Authors: Xavier Neal
Rub Me The Right Way
An erotic short story part 1
By Xavier Neal
©Xavier Neal 2015
Cover by Entertwine Publishing
Cover model: Clark Wiebe
Photographer: Paul Henry Serres
All rights reserved
Amazon Edition, License Note
Thank you for downloading this e-book. This book remains the copyrighted property of the author, and may not be redistributed to others for commercial or non-commercial purposes. If you enjoyed this book, please encourage your friends to download their own copy from their favorite authorized retailer. Thank you for your support.
All character, places, and descriptions come from the imagination of the author. All are fictional and any resemblance to real life persons or places is purely coincidental.
Dedication: To the Universe. May my dreams continue to drift onward.
I’m CEO of one of the largest erotic romance publishing companies yet I haven't gotten laid in eighteen months and counting. While this is not the true definition of irony, it feels close enough to call it.
As I push another printed photo out of my vision that I approve, I comment, “Love that one. Another gorgeous fresh face. Where'd he come from?”
My assistant Hope leans on my desk beside me. “Kayla.”
“That girl is good,” I compliment, pushing my chocolate brown hair that's a similar shade to my skin out of my face. “She sure knows how to spot them.”
“I couldn't agree more. Did you see the abs on him?”
“Obviously you did.” Continuing to search through the remaining proofs on my desk – all highly less impressive than the first one she showed me – I ask, “What's his name?”
“The one Kayla found.”
“Elijah,” Hope hums her answer, while collecting the proofs I am pushing in the
“I like him. I wanna see him at the company event.”
“Got it.” Hope, who looks like a baby doll with her round cheeks, long eyelashes, and bright blue eyes, takes out her cell phone to immediately make a note. She learned early on in her career it was the simplest way to remember all the crazy things that get thrown out during the day.
With only two in the approval pile, I look up sharply displeased. “Explain to me why I just looked through twenty five photos and only two are being passed on to the cover stage.” When Hope merely pushes her thin lips together and cradles the file containing the rejects, I drop down onto the corner of my desk and add, “Not an acceptable answer.”
Shyly she fidgets with her hair. “Would you like my opinion?”
“Isn't that what I just asked for?”
She rolls her eyes at me. “I think you like Kayla and her work and her choice because she shakes the industry. She's about change and forward movement. New things! The others are still dragging their feet with what's hot right
. They aren't concerned with where we are headed.”
She's right. This is why she's my right hand. Behind that adorable, innocent looking exterior, she's very bright. Very independent. Complements my own independence quite nicely – most days anyway.
I rub the back of my neck where the strain of the never-ending stress settles like it can't find a home anywhere else on my body. Under-touched pussy aside. There's plenty of ache there.
“You know what you need?”
“It's not even noon yet.”
“So, vodka and orange juice?”
On a heavy sigh, she shakes her head. “A massage.”
“For you to take the appointment I booked? Yes.”
Baffled, I stop rubbing my own shoulder and raise my eyebrows. “Wait. What?”
“Before you start with the speech of how you barely have time to brush your teeth in the morning–”
“This is gonna be good for you.”
“Like salad's good for me? I hate salad.”
“Boss, this is something you
. You're overworked, overstressed, and don't do many things to take care of yourself.”
“Vodka would disagree.”
Ignoring me, she pushes on, “I've arranged for you to get a massage three times a week for the next month. Monday, Wednesdays, and one day on the weekend. This week it's Friday.”
“Three times a week?” I shriek popping up. “What are you? Crazy? I don't even have time to shave my legs three times a week! Why do you think I get them waxed?”
Hope holds back a snicker. “Look, Ashtin, you're a great boss–”
“A great friend–”
“But you suck when it comes to taking care of yourself.”
Suck? Did she really say suck? “I–”
“Just try this for me. I have booked the appointments not to interfere with anything on the schedule. Lunch breaks and at what
be the end of the work day.”
I move my way around her towards the bookshelves, which are across from my desk by the door, trying to avoid eye contact. “You know the work day never ends.”
“You should work on that too,” Hope firmly says to me.
“There's always a crisis.”
“And most of them can wait.” She follows me over, the sound of her heels making me tense further. Yup. She adds to the stress. Like right now. “It's not up for debate. Your appointment is in an hour. I'll drive you to it, so you can finish your conference call scheduled with Thompson Millard. Afterward, I'll pick you up and you can take the call with Dani Green on our way to drinks with the Millhouse twins.”
“Fine,” I grumble rearranging items on the shelves.
“I’m taking these back down to marketing. I'll tell Kim to start making contacts.”
Turning my body, I fold my arms across my chest. “I want better. I expect better.”
I point to the coffee colored leather couch that's against the wall, which is where one of my favorite business jackets is draped. “And take that to the dry cleaners.”
Hope grabs the jacket and leaves my over-sized office, quietly shutting the door. Now feeling the new stress of having to have some random stranger rub their hands on me gripping my nerves harshly, I make my way back to my long, large mahogany desk where I know if I try hard enough, I can push the annoyance of my assistant trying to take care of me out of my head. I don't need her to take care of me. I don't need anyone to.
Le Mur, an exclusive spa, doesn't look like anything special from the outside. In fact, it doesn't even look like somewhere I should be. It has a subtle prison vibe to it with the no windows other than the glass front door. Is my assistant trying to tell me I belong behind bars? I know I'm not always the easiest to get along with, but damn.
At the check-in desk, I continue working on my phone even though I just promised Hope I would put it down for the duration of the session. Which I will. When it actually starts. This shit is like a warm up. The weird indie flute music proves this. No one would find that crap centering.
“Welcome to Le Mur,” the woman who looks like Snow White in khakis greets me warmly. “We hope you are prepared to have an experience like no other...”
Doing my best to hide my discomfort at the seductive way she said her sales pitch, I lift my eyebrows. “Okay...Appointment for Astin–”
“Anderson. I know. We have your picture here in the system.”
Creepy. So creepy. “Okay...what do you need from me then?”
“Nothing.” She smiles brightly. “Your assistant helped us get everything in the system from add-ons to billing preferences. You're good to go. Just go through the doors to your left. There will be someone waiting to take you to your room.”
“Perfect.” I look down at the email I was picking apart for grammatical errors. It looks bad when you run a company that publishes for a living and you make typos because your fingers hit the wrong keys in the car.
As my fingers help scroll the reply, Snow White, whose name tag I can't see speaks up, “Just one more thing, Ms. Anderson.”
My fingers find an error. “Hm?”
“You have to leave all belongings up front.”
Unsure I heard her correctly, I lower my phone. “I'm sorry, what?”
“Policy states, all purses, phones, and other personal items are to be locked in our designated cabinets.” She motions her hand the direction of a door with a guard waiting on the outside. “It is secure. It is protected by our security at all times both physically and digitally. There's also a designated password you create at registration that you can use to collect your items in case one of us isn't at the desk. ”
Shock still in my system I snap, “You expect me to leave my phone away from me that long?”
“I understand it will be difficult for you.” A harsh glare comes from me as she stands, prepared to take my items.
With another annoyed huff, I click off my phone, drop it into my leather bag, and hand it to her still highly annoyed. “I swear if a stick of gum is missing, I'm suing this entire facility.”
“Yes ma'am,” she politely responds. Not taking my threat the way I hoped she merely motions her hand the direction she's expecting me to go. “Enjoy your massage.”
That's less likely now with my mind running in circles over that email I could've easily finished while someone was trying to rub the kinks out of my neck. I march the direction I was instructed, surprised I have to wait until I'm buzzed in before I can actually enter the area. What are they heavily guarding? Why am I in the Ft. Knox of massage places?
On the other side of the door is a perky woman in an all white outfit with a clipboard.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Anderson. I'm Laura. I'll be taking you to your room as soon as you sign this nondisclosure agreement insuring any of the practices, environmental habits, or any activities you participate in will not be shared.” Practices? Like animal rituals? Activities? That sounds...bad. So bad. I'm firing Hope if this goes even a little weird. I scribble my name on the line and she smiles brightly. “This way.”
She swipes her key card to allow us access to the back area and out of the waiting area I just strolled through. I follow her down a long hallway that branches off several times, each way, staggering positions. At the very end of the hall, she takes me to the right and to a door that reads 2708.
Knowing damn well there aren't that many rooms in this building I point to the number before she opens the door. “What's that about?”
She opens the door and I enter inside alone.
“Klous will be right with you. I hope you enjoy your experience. I'll see you after your session.”
Politely I thank her before she shuts the door.
In the large room there are lit candles, giving off a crisp, clean smell, along with counters that are built into the wall with cabinets underneath them. I continue to look around the dimly lit area that has no clock from what I can see. Slightly nervous at the sight of what looks more like a bed than a table in the middle of the room, I stare at it strangely. I swear it's calling my name for me to climb on it.
“Miss Anderson?” A male voice forces me to whip around.
Dumbfounded by the hunk of a man standing in front of me, I let my jaw hit the floor. Someway, somehow, a six foot four blond giant, ripped like a slightly thinner Incredible Hulk, has entered the room wearing an all white outfit that matched Laura's. It hides nothing. Not a single muscle.
While I'm drooling over his large hands and frame he repeats, “Miss Anderson?”
Figuring I should probably respond this time I mutter, “Uh-huh.”