La Suite (10 page)

“I don’t even
know where you are.” Gaëlle said, flustered by the change in the
man’s tone. She’d been prepared to make her case, but was now at a
loss as to how to continue. He gave her directions, which she
scribbled down.

“Got it?” the
man called Jo Brusque asked. “Until tomorrow at five, then.” The
phone went dead. Gaëlle sat back, slightly puzzled. It was almost
as if the man had been expecting her, as soon as she’d mentioned
who she was.

Gaëlle took a
bus out to the suburb where the masseur lived. It wasn’t a part of
the city where she’d feel comfortable leaving her car on the street
for any length of time. The block of apartments was typical of the
nineteen-sixties, all function and little grace. She made her way
over abandoned bicycles and the occasional dustbin to the third
floor, then paused. She was early.

There was a
note on the door of Jo Brusque’s apartment. Gaëlle read—

If I’m
expecting you for a massage, come in, sit down and wait. If not,
piss off.

The man was as
blunt as his name. She pushed the door half-open and peered past
it. A small hallway led into a kitchen, where she could see a
single chair beside the table. She went in, sat down and waited. It
was quiet, apart from the muffled sounds of life going on in other
apartments.

Five minutes
passed. The chair was hard, and she was about to stand up and
stretch her legs when she heard a man’s voice raised in anguish,
“Jesus, Jo,” the sufferer wailed. “Do you have to be quite so
brutal? Shit, shit, shit, Jo, give me a moment. That hurts!”

Gaëlle sat down
again with a bump. She found herself swallowing hard, wondering
whether this was such a good idea after all. The next half-hour was
punctuated by cries of woe from the massagee in the room next door.
She considered tapping on the door and saying that she’d been
called away urgently, but then dismissed such an act of cowardice
as beneath her. Then, the door opened and the victim emerged.
Gaëlle found it hard to reconcile the colossus who came out with
the pathetic whimpering she had been hearing. She recognised the
man. He was something of a local celebrity, a professional rugby
player whose huge frame almost filled the doorway. She also
recognised the expression on his face. He looked exactly as Jérôme
had when he returned from Jo’s massage table, shattered, but also
relieved. He nodded to her and staggered out into the stairwell,
leaving Gaëlle alone again. A few moments later, a face appeared
round the door.

“You must be
Jérôme’s Gaëlle. Jo Brusque. Come in.”

The grey-haired
man addressing Gaëlle was well into his sixties, she knew. He was
small and wiry. Gaëlle shook his hand, noting in passing the
missing little finger that Jérôme had told her about. It made the
man’s right hand look incongruously delicate against his muscled
forearms. He was wearing a tee-shirt and training trousers and his
feet were bare. Gaëlle went into an ordinary living-room, where the
everyday furniture had been pushed to the walls to make room for
the massage table. As she entered, she became aware that one of the
armchairs was occupied, and swung round to see by whom.

“This is my
wife, Madeleine,” Jo said, introducing the woman to Gaëlle, who
guessed she was also there to act as watchdog. She must have been
in her fifties, a very tall, distinguished and fit-looking woman
with short greying hair, wearing a denim skirt and a blouse. The
two women shook hands, then Madeleine went back to sit in her
armchair in the corner of the room.

“Do I have to
undress totally?” Gaëlle asked.

“No, that isn’t
necessary. Keep your bra and knickers on.” Madeleine said.

“I’m not
wearing a bra.”

“Just your
knickers, then,” Madeleine said, with a shrug.

Stripped to her
white cotton knickers, Gaëlle lay down on her front on the massage
table. Jo spread towels over her, leaving her only her lower legs
exposed. He rubbed oil on Gaëlle’s feet and calves, and began a
gentle massage that very quickly became much stronger.

“Ouf!” Gaëlle
said, as Jo dug deep into the soles of her feet. “That hurts!”

“I can tell
you’ve never had a proper sports massage before,” he said. “There
are some very interesting knots in here. Aren’t you grateful that
I’m one finger short? Imagine how it would hurt if I had a full
hand.”

“The other nine
are quite enough for me, thank you,” Gaëlle said. “What happened to
your hand, if you don’t mind me asking?

“I was working
in a circus. I was practising juggling, showing off and using real
knives for once, and there was a sudden gust of wind. I had six
knives in the air. I caught five of them. The sixth caught me. So I
left the circus and became a masseur.”

“The truth,”
Madeleine interrupted, “is that his hand got caught in some farm
machinery when he was a toddler. He changes the story every time he
tells it.” She stuck her tongue out at her husband, who grinned in
response.

Over the next
thirty minutes, Gaëlle came to sympathise with the suffering of her
predecessor on the massage table. Her groans were frequent and
heartfelt as Jo’s steely fingers kneaded her calves and hamstrings
into submission and into alignment. He moved to her back and worked
his way up her spine to her neck.

“This is where
I have to ask a question,” he said, as he finished manipulating
Gaëlle’s head into what seemed to her to be impossible
positions.

“Yes?”

“If you want me
to work on the rest of you, I’ll do it, but it’s at your own risk.
I don’t usually do ladies, so if I hurt you, that’s too bad. Is
that all right?”

“I came for a
full-body massage,” Gaëlle said. “I won’t complain, so long as
whatever you do to me is as deep as you can go. Ignore me if I make
noises.”

“Very well,
then. I’ll do your gluteals first.”

“I’d rather not
get oil on my knickers,” Gaëlle said, looking across at Madeleine.
“Is it all right if I take them off?”

“Of course it
is,” the other woman replied. “While you’re on that table, you’re
just another body.” While Jo was occupied in oiling up his hands
again, Gaëlle slipped her knickers down and off, then lay down
again on her front. The subsequent minutes were both painful and
invigorating, as Jo worked her buttocks. He discovered
deeply-buried remnants of old small muscle tears, he told her as he
broke them down. By the time he had finished, Gaëlle’s bottom was
glowing pink and pleasantly warm. She was feeling more and more at
ease, and her body was telling her that it was quite prepared to be
turned on.

“Turn over on
to your back, now.” Jo ordered her.

Gaëlle turned
over. As she did so, she glanced down her body, contemplating the
dark-blonde curls of her pubic hair. She had let it grow, since
she’d been alone.
How would she look if she shaved it all off
again?
Would she like the effect?
It wasn’t the first
time in recent weeks that the question had crossed her mind, the
result of her meeting Gabi, perhaps? The idea heated her up and
made her slightly damp. Jo, unaware of Gaëlle’s thoughts, draped
the towel over her from the waist down and began to massage her
neck from the front, then gradually worked down to her pectorals,
which demanded that he touch her breasts. Her nipples hardened and
rose. Jo didn’t seem to notice, but continued on down, digging deep
into the major muscle groups of her sides and abdomen. The towel
was moved up to cover her torso and Jo began to massage the front
of Gaëlle’s thighs, oblivious of how close to her sex he was
working.

“Your adductors
are very stiff,” he told her. “Do you want me to deal with them?”
To do that would mean his hands would be right up in Gaëlle’s
groin. She grunted her consent. Jo bent her right leg and began to
work his fingers in behind the adductors.

“Tight,” he
grunted, as he stretched the offending muscle. “Especially at the
insertion, just…here,” he said, his thumb pressing down, almost
touching Gaëlle’s labia. She held her breath, half-hoping that he
would touch her sex. She was turned on now, there was no avoiding
that fact. Jo seemed unconscious of just how intimately he was
massaging her, all his concentration focused on lessening the
tension in the muscle. He lowered Gaëlle’s right leg and went to
work on the left one. Inadvertently, the back of his hand brushed
across her labia and she couldn’t restrain a whimper.

Madeleine’s
voice broke in. “Do you know what a yoni massage is?”

“No idea,”
Gaëlle murmured. “But if you think it would do me good, go
ahead.”

“I think it
would be beneficial for you. It can be quite an emotional
experience, though.” Jo said.

“Anything, as
long as you think it will do me good,” Gaëlle repeated.

Jo continued
working on Gaëlle’s adductors while Madeleine drew the curtains.
She lit several candles. An oriental perfume drifted across the
room, which felt suddenly more intimate and cocoon-like. A pillow,
wrapped in several thicknesses of towelling was positioned under
Gaëlle’s hips. Jo arranged her with knees apart and soles of feet
together, then tucked another folded towel between her legs. He
spent a long time working what seemed to be unrelated points all
over Gaëlle’s body, some on her neck, her shoulders, breasts and
abdomen. He spent an age kneading her breasts. Gaëlle looked down
at one point and was astonished how her nipples appeared. Jo seemed
to have a gift for drawing them out. Even at her most excited,
Gaëlle had never seen them so long. She lay back and let the
pleasure continue.

“I’ve no idea
what you’re doing, but it’s making me all floppy,” she mumbled. She
didn’t disclose the erotic haze that was drifting across her entire
being.

“That’s how
it’s supposed to be,” Madeleine said. “It makes you ready for the
next phase.” She had pulled an upright chair close to the massage
bed and was sitting beside Gaëlle’s head.

“The Yoni
massage means that I’m going to be massaging inside your vagina.”
Jo said, as he poured a thin stream of oil over her belly and outer
labia.

“Oh? Really?
Mmm…that’s fine,” Gaëlle murmured, too relaxed to be shocked. Jo
massaged around her outer labia first, working them gently between
finger and thumb. Gaëlle could feel them swelling and becoming
engorged. He parted her puffy outer lips and repeated his massage
on the inner labia, pulling on them delicately and also stroking
her clitoris. Gaëlle moaned again.

She felt him
probe inside her, using a single finger. Then she felt herself
being gently stretched. It felt good. Curious to see exactly what
was happening to her, Gaëlle raised her head and glanced down the
length of her body. She gasped. Jo’s missing little finger had made
it possible for him to slide his entire hand inside her vagina. She
tensed up.

“Relax,”
Madeleine said, stroking her shoulders. “I know you’re thinking you
can’t take it and you’re worried maybe that this isn’t normal, but
don’t be afraid. Your body is ready to accept it.”

Gaëlle used all
her experience of yoga to loosen her muscles and breathe deeply.
Now, Jo was hooking his fingers up inside her, searching for
something. She knew he’d found it when a burst of pleasure spread
through her vagina and clitoris. She grunted.

“That’s your G
spot,” Jo informed her. “I’m about to be fairly vigorous.
Ready?”

“Yes.”

For over a
minute, his fingers worked hard on the sensitive area inside her.
Gaëlle was very conscious of indecorous slurping sounds coming from
her dripping and oily vagina. She felt an orgasm building, and was
unable to prevent herself from tensing up. Jo noticed, and
stopped.

“Not yet,” he
said. “In its own time. When the first release comes, it’s going to
be very powerful, so don’t fight it.”

Gaëlle couldn’t
help noticing that he looked at Madeleine as he spoke. She was
about to ask why, when Jo went back to the internal massage. This
time it lasted several minutes, before he judged his pause to
perfection, an instant before Gaëlle felt she would explode.

“Please,” she
begged. “Don’t stop. Do it. Let me come.”

“In a
moment.”

This time Jo
was relentless. His fingertips were working at the same place
inside her more and more strongly. Just as Gaëlle thought she was
going to faint, an almost unbearable rush of ecstasy engulfed her.
Her entire being was convulsing and shaking, even her arms and legs
waving manically. It wasn’t just a powerful orgasm, it took over
her whole body and mind. Through the euphoria, she was aware that
she was in floods of tears, and she thought she’d lost control over
her bladder. Now she understood why there was a thick wadding of
towel beneath her, as she was spurting profusely. In the midst of
it all, Madeleine was leaning over her, offering a soft, warm
breast and its nipple to Gaëlle’s mouth. Gaëlle suckled, for
comfort as much as for pleasure. She wept uncontrollably for what
seemed like an age, until her limbs drooped, the spasms inside her
vagina subsided and she was able to lie back and catch her breath.
Jo smiled at her as he mopped her face.

“There was so
much sorrow and loss in you, that was bound to happen,” he said.
“This type of massage isn’t just sexual, it releases very deep
emotions. You needed it,” Jo told her, as he cleared the soaked
towels and pillow from the massage bed and wiped it dry.

“I feel—How do
I feel?” Gaëlle said. “I’m relieved of something. I feel light, as
if I’ve lost a load of weight.”

“You have, but
it’s weight measured in emotion rather than kilos,” Madeleine said,
as she tucked her breasts back into her bra and buttoned her shirt.
“And what I did for you was part of the consoling that you needed,
too.”

“The next one
will be less draining and more pleasurable,” Jo said, picking up a
dry pillow.