1
Grayson
“It will be better this time. I bet my job on it.”
I turn to Sheryl, my assistant for the last three years, and shake my head. “Unless she’s miles better than the last four girls you brought me, I highly doubt it.”
Today is Day 5 of my masseuse-try-out week. Galina, the old Russian lady who worked for me for the last fifteen months, decided now would be a good time to move back to the motherland and reunite with her high school boyfriend and leave me high and dry with a neck full of knots and no one to work on them.
So I told Sheryl to find me a replacement and find me one fast, but so far all she’s come up with are a bunch of college girls who want to know if I’m “a generous man” and if I “know how to spoil a girl.”
Fuck outta here. I may be a billionaire, but I didn’t become one by blowing money on cute girls with gym booties stuffed into yoga pants. And besides, I’m not looking for a companion; I’m looking for a masseuse. If all I wanted was a gentle rub with a happy ending, I’d get one. What I want is a professional.
“Well, if you weren’t so damn particular, Grayson—”
“All I want is someone who knows what she’s doing,” I reply, dampening my abruptness with a smile. Sheryl is an amazing assistant, but she’s also pretty sensitive. She sighs and glances at her phone.
“Well, she’s three minutes away. Why don’t you go get ready and I’ll send her in when she gets here?”
One of the great things about being a billionaire is that you can do the most absurd things to your home. Like for instance, having a spa installed, or a bowling alley, or a gym…
…or a massage room.
I strip down to my briefs, turn on some Mozart, and get on the table. Despite Sheryl’s reassurance, I’m skeptical. To say the least.
Girl 1 started off with what she called a “tease routine,” that involved dragging her acrylic nails gently up and down my back until I told her to stop. “It’s supposed to stimulate your autonomic nervous system,” she’d told me. I’m pretty sure she just read that on Google.
Girl 2 didn’t even get a chance to get her hands on me. She smelled like avocados that had gone bad and brought a small dog with her. I told her to scram and went back to work.
Girl 3 was decent, but told me she could make sure I was “fully satisfied” if I was generous with my tips. Girl 4 said basically the same thing but just came right out with it. She got topless after about five minutes, oiled up her tits and rubbed them all over my back while doing pornstar breathing sounds in my ear.
Most guys probably would have hit it, but not me. I’m not interested in girls throwing themselves at me because I’m rich. Been there, done that. The next girl I’m with is going to be the one who’s with me for the rest of my life.
I’m getting comfortable on the table when the intercom on the wall buzzes and Sheryl says, “She’s on her way in.”
The speaker clicks off, and I sigh. Here comes another girl looking for a sugar daddy, a pay day, an easy gig from some rich guy simp. I glance over my shoulder as I hear footsteps approaching. When I see her, every one of my expectations shatters like broken glass.
I’m a perceptive person, so I quickly search her for any warning signs that she might be trouble, but don’t find any. Instead, I see a vision of beauty walking towards me, wearing black yoga pants, a nice but professional top, with her hair pulled back and a bag over her shoulder.
The smile she flashes at me as she enters the room could move armies. Is this Helen of Troy reincarnated?
“Hi, Mr. Radcliffe,” she says, extending a hand. We shake and I feel her strength in her grip. “My name is Jennie. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
I feel my cock between to swell against the table. “The pleasure’s all mine.”
The girls I’ve seen up until now would wink at a comment like that – or their eyes would sparkle and they’d respond with some sexual innuendo, but Jennie doesn’t miss a beat. She sets her bag down and pulls out a bottle of lotion.