Chapter 32: Bare as a Newborn
Jess and Vin were in the front seat of the Nude-Mobile, impeccable in their brand new evening wear. They’d gone shopping the day before, Jess coming back with a dark gray sequinned evening dress, a set of black court shoes just made for dancing, and — she made a definite point of this — no underwear at all. Jess had next taken Vin out to a tux shop and gotten him a suit so sharp he’d be cutting a furrow wherever he walked.
Kaitlyn and I were in the back, dressed rather differently. We were not, in fact, dressed at all. Starkers. Mother-bare.
“Excited?” I asked my wife.
“That’s one word for it,” she returned with a quaver in her voice.
“We’ve been working up to this for a long time, Kaitlyn. What’s the difference between this and the WNBR?”
She sat looking at the opposing traffic along the two-lane side streets we were taking in an attempt to avoid catching the eye of any onlookers. Well, not too many onlookers, anyway. I thought Kaitlyn must have been seen by a guy in a crosswalk a few blocks back at the last light we got stopped at, since I could see no other reason for him to stop and stare at our car before shaking his head and continuing across to the other side of the street.
“Distance,” she finally said.
I thought about that for a while. We’d been fully exposed in a crowd once before at the World Naked Bike Ride up here in Salt Lake last summer, but this party would be more crowded than the staging area at the WNBR or at the ride’s after-party. But also, that was a public event covered by news media, and there were many other bared participants. Tonight, we two would be a tiny starting minority, it’d be behind closed doors. “Yeah, you’re right,” I replied thoughtfully. Then I slid over into the middle of the car’s rear bench seat, putting my hand on her thigh and stroking in a way I thought might soothe her nerves. “No cameras this time,” I added.
She turned and gave me a tremulous smile. “That’ll help.”
It wasn’t entirely true that Kaitlyn wore nothing at all. She’d magically refreshed her tan, depilated the hair she didn’t want, sculpted what was left, and added that same masterful hint of makeup that had captivated me back on our first date, most of a year ago now. She was absolutely stunning, and I told her so.
“Thanks, love. You’re lookin’ all right, too,” she said with a widening smile.
Kaitlyn had me well-trained by now, so I’d been able to manscape myself solo in the shower, emerging to receive her simple nod of approval. Perfectly trimmed mustache and beard, hair only where she wanted it, just at the length she wanted it.
“You are lookin’ sharp, Davie,” Jess agreed from the driver’s seat. “I never understood what Heinlein meant by ‘formal skin’ until I saw you tonight, but now I get it.”
She was referring to a scene in Heinlein’s The Number of the Beast:
“Time enough to pick out pretty clothes. Or will you wear formal skin tonight? That takes anywhere from two seconds to two hours, does it not?”
Kaitlyn and I hadn’t quite taken two hours to get ready, but we’d put in plenty of effort to look our best, not just with our grooming tonight but also near-continuous bicycle commuting for Kaitlyn going back to last Spring and me going back years.
By Turing’s tonsils, we did look good.
“You four look fabulous!” exclaimed Molly when we walked into the Alexanders’ foyer, Jess and Vin dressed to the nines, Kaitlyn and I…what, dressed to the zeroes?
Norman reached over to a side table without a word and picked up two broad white silk ribbons, perhaps 12 centimeters wide, flashes of gold along their length, then held them up for our inspection. Not simple ribbons at all, they were broad sashes, and the ornate calligraphic lettering upon them said, ‘…in with the NUDE!’
Norman spoke to us for the first time that night, “Somewhere around here is my dear old friend Jed Potter wearing the other sash, ‘Out with the old year…’ He’s eighty-seven and has a white beard down to here,” motioning about halfway down his torso. “He is, needless to say, clothed tonight. Beautiful dove gray tux.”
He began this little speech while walking towards us, so that by the time he finished, he had our new sashes over our heads and was stepping back to inspect his work.
“Perfect,” he said.
“More than perfect, my love,” Molly told her husband, “they’re glorious!”
Kaitlyn beamed at that, and this doubly raised my spirits.
“So, new rules,” Molly continued, “you two still have three massages each to deliver — there’d be a riot if we discontinued that and people knew you were here anyway — but to go along with your new sashes of office is the requirement that you mingle with the crowd between times. You’re here to be seen: no hiding away, all right?”
When we nodded the acceptance of her terms, she continued, “One more thing: although I lengthened the massages last time, I still got complaints about them being too short, so I want to try half an hour this time. This party tends to run long, though, so as a percentage I expect your working time will actually go down. I hope that’s okay?”
Kaitlyn told her, “You never really asked us before, but half an hour is on the short side for one of our massages normally. We can go to an hour per, if need be.”
Molly pursed her lips, then said, “No, I don’t want you to work that hard. This is the longest party of the year, but I don’t think it’d be fair to squeeze three hour-long massages in, and the guests wouldn’t be happy if I cut it back to two. Let’s go with three half-hour massages. Sound good?”
“Works for me,” I told her, and Kaitlyn agreed.
“All right,” Molly told us, “there’s half an hour before the first drawing. Go in there and get happy! Oh, and thank you ever so much for coming like this,” she said, gesturing up and down our bodies.
“Just so long as you keep up your end,” Kaitlyn returned challengingly.
Molly colored a bit, so we chortled and rubbed our hands together lasciviously in a planned display, then walked into the party, leaving the sound of Norman’s guffaws behind us.
Everywhere we went for the next half hour we got plenty of attention, all of it if not outright positive then at least tolerantly accepting.
“No one’s felt me up,” Kaitlyn commented at one point.
“This is a good thing?” I asked.
“Yeah, I’d rather that than the opposite, but that’s part of what I was worried about. No one would have dared at the WNBR, but here with everyone merry and tight…”
“Must be the sashes,” I decided.
“What, like a sort of Vestal chastity belt, projecting a ‘hands off bud’ force field into the party, keeping them all on their best behavior?” she asked.
“Precisely,” I said with a nod. “Take that thing off at your peril.”
She laughed, then said, “Speaking of, we are still calling this ‘nude’ for the purposes of your dare with Allison, aren’t we?” referring to my own sash.
“I’m pretty sure it counts as legally nude,” I opined. “More topless plus bottomless, but close enough, right?”
“One solid week naked,” she said with a shake of her head; “and to think I was bragging just last week of making it to thirty-two hours.”
“You could’ve joined in,” I pointed out.
“Maybe next year.”
Shortly, Molly was up on the small stage they’d once again set up, tapping on the mic to get everyone’s attention. “Good evening, all! Thanks for coming to our party.”
There was a restrained cheer at that. The guests weren’t yet drunk enough to get rowdy.
Molly let that die down, then continued, “Those of you who were here for our last two parties will remember Kaitlyn and Davie, up here at massage therapy school, working toward setting up a new practice down in Moab next spring.”
There was a louder whoop and holler this time, which surprised me.
“We’ll be drawing for three of their massage sessions each tonight, but with a twist! The winner of each massage must agree to take it fully naked and then to join us out here in that state for at least fifteen minutes after, reborn into the new year!” Molly let the crowd murmur over that for a while, then announced, “Paper slips and the drawing buckets are over there by the side of the stage; the drawing will commence in ten minutes!”
I was surprised at how long the lines got, and how quickly. I’d expected the new rules to greatly curb the number of entrants.
Molly had walked up by that point and saw my quizzical look toward the drawing buckets and guessed my question. “Your reputation precedes you two. If I hadn’t thrown in that restriction, I’d have had to hire extra security to stave off ballot-stuffing!”
“Really?” Kaitlyn breathed in wonder.
“Really,” Molly replied, dead serious. “You two are going to do very well after you graduate,” she told us in the same tone she might use when telling us that water was wet.
She gave us time to reply, then went on, “I hear you’ve retained the services of Carlo Dellai for your web site and collateral marketing material. I don’t know how you managed that, but you scored a major coup there. That boy is in…dee…mand,” Molly said, emphasizing the latter.
“I, ah, promised him another naked massage,” Kaitlyn replied weakly. “Outside. Next spring.”
“From you, that’d do it,” Molly replied, sounding as certain as if the connection was mathematically unassailable. She went on, “Lookit, I’ve got a few more things to do before the drawing. Though now that I say that, it looks like I’m going to have to put it off for a while, lines at the buckets still as long as they are. Never mind. You two go off and enjoy the party. You’ll hear me back on the mic when it’s time to draw.”
Kaitlyn and I continued to mingle with the party goers, they in their formal wear, we in formal skin, arm in arm.
If there were fewer names in the drawing buckets this time than at the last party, it wasn’t obvious to me. What really struck my eye was that my bucket looked about as full as Kaitlyn’s.
She noticed, too. “You, my boy, are also apparently in…dee…mand,” she told me, mimicking Molly’s earlier pronouncement.
I just shook my head incredulously.
Shortly, we had our clients and were leading them back to the massage rooms.
Looking into the massage room for the first time that night, I saw that the Alexanders had once again done an outstanding job on the decoration. It was all white inside, draped with white bunting and streamers, with pastel kick lights giving a little extra tonality to the scene.
There was only one massage oil tonight, lightly-scented with wintergreen. I realized this was very much on purpose: our hosts wanted the returning winners to treat their other guests olfactorily as well as visually.
“Good evening,” I greeted my first client of the night. “Normally, we’d invite you to undress to your level of comfort behind the screen and drape yourself with the provided towel, but as you can see, our hosts have instead provided only a clothes tree to enforce the prize agreement.”
My client, an average-looking woman in a classic black cocktail dress just turned her back to me, stepped out of her shoes, looked over her shoulder, and said, “Unzip me?”
As professionally as I could manage, I peeled her out of her tight-fitting dress, revealing a surprisingly curvy body clad now only in black thong panties and black hold-up stockings, braless. It amazes me how different a person looks out of clothes than in them, even when poured into something as tight as an evening dress.
As I slipped her panties down her legs and she stepped out of them, looking down into my eyes, I couldn’t keep the look of approval out of my own eyes, but she took it well, biting at her lip, then saying, “Thank you.” I decided she was thanking me for more than my help getting her undressed, but rather than say what I wanted to say, I stayed professional and helped her onto the table, slipped her stockings off, then began work on her.
A few seconds into the massage, I decided the sash was going to get in the way and get oil on it, so I stripped it off. As with removing my seat belt on our drive out to Fisher Towers, I felt less naked with that sash off: it was no longer constantly brushing my skin, reminding me that I was otherwise bare.
As I worked on her, I gave her a thorough magico-medical inspection, finding two separate major problems. First, she had some kind of UTI or maybe yeast infection; I couldn’t tell which, not having had much cause to look into this sort of thing. I’d have to read up on it later. Second, she had some pretty bad stomach ulcers, one of which looked about to burst. I didn’t have enough of a magic reserve to go after both, so I knew I had to go after the ulcers.
I spent a lot of time massaging her front along her rib cage. She winced initially but relaxed as I worked, fully healing her stomach lining, almost completely running myself out of magic to achieve it. I decided not to use my last vestige of magical reserve on her vaginal infection: at best, I’d only be able to push it back a bit; this one was better left to her GP.
As I was finishing up with this work, we heard a characteristically rhythmic thumping start up next door, clearly audible through the uninsulated interior wall.
“What’s that?” my client asked.
“I, um… I think my wife has found a certain stiffness in her client and is just now attempting to massage it away.”
My client was silent for a few seconds, then she said, “Are you serious? You mean she’s…” She trailed off into silence, and I just quietly resumed work. “You don’t have a problem with this?” she finally asked.
“I expect she’s coming home with me, not with him,” was all I said.
“Ah,” she replied, thoughtfully.
“We are here to serve the needs of our clients,” I added, as though this explained all.
Perhaps fifteen seconds later my client asked, “And if I complained of a certain tightness? Down there, I mean?”
I looked into her eyes and said, “Then I’d ask if you wanted me to try massaging it away, and if you did, what tool you thought would best relieve the tension.”
She got a small smile on her face and asked coyly, “What’re my options?”
I stood straight and began to enumerate them on my fingers as they came to me, “Well, let’s see, in my kit bag over there I have a few different sizes of vibrators ranging from a little clit buzzer up to a professional-strength vibrating massager. That latter’s also great on shoulders and lower back stiffness, by the way. Oh, and of course I’ve always got my fingers, tongue, and tonker with me. Speaking of, there’s condoms in the kit bag, which I’ll happily use if you prefer.” Then I resumed massaging her as if we’d just had a conversation about the breakfast menu items down at some coffee shop we both frequented.
The rhythmic thumping from next door continued while my client resumed her internal debate.
“You’d have sex with me if I asked? Right here, right now?”
“Yes, with or without a condom, as I said, your choice,” I confirmed matter-of-factly. “However, I’m actually proposing something a bit more one-way than couples sex: I was invited to this party to help a few guests with their physical problems. You’ve told me of one of your ailments, so I propose to go after it, easing the problem.”
“That’s not illegal or anything, is it?”
“I can’t see how,” I informed her. “I’m not getting paid tonight, and we’re in a private residence, behind closed doors. And as you may have guessed, if it’s just me helping you out with a problem, my wife won’t mind.”
“You don’t think you’re depriving her of something?” my client persisted.
“Of what?” I asked. “She’s not here right now, and she’s busy with her own tasks.”
I let that observation dangle for a but, the thumping sounds coming through the wall joined by muffled grunts, gasps, and ecstatic cries.
My client clearly saw my point, so I went on, “If you’re suggesting that I might go home with her later tonight and be unready to satisfy her, well, that’s between me and her, though I will say that you don’t need to worry about that.”
The woman looked stunned. “You’d have sex with me without coming?”
I’d decided that since I was all but tapped out of magic and had no access to nature here in this room, I had no ethical responsibility to orgasm, since I couldn’t do much with my spoonful of remaining power. All I could do for her at the moment is release her sexual tension, so I replied, “I didn’t quite say that, ma’am. My intent is to help you out, not see to my own desires, so the decision about whether I get to achieve my own gratification or if only you do is wholly your choice here. I wouldn’t be much of a body servant if I didn’t arrange it so, would I?”
The thumping had reached a crescendo and then stopped, trailed by a muffled “Nnnnngggggghhh!” sound heard through the wall.
“All right, this I’ve got to see,” she said, now resolved. “Go put on a condom. You give me at least one good orgasm first, but after that, I don’t care whether you come or not.”
I nodded my acceptance of her terms, then turned to go do as she asked, but she interjected, “Wait!” I turned back. “You need a hand job or something? How’re you still limp after all this sex talk, anyway?”
“Don’t worry about me; I’ll be fine,” was all I said, turning back to dig in the kit bag. While facing away from her, I loosened control over my erection and let it shwing up, so that by the time I had the condom wrapper torn open, my cock was ready for its shower cap. I donned it, then turned back to face my client again, equipment ready for the task.
My client’s jaw dropped, whether at the speed of my erection or its size, I do not know, but I kept my distance and asked diffidently, “I think it’s probably most appropriate that as the masseur I do the work here, but you’re welcome to be on top instead and just, ah, make use of the equipment. What do you think?”
“You’re serious, aren’t you?” she asked. I just nodded once, so she told me, “You said you were going to show me this internal massage technique, so I think you’d best retain the active role.”
“Yes, ma’am.” I walked over to the end of the table, climbed up onto it with her, slipping between her feet and knees as she parted them for me in invitation. I held myself in a plank pose above her, not touching her at all, then asked, “Ready?”
She nodded her head, looking straight into my eyes, so I used my mage’s bodily control to aim precisely at the target using only my pelvic muscles, then slowly began inching into her, careful not to hurt her, letting her get used to my size slowly while I maintained my ruler-flat plank pose, fists pressed into the table to either side of her, toes curled under to support me down below.
I wasn’t completely drained, so I decided to use what I had left to monitor my patient’s internal state, to better ease this ‘certain tightness’ she was complaining of. I didn’t have any power to waste, so I subtly scooched my fists inward until my wrists lightly brushed her ribs, then began exploring her body through this pair of light contact points. This would be a lot easier with her on top, freeing my hands, but she’d set the parameters, so I proceeded to do my best despite the obstacles.
Over the past several months, I’d learned to use my magical senses to recognize the inner manifestations of the condition colloquially called horniness, so that by the time my penis bottomed out in her vagina, my glans kissing her cervix for the first time, I’d diagnosed a bad case of it in this client. No problem, the doctor’s in the house. I proceeded to exorcise her internal tension as professionally as I could manage.
By that term I mean not only that I did it without groping my client or getting kissy, but also that I worked as quickly as I could consistent with the achievement of the client’s wish. Within a half dozen strokes, I had a good map of the way her body responded to my stimulation, so I began making my strokes more purposeful, ratcheting up her arousal one step per stroke, never losing ground, sending her on a straight-line streak toward the stars.
“Oh, god! Oh gaawwd d-dayyyum!” she groaned. “I-I’ve never…”
That was the last coherent thing she said for a while, her innate sense swamped in animal grunts and moans.
Doing sex magic with a condom on turned out to be surprisingly difficult. On the one hand, a condom isn’t much bodily cover, but on the other, it’s a high tech manufactured item. I’d gotten used to pouring sex magic down through my rod, straight up into the recipients’ body, but with the tech barrier down there, I could only work through my wrist contact points. If you want an analogy, it’s like learning how to write in the normal way, then having someone tell you that you must now hold the pen with your toes, that you couldn’t use your hands at all. What’s the problem, it’s just a different limb and a different set of digits, right?
I kept my attention on my work, wishing to be professional about it, so it wasn’t until about a minute in that I noticed a curious thing: I was no longer magically drained! My internal reservoir was somehow recharging! Sex magic was back on the menu.
I kept at my first task, devoting a tiny slice of my attention in the back of my head to the strange new phenomenon, so that it wasn’t until almost a minute later that another thought occurred to me: We were using our natural generative powers in a somewhat natural state, and my own contact with the table was minimized, so that with each stroke, I must be extracting some magical power from my client, much like walking barefoot on the Earth. I began moving with greater purpose now, sinking deep into her on each stroke to ensure that the root of my cock was repeatedly enveloped by her labia, the condom not quite reaching all the way down my shaft.
I had only about half a minute to work before her vagina was clamping rhythmically on my cock in orgasmic release, and she was shouting her joy past my rippled shoulders, they still holding my body suspended over hers in a flat plank pose, up until just a second ago flexing in a purposefully professional pumping progression.
I held myself there motionless, waiting for her to calm, then I resumed my work, lifting her up again towards a second orgasm, completing the refilling of my magical reservoir. I finished my task ahead of her second release, so that I was able to produce a simultaneous orgasm.
“Gyyyaaaaaaahhhh!” I cried as I poured the magical energy I’d siphoned back into my client’s body, sending it back out the root of my cock, through her vaginal wall, and up its length to clear out the infection her body had been battling.
“Oooohboyoooboyooobooooooy!” she cried in tandem with me, her second release stronger than the first, perhaps buoyed by the euphoric side effects of the magical healing.
I slipped out as her breathing calmed, asking, “How’s that tension now? All better?”
“Oh, sheeeeyit,” she breathed. “You are the best sex toy ever!”
I didn’t mind being compared to an inanimate object; I was, after all, here tonight to serve and delight. I considered it validation rather than diminution. It also wasn’t the first time I’d been the subject of that particular comparison, but I didn’t reveal this to her, just said, “Thank you, ma’am. I think our session’s about over then. Anything else you need?”
“Y’know, I think that’ll do it!” she said, then began to giggle, perhaps in postcoital glee, but more likely from the utter novelty of the situation, I decided.
I got down off the table, reasserted control over my erection, removed the condom as my cock shrunk and slipped out of it, tied it off, tossed it into the bottom of my bag, and put my white silk sash of office back on.
My client had calmed some in the meantime, so I solicitously helped her down off the table and out the door, leaving her clothes behind.
“How did you learn to do that?” she asked as we walked naked down the hall together.
“Ancient Indian mystical guru trick. Straight outta the Kama Sutra,” I told her, re-trying a deflection that hadn’t worked before; extra accent, with a side of woo-woo. I don’t know why I thought it’d work this time. Call it optimism.
“You know, I think I believe you,” she said wonderingly.
Well, first time for everything, right?
As we rejoined the party, applause greeting my newly nude client, it occurred to me to wonder whether the coat rack would be empty when I returned with my second client. And if so, where would my first client’s clothes go?
“Right this way,” I urged my first client of the night, a mid-twenties guy with that odd mix of good looks and nerdishness that Jess and Davie had taught me often resulted in technical project managers, that necessary interface in large organizations between the line geeks and the suits, without whose buffering influence the two groups tend to collide, resulting in energetic reactions as suit and anti-suit particles annihilate each other, emitting more heat than light in the meeting room reaction chambers where they are regularly brought together.
After spending some time admiring the white-and-pastel decoration scheme inside the room, I began helping my client out of his tux, all eighty-five layers of it or thereabouts. This made me think of Jess’ outfit tonight: unzip, slip down, kick off shoes, done. That girl’s got the right idea, I thought.
…Which reminded me that I also needed to undress. Well, that would be easy: I set my sash on a side table. Done!
I returned to the task of denuding my client, layer by layer. By the time I got him down to his white silk boxers, I was delighted to find that he was nicely sculpted for someone I judged to be one of the city’s high tech priesthood, who generally split into two categories: untoned skinniness or to various degrees of overweight. Well-muscled and exercised wasn’t a common attribute of this group of workers. I didn’t expect to need to do any healing on him at all.
I lay him out on the padded massage table and got to work with the only oil they’d given us tonight, a nice light wintergreen sort, a perfect compliment to the season.
I hardly spoke to my client through most of the massage, working from direct observation using magical peeks inside his body rather than verbal interrogation.
I found the usual collection of ills from his sedentary job, but with his vigorous exercise regimen, the magnitude of these were all negligible. I brushed them aside with a few breaths of mage power anyway, but it hardly impacted my magical reserves.
That handled, I began working entirely at the physical level. I took his groans and sighs as confirmation that I was doing exactly what he wanted done.
I actually put him to sleep there on his stomach, but we had a schedule to keep, so halfway through I slipped a bit of wakefulness up his spine in an inverse of the magical sleeping technique Davie and I had worked out down in Moab, bidding him to flip over.
When I resumed work, he whispered, “Wow,” drawing the word out while looking up in wonder at my dangling tits, as though he hadn’t seen them before. From this angle, I suppose he had not, now that I thought about it. I just smiled back and resumed work.
Seconds later, he began to erect quickly, but I continued to work quietly and professionally.
He stayed erect as I worked, and since he’d remained respectful and kept his hands to himself, several minutes into this work on his front I observed, “As a massage therapist in training, I’ve been taught to recognize various forms of stiffness and massage them away.” Then I asked, “Would you like help with that persistent stiffness down there?” flicking my eyes down at his crotch.
“Um, ah… You can do that?” he asked.
“Of course I can! All you need do is ask. I am here to relieve your tensions, after all.”
“Ah, um… There’s no, ah, extra charge for this, ah, service?” he asked, attempting circumlocution, failing miserably.
“If there was, that would be prostitution, now wouldn’t it? No, my good man, I am a massage therapist in training, and I propose to massage your tension away, that is all. So, how about it?”
“Well, if you’re willing, sure, that’d be, ah…um…very nice,” he finished lamely.
I concentrated a bit and got my juices flowing then climbed up onto the table with him, positioned myself above him, grabbed his pole gently, and calmly sunk down onto it, he sliding easily into my just-moistened passage.
“Better?” I asked once I’d bottomed out on him.
His eyes had closed, and he breathed, “Very nice, but the strain has increased, I’m afraid.”
“Do not worry,” I told him in my professional masseuse voice. “I’ll have you fully loosened up in short order.”
And with that, I began riding him in cowgirl position, his eyes fighting between staying open to watch the sight of me at work and closing in his effort to resist unloading within me too soon. Davie and I had pushed our mutual skills up to a level that I could have had him shooting in seconds, but I decided to stretch it out over the ten or so minutes we had left to give him full value for his winning ticket.
Rather than lift him up steadily, one fixed step per stroke, I decided to try a logarithmic curve, bringing him up fast to start then tapering off to a long asymptotic ride towards final release. I therefore began to pound him strongly, rhythmically, working my vaginal muscles to shoot him high up into the clouds of ecstasy then suspend him there, floating up slowly toward the stratosphere before I shot him off into space.
“Gyyyyyaaaaaahhhhh!” he grunted and panted at this assault, doing his best to hang on.
I almost lost him with that initial ascent, being used to Davie’s godly level of control, but I had a magical feedback going with my client’s libido, and I corrected just in time to help him level off and begin the slower ascent through the remaining time we had left, intending to give him a single long 9 minute edging push towards climax before letting him return to the party.
“Can I…pant…touch you?” he asked, almost begging.
“Keep it respectful,” I told him, “or this ends right here, right now.”
He met my demand, caressing my body and giving it only gentle squeezes, never manhandling me.
This extra tactile and visual stimulation flung him over the edge, out of my control. “Nnnnnggggghhh!” he groaned loudly, pumping rapidly inside me.
I was disappointed with my performance, but I hid my self-critique, keeping any sign of it off my face, simply resuming my frontal massage of him as his pole slowly deflated within my passage. I maintained a constant pressure on his changing member’s size to lock his seed away inside myself, to avoid creating a mess on the carpet when I eventually got down. It would be unprofessional to do otherwise, after all.
As I was massaging his chest and shoulders, smoothing the last of his tension away, I sensed that I might now have a reasonable expectation of a lucid reply, so I asked him, “How was that, then?”
“Best massage ever!” he replied.
“Most gratifying,” I said in my calm masseuse voice.
“Molly said you’re opening a practice in Moab?” he said as I was pulling back along his flanks in a long stroke down from his muscled pecs, his tone making it a question rather than a comment.
“You, ah, you’ll be doing this down there? Like tonight?”
“I’m afraid not,” I told him. “We intend to make money doing it, so we’ll have to go by different rules down there. This up here, this is for fun and practice, a private affair, so we have more freedom here and now.”
“A pity,” he said, looking slightly crestfallen. “Still, if I’m ever down there, I’ll be sure to look you up!”
“Be happy to have you,” I told him, then escorted him away from his clothing and out into the party, flipping my white sash of office over my shoulder as I followed him out into the hallway, now infinitely more dressed than he was.
Curiously, I now felt even more naked than I was back in the room. Was the cause of this feeling the loss of the room’s concealment, or was it the sash’s caresses constantly reminding me of my nudity? Both? Davie’s right: people are strange.
I found that I’d used so little magical mojo with this client that my reserves felt completely full. I wouldn’t need to go out to the back yard to recharge this time.
We emerged from the hallway into the main room of the party to a hearty hurrah and huzzah. Seriously, that pack of geeks actually huzzahed. Too much role-playing gaming, I decided.
As I escorted my prior client out into the party, I heard another cheer go up behind us. We both turned to see that it was Davie and his client, so I turned back to meet him, my client following me back.
While Davie hugged me, playing his wonderful hands up my bare back underneath the sash, I heard my client ask Davie’s, “May I have this dance?”
The nude woman accepted, and the two went back out into the cleared area of the large living room set aside as a dance floor for a sensuous slow dance.
“How about it, my love? Wanna join them?” my Davie asked, and I accepted.
Unlike my prior client, Davie managed to avoid erecting. I knew why Davie was keeping control, but I was impressed by the other guy, getting it up again so quickly after I’d just relieved him of a heavy load.
“We should dance naked more often,” Davie whispered into my ear.
“It’s hard to find the opportunities,” I said. “Dance clubs wouldn’t admit us like this, and we generally don’t take music gear out into the wilderness with us when we go off a-nudin’.”
“We’ll just have to do it in the living room, then,” he said.
“Yeah…” I sighed, head now on his well-muscled shoulder, our steps perfectly synchronized through our magical body control.
I was broken out of the delightful dance by applause. Looking around, I saw that we two couples — our first clients plus Davie & I — had cleared the floor, pushing the other dancers out to the edge to watch us dance instead.
Davie caught me up into a kiss that made the applause disappear, so that the next thing I remember hearing was the start of an upbeat song, so we flowed into the moves for that, as did the other couple.
It was a 50s sock-hop style of song, so naturally we ended up swapping partners back and forth, putting on a real display this time, especially Davie’s first client whose matronly mammaries mesmerised many of the massed members.
We all bowed when the dance was over, then Davie and I made our way off to the nosh tables for some refreshment.
We carried our snacks and drinks off into the freezing back yard, to the amusement of the few smokers forced out there ahead of us. Davie said he needed recharging, so although I felt full-up, I went along with him. Our audience must think we’re still putting on a show for them. I suppose we were, since the solarium filled up while we strolled through the crunchy refrozen snow, our spectators warm and cozy while we reprised our snow elf roles.
“Snow angels?” I proposed, once I saw that we’d packed the solarium.
“Snow angels,” Davie agreed and flopped face down into a virgin patch of snow off to the side of our walking path. “Ow,” he said, muffled by snow.
“Goofball!” I cried as I flopped backwards into the snow on the opposite side of our path from my Davie, making my own symmetrically reflected snow angel.
We made our way quickly back inside, where Davie and I saw a woman looking positively acquisitive at him. He walked up to her and said, “I’ve gone and gotten snow all over me. Would you like to help me brush it off?”
“Wouldn’t I just?” she purred, and began taking her time brushing the snow off his front.
In my ear, I heard a man ask, “May I?”
I looked over my shoulder to find another hungry set of eyes, so I said, “You may.”
He began brushing my back off, also taking his time.
When Davie and I judged that it’d gone on long enough, we each stepped away from our, ah, helpers and said, “Thank you!” then walked back into the party.
There we saw our first clients still dancing in the middle of the crowd, no longer the sole focus of the party. As that dance finished, I saw the woman glance up at the clock and then lip-read, “Fifteen minutes,” by which I assumed she was clock-watching, wanting to get back into her clothes, but the man just took her hand and led her off down a hallway I knew from prior visits to have several bedrooms that the guests would end up using through the night. The man was still erect, I noticed.
“I think we’ve created a couple,” I observed to Davie.
“Good night for it,” he replied.
Shortly after, I saw one of the Alexanders’ tux-clad servants walk down that same hallway with two sets of evening wear on hangers, quietly hanging them on the doorknob of the room they’d entered, then walking off to take care of other tasks, finger to the clear plastic ear bug he was wearing, doubtless to hear better over the party noise.
As I was walking another woman in yet another black evening dress down the hallway to my assigned room, I realized that I hadn’t told Kaitlyn about my discovery that sex magic can recharge a mage’s reserves. Ah well, we’d be telling each other stories tonight anyway. It could wait.
I bade my client, “If you’ll hand me all of your clothes, ma’am, I will hang them up for you.”
As before, the woman’s bland exterior covering concealed multiple surprises, the first of which was a bright pink strapless bra and pink full-coverage panties with white hearts on, the message “Happy New Years!” written across the back. I found it fascinating: everyone so similar on the outside at these formal events yet so different underneath. There was a metaphor in that, I was sure.
“Good evening, ma’am. If you’ll just get up onto the table, we’ll begin. What ails you tonight?”
I ended up focusing heavily on her feet and calves, brutalized as she was by her three-inch party heels. I had strong opinions on instruments of violence against women such as these, but I kept them to myself, just pushing magic into her feet and legs to relieve the tension on her stressed tendons, smoothing out hard corns so they would protect rather than irritate the foot going forward, straightening out a bunion brought on by jamming her big toe into a triangular toe box: Gaia did not make her creations’ toes triangular! I spent about half my time on her calves and feet alone.
I knew I could in principle get caught doing such overt magical healing, but I was gambling that this woman would never bother to make a proper comparison. She might later wonder at how quickly her feet had healed up from her latest batch of self-inflicted injuries, but it would never occur to her that her masseur had magically evaporated her problems. That would be ridiculous; therefore, it could not have happened. I could offer this gift with no risk that she’d trace it back to me. Perfect.
Once I’d finished my work on her feet, I used my professional massager for its designed purpose, working the kinks out of her back and shoulders, so that we ended up with only about 5 minutes left by the time I finally had her flip over.
“I’m afraid we only have time for a quickie on your front,” I informed her while dribbling wintergreen-scented oil between her breasts and across her belly.
“A pity,” she sighed, a hand caressing up my solidly muscled thigh, her eyes closed.
I worked her as thoroughly as I could up front, focusing mainly on her thighs and core, so that when I called, “Time,” in a low relaxing tone, she whimpered a bit and said, “Could I impose…?”
“My breasts. Just five more minutes, please?”
“Just the breast tissue proper?”
“Nipples, too, if you would.”
“Certainly, ma’am,” I said professionally and began working her as she’d requested, her eyes closing once again and a slack smile appearing on her face.
As I was finishing, she began to pant, her hands now resting on her hips and quivering in towards her center, so I asked, “A quick finish?”
“Oh, please!” she moaned.
I diverted one hand down from my work on her breasts to give her a quick clitoral rub, my finger causing her outer labia to puff up around my middle finger while I worked. I brought her off perhaps fifteen seconds later, butt pushed as high above the table as she could get it, clenched tight in orgasm, her body in a graceful bow pose.
I put my hand under that tightened butt and used the other to caress around her pubic area and along her inner thighs, easing her downward while her breathing calmed.
“There now, how was that?” I asked, as though it were needed. One must be polite, mustn’t one?
“Glorious,” she whispered.
She showed no sign of getting up off the table, so I just said, “You’re welcome to rest here for a while, but remember the Alexanders’ deal: fifteen minutes on display out in the party, right?”
“I’ll be there,” she sighed contentedly, then put one arm over her eyes, elbow bridging her nose, shutting out the low pastel light of the room’s decoration.
I grabbed my sash, put it on, and slipped quietly out into the party.
My second client that night was an elderly gentleman with a snow white beard down to here, wearing a beautiful dove gray tux and a white silk sash with gold calligraphic letters reading, “Out with the old year…”
“I didn’t expect you to enter the drawing for this, Mr. Potter,” I said to Norman Alexanders’ friend, who was acting in the “old year” role opposite us tonight.
“Are you kidding? When I heard you two would be here again for this party, I RSVP’d as soon as I got the invitation! It’s how I got landed with this job,” he said, thumb pulling his sash out toward me.
“You’re perfect for it. I’m surprised you weren’t Santa at the last party!” I told him.
“Heh. They wanted me to do that, too, but with these old knees… Well, no; just no.”
“I believe I’ve just received my marching orders,” I told him and began helping him out of his tux, hanging its elements up on the arms of the recently freed-up coat rack.
“I’m not sure I can get up there,” the short old man said, eyeing the table once I’d stripped him bare.
I silently gathered some power from Gaia and scooped him up in my arms and deposited him on the table, face up.
“Wow, my girlie, you don’t look that strong!” he breathed wonderingly.
I deflected the comment with a partial explanation, “I get a lot of exercise. Now, about those knees.”
I then proceeded to push the entire remaining reserve of my magical power into his hips and knees, rebuilding them as best as I could from Davie’s explanations of what he’d done for my mother and Mrs. Johannsen.
Once I’d done as much as I could for him in that position, I flipped him over, climbed up onto the table, straddled his legs, and worked his shoulders, back, and buns as well as I could now that I was tapped out of magic.
I hopped down off the table and was helping him up into a seated position, intending to help him down to the ground when I noticed I’d given him an erection in that position!
“Oh my girlie, I’m sorry,” he began to say.
I interrupted him, asking, “How long has it been? You know, since you’ve seen some action? I’m asking purely as a professional, sir: it is a health issue, after all.”
He blushed and said, “Five years. My Martha’s been gone for four now, and the last year…well.”
I pushed him gently back onto the table, lay him down, and climbed back up into a straddle across him, then asked, “Let me help you. I am here as a body servant tonight. Let me do my job.”
He just stared up at me in wonderment, then got out, “You wouldn’t happen to have any condoms, would you?”
“I do, but I don’t need them if you don’t.”
“I am,” I replied with as much confidence as I could exhibit.
“It’s been so long…” he said in a quiet moan, so I just slipped him inside me and began working his cock gently, adding plenty of sway on top to maintain visual interest, caressing his upper body on my passes. I grabbed his wrists gently and began guiding his hands over my body. I was here to help this kind old man, not humiliate him, and that meant doing everything I could to ensure that he didn’t go limp early.
I glanced at the clock and saw that we were over our agreed upon time limit, but I was on a mission now. I kept working him soft and slow, lifting him up gently toward his peak, not wanting to spike his heart rate and unable to monitor it with magic, since I’d tapped myself out with my earlier healing efforts on his behalf.
But no! I found I had a small reserve of power still! Where had that come from? Never mind, I had a use for it: I began riding him harder, keeping a mage-eye on his heart, on the way a lifetime of living had strained it and the surrounding blood vessels, not wanting to overtax them.
What’s this? My magical reserves were now climbing, not draining with the minor magic of the continuous health inspection! How was this possible?
I decided I couldn’t divert attention to think about it: if I didn’t pay attention, I risked not keeping my client sufficiently stimulated, and that could end embarrassingly. I’d end up hurting him, not helping him, a clear violation of the ethics that had led me to do this for him in the first place, so I set the mystery aside and began boning him as hard as I could without overtaxing his heart.
“Oooo girlie, I’m about there!” He was breathing fast now.
As soon as I felt his emission begin, I let go of the control I’d been holding over my own orgasm, milking him with my vaginal walls, calling forth his seed, which he delivered shortly after. I poured all of the power I’d managed to collect — never mind how — into his body, shoring up heart muscle and blood vessel walls.
“Ooooooggggghhhh!” he groaned, his hands clamped on my waist, his cock buried as deeply inside me as he could manage.
As soon as he released me both above and below, I slipped down off the table and then helped him down.
When he was once again on his own two feet, he said, “You’re a miracle worker! Twice a miracle, in fact! I haven’t felt this good on my feet for a decade, and what you achieved above these old legs…well, that was not an easy task, I’ll tell you that for free!”
“Happy to help,” I said. “It looks like we’ve just barely got the fifteen minutes you agreed to before I’ve got to get to my next client. How about it; want a dance?”
“Haven’t we already danced vigorously together?” he said with a kindly leer. “Never mind, I’d be happy to stroll with you on the dance floor, if you’ll forgive me in advance for stepping on your bared feet.”
“Tell you what, Mr. Potter, how about you go get something to drink, and I’ll take another run through the snow to numb my feet; then we can see about who steps on who?” I had an ulterior motive, of course: I was definitely drained now, and I’d do a better job dancing if I had Gaia on my side to help.
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, and we left the room, arm in arm, only sixty-three years and two sashes between us.
I joined Mr. Potter out on the dance floor with a slow dance, and I resumed my magical attention on him, pouring most of my refilled reserve into his heart and blood vessels, doing more to shore up its weakening muscle, dissolving plaques in the arteries, thickening the nearby arterial walls. Two hearts beating as one on the dance floor, indeed!
I didn’t see Davie immediately on coming out, nor until most of the way into the dance. He emerged from the hallway to the den, where I knew they’d have several video gaming rigs set up again. I guessed he’d been off visiting Vin and Jess, discharging his duty to be on display to the guests as he did.
When the dance was over, I bade Mr. Potter good-bye, then grabbed Davie up in one hand and led him back outside to prance some more in the snow, putting on another show for the solarium spectators, recharging ourselves as we went.
While standing out in the corner of the yard, away from muggle ears, Davie whispered to me, “Kaitlyn, I’ve made a discovery! Sex magic can refill your reservoir! I think it works by draining energy from the healthy parts of your partner’s body.”
“That explains it!” I replied, almost fully out loud. Quieter, I whispered back, “I noticed something like that with an earlier client. I’d tapped myself out of magic, then later found that I wasn’t completely empty. I, ah, got a little busy with him.”
“I heard,” he replied with a grin.
He clearly mistook which client I was referring to, since I’d been quiet with Mr. Potter,, but it didn’t matter. We’d sort that out later. The main thing was the new skill. Davie’s claim that it drained some health from the client worried me, and it ran counter to my experience: Old Mr. Potter didn’t look less healthy after I left him, he looked healthier. We’d have to investigate this later.
I opened the massage room door for my third client, revealing a nude woman already lying there on the table, asleep, an arm still over her eyes: it was my second client! I’d clearly sent her off into slumber with one of her massages. I wasn’t willing to guess whether it was the therapeutic major working or the quick erotic finish, but I was thoroughly flattered. That’s relaxation, friends!
“Ma’am?” I asked, trailing a finger along her forehead as cover for sliding a bit of wakefulness up into her, reversing the sleep spell Kaitlyn and I had learned recently.
“Mmmm?” she said, her eyes flickering open beneath her elbow, her arm held just above them to shield them from the low overhead light.
“I’ve got my next client here. We need the table,” I told her. “Sorry,” I added.
“Oh, shit, I must’ve fallen asleep!”
“You did. I see that the help has been by and taken your clothes away. My guess is that you won’t see them again until you get out into the party for your contracted fifteen minutes.”
“Oh!” she exclaimed, realizing the situation. She sat on the edge of the table and looked ready to hop down when she looked up at me and said, “I’m not quite ready to get out there. Could I stay awhile? Maybe watch?”
I turned to my third client and looked a question at her.
“Fine with me. It’s Karen, isn’t it?” she said as she walked forward into the room, hand extended in that palm-down way some women affect. “I’m Edie,” my new client added, shaking my prior client’s hand.
She didn’t look like an Edie to me, but I didn’t say this aloud.
Edie offered, “Sure, you can stay and watch, if you like.”
Edie caught my reference to the emptied coat rack in my exchange with Karen, so she began handing me items of clothing to hang up for her while she chatted with her friend, treating me like the servant I was tonight. I didn’t mind.
As Edie handed over yet another generic black evening dress hiding another unique treasure inside, she tilted her head a bit to the side and told Karen, “You know, I think I used to go to your gym, Karen. You know, back before…” gesturing up and down her own matronly body meaningfully rather than put her self-opinion into words. Edie continued, “I remember that tight body you’re showing off, Karen, so you must have seen me bare before now, too. Back when I was skinny, I mean. Before the baby.”
Karen replied breezily, “Oh, you look fine.”
She delivered the line well, I thought, but Edie apparently didn’t buy it, because she said, “Wait until I get these highly engineered pieces of structural underclothing off.”
Then she got a bit pink, perhaps realizing that she’d be doing just that, with me watching, so I attempted a distraction. “Your shoes, ma’am?”
Edie propped herself up with one hand on the massage table beside her friend, pulled off one strapless low-heeled party shoe, handed it to me, swapped, and handed me the other. Then she took a deep breath, got a bit pinker, and said, “Well, here goes nothin’,” with a bit of a shiver despite the warmth of the room. Her hands flicked a few times, and her shoulders shrugged upward once, but she seemed unable to do the deed. Edie looked over her shoulder at her friend, away from me, and asked, “Unclasp me?”
Karen came up onto her knees on the table, released Edie’s bra, but held onto the straps, prompting her, “Say the word.”
Edie closed her eyes and took a breath so deep I suspect Karen’s fingers got a little whiter to keep hold of the industrial-grade black bra straps. “All right, let’s do this,” she said on opening her eyes again, looking me in mine, but addressing Karen, who promptly whipped the bra off before her friend could second-guess herself.
When Edie’s pendulous baby bags dropped heavily from their binders, her shoulders and hands flicked and spasmed a bit more than before. I suppose it helped that I turned quickly with her bra in hand to hang it up, giving her a moment of privacy, because her hands had stilled, and she still hadn’t covered up by the time I turned back.
This left only her black full-coverage high-waisted sheer black control-top panties keeping the remainder of her shape hidden away. They didn’t fully cover her cesarean scarring. I sighed: motherhood personified.
My client, not guessing my internal thoughts, looked sharply at me, but she only saw a gentle happy smile on my face, so she relaxed.
Nevertheless, she didn’t move to take off her last piece of clothing. I was about to offer a reassurance when Karen spoke, “It’s all right Edie. I’m here.”
Once she finally got up the courage to slip them down and off, I employed another distraction technique, asking what ailed her as I turned back from hanging them on the clothes tree. We soon agreed on a plan of action.
Unlike my prior client, this one hadn’t tortured herself with her shoes, but the extra weight she’d been carrying had distributed numerous pains and aches all over her body, so I decided to climb up on the table and give her a vigorous all-over massage, starting face-down.
I found I enjoyed rippling her rolls like that, the slick oil letting me move fast and deep, dragging groans or sighs out on each pass.
As I worked, I magically emptied myself into her, mainly going after all of the many problems that happen when a person carries too much weight around for decades: sore joints, bad posture, impaired organ function. I ran out of magical mojo long before I ran out of good targets. I sighed inwardly, telling myself that I’d done what I could for her. I’d done far more for her than any normal masseur could have.
On flipping her over, I continued in a purely physical manner, working her all over, even her breasts. I normally ask before touching a client’s breasts, but I didn’t see any need to here: they so clearly needed attention due to their size that only an incompetent or frightened masseur would have skipped them. I was neither of those things, so I just got in there and started healing as well as I could without access to magic.
I did avoid the nipples; this wasn’t that sort of massage.
“I’m not surprised you don’t find me attractive,” she said after I’d finished with one breast, both of my hands now working the other; there was no way I could do what needed doing single-handed.
“You are quite wrong there, ma’am. I find you quite attractive, especially oiled up like this.”
“But you’re limp,” she observed, flicking her eyes down at my wobbly bits, metronoming in time with my massage movements.
“I wondered that, too,” my second client put in from her perch on a backless dressing bench against the wall.
“I’m also a professional, well versed in the arts of both massage and meditation,” I informed them. “My job here isn’t self-gratification, it’s making my client feel great, so I’m keeping my mind on the task, working the kinks out of your body.”
“Wow…” she breathed, sounding like she didn’t believe this was possible before tonight.
“Anyway, I don’t know why you’d think yourself unattractive,” I told her. “I see several bits of evidence that you’ve attracted a man before.”
“Oh, many years ago,” she sighed sadly. Then her lower lip began to quiver. “And he’s left me anyway,” she added, her head turning away from my second client and I.
I stopped, stunned. “With kids‽” I half shouted.
She nodded, a tear rolling down one cheek, dripping onto the massage table on the side she’d turned her head toward.
“What a flaming, sputtering asshole!” I breathed, referring to the man that’d do this to her, while another tear began pooling between her uppermost eye and her nose bridge. She began sniffling, trying to regain control of herself.
Karen got up silently and retrieved a tissue from a side table, handing it to her friend, who honked her nose loudly.
I resumed in a more moderate tone, “Got prospects? A boyfriend or something?”
Edie just shook her head again, now wiping the tears away with the back of her hand.
“I know a guy,” put in Karen. “He’s here tonight, in fact. Great guy, single, wants kids…”
My current client rolled her head through most of 180 degrees to look her old acquaintance in the eye, though I suspected that she couldn’t see her clearly at the moment through those teary eyes. Those same eyes looked down toward her feet, and she said, “I’m ugly. He’d never go for me.”
I’d been wondering what I could do to help, but she’d just teed the ball right up before me, and I only needed to take a swing at it. I hooked her chin with a finger, turned it up toward me, then kissed her three times, forehead, nose and lips, saying, “You…are…beautiful,” after each peck, then I punctuated it with a nod. “Go get ’im!”
She smiled shyly up at me, turned back to her friend, and they began chatting about this guy as I resumed my work.
After I’d finished and helped my client down off the table, she said up at me, “A bit unseemly, isn’t it? Some strange guy seeing me naked on our first date? And in public‽”
She looked like she was beginning to panic, so I used my calm guru voice, saying, “Might be just the thing you need to set the hook. Anyway, I’ve already gotten one couple together tonight. Don’t see why I can’t make it two. C’mon, let’s go find this guy.”
And so, a naked woman on each arm, I strolled back out into the party, fully on display myself.
We did find Karen’s male friend, and we did get him together with Edie. I don’t know how far their relationship went into the new year, but I do know he didn’t leave her side the rest of the night.
Another thing I know about this guy is that he offered to strip about one minute into the conversation. Karen and I were still nearby as chaperones as they introduced themselves to each other; I don’t know about Karen, but I looked on this as a form of chivalry and decided it was a very good sign for their budding relationship. Edie accepted gratefully. Both of them now nude, they began their courtship in earnest, and Karen and I faded back.
Such a polite man! I wished Edie luck in landing him.
Another client, another multi-layered tux, and another underwear surprise. It was a bright red posing strap, straight out of a Chippendale’s show, and boy did he wear it well! Where my first client was well-muscled, this guy was abso-fricken-lutely chiseled.
“How can I help you tonight?” I asked solicitously, trying to keep a professional look in my eyes.
“Well first, I don’t suppose you could introduce me to that other yummy masseur?” he said, a kind of pleading note in his voice. “Please, please, please tell me he’s gay?” he added rapidly.
I colored, breast tops to scalp line. “He’s, ah…” I pushed out, “…ah… No, I don’t think he’s into that.”
The guy looked skeptical, asking, “You sure? How well do you know him?”
Unable to spare the guy’s feelings further, I said, “We’re married, him and I.”
“Oh,” he said, looking absolutely crestfallen. Then his head snapped up and he added, “Oh, shit, I’m sorry! Forgive me?”
“Don’t be upset. I think he’ll be flattered,” I told him. I took a deep breath, then said with a little grin, “To business. What can I do for you tonight besides play matchmaker?”
It was as I expected: spending that much time in the gym builds a whole assortment of complaints, so I got right to work on easing them, expending my magic mainly on the torn-up ligaments rather than on the muscles, since the former wouldn’t rebuild themselves nearly so readily.
I reduced him to a beefy puddle on my table by the end, able to work him much harder than old Mr. Potter, so that I actually had to help him rise and maintain his balance for a few seconds after getting him onto his feet.
“That was a-mazing,” he said.
“Most kind,” I replied. “You’ll leave your clothes here, and they’ll be returned to you later tonight,” I told him, now that I understood how the Alexanders were working this little game of theirs.
“Certainly,” he agreed, then held out an elbow for me, and I escorted him out into the party.
Later, while dancing with Davie, I noticed a gorgeous nude man at the center of a crowd of mostly male admirers, my third client their focus, so I decided he probably wasn’t going home alone. I’d managed to be a matchmaker of sorts after all, I suppose.