I followed her up the stairs – again enjoying the view. Once inside her place, she asked if I would really like a massage? I’ve had many massage t...er****t, but none as attractive as her. I asked her fee, and how long that would be for. One hour in her hands might be worth every cent. She set up a portable massage table, asked if I preferred a sheet, or no sheet? I asked if her clients wore a robe, shorts or nothing? Under the sheet, nothing. Without the sheet, loose shorts or nothing. Well. She was a lovely young widow with nothing but her beauty. But that, of course, was worth a lot to the right people.She had married Michael Sanderson, only son of Jefferson Samuelson the now-disgraced entrepreneur, about a year ago when she was seventeen and he was twenty-four. He and his handsome lover had drowned together while swimming into a riptide and a mass of nettles off the family's Chesapeake Bay island. Their bodies were never found.She became her father-in-law's mistress, one of. More

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