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AVP, Part One
by Tully

I

"In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not going to mince words with you.”
That is one of the best segue-setups I've ever heard spoken to me by a woman. Its original presentation was perfect, and Marla's vocabulary was marvelous! After that, she could ask me to lick the dirt from the earth until it was spotless, and I’d do it.
In case you haven't figured it out yet, I'm not gonna bullshit you. To work even part-time at 'Tootsies Nail Salon and Spa is to work twenty-five hours of your waking life per week caring for the objective female form in the privacy of a VIP closet. Honestly, if I had known any better at the time, I would’ve likely accepted more hours and less pay in the kitchen some place.
But then my female familiar, Cora, tipped me off about Tootsie’s. The pay for one of their back of the house operations had been extravagant lately, and she’d hire me as a favor. Plus, it would give me “opportunities to ogle occasionally”. Cora was a sweetheart.
I worked in the pedicure department, as that had been my specialty at the time. It was my first real job after I took a hiatus from college in the summer. Yeah, eff-why-eye, I have the double-eff syndrome, you know what I mean? I barely made a living giving foot massages, exfoliations, nail polish and the like, so I had to appreciate it a lot at the time in order to make it feel worthwhile. I was damn good at it all, mind you, but I digress.
I did it all because I loved Marla's feet.
Marla Ramala was a regular on Sunday nights, or so she had been for ten years straight at that point. In my head, I used to treat her as a hearsay character, a gossip tale at best. I didn't even know that she existed until they let me start working on Sunday nights about three weeks into my tenure at Tootsie’s. She constantly wore make-up while out; black eyeliner to exaggerate the whites of her eyes; either red or pink lip gloss. I also thought that those fangs in her mouth were plastic the first time we had met.
You could tell just by looking at her feet that this woman did not wear shoes outside of Tootsies’. You could see all of the outer bones on her foot because the muscles over them were so tough with use. Barefoot walks would do that to you after a while. None of this really mattered to me, mind you. It wasn't my business to know what these women did with their feet all day but I'm sure to find out as soon as they would come see us at Tootsie’s. As long as she wore shoes on the premises outside of a designated parlor, nobody ever gave her trouble, not even Cora. Not to mention that Marla was our best tipper, which is incidental to her reputation.
-
II

C# D C# B C# F#. C# D C# B C# G#...
"Excuse me, sir?"
I quit my whistling and picked my head up from a box of fresh, sanitary towels and sponges. This rather short, thin creature was standing near the backdoor with her hands quietly interlocked.
I left the boxes and approached her. "Oh, yes! Can I help you?"
She stood about five feet tall. Her hair was short and almost veiled her face when the former would catch light. She was looking directly at me with her lips in a smirk. "Are you Tully?”
“I am.”
She smiled. “Hel-lo, I’m Marla.” Her voice had an innocent highness to it.
Her name shocked me briefly. "Oh, Marla! Hello!" I exclaimed. I extended my hand towards hers.
She grasped it gently as I squeezed her wrist a little.
"It’s a pleasure to meet you, finally," I said.
We both laughed.
"Likewise," she smiled back, "Cora lets me creep in sometimes, just so you know.”
And she crept in. “So I’ve heard,” I said.
She meandered towards the table where the box sat. “Busy nights on Thursdays?”
I laughed. “Busy as graveyards, and nobody’s died lately.”
"I know, tell me about it," she laughed.
“How can I help you today, Marla?”
"Well, I'm here for my bi-weekly pedicure. Eugene usually takes care of me on Sunday nights but he tells me that he's not feeling well."
"Yah, he called out really early today, too.”
She didn't take her eyes off of me. I could feel them even as I looked away. "How long have you been working here now?"
"This is my fourth week here."
"I see, and this is your first Sunday, I take it?"
"You take it right."
She narrowed her eyes through her bangs briefly before speaking further. "You will do just fine."
"Oh, yes!" I just registered that I had to serve a paying customer, let alone Marla herself. "What would you like tonight?"
She sighed and screwed her eyes shut briefly in thought ("Umm, what did I want tonight?"). "I think I'll just do a massage tonight. They have been kinda achy lately."
She cracked her toes from inside her flats, or so I heard from above.
"Excellent, then. Would you kindly follow me?"
"Actually," she said before entering a brisk walk towards the master hub-room, "I have my own personal room. It's in the basement."
"Right, right, sorry." I followed her lead. Me, following the customer's lead: I felt like such an ass.
I had used all of the other three parlor-rooms at least once before. I had not yet learned about the room in the basement. We approached a red wall opposite the basement stairs. Marla walked right up to it with a silver key between her fingers.
"Yes, I do have a copy of Cora’s key," Marla explained as she fumbled for her key, "She lets me come in here to use this room anytime during business hours." She inserted the key into a lock I did not see from afar. She opened a door and turned on a light.
Her room was by far the largest that I had seen since I started working. The lights glowed a warm orange, and the interior was mostly red and roses, cloth, leather interior with gold-colored fastenings on everything. The sheer size of the room reminded me that she occupied about one-fifth of all space in our department, including the reception area and spa. That's not saying much, mind you, but we're talking at least a thousand cubic feet of space!

-
III

"Would you kindly close the door, Tully?"
I closed the door behind me. The silence in the room was deafening.
I knew what to expect at this time without even looking. The customer usually removes all foot-wear articles like socks or pantyhose so that I can apply massage oil directly to the epidermis. She may also dry her feet with our complimentary towel. Honestly, I'd yet to see more than two or three women actually do it but they were never my clients.
Marla, apparently, is one of those women who actually do that. I turned around expecting to see two fat female soles lying towards me. Instead, I saw this little woman with her blouse exposed from underneath her coat (not much breast to speak of, by the way), dabbing between her toes with a white towel. Her feet had the "skeletal" look, as I called it. That means that the bones were so strong that the skin over them had to cling to them rather tightly which gives it that bony sort of look. They looked healthy.
I visibly shook with surprise at the sight of that white cloth against her red toenails.
She gasped and clutched her heart. "You startled me!"
I knew that she spoke but I don't think her words had registered. I momentarily directed my gaze away from her feet. I never looked away from the client's feet. My face felt hot.
"Did I skip a step?" she asked me earnestly.
"No, no. You're fine. It's just that I've never served a client who dries her feet before I touch them."
"I see. So, seeing me with the towel kinda threw you off?"
"In a manner of speaking, yes."
She laughed. "I love your responses."
"Thank you, ma'am."
"Call me, Marla."
"Thank you, Marla."
Marla sat down in this odd, ornate chair opposite me. A footstool sat in front of the chair, and a cushion sat on top of the footstool.
I said "Do you have a preference for massage oil?"
She said "I'm not too picky. Something that would lube up your hands as much as my feet would be best, though."
That means "argan oil". Luckily, this room contained a black cabinet which contained all of my materials. We used multiple copies of the same model cabinet to avoid confusion with newbies to the establishment. "Black means business."
I squirted just three drops on my hands and rubbed it all over so I could apply the oil more easily later. If you've never used argan oil before, imagine the softest, warmest and most slippery, liquid ever, and make it a skin-regenerator. Needless to say, this shit was amazing. It was rather expensive though, again, not that it mattered to me. The more expensive the massage oil, the more I could charge this woman for the massage, if I really wanted to.
I heard Marla sniff the air.
"Mmm, argan oil, pomegranate and lavender scents. Good choice, indeed, sir."
She lifted her feet onto the footstool. Her toes depressed the cushion the most.
"Could you start on my ankles down?"
I squirted two drops onto each ankle ("Oh," she murmured) and rubbed it in and around the deposit site. The trick is to spread the oil from where it lies in large quantities. Rubbing everywhere quickly just doesn't work. Oil doesn't spread like water.
Her toes started wriggling a little. I looked down and saw that I had spilled a little oil from her ankle and it started dripping down to her toes. They looked excited at the prospect of touching this oil as well.
Now that her ankles were moisturizing, I needed to spread the oil to the rest of her foot, hopefully in a timely fashion. I used the excess oil on her ankles to rub into the crevasses between her toes.
"You have a good sense of flow, Tully," she remarked above me, "albeit, a rather quiet one."
"Would you like me to speak?"
"I would like you to press your hands into my feet until they have been pampered to my satisfaction! That is your objective at this time but feel free to speak, if you are so inclined."
"Your feet are beautiful, Marla."
"Really? You think so?"
"Absolutely."
I lifted the ball of her left foot up to rub her sole. She held it up still for me.
I flattered on; Cora said that the customer likes it when she feels special. "A lot of women who come in here, their feet are either unhealthy or underdeveloped, y'know. The fat ones have fat feet, and so on. Yours are like grade-A, grade-AA (double-ay)."
She laughed in her nose. "Why thank you, Tully," she beamed, "I appreciate the compliment."
I inserted my fingers between each of her toes, cracking them as I went.
"And," I went on, "I can tell a lot about the client just by touching her feet. I can tell how thick her socks were before she took them off. I can tell the last time they bathed, moisturized, you name it."
"Almost like you have a foot fetish."
That made my heart flutter inside my chest and my fingers tremble within the grasp of her toes. I just gave myself away. The first rule of working at Tootsie’s is to never give yourself away.
I said "I have a fine attention to detail, put it that way."
She squeezed my fingers with her toes but she remained silent.
A thin layer of oil splotched across her feet. They were a little dirty. She must have been walking around barefoot before coming in to see me that night.
Now, for a good massage, I highly recommend getting the client's trust in your touch with your first real impression, not just using the actual massage as the focus. The client understands that nothing gets done in a massage parlor without a little oil application. Thus, the client expects your pressure application to be at least as adequate.
I started with her arches up to her toes. Her arches were rather deep; hence, her instep was also rather accentuated at the top of her foot. Deep arches are extremely sensitive to another person's touch. That's why I always touch there first. After that, it's just rub in, around, side to side, and every which way. There's no real universal direction to proceed in every time I work because every woman's feet are as unique as the woman.
"What was that song you were whistling when I walked in?" she asked me calmly.
"I don’t know, actually. It’s something I think I made up" I told her.
"You write your own music?"
I sandwiched her right foot between my hands and continued to rub as I explained.
"I try to. I started playing the French horn when I was ten years old. Then, as I grew older I tried composition.”
I stopped to switch to her left foot.
"Go on," she said, "I'm listening."
"Well, there’s not much to say, honestly. That song you heard was either something I came up with or a recombination of something I’ve already heard."
"So you wouldn’t claim to be the original author?"
"I would if I could get away with it,” I chortled as she chuckled. “Music, a lot of times, is made up of the same familiar sounds that we all grew up with. So even when the composer pens something that he thinks is original, chances are very good that someone had already beat him to it.”
"Nothing is original, in other words."
"Mm, yes. Quite so."
"Have you written anything else?"
"In a manner of speaking, I have a growing collection of works on my computer. Pirated computer software truly amazes me.”
She laughed again.
"How am I doing by the way?"
"Mmmmmm..." She let her voice trail off. Her eyes were shut and her smile told me what I needed to know but so she says: "Absolutely splendid, sir. Splendid."
"Thank you." My heart was pounding inside my chest.
"What time is it?" She asked me dreamily.
I looked at the clock on the wall. It said 9:15pm.
"About ten minutes after you came in."
"About twenty more minutes, then? I'll do the full half-hour."
"The Sunday Thirty?"
"Sunday Thirteh."
I silently acknowledged by squeezing her toes one at a time. She relaxed a little deeper into that "chair" and closed her eyes. This woman must have really been enjoying the massage to ask for more time after the first ten minutes. Plus, on Sundays, clients get a thirty percent discount on all massages up to the first full hour. I didn't think much of it more than that I was going to get a pretty generous tip in about twenty minutes. This was Marla, after all.
I glanced up at her face and saw that her left eyetooth had protruded between her lips. I stopped to register that some kind of white-colored appendage had slipped from her mouth.
She felt my momentary immobility and screwed her eyes shut tighter before peeking them open. "Mm? Something wrong?"
"No, it's nothing. Your tooth kinda distracted me for a second."
Her eyes were now fully open. "Tooth? My mouth was closed."
What I just saw had stolen my words. She detected my embarrassment and laughed, "No, no! It's okay, really. You and I only met like a half-hour ago. I wouldn't expect you to know about my tooth situation."
"I guess I just never noticed how long your teeth were."
I really needed to get back to the massage.
Then, she asked me "Would you like to see them?"
I glanced up and saw Marla grin widely. It was a normal human smile except her two eyeteeth were about an inch longer than they should be.
My brow furrowed. "I see."
She veiled them again with her lips.
"You like what you see, Tully?"
I stammered for a minute from the sheer audacity of her voice, and she found this quite funny.
"I'm kidding. I'm kidding," she said. "I just wanted to have a little fun with you for a moment."
I responded by squirting another two drops of argan oil on each of her feet. She relaxed immediately.

-
IV

To say that I had a lot on my mind at this point would be an understatement. This woman struck me as off. She looked about twenty-eight-twenty-nine years old and both of her eyeteeth were abnormally long. At least, that's what I saw. And, what did she mean by "tooth situation"?
Well, I looked at it as her eyeteeth were either real or fake .The second rule of working at 'Tootsies is don't jump to conclusions while the client's foot is in your hands.
And, don't get me wrong, I was also hot and bothered like a motherfucker. I'd heard legends of cosplayers (costume players) who would actually fool around with the masseuse at night there at 'Tootsies. It happened at least three times from the stories Cora told me. It came with the business, so to speak. The third rule of working at 'Tootsies is "didn't see it, didn't know it".
Now, I know what you're thinking. You think that at that moment I had dreaded the possibility that she was some kind of blood-sucking monster and likely immediately would subdue me and suck my blood for sustenance (which would kill me). Okay, that possibility was certainly on the proverbial table. But the problem I had in understanding this fundamental dilemma is that I didn't care what the truth was! This woman was about to give me the biggest tip anyone had ever given me in exchange for thirty minutes of my massage technique. If she killed me, I wouldn't have been able to enjoy the money, or her feet.

-
V

But, my God, the things that this woman would pay people to do!
"Aaaaaand...time's up, Tully."
I stopped and removed my hands from her feet. She rested both of them on the footstool in front of me.
Her lips curled into a smile, and she narrowed her eyes onto me. "Do I have your full attention, Tully?"
"You have it, Marla."
She took a breath.
"And, mind you, nothing that happens from this moment will be subtracted from what I'm going to give you later. I just wanted to request something of you, a task, if you will."
"Okay, shoot."
"I want you to press your right index finger into the tip of my left eyetooth."
I just stared while I processed what I just heard.
"Would you kindly do so?" she asked me.
"I mean, Marla," I began, "You and I both know that I'm at least curious into the whole 'tooth situation,' as you put it. But Cora can’t know that I had put my finger inside your mouth!"
"I can keep a secret if you can."
"But, why?"
She giggled. "Because if you do it, I will double your tip."
My jaw must have hit the floor. "You will really double my tip if I touch the tip of your tooth right now?"
"Yes," she almost hissed, "Do you accept?"
I looked down, away from her face, and ended up gazing at her feet. I snapped myself back upright immediately and caught her eyes again.
She looked at me back with the oddest sense of patient anticipation I had ever seen in a woman. "Do you accept?" she repeated.
I nodded. "Yes, I accept."
"Perfect. Okay."
She smirked before straightening out her jaw. She opened her lips wide and held open her jaws. Her left eyetooth looked like a high peak above the rest of her enamel altitudes, and it was pointed towards me.
I scooted forward and reached for her mouth, passed her feet, her ass, and her bosom. I must have forgot to slow my approach (or she bit down, in retrospect), but the tip of my finger hit the tip of her tooth so fast that it actually pierced the skin. I started bleeding. "Oh, shit!" I snapped my hand back and saw that my finger had a little hole in it right at the tip. Blood already had ballooned out from her puncture mark.
Marla had closed her mouth and had become meditatively still.
I relaxed when I realized that my hands were completely covered in a thin layer of argan oil. No risk of infection. My hand could convalesce the next day.
"Thank you for that, Tully."
I looked up at Marla and saw that she was holding sixty dollars in her hand.
"The fifteen is for the massage. Keep the change." She winked.
I winced with pain for a moment from my finger injury.
"Thank you, Marla."
That was one of the weirdest nights of my entire life.