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Meteorite
- Joined
- Jan 12, 2016
For André Williams, the rise to masseur to the stars had been anything but meteoric. Born in Lagos to an American father and a Nigerian mother, he spent his youth on the rough streets of a New York suburb before moving to L.A. in his early twenties. It was there that he trained as a masseur, and there—after almost a decade of service to a quaint but popular massage parlour—that he started his own private service. At the age of thirty-nine he had welcomed his first celebrity client, and over the following year his continued diligence finally began to pay off in a big way.
Even at forty years of age and with a growing list of wealthy clients, life was not completely rosy for the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned New Yorker. A series of failed relationships had left him with a sour taste in his mouth, though his aversion to committed relationships did nothing to alleviate an active libido. His resultant frustration at times left him tempted to risk his own job in pursuit of attractive clients, but for the most part he remained strong. Only once had he gambled and lost, and on that day he thanked his lucky stars that nothing serious came of it.
Still he found himself plagued by libidinous desires, however, and in an attempt to adopt a more subtle approach he began to toy with specially scented candles. At length he began to craft his own, and to imbue them with pheromones designed to inspire arousal in select clients. It was very much a case of trial and error, but his efforts were not to be in vain. After months and months of experimentation he felt confident that he had perfected the technique, and when pop star and actress Demi Lovato called to avail of his services, he knew it was time to put his most recent line of candles to the test.
She arrived at his private parlour late on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-January. It was a balmy day considering the time of year, with cloud cover providing some insulation for the sun’s rays. André wore his usual navy masseur’s outfit: light, loose-fitting cotton pants and a matching shirt with a high, flat collar. His face was clean-shaven, as was his head, and his broad chest hulked beneath the light clothing. The parlour itself—located next to the main bedroom in his spacious apartment—was neat and pleasantly scented, and showed no signs of the day’s previous clients. The urgent bzz! of the intercom broke the silence in his apartment, and with the depression of a button on the intercom unit he admitted Demi to the building. A minute later she was at his door.
“Ms. Lovato,” André smiled, opening the door on his broad, muscular frame. “Welcome. Come on in.”
Even at forty years of age and with a growing list of wealthy clients, life was not completely rosy for the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned New Yorker. A series of failed relationships had left him with a sour taste in his mouth, though his aversion to committed relationships did nothing to alleviate an active libido. His resultant frustration at times left him tempted to risk his own job in pursuit of attractive clients, but for the most part he remained strong. Only once had he gambled and lost, and on that day he thanked his lucky stars that nothing serious came of it.
Still he found himself plagued by libidinous desires, however, and in an attempt to adopt a more subtle approach he began to toy with specially scented candles. At length he began to craft his own, and to imbue them with pheromones designed to inspire arousal in select clients. It was very much a case of trial and error, but his efforts were not to be in vain. After months and months of experimentation he felt confident that he had perfected the technique, and when pop star and actress Demi Lovato called to avail of his services, he knew it was time to put his most recent line of candles to the test.
She arrived at his private parlour late on a Tuesday afternoon in mid-January. It was a balmy day considering the time of year, with cloud cover providing some insulation for the sun’s rays. André wore his usual navy masseur’s outfit: light, loose-fitting cotton pants and a matching shirt with a high, flat collar. His face was clean-shaven, as was his head, and his broad chest hulked beneath the light clothing. The parlour itself—located next to the main bedroom in his spacious apartment—was neat and pleasantly scented, and showed no signs of the day’s previous clients. The urgent bzz! of the intercom broke the silence in his apartment, and with the depression of a button on the intercom unit he admitted Demi to the building. A minute later she was at his door.
“Ms. Lovato,” André smiled, opening the door on his broad, muscular frame. “Welcome. Come on in.”
