Authors: Aubrey Parker
Hotel Indigo
Want to know what happens next?
Hotel Indigo
Aubrey Parker
Copyright © 2016 by Aubrey Parker. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, businesses, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
Reproduction in whole or part of this publication without express written consent is strictly prohibited.
The author greatly appreciates you taking the time to read this work. Please consider leaving a review wherever you bought the book, or telling your friends about it, to help spread the word.
Thank you for supporting Aubrey Parker
For my readers.
GET A FREE BOOK!
THE BURNING OFFER
is the first book in my “Trevor’s Harem” series — a hot and suspenseful billionaire’s game of tested limits and forbidden temptations that’s like nothing you’ve ever read before.
It normally sells for $2.99, but I’d like to give you a FREE copy.
Just click the link below to get it!
http://aubreyparker.net/aubreyfb/
THANK YOU FOR READING!
Aubrey Parker
CHAPTER ONE
M
ARCO
F
UCK
THESE
WOMEN
.
I’
M
THINKING
this as I paw at Colleen’s tits, rubbing them with a thicker-than-strictly-necessary layer of massage oil. Colleen has great tits. She should, considering how much she must have paid for them. But no matter how great the tits, they don’t need massaging. Tits are blobs of fat that we’ve somehow attached sexual feelings to, for reasons I don’t even want to consider.
I could apply more pressure and get the pectoral muscles beneath, the way I was taught while doing physiotherapy. But that’s not the point. Deep tissue massages aren’t hot, whereas light, skimming sorts of massages are.
So I pretend not to notice how hard Colleen’s nipples are. I pretend I’m being a professional, and that it’s completely normal for a pro masseur to touch a female client’s chest area in a way that’s so feather-light as to be useless — although sometimes my bolder clients tell me to “get that area a little better, Marco” pretending they’ve rich-ladied themselves into tweaked muscles. That’s my cue to paw them a bit, and grab a handful.
There’s a fine line between pretending fat can be massaged by manhandling, and doing something overtly sexual. It’s my job to walk that line. Pinching nipples is too much, but I always make sure to brush them plenty.
Colleen breathes deeply. Her hands are both under the sheets — and although I might be imagining things, I’m pretty sure she’s trying to decide if she can move one of those hands between her legs without me noticing. Her eyes are closed, her head tipped a bit sideways. I’m positive that if I were to unzip, she’d open her mouth and blow me while I worked.
She turns over without me asking. Her hands stay at her sides, but I do sort of wonder if she’s planning to grind against the table. I’ve had that happen before, and when I told Booth he said, “I guess that means you’re doing your job.”
Well, fuck Booth. Fuck him as much as these rich bitches. The whole thing is embarrassing to all of us. I know they request me because they like me, and I’m ordered to play right into it. Thomas did this whole “private cabana massage” setup around the pool so he could give the Indigo a “tropical vibe.” Men are served by pool waitresses in bikinis with orchids in their hair. And of course, as part of the vibe, masseurs work shirtless.
Among my instructions (unwritten, though they might as well be in stone):
Make the guests happy.
Make the female guests VERY happy … wink-wink.
(But not too much wink-wink.)
If you go to the gym, do so before starting work, not after. That way your muscles get a pump and you look bigger while you’re with a client.
(Never mind that massage is a workout of its own, and I’m always so much more drained this way.)
Work shirtless.
And my favorite:
Spritz yourself with a bit of massage oil before starting
.
I used to be a professional. I worked with athletes — professionals themselves, who needed to be at peak performance. That was more medical than relaxing. I’ve made football players cry from pain, while also making them better.
What I do now is more about
rubbing
than anything truly therapeutic. Enya plays from speakers in the corner of my cabana, counterpointed by music from the poolside waterfall. Kids aren’t allowed here. It’s very quiet.
Each day I pretend I’m doing something valuable — and the pay is certainly better — but my illusion of worth crumbles a bit when I strip off my shirt to work, then spritz myself and rub the oil around. Some of my friends say men can’t be whores, that rubbing naked women down is a fantasy job. But I can’t shake the knowledge that these women pay for what I do —
exorbitantly
— or the odd feeling I get knowing that I’m the resort favorite.
The guests usually disrobe without asking me to leave. Their eyes linger on my large arms. Sometimes one will “accidentally” brush her hand across my abs as she’s getting situated on the massage table.
They all leave happy. Some leave barely able to walk — those are the biggest tippers, and the ones who keep paying Hotel Indigo more and more with every fresh visit.
“I’ve had some pain in my sciatic area, Marco.” Colleen sort of wiggles her ass to show where she means. “Could you see if you can loosen it up?”
“Of course.”
My hands move down. Colleen didn’t bother to pull the sheet back up after turning, so her ass is right there for easy access. She has her legs spread just a little — enough that I can see her pussy from behind. It’s flushed pink, and she’s got her hips tipped back so her ass tilts up, ostensibly to provide me access to her “sciatic area.” Arranged as she is, she’s not all that different from a dog I used to have; we didn’t have Tino fixed in time, so she kept going into heat and giving neighborhood males the same basic posture Colleen’s giving me now.
Because Booth says I need to keep them engaged, I ask Colleen if what I’m doing feels good. But what I’m really thinking is,
Fuck you and all the bitches like you. Fuck you for thinking I’m here to finger-fuck you, which is actually something my boss would agree with. Fuck you for thinking I’m for sale … because of course, I absolutely am.
“You’re from Italy?” she asks.
“How did you know that?”
“Your name, for one.” She says it, as if I might need a reminder:
“‘Marco Mangano.’”
It comes through her lips like a song. “But your accent, too.”