My Father's Second Wife Ch. 04

As we were about to disappear through the double doors, I remembered my manners. I turned and yelled, "Thank you, Yin Li."

Yin Li turned and bowed again, pleased to be of service.

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They led me through a sliding rice-paper door into a spacious room with a wooden floor and a photographic wall mural depicting a rocky ocean vista. It gave the impression that we were standing on a platform surrounded by ocean on three sides. The only furniture was a long massage table in the center.

I walked toward the table. Just before I arrived, the girl caught me by my shoulders and peeled the robe off, leaving me completely naked now. There was no sheet or towels on the massage table. Apparently, the "full" package did not include modesty.

I was about to climb onto the table when the boy wrapped his muscular arm around my waist and scooped up my knees. He carried me like a child, my hip and side now pressed into his strong abdomen, depositing me gently on the table, face up. Soft light came through what looked like skylights, but that was crazy; we were on the fifth floor of a six-story building.

The twins wasted no time. Ceramic bowls of warm scented oil were produced. Each dipped their hands into a bowl and began. The boy (who I nicknamed Adonis) started with my toes and the girl (who I nicknamed Xena) began with my neck.

I've spent a lot of time in spas. I've had sport massages, lymphatic massages, seaweed wraps, hot stone therapy, and mud baths; you name it. But I've never had two people massage me at the same time. It was like a turbo massage, as contradictory as that might sound.

Xena had progressed from my neck to my shoulders and pectorals. She then worked down my upper arms. As she leaned over me, her breasts hung closer and closer to my face. Meanwhile, Adonis was working on my calves. They were sore, and this was slightly painful. His hands were so strong. I willed myself to ignore the pain.

I think I was now learning the difference between the "full" massage and a regular massage. Without any kind of pretense or warning, Xena's hands slid down my sides and then came up, firmly cupping a breast in each of her powerful hands. She then pulled up, dragging her warm, slick, palms across my nipples, lifting my breasts to their limit, until they fell back to their resting position and her hands were again at my shoulders.

I must have flinched at the unexpected boundary violation. Both of them slowed their movements, sensing my discomfort. She repeated the movement, slower this time. As I became comfortable her hands pushing around my girls, their pace resumed.

She repeated this again and again, each time reached a little lower—and each time dangling her tits closer to my face—until her pinky finger was grazing my hip bone. Back up she came, across my stomach, ribs, and breasts.

Adonis had moved to my left leg. He press his hip against my upper leg and used his elbow and forearm to make long, deep, strokes in my inner thigh. My leg was in a meat vice. As Xena was working lower, Adonis worked his way higher. Each stroke of his elbow ended closer and closer to my pussy. I didn't know what to expect. A regular masseur would stop when things got too personal, but not the twins. The next stroke plowed right into my groin—and the next, and the next.

Xena was now on my right. She lifted my arm and cradled it between her bare breasts, which were now slick with oil. Pinning my arm to her bosom, she began to massage each finger, working up to the hand, and finally my forearm.

Having repeated his elbow work on my right leg, Adonis was now using his palms to massage my upper thighs. I had no personal space. He finished each stroke, from knee to hip, by pressing that arch between his thumb and index finger straight into my crotch, his thumb then dragging upward through my slit until his palm was on my abdomen.

Xena had finished with my left arm. Rather than put it down, she drew it over my head as she walked around the table. Lifting my right arm to join it, she drew both arms straight out, over my head, her right hand holding my left and vice versa.

Adonis inserted one arm underneath my knees and the second behind my neck. He pressed them together until one was nestled right at the base of my ass and the other was below my shoulders.

He lifted me into the air as effortlessly as before. In one coordinated movement, he stepped back and rolled me over while Xena kept pace with my arms. I was now ass up. Xena lifted my shoulders so my breasts could find a comfortable position, and returned my arms to my side.

Adonis went back to my calves—lots of tension there—while Xena started again with my scalp and neck. This time, I only had the floor to stare at.

Adonis was now kneading one butt cheek. He did this by sliding one hand into my ass crack and using that to brace my cheek as the other hand massaged it in circles. Xena was now doing a wonderful job on my back and shoulder blades.

Once Adonis was done with my ass, Xena got her crack at my crack. Now she was working down the entire length of my spine, on either side. When she got to the bottom, she didn't stop. One hand would continue on, over my tailbone, then her middle finger would dive right between my cheeks, like a bobsled, over my asshole, and straight into my vagina. Not deeply—just the tip of her finger, but it was clearly inside me. As soon as it arrived, it would retreat and retrace its journey back to my neck.

The overall effect was intoxicating. Four hands, constantly pressing, kneading, squeezing, and probing every intimate nook and cranny for almost an hour is intense. I was both wound up and relaxed at the same time.

The witch hazel broke my trance. They were now splashing it on my body and using soft loofa-like sponges to clean off all of the oil. Thick soft towels completed the process.

Xena got on one side of me and body rolled me into Adonis' waiting arms. He lifted me like a rag doll, because that was what I'd become, and sat me up on the side of the table. They then began cleaning my ventral side, Xena cleaning me from the waist up and Adonis from the waist down.

Adonis put on my shoes before they pulled me onto my feet for the finishing touches. My body felt like it was made of rubber. How I stood up on my own remains a mystery.

After I was completely toweled dry, Adonis grabbed my arms and lifted both straight over my head. As if from nowhere, my dress floated down over my arms. Xena tugged my dress into position and zipped up the back.

They stepped in front of me, their torsos glistening with oil, smiled and left the room. That was it. There were no good-byes, no prolonged thank-you-for-the-most-intense-massage-ever moment, just "ba bye."

I was stunned. I have no idea how long I stood there.

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I drifted through the rest of the day in a haze. I can't tell you what I did or who I talked to.

People skipped out early to get ready for the party. Margo told me to arrive at eight, so I had a little more time.

Margo's words repeated in my head as I surveyed my dresser drawers. "You know what the Russians like," I repeated to myself. "No, not really," I answered myself.

Think beach. Bikinis. Start there. I pulled out a couple of bikinis, but they looked very ordinary and safe. "Skimpy bikini?" I thought. Digging deeper I found a cherry red triangle bikini I don't remember owning, so called because it consisted of three small triangles, two for the top and an inverted one for the bottom.

I put it on, sliding the top triangles around until they (barely) covered the center of each boob. The bottom was so small it barely covered my slit. I knew why I'd never worn it. Before this week, the bottom would have been a small triangular surrounded by a fuzzy forest. There was no back to it at all, just a string running between my bare cheeks.

I turned this way and that in the mirror. It certainly shows a lot of skin, about as much as you could get away with and still get a PG rating. This was the problem in a nutshell. How was I going to be "Russian" sexy while not getting arrested on the way to the party?

No matter what I did, I just looked like an American girl on spring break. Maybe that was it. Maybe they had a boner for fresh-faced American girls? No, that wasn't it. I'd seen Russian porn.

I took the top off. Fuck. Now I just looked like a French girl on spring break.

I put the top back on and tried taking off the bottom. Pointless. I couldn't parade bare ass down the dock. I did take a moment to admire my new look down there.

I poked around in my closet and found a pair of turquoise harem pants. I tried those on. The pants were light and split on the side from my ankles to mid-thigh. "Better," I thought, "sexy, but not hot, and who the fuck wears harem pants to the beach?" I shoved the pants down and put on the bikini bottom again.

This got me thinking, "I do need something to wear on the trip over."

I dug out several beach cover ups. I tried them on one at a time, and then I found it. It was a slightly sheer, black, cover up that went to mid-thigh. It was poncho style, with a wide neckline that was always falling off one shoulder. You could leave the sides open or tie them together at the hip.

But here was the brilliant part. It was just sheer enough that you could easily see the outline of my red bikini, but not so much the flesh in between. I reached in and put my inspiration into action, pulling off the bikini bottom and tossing it aside.

It was perfect. I read in Cosmo that the sexiest outfits were not what you saw, but what you think you could see. Or in this case, what you think you couldn't see. You see, the cover up was transparent enough to let everyone know I was wearing a bikini top. By extension, it was obvious I wasn't wearing the bikini's bottom. But it wasn't transparent enough to see anything but vague girly shapes, even though you know what must be there.

"When it comes to teasing boys," I said to myself in the mirror, "you are an evil genius."

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My outfit was working a little too well. The valet began stuttering when I stepped out of my Miata. He ground the starter when he tried to start the car again, even though it was already running.

The kid operating the electric tram almost ran off the pier, because he kept trying to look at me and not where he was driving.

I felt every eye was on me as I negotiated the stairs onto the launch. I'm sure my cover up failed to live up to its name during my decent. The captain of the launch was a weathered sea dog. It was clear he liked what I was showing, but kept his tongue inside his head.

The two launch stewards wore crisp white nautical uniforms. The boy was falling over himself to help me, while the young girl just stared daggers at him and then me, him for liking girls and me for setting the women's movement back a half century.

The trip to the yacht was brief, only about eight minutes. Most of the guests had already been shuttled over, so I was the only passenger. The sun had gone down, but the air was still warmish. The rain from a few days ago had given way to much sunnier, dryer weather.

The yacht appeared small at first, but as we got closer, I was overwhelmed by the scale. It was huge. Not ocean liner huge, but it had at least three decks above the main deck, maybe more. It was very modern, sleek, with lots of curved steel and dark glass.

The launch docked at the stern of the ship. The ocean breezed blew my cover up around like a kite, baring my ass to all. Fortunately, "all" consisted of just the launch crew. They all had a decent view of my backside as I climbed the stairs to the main deck, so I'd made two out of three people happy.

The wind and my outfit's wild dance both subsided as soon as I stepped on board. There were various people milling about with cocktails, chatting, leaning over the rails, and generally enjoying themselves. I didn't recognize any of them.

Mid-ship there was a large lounge. It was wrapped in tinted glass on three sides. I poked my head in. There were couches, a sunken sitting area, a small bar, and even a grand piano. The fore wall was a massive aquarium filled with coral and tropical fish. "Why would anyone put an aquarium on a boat?" I asked myself. "Are you just trying to confuse the fish?"

I spotted Tina chatting to a man in board shorts and a surfing T, but that was the only person I recognized.

I went back outside and walked towards the bow. About midship, the deck was roped off. I could just barely make out some activity near the bow, but it was too dark to tell what was going on.

I doubled back, and found a stairway to the second upper deck. Emerging, I was immediately spotted by Margo. She dropped her conversation mid-sentence and came straight over to me. As she neared, she slowed, eyeing me up and down.

Margo was wearing the same outfit I was, had my outfit been complete. She wore an orange bikini with a gauzy white cover up. Her top covered her breasts. She was actually wearing the matching bottoms, and it discreetly covered her bottom. Her cover up went all the way to her ankles.

She reached out, took a hold of my cover up, and lifted it enough to confirm I wasn't wearing a bikini bottom.

"Hey!" I said, slapping her hand away. She just grinned and took a sip of her martini.

"I approve," was her only comment. I wasn't sure if she was commenting on Yin Li's handwork or the fact that I came all the way out here wearing only half a bikini.

I locked eyes with Diane and Victoria. Both waved cheerily. Diane was wearing a strapless yellow sundress, while Victoria sported a very athletic two-piece swimsuit.

"The boys are inside," Margo said to me. "Let's hope your outfit will bait the trap."

I know my dad and Margo have hatched this elaborate plan to ensnare the Russians, which possibly involved selling me into slavery. I was willing to play my part, I just had no idea what it was, and both of them were playing it very close to the vest.

"Well, I hope it works," I confided to Margo as she led me aft again. "This outfit almost crashed the tram and the launch," I giggled.

As we rounded the corner, Margo whispered in my ear, "You could have worn the bottom and taken it off when you got here."

"Shit!" was my only thought.

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As Margo ushered me into the upper lounge, I took a deep breath to calm myself. It didn't work. Butterflies exploded in my gut. No, these weren't butterflies. I had the fucking Blue Man Group inside me.

The upper lounge was a much smaller, more intimate, affair than the one on the main deck. It had a contemporary old-world feel, if that makes any sense. The materials were what you'd expect from a European palace—marble, dark woods, velvet upholstery, gilt trim, crystal vases—but all done in sleek, modern, lines. The room was dominated by a dark wood table. My father sat at the far end. Viktor was in the middle, to my father's right. Einstein, Combover, and Anton took distant stations at the opposite end.

The room was silent; you could have heard the proverbial pin drop. Viktor was staring at the elaborate mural on the ceiling, puffing on his stogy. Father patiently watched him. Einstein and Combover where exchanging notes. Anton patiently waited for something to translate, and was probably happy he wasn't getting paid by the word.

The only other occupants of the room was two lawyerly looking dudes in suits—who don't look like they ever relaxed—and four stewards, two boys and two girls. The boys were in the same white nautical uniforms as the launch crew. The girls sported similar sailor outfits with short white pleated skirts that made me think of Sailor Moon.

Margo and I stood in the doorway for a moment. No one looked our way. I checked out the nymphs and satires cavorting on the ceiling's mural; they were having a ton more fun than this lot. The room had the solemn air of a sacrifice, and I felt like the sacrifice.

I decided the room needed a little excitement.

Taking another breath, I put on my biggest smile and literally leapt through the door, bouncing like a giddy schoolgirl. I skipped over to my father, bent over—making sure Viktor got an eyeful of my ass—threw my hands around his neck, kissed him on the cheek, spun around, and plopped myself down in his lap.

"Did I missing anything?" I asked, innocently.

The shock was palpable. The Russians were staring, slack jawed, at me—the naked nymphs on the ceiling a distant memory. The lawyers were staring, slack jawed, at me—until they realized they were ogling the boss' daughter and thought better of it. Margo eyed at me with one of her trademark smirks. The stewards were just staring, the kind where you have no idea what's going on.

My entrance had just the effect my dad was hoping for. He kissed me on the cheek and said, with a wink, "You didn't miss anything except a bunch of grumpy old men haggling over a contract."

I learned something a week ago. When I stood in front of my own father, begging him to fuck me, it was the hardest, craziest, scariest, stupidest thing I'd ever done in my entire life. But I did it. I closed my eyes and jumped in with both feet.

And look what happened? My entire life changed. I vowed that I was not going to stop jumping in just because things are scary—although it might get me killed someday.

My entrance also had the effect I was hoping for. I could feel my father's love, literally. I could feel my dad's boner growing as I wiggled my bare bottom in his lap. "I hope he doesn't have to stand up soon," I thought wickedly.

I smiled my biggest I-know-that's-not-a-pickle-in-your-pocket grin and gave his neck another hug. Dad slyly slipped his hand underneath my cover up and gave my ass gentle squeeze.

"Why don't you and Margo wait over there until we're finished," he said, indicating the unoccupied velvet love seat in the corner.

For a split second, I considered staying right there to see if I could get him to cum in his pants, but I ultimately took pity on him, made a little pout, and jumped off his lap. Everyone's eyes were on me as I sauntered over the love seat. "Eye on the prize," I thought to myself, and I was the prize.

I crawled into the love seat, tucked my legs up on the cushion, and tried to look bored, which required some good acting because I've never been so anxious. Margo joined me. One of the stewards asked me if I wanted anything to drink.

Father and Viktor returned to the slow give-and-take of their negotiations. Father would make a veiled comment about how Viktor would enjoy the benefits of the five-year contract, and then casually look at me, as if to say, "such as my lovely daughter, who's sits there half naked, waiting to be given away like a door prize," but never actually saying anything.

The suspense was killing me and it was taking forever. Suspense films made by independent hipster directors didn't take this long to get to the reveal. The anticipation of being sold like so much meat was beginning to give way to boredom.

I turned to Margo and whispered, "So do we own this boat? I've never seen it before."

Margo chucked softly, not wanting to be overheard. "Oh good gracious, no. We just chartered this 'boat'"—she made air quotes with her fingers—"for the weekend, which cost more than it does to keep the company jet in the air for a year. Oh, and don't say 'boat' around the captain. It's a super-yacht."

She sighed and added, "I really hope it was worth it," and returned to sipping on her martini.

My throat was dry and the pink cocktail I was given was not helping. The stakes were really high, probably higher than my dad was letting on; it could even be make-or-break the company high. I shifted nervously in the love seat.

The tension in the room had reached a breaking point. Viktor puffed his cigar, drawing this out as long as possible. Father sat perfectly still, waiting. Everyone else either fidgeted, perspired, or both.