done by black guys.

The guys especially liked it when I put myself in the story. 'Imagine you've got me on a lonely beach at sunset. Now, untie the string on my bikini top.' Or 'You're the repairman, come to check on the washing machine. And thank goodness, too. I'm down to my last piece of clean clothes, this old T shirt with no panties underneath' and then on from there. That kind of thing. They would mumble the next part of the story, and we would go back and forth.

What's that? How do you mean? Oh, like, did I do anything else? Was it only handjobs, is that what you're asking?

I'd have to say it was mostly hand-love, as I like to call it. I decided early on that I didn't like the taste or texture of massage oil. Pretty nasty.

But if the handwork, and the whispered fantasies didn't work, and in a few guys it didn't, and time was running short, then I would mount them. Just pull down my pants and panties and hop on. Believe, I stayed wet and ready. And I could always get them to come that way. I can do some pretty amazing things with my vaginal muscles.

Of course it felt good. There was this one guy, a black guy, darker than you, Mr. Sills. Very polite, very professional. He got to be a regular, too. He had a big, thick, shaved cock that I really enjoyed oiling up, it just shined. And it felt good in my hands, but it always took him a long time to come. Fantasies, nipple play, I'd try it all. Now, when he came it was a lot. A whole lot. But my hands would get tired, and I would be running out of time. And I'll admit, I was getting horny watching the pre-come oozing out of the tip and drooling down the shaft.

I saw that I only had five minutes or so until my next service. So I kicked off my sandals, pulled down my pants and panties and climbed on. He was so big I had to put a foot on the table to raise my pussy up high enough to slide him in. I came twice before I could get him to come. I barely made my next appointment, which, by the way, was a legit service. I could feel him leak out of me into my panties during it.

With women, though, it was a little more common for them to have a hard time coming, so I began keeping a vibrator in the room. I actually enjoyed using it on them, you know, to see them quiver as I touched their clits with it. And it was a lot easier on my hands, and it always worked. I even thought about using it on every woman, but I'd say it was about fifty-fifty with the women, fingers versus vibrator.

Mr. Hannon told me to tell the truth, and that's what I've done. He said just tell the truth and he would probably be able to get me a suspended sentence.

Do I regret it, you ask?

I regret getting caught. But if I'm to tell the truth, then I'd have to say that I enjoyed it. I enjoyed exploring other people's sexes, the feel of them. I enjoyed the moment of truth, like the moment before an earthquake, and watching the aftershocks as my clients relaxed in a world all their own. Watching them spurt in the dim light, onto their oily stomachs, or feel it dribble down my hand, the warmth of it. To feel their clits enlarge under my touch. I loved it. There's no doubt I enjoyed it. But not as much as my clients.

Once all this is settled, I'm thinking of moving, far away. Nevada, maybe, or somewhere in the Caribbean where I can keep doing what I do so well. Legally. Maybe Amsterdam.

Is that all you needed? Okay, thank you.

Mr. Sills, has my statement had an effect on you? You look tense. You look like you could use a massage.

Kidding, just kidding.

Okay, thank you.

End of transcript of interview with SK #2011-761, St. Gabriel Parish Prison. Interview conducted in Interrogation Room #3 and concluded at 1005 am. by Det. John Sills. Defendant's counsel Mr. John Hannon present.