My cellphone rang. I was writing at my apartment.
"Hey, it's me. Busy?"
"Hey, Alexi. Just writing. What's going on?"
"Can you come pick me up in about an hour? And wear workout clothes."
"Uh, okay. Are we going to the gym?"
"Not exactly. I'm getting a massage. My muscles are killing me from sitting here pecking at the computer. I'm meeting this guy at a hotel. He meets his clients at their place, but I don't want him to know where I live. And from what I hear about him, I may not be able to drive back," she laughed. "But I can't stay the night - I've got work to do back here later. My publisher's gotten fidgety ever since they gave me that big advance."
"Oh-key," I said. "Sounds interesting. Do I get to watch?"
"I don't see why not. You've seen it all, and been in most of it. Besides, that's part of it, too. I got good references on this guy, but I'm still not sure I want to be alone with him."
"Why do I need to wear workout clothes?"
"I thought you'd be more comfortable in them. He said he'd be wearing running shorts. Me, I'll be in my birthday suit," she giggled. From the sound of her voice, I decided there was another reason she didn't want to drive. She'd probably been relaxing her muscles with red wine already.
She got in my car, wearing a track suit. "Thanks for doing this," she said. "I'm really looking forward to it."
Me too,
I thought. The idea of watching Alexi getting oiled up by some guy and rubbed all over while she wore nothing but a towel (and knowing her, that wouldn't last long) was exciting. "But you know, Alex," I mused. "I'd figure you for wanting it done by a female masseuse."
"I'm sure you'd like to see that," she laughed, "but this isn't about sex, for once. This is about getting a good rub-down. And not many women have the body strength I like. Not many men have the body strength this guy has, for that matter. He used to play for the Redskins."
I wondered how seriously that "this isn't about sex" idea was going to hold, knowing her, but I didn't say anything. We drove in silence the rest of the way to the hotel. When we got there I handed the keys to my car to a valet, who reluctantly parked what was probably the first Toyota he'd had to touch all day.
We checked into the room, and Alex encouraged me to help myself to the mini-bar. I got a beer and sat down in a chair. She took a shower, then put on panties and a camisole and tried to keep from bouncing on the bed. I was glad it was almost time. When the door knocked, she got up and admitted a nice-looking, muscular black man wearing a nylon running suit and track shoes.
"Hi, I'm Curtis," he said, extending an enormous hand to Alex, and then to me as I walked up. "Who's this? Your boyfriend?" he said, turning a little tense. His grip was dry and gentle, but I could tell he could break most normal men in half if he wanted to.
"Not exactly. He's a friend of mine. He wanted to see you work; he said he might want a massage sometime."
"Okay," Curtis said, not sounding quite convinced, but probably used to dealing with jealous or curious husbands and boyfriends enough to not question the arrangements. He set up a sturdy folding massage table he had brought in, and got out a caddy that held his massage oils and other items. He went to get towels from the bathroom, and returning with an armload he put one on the table and told Alex to strip, get face-down on the table, and put the towel over her buttocks.
As Alex complied with this, he stripped down to some running shorts and his shoes. I sat in a chair on the other side of the large room, and I could see Alex relax as Curtis began to work her over from head to toe. He had started with some delicate strokes on her neck, and worked his way down, stopping periodically to get more massage oil on her, his stokes becoming firmer as he reached the large muscles of her back and glutes. The towel had moved up over the cleft of her buttocks as he worked them, and he replaced it as he began to work on her legs. But from the squirming and sighing Alex was starting to do, I had little trouble imagining her pussy and clit becoming red, swollen, and wet. He stroked her inner thighs, and she began to moan. From the angle of his hands, it looked like he was probably brushing her clitoris lightly from time to time. As she started to hump the table in frustration, he stopped.
"Turn over if you would like your chest and abdomen massaged," Curtis said, softly.
