Hot Oil Orgy

Anne Calter pushed her leather chair back from the big oak desk and sighed. A native of New Jersey, she had graduated with high honors from Princeton and received a law degree from Harvard. You could tell a Harvard man, but you couldn't tell him much. Or woman. After serving as a staff attorney in Washington, Anne had written her popular book, None Dare Call it Mediocrity. A merciless critique of liberal media bias, it had sold well and enabled her to give up the practice of law and focus on propagating her political views.

On shows such as "Larry King Live" and "American Morning," she had argued, loudly and relentlessly, for her point of view. Sometimes, though, as she approached the age of 35, Anne sometimes wondered whether the ideologues of D.C. really meant what they said or merely lobbed verbal grenades for money. It did not escape her notice that many of the standard Left Wing versus Right Wing debates in D.C. had a ritualized, kabuki-like quality.

Anne Calter was a lean, mean rhetorical machine. She ran daily, yet hadn't entirely erased the urge to smoke. Did she contradict herself? Very well, then. She was large; she contained multitudes. Well, she wasn't really large. Just large in the philosophical sense. In reality, she was quite svelte. More and more, her ideological fury was fueled by caffeine rather than fervor.

As Anne Calter's ideological passions waned, other things waxed. Her legs, for example. But she was a true fitness fanatic. Yes, the lure of the unfiltered Camel still mocked her. But she dedicated and rededicated herself to physical fitness. And yet there was a void. Yes, her nights were filled with passionate debates about the nature and reach of foreign policy. Yet, when the hot studio lights were extinguished, she longed for a different kind of passion. When passion's trance was overpast, if tenderness and truth could last. But she digressed.

And so, as she sat back in her leather chair, her eye caught a book title on the distant shelf. An old McLuhan book, The Medium is the Massage. Ah, McLuhan, once billed as another Freud, as the second coming of Newton. The second coming? She could certainly use a second...never mind. A massage, perhaps that would relax her blithe spirit.

But what type of massage? In the last few months, in order to offset the stress of appearing nightly on talk shows, Anne had become something of a connoisseur of massage. She'd had to, as the repeated whipping about of her long blonde hair to express disdain had resulted in chronic pain in the neck, and she dared not to admit this to anyone, fearing puns.

Anne ran over the list of her massage options. She certainly had no need of the structural integration massage, which re-educated the body of its subjects to appear taller and slimmer. She was partial, certainly, to the European Hydromassage. Was there anything better than floating in the arms of a massage specialist as the pulsating hydrojets danced on her skin like tropical rain? However, she'd been detoxified so many times lately by the hydrotechnique that she was beginning to develop permanent wrinkles on her fingers and toes. And the isogei treatment, while exotic enough to pique her interest, promoted cellulite reduction while it toned her body and face. Anne was afraid that if her whip-thin body was reduced any more she'd be down to bare bone.

The peppermint twist reflexology treatment; that's just what she needed. No, it had nothing to do with Joey Dee and the Starliters. Anne made a quick call to her main massage coodinator, Salomon Gonzales-Gonzales, and yes, he was available immediately. Filled with nervous energy, Anne eased out of her leather chair, and sped to the spa. As she drove her carjack-bait Jag down the road, Anne began to sing "I can't get no satisfaction." Then she halted, concerned about Freudian implications.

On arrival at the spa, Anne was greeted by Latonya, the spa's receptionist. As Anne waited on the sofa, she chatted with Latonya about jogging, one of their common interests. Latonya, who was conspicuously fit, her light coffee skin glowing with health, seemed almost a walking advertisement for the spa. As she waited, flipping through People Magazine, Anne noticed the bank of security cameras on Latonya's desk.

In a moment, Anne was ushered into the massage room by a Salomon minion. There Anne slowly unzipped her hot pink gogo boots and drew them sensuously off her ravishingly toned calves. She decided to let Salomon make the call on removing her toe ring or not, and though it wasn't strictly necessary for reflexology, Anne unhooked the Some Like It Hot flirty demi-bra with pink threaded ribbon that matched her boots and let it brush slowly across her nipples before it dropped to the floor.

When Salomon came into the room with his vials of aromatic oils and stimulating peppermint finishing lotion, she was sprawled lazily across the massage table draped only in an April-fresh towel. She smiled at him, then froze as two more people entered the room behind him. "I'd like you to meet Alain de Bottom and Ingrid Deneuve, my two new massage interns. They are 23 and would like to observe and learn." Taken aback, Anne pulled the towel a bit higher, concealing her concern and her cleavage.

She was torn, and all out of faith. However, Anne was soon warmed by Salomon's table-side manner and granted permission. Alain was French, dressed in once-trendy black. Ingrid was Swedish, and her white tank top and white shorts fit closer than the candy apple paint on a restored 1957 Vette. Salomon, who helped train students for the American Rubalogical Council, knew just how to handle the situation. In his calm, logical voice, he explained to Anne that it was only natural that she would be uncomfortable being the only one nude, so he and the trainees would put on their work clothing. Being a businesslike person herself, Anne assented, pausing just for a second to explain the lint-specific risks of black to Alain.

For approximately 30 minutes, Anne's feet were soaked in water scented with lavender and tea. She was then treated to a soothing foot massage using peppermint lotion. Anne then received heated "cozy toe" stones and an aromatic eye pillow. Upon completion of these procedures, Anne was far too relaxed to protest when Alain emerged from the locker room wearing black silk boxers. In a second, he was joined by Ingrid, dressed for business in a lace trim petal pink thong and a lace trim triangle bra, neither of which did a thing to hide her lush body.

As the time arrived to begin the warm essential oil body wrap part of her massage, Anne felt the tension build. She knew Salomon would rub richly formulated aromatherapy oil all over her lean, firm body. Salomon was legendary for thoroughness. Normally, Anne detested liberal things, but she had learned to enjoy oil liberally applied. She had prepared for the massage session by carefully shaving her legs. And by shaving her pubic hair into a small profile of Russ Limberger, the talk show host.

From her reading on the topic years ago, Anne knew that massage parlors in Asia were places where men could obtain relief not merely from muscle tightness, but from sexual tension. And do so without risking exposure to STDs. With that in mind, Anne approached massage parlors in America with some caution. Even in the most reputable ones, however, some of Faulkner's eternal verities remained. There were quiet rooms, naked bodies, expert touches. Once comfortable with a steady customer, Anne found that Salomon's touches would grow increasingly bold until orgasms were provoked.

Not that Anne was prepared to lodge a complaint. Quite the contrary. She looked forward to the long, sensual sessions with Salomon, as his expert touches washed away the pressures of her vocation and forced her attention toward more primal urges. The first time Anne had attained orgasm during one of Salomon's massages, she had been quite concerned that she had reacted inappropriately. But Salomon reassured her that it was a perfectly natural part of the relaxation process.

All the prior good experiences nothwithstanding, Anne was somewhat shy in assuming her customary position on the large massage table. Nevertheless, logic compelled her to acknowledge the role of teaching hospitals in the medical profession. Surely it was much the same in the realm of massage? Who was she to stand in the way of the onward march of knowledge? Surely it was her ethical duty to touch the lives of as many young massage specialists as feasible?

The table was the size of a king-size bed. Salomon motioned for Alain and Ingrid to sit, one on either side of the table, and observe closely. Tummy down, Anne liked to bury her face in the pillow and let the massage sensations carry her away much like bath oil beads. Anne cooperated as Salomon raised her arms over her head and sighed audibly as warm oil was drizzled over her back. She felt Salomon's strong, gentle hands on her neck, her back. And gasped involuntarily as his hands touched the sides of her breasts. The warm oil went on her arms, her back, her hips.

All the tension of the week began to melt away. Anne had felt almost sleepy as Salomon gently massaged her back, but his hands on her hips began to cause other sensations. His hands stopped, and she began to regret their absence, and then they resumed massaging her upper thighs. As his knowing fingers lightly caressed the area where upper thigh merges into hip, Anne felt a pang of concern. She had not the slightest intention of becoming sexually excited in the presence of the two trainees.

But her concern proved groundless as Salomon's touches seemed to become less sensuous and more relaxing. A thought crossed her mind. Could he be toying with her? As a renowned massage professional, was he that competent? Surely not. And then her new confidence was erased as she felt her legs being gently moved apart by Solomon. She felt his hands massaging her delicate, perfect calves, and knew he would be admiring them. The languid feeling was gone as Salomon's hands inched up her legs, arrived at her knees, and began to journey up her thighs. Anne felt again that she was being slowly led down the path to greater pleasure.

Time seemed to stand still, and then Anne felt Salomon's hands teasing her upper thighs. His fingernails ran over them. She felt a flash of anger. Was he deliberately teasing her in front of two strangers? She heard a movement and glanced up. Alain and Ingrid were sitting side by side now, their arms around each other, watching her intently. Anne began to wonder if they had "studied" in this fashion before. But thought was overtaken by feeling as more warm oil began to drizzle on her hips. It pooled, glistened in the soft light of the massage room, and obeyed gravity, running down the sides of her hips, between them. Anne resisted the urge to bite the pillow.

No pillow had ever shown hostility to her, and it would be wrong to attack first. But then Anne thought of the two attractive trainees, and imagined their view. They would be watching her body, her svelte form, as it writhed on the large massage table-bed. Watching Salomon's hands methodically applying the oil. Watching as she tried to prevent her hips from undulating. Watching the oil as it covered her thighs, her hips. Watching as Salomon's taunting hands touched her upper thighs, watching her hips flex involuntarily. Watching her firm, tan hips as they glistened with oil. Watching the shaven lips peeking through, noticing that they were glistening with oil that had dripped down.

Anne looked at the trainees. Ingrid's eyes seemed glazed, and Anne saw that her lace trim triangle bra was gone and that Alain's thumbs were were gently flicking her engorged nipples. She watched as Alain lowered his mouth to Ingrid's right nipple and began licking it. Evidently to good effect, as Ingrid moaned softly. Anne watched as Alain's right hand moved toward the top of Ingrid's gray flannel thong. She watched as Alain pulled Ingrid's thong upward. Anne realized that Alain was teasing Ingrid with her own thong. But rational thought departed as Salomon's relentless massaging of Anne's thighs began again.

Anne heard a slight moan and looked up to see Ingrid standing. Alain was kneeling before her, pulling down her thong and kissing her stomach. She saw Alain's hands grasp Ingrid's hips as he kissed her abdomen. Anne's mind whirled. Surely this wasn't happening. Her earlier determination not to become aroused, well, that was now moot. Her swollen nipples brushed the soft sheet covering the table-bed. At the present juncture, Anne's anger was more at Salomon for teasing her in such a prolonged fashion instead of granting her an introductory orgasm.

Anne felt a slight movement on the bed and saw Ingrid put a pillow under her head and recline on the bed. Alain was at Ingrid's knees, bent over, feverishly kissing the inside of her thigh. She watched in fascination as young Alain nibbled and kissed his way up Ingrid's leg. Ingrid's eyes were squeezed shut, and a frown was etched upon her face. As Alain's burning kisses neared the fabric of Ingrid's thong, his strategy became clear. He was kissing along the edges of the front of Ingrid's thong, and the process was causing rapid intakes of breath from Ingrid.

Salomon's hands paused, and Anne turned to ascertain the reason. Her eyes widened as Latonya came up behind Salamon, a small smile on her face. Latonya pressed her breasts into Salamon's back, his head twisted around to greet her, and their tongues met in a passionate French kiss. She also noticed a hand, Alain's, reach over and caress Latonya's left breast. Just as Anne summoned the strength to protest that the situation was drifting out of control, Salomon recommenced his teasing touches on her upper thighs and her objections vanished as she convulsed into her first orgasm of the afternoon.