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The Angler and Steve McQueen
By raginhoops


The lengths she'd go to spend time with Cabot was astounding her, especially this granola crap. The guys better not ever get wind of this; she had a reputation to uphold. Absentmindedly, she pushed the robe's edge against her breasts. She agreed to a facial and manicure but here she was about to be in a couple's massage session. This was not what she bargained for, she thought as she stole a glance at the lounging blonde beside her.

Soft ting-ting music wafted through the dimly lit room. Olivia felt sick. She'd have to take her robe off. She made a lame joke, dropped it off, flung it at a chair, and dove onto the table, all while she pulled a sheet hurriedly over her backside.

"Good going, Marino." Alex calmly divested herself of the soft cotton wrap, draped it carefully, and glided onto the table, not bothering to use a sheet. Olivia stared straight ahead, not daring to look at the naked body next to her.

"I'm just not used to this stuff. "

"Well, I never pegged you as the modest type."

A soft knock at the door silenced them. The therapists entered whispering introductions. The muscled longhaired blonde lumbered toward Olivia. The guy was seriously huge; she looked behind him for his blue ox.

The brunette walked over to Alex while rubbing oil into her palms, "The usual, Ms. Cabot?" She was lithe with just the right curves sporting a Laurie Anderson do from the 'O Superman' days.

"Yes, Lindy. And my virginal partner will have the same."

"I trust this is your first massage?" He responded as she nodded, "Just tell me if there is anything uncomfortable…" Eric murmured on and on. Olivia couldn't concentrate on anything but the sounds of whales mixed with what sounded like a big cat purring. It was annoying the hell out of her. That was until she froze with the realization that it was coming from her right, along with the heavy, hot fragrance thickened with friction. Humidity enveloped making it difficult to breathe. She nearly swallowed her tongue as she turned her head and as quickly whipped it back. The image was overwhelming. The hovering figure, hands all over her, kneading out those sounds of pleasure, burnt her brain. A slightly sweet taste lingered. With a jolt, Olivia realized that she'd bitten her lip. Panic roused her into a rapid-fire algorithm of escape. The brawny hands on her traps kept her captive. Prayer entered her brain to stop the visual from reappearing, looping on with the persistence of border collie in a game of fetch. Holy Sisyphus, she mentally calculated, 50 odd minutes to go. Old men, old white men, old white men naked, old white men naked on the beach, old white men naked on the beach playing volleyball. She played that game until the chimes signaling the end of torture finally arrived.

Alex suppressed a smile. This fact-finding mission was definitely a success thus far. Benson was fidgety. Beads of sweat in the magnitude of menopause ran down her neck. She nearly sprinted out the cubicle into the change room forgetting to put the robe back on.

Alex skillfully provided short frames of visual opportunity and the lure was getting hits. This game had been going on too long. Olivia was cautious, no doubt, many angled to hook her. But, urgency was there today. Alex was placing plan B into action as she casually told Olivia that dinner at her apartment was next on the agenda. Olivia hesitated and, before she could say no way in hell, Alex went on about the menu sitting ready in her frig, Chilean oysters sardou, filet mignon with raspberry glaze, grilled asparagus… As they emerged from the spa, a town car was waiting. In a flash, one flick of the wrist and a final tug, Alex had 'the cooler king' inside.

Booking the massage was a stroke of genius.

The End

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