The rays of the setting sun bounce like cupid’s arrows off the elegant sign, staining it a burnished gold.
Dusk. The magic hour.
His hand quivers, as he presses the discreet doorbell. Two sets of gates, like Venus fly traps, open and swallow him, guiding his trusty German steed into a spacious parking stable (spacious enough for a politician’s motorcade of 40).
Twinkling lights, gentle lapping of the turquoise pool, manicured lawns.
The reception door winks coquettishly.
Music, feminine laughter, clicking of stilettos, tinkling of glasses.
A brass bell rings. Smiling and flirtatious introductions. Sexy cleavage, mini skirts. So many women… So little time…
He is given a tour. Lounge with leather couches. Fireplace. Intimate ambiance.
He sinks into a comfortable wingback chair. Complimentary hand massage. Refreshing drink.
His stressful day now a distant memory.
A soft, sensuous hand touches his shoulder. Whispering Ruby lips,
He follows the pair of sculpted ankles.
At the end of a passage, an open door beckons. Soft music. The cool breeze of the fan. The room is bathed in a rosy light, filled with a subtle fragrance.
In the large mirror he can see a pair of hands loosening his tie.
She dries him off with a soft, fresh towel.
He lies down on the extra wide massage bed. Closes his eyes.