Athena's Story Ch 10

It’s a soft spot in Sal’s ego that good fortune has obviously played a role in her climbing the social ladder. She understands the concept of obscene wealth, but seeing it up close gives it a new character. It’s also a reminder of how cosmically far from the top she is, not that she has any interest in the top.

But Irina Orlova is Russian, and this is Scotland. It’s unlikely that she owns this mansion in the highlands. It was mentioned earlier that she’s rarely in this part of Europe and never for long. Sal has to wrap her head around the idea of renting what amounts to a lavish palace with grounds and everything as though it’s a common Airbnb. She also has to wrap her head around this weather: it was warm this afternoon, but now it’s chilly.

The place is full of servants, who Irina and her entourage do not appear to even see or notice. Irina’s companions are her daughter, Sasha, and an executive for a perfume company named Cosette. Sasha is a modestly successful model, and there must be some nepotism in play. She’s pretty, but nothing special. Cosette works for the company responsible for several bottles on Athena’s shelf of fragrances. Cosette outshines Irina and her daughter, although Sal would have to spend some time figuring out how to put into words what makes her so magnetic. It’s something in her eyes.

The mansion has a huge dining room with a vast table, but they eat instead in a smaller one with ornate windows and a view of the moors.

Sasha seems vaguely curious about FUTA projects; Cosette is an enigma, and Irina is all business—until she isn’t.

“You said your wife was involved with a sorority in Florida. Was it CCL?” Irina asks.

“Um, yeah. That’s right,” Sal replies. So far, this hasn’t been too difficult. Annette and Dulcita predicted that Irina would be looking for access and influence, and they were right. “You’ve heard of it?”

“As a Russian, I admire people who accept personal risk in order to live authentically,” Irina says.

Sal isn’t sure she understands, so she keeps her expression open, silently encouraging Irina to go on.

“You mentioned that your wife lost her job. Is she looking for a new one?” Cosette asks quietly.

Sal realizes with a start that they’re offering her favors. Annette warned there was nothing Irina wouldn’t do to get Sal into her camp. Does this mean that she could potentially get Athena a really good gig at the perfume company?

Sal laughs to cover her sudden nerves. “Well, um, she’s thinking about her next move. But she’s not actually looking. She actually took up pickleball.”

The three women look blank.

“It’s a bit like tennis. She’s probably playing right now,” Sal says.

ATHENA

Athena has gotten massages before without getting turned on. Maybe it’s because Sal hasn’t been around, but logically, it hasn’t been that long since she felt the touch of a woman.

This place is upscale, with cool, postmodern Asian décor, actual candles, and a level of quiet that makes it seem worth the money. Scented oils heighten everything, and it feels like the scents are actually touching Athena’s nude body.

It’s not Sal, and it’s not the woman who’s actually touching her that has her so spun up; it’s the company. She didn’t realize that they would all be in a room together.

Athena is an adult, and she’s not like Sal, who will drool over any girl just because she’s pretty. She was able to hang out with the pickleball crew up to this point without even the slightest hint of awkwardness.

But now they’re all naked and covered in oil. The dim light limits what one can see, but that only makes it worse because it’s incredibly flattering. Athena’s not about to rubberneck, but Mary’s on the table next to her, where her face is pointed, and Athena is hypnotized by watching the delicate hands of the masseuse working Mary’s shining flesh. Somehow, knowing that Blair is just a few feet away makes it much more complicated. It’s not until now that it occurs to Athena that Blair is a younger woman in great physical shape who has strong beliefs and has clearly had a difficult life. In other words, she’d have been irresistible to Athena in her college days.

Athena is soaking wet long before the masseuse even goes near anything naughty. When she does, Athena has to work hard to maintain a semblance of dignity.

Some of the others sigh and even moan as every inch of them is caressed and kneaded.

Fingertips apply pressure, running down the curve of Athena’s back. Her buttocks are squeezed and pulled apart slightly as the masseuse works the flesh. Things throb in Athena’s core, not just because of the touching, but because this is happening in a room where Tracy is.

When it’s time to turn over, she can’t even look at the ceiling. Eyes firmly shut, sounds tickle her ears, and it’s been a long time since her nipples have been this sensitive.

Off to her right, Nadia takes a shuddering breath, and Athena has an intrusive image of fingers thrusting between tanned, oiled thighs. But there’s no thrusting going on anywhere. Just slow, tender, relentless rubbing. There is no room for fantasy when it’s happening to her. The masseuse is so clinical about it, which means there’s such a contrast with Athena’s need to thrash, scream, and lift her hips to meet her touch.

She cums with a single sharp breath out through her nose, and her legs shake like jelly. The orgasm is big and hits hard, but that pleasure is nothing compared to the next ten minutes, as the masseuse continues to stroke as she comes down.

ATHENA

Dinner and dessert are over. Sal has had several glasses of wine.

Talking about pickleball has led to talk about tennis, circling to a less businesslike discussion of tennis fashion and what is most flattering. The chairs have been moved, and all of them are clustered on one side of the table, with Sal and Sasha in the middle, phones in hand, looking at photos of models and athletes and debating who wore it best.

“Holy smokes,” Sal mutters. “It’s late. I’d better call my ride.”

Irina’s hand rests on her back. “For this trip, I purchased a bottle of Macallan from 1927.”

Sal blinks; that seems like a non sequitur. She doesn’t want to know what that must have cost. “You know that Scotch is gross, right?”

“We were curious,” Cosette says, and Sal has the sudden feeling that she’s missed something. “We can make a fire. Try it.”

“You are welcome to stay,” Irina says.

Sal understands with a surge of adrenaline that she hasn’t felt since college. It’s been a long time since she’s felt the euphoric rush of this sort of realization. These women want to party. They look expectant. Sal doesn’t know if it’s the naughtiness or the juvenile fantasy aspect of it, but her willpower buckles in a way that it never has before.

Should Sal accept the offer to try the whiskey? Or excuse herself?

[ This has to be a comment vote for administrative prize-related reasons. ]