The Scent of Success [darkest_fate & SpectrumVision]

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.”

"Ugh, finally," Demi said as the door unlocked. The actress usually had a bit more patience when it came to this sort of thing. You had to learn to wait around a bit if you were going to be in show business in any capacity. But Demi's day up until this point had been stressful. She should've known better than to tackle the "pervy letters" section of her fanmail today. The initial thought was that if she got all worked up she could just get it massaged out. But that had been before over an hour and a half of reading lewd comments about pretty much every portion of Demi's body.

The actress frowned as she remembered this, heading toward the door. She'd been getting stuff like this since she'd really came out in show business, all the way back in her Disney days. Like most Disney raised starlets, she'd learned to sell sexy without being overtly sexy, which she got less comfortable with as the years went by. Probably part of the reason she'd had body image troubles and did some spiraling out of control for a while there. Now she was totally in control of her body, very body positive, and she'd been doing cool things. Got one of the songs of the summer under her belt (which had always done wonders to promote her LGBT agenda, as did the subtle suggestions that Demi herself might be at least bisexual [which had gotten some weird emails from Selena and at least one congrats from Miley. At least Demi didn't have Miley's proclivities: that girl would bang anything that moved and then some]). Now Demi simply loved her body, even if it did have some truly gnarly curves. Her hips flared out almost cartoonishly, with a plump rear that definitely earned attention from the ethnicities that were into that sort of thing. Demi's recent all natural shoot had further proved that yes, that was her natural body and shape. She knew she didn't look perfect: nobody would ever see her as not having that shape, but she was proud of how she looked.

Of course, the lewd messages really didn't help. About half had to deal with slapping her ass or even outright fucking it. The latter had seemed especially weird to Demi, as she'd never thought of that as really something normal people did. Once, a few years back, she'd experimented with poking her fingers around back there. It had actually felt pretty good, but she'd been too nervous to do more than sort of poke around. Several of the messages definitely pushed beyond that... and then some. Just thinking about it made Demi get a little hotter under the collar.

"All behind you: You're getting a massage with someone who comes totally recommended, and he's gonna make you feel great," she told herself, giving her head a shake. She ran a few fingers across her feather black hair before nodding. The girl had opted for just a simple loose cropped t-shirt, one that showed a bit of neckline and a flash of her abdomen. A slight peak of her "you make me beautiful" tattoo, complete with feathers, could be seen, mostly just the tips of the feathers. She wore a pair of loose, dark gray cotton pants beneath, which didn't really hide her ass well at all. Not like it mattered: if he really wanted a peak he'd just have to Google. Plus, she'd probably be chucking down to the swimsuit underneath soon anyway.

"Hey!" she said as the masseur greeted her. "Sorry if I'm late. I got wrapped up in some projects and then traffic was a pain," she rolled her eyes and stepped inside, looking around and getting a lay of the land. "Do you have somewhere I can, like, store my stuff? I really don't want to have my phone buzzing at me or to worry about me keys or whatever..." she trailed off before turning to look at him. "oh god! I'm being super rude. I'm so sorry, it's just been," she rolled her eyes, "you would not believe..."

"Don't worry about it," André assured the star, smiling warmly. Despite his American upbringing, his voice still retained much of the deep, chocolaty warmth of his African heritage, and that warmth lent itself easily to his smile. He listened to her as she continued, and gave a soft, warm laugh when she checked herself.

"It's fine, really. You can leave your belongings right here," he told her, gesturing towards the living room. Two large couches sat at right angles about a glass coffee table, one facing a large flatscreen television suspended on the wall, the other facing a large window that looked out over the city. Opposite the television and beyond the couch lay a medium-sized kitchen complete with immaculate faux-marble countertops, and around the corner from the television the hall stretched down towards the bedroom, bathroom, and massage room. If cleanliness were truly next to Godliness, then Andre's apartment may well have been a slice of heaven.

"As for whatever's been getting under your skin today, don't worry about that either. I'm sure you'll find all of your worries will melt away once we get started. But first, how about a formal introduction? I'm André. It's a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lovato."

André smiled again and extended one large, strong hand towards her. Only after they had been properly introduced—and after Demi had found a place to leave her belongings—did the dark-skinned masseur gesture towards the hallway and invite her to enter his massage room. Therein she found a firm, sturdy massage table that could be raised or lowered at the user's discretion, its facehole already adorned with a perforated sheet of tissue paper that could be torn down the centre. The blinds were closed to keep out the brightness of the sun, and the light overhead was dimly lit. Candles adorned one of the twin tables that flanked the rooms' walls, and two fresh, white towels sat upon the other.

"Please, make yourself comfortable, and call me when you're ready," André told her, standing by the door with one hand extended towards the room.

"Thanks, but you're really being too nice," Demi insisted, before pausing. "Hey, I don't, like, wanna be racist or anything, but do you have a bit of an accent? I took this trip to Africa last year, and I swear you kinda sound like---oh gah, that does sound totally racist," Demi waved a hand before facepalming, instead just focusing on the apartment around her. "Wow, this is really clean," she said, not sure if that was a smooth transition or not. Hopefully there wasn't anything in her voice that would betray too much surprise or be taken the wrong way. It was hard to say what exactly Demi was, considering how many different ethnicities made up her genetics, but she knew better than to get too un-PC.

At least Andre seemed happy to deal with the stress. The formal introduction nearly had Demi giggling. She did laugh a bit, taking the hand with her own and giving it a few pumps. "Pleasure to meet you, Andre," as if she didn't already know his name. He gestured toward the spot to place her belongings and Demi followed suit, getting her phone and keys in position. Then it was a matter of heading into the private room.

It did feel a bit weird to be heading to someone's apartment for a massage. Then again, privacy was always important, and everyone who'd recommended Andre to Demi had raved about him, so she supposed she could deal with it. Plus, his apartment looked really nice, probably cleaner than some resorts and spas she'd been to and all. She simply headed into the room, noting the dim lighting and the candles. The starlet paused to take a slight sniff, swearing she could smell something pleasant just hovering in the air.

There were the towels, and Andre was insisting that she get ready. Demi nodded, walking over to where the white fluffy cloths lay. She pulled her shirt over her head first, letting it fluff her short dark hair again. She'd opted for a bikini top: black, and more utilitarian than sexy. It did still cup her rather impressive bust well enough. The girl technically only had "B's," but they looked like they were more than a handful. The almost extreme curves might've had something to do with it. Said curves gyrated as Demi worked the pants down, nearly sticking her bikini clad bottom in Andre's direction. The bikinis were tied to the side, but were otherwise as utilitarian as the top.

Demi gave her hair another fluff before wrapping the towels around her chest and ass. Then she scooted over, getting situated on the table left for her, sliding into position. "Alright, I'm good to go!" she called out, twisting slightly to smile at Andre, hoping that she didn't look too eager.

André allowed himself only the briefest of glances before closing the door over behind her, catching her beginning to remove her top. After that she disappeared from view behind the door, and the masseur was left to shake his head in amusement at her concern over being racist. He'd nearly laughed at that, had smiled, and had confirmed that he had in fact been born in Nigeria, but that he was—for all intents and purposes—American. He was mildly surprised that a girl of such a mixed background as Demi could so easily get caught up in being PC, but quickly realised that he should not have been surprised. PC culture was booming, and Demi was both a young person, and a person in the spotlight. It would not do her any good to get caught up in any scandals. She was also a woman, he mused, and PC culture seemed to be almost inextricably linked to feminism nowadays. No, he really should not have been surprised.

Her call interrupted his thoughts, and pushing the door open again he calmly stepped into the room and let his eyes run languidly over her curvaceous figure. She really did have a fantastic pair of hips, and that ass... Not yet, he warned himself, stepping past the table to light one of his special candles. He didn't know how long it would take to produce an effect—or if it would produce the level of effect he desired—but he had made sure to keep the rest of the day free, just in case. Time was on his side, assuming Demi didn't have anywhere else to be.

"Are you comfortable?" he asked, clicking open the plastic cap of a bottle of massage oil. As the candle began to exude its pleasant, pheromone-imbued scent into the air, André spread some oil between his large, strong hands, and again allowed his eyes to wander over Demi's back and posterior once more. Already he was anticipating the moment when he could slide that towel away from her torso, and drink in as much of her flesh as there was to offer. As for the towel that lay across her backside, only vaguely outlining her hips and ass... he would find a way to remove that too. Cocking his head to one side, he wondered what he might find beneath that towel. Bare calves and feet stuck out from beneath it, but he presumed it would be optimistic to hope that she had removed her underwear too.

"I'm just going to remove this towel," he told her calmly, resting a hand upon her back to indicate which towel, and after a brief pause he peeled it away to reveal the straps of her bikini. Hmmph. That would have to go.

"Have you been having any particular pains or problems?" he then asked, gently pressing his hands against the small of her back and sliding them firmly up towards her bikini strap.

Andre came back, and Demi swore she could catch his eyes peeping a bit. She didn't particularly mind: it was almost a compliment, really. He had to have seen a lot of girls naked, and if he thought Demi was worth peeping at then he must think her pretty hot. Right after he lit the candle Demi took a deep breath, wanting to inhale the scent. She ended up tilting her head to the side, brow furrowing as she tried to place it. There was some kinda spice there; she could pick up on that, she thought. And there was almost a... musky smell? It did remind her vaguely of Africa, but her brain might be stuck there after her earlier blunder.

Andre's question jerked Demi out of her confusion for a moment. "oh, yeah, totally," she said, letting out a laugh before reaching up to brush back some hair. "I was a little nervous, since, like, this is in your place and all, but you've got a really cool setup here," she let out another laugh and rolled her eyes. "You're just missing a waterfall or something," another nervous laugh, another brush of that feathery hair.

Then he asked to remove the towel, and Demi hesitated for a moment. Apparently hesitation meant yes... but then again, he hadn't really been asking. Plus, he probably did have to get the stuff on her back and all. And there was that bikini. So Demi just forced herself to relax, shifting slightly. She could feel her body swaying slightly and paused, also considering as he started working her back. She let out a slight groan at that, eyelids fluttering for a moment.

Right, the question: "Uh, my lower back always feels pretty tense," she admitted, biting her lip for a moment. Some of her past masseurs had joked that it was because of her hips and all, which had made the previously more self-conscious Demi feel a little embarrassed. But she was definitely past that now. "I know some girls get, like, stress in their upper back, but I've never really had that. Shoulders and lower back all the way," and technically her thighs, but she didn't really feel comfortable letting someone she barely knew work those, and they weren't nearly as bad as the other two areas anyway.