The Bathhouse: Part 2

A massage or an invitation?

Continued from The Bathhouse: Part 1

Created by author with Midjourney

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Surprising myself, I do not hesitate. Of course, I think, clothes are dumb. Still facing him, I pull off my sports bra immediately but am unsure where to put it. I look for a hook nearby and see none. The man with the shaved head holds out his hand, and I hand him my bra. He hangs the wet fabric from a hook on the opposite wall. I consider taking off my panties too. Continuing to wear them seems silly to me, but he didn’t tell me to take those off so I don’t. I sit and then lie face-down on the massage table.

“You want salt scrub or clay?” he asks.

“Salt scrub,” I reply. I came here to be cleansed, not soothed.

“I give little of both,” he answers. Okay a little soothing is fine, I think. It is a massage, anyway…

“Okay.”

I had expected his hands to begin their journey over my body slowly, introducing themselves politely and exploring gently before gradually increasing their pressure. This is not the case. His hands meet my body with the same rapid assertiveness he expressed with his first words to me. Top off. Lie down. My gut clenches at the not-so-distant memory as I try to walk my wayward mind away from any erotic interpretations. This is not seductive, I tell myself. He’s a professional. He touches a hundred bodies a day, he’s not seducing everyone. The nonchalant way he is handling me seems to affirm this interpretation. He lingers on no part of my body, rubbing an oily substance that is probably lotion just as roughly into my shoulders as the tender flesh where my breasts meet my sides. I feel simultaneously disappointed and relieved. And skeptical. Despite my rationalizations, I cannot ignore the eroticism, prowling like a third person in the room with us. I wonder if his rough handling of me is a way to disguise any lustful thoughts on his part. Or maybe it’s a test, I think, to see if I like it.

Having finished their journey down my back, his hands have returned to the top of my left shoulder. He presses it away from my ear. Under the light tension, my ligaments thrum pleasurably. His hands travel down my left arm, squeezing as they go. A tender spot on my triceps spikes my awareness, but I suppress the flinch. I want him to think me strong. Continuing down my arm, his hands find the watch on my wrist. He tugs at the Velcro strap to loosen it, and slides it off my hand. I cannot see where he deposits it. Walking around my head, he gives my right shoulder and arm the same treatment. His movements are brusque. Returning to my back, his hands are kneading deeper into my flesh as they move down my body, reaching the waistband of my panties and then my butt-cheeks with no apparent change in tempo. He yanks up on my panties, pulling them into the seam of my arse like a thong. With more of my bum exposed, he continues at the same pace, grinding his palms first into my left cheek and then into my right. His fingers brush against the space between my bum cheeks and my labia but his movements are too hurried to discern intent. I feel tightness at my crotch. The tugging of my panties has pulled the fabric up between my lower lips, and I wonder to what extent I am on display, given his vantage from behind. The bunched up fabric is pressing against my clit. I can feel the subtle swelling of my privates at this stimulation. I press my hips into the massage table for some relief, hoping that I am doing so in an imperceptible way. The increased pressure only heightens my arousal. Fuck, I think. I still can’t tell if this cavalier stimulation is by design. His hands are now moving down the backs of my thighs, squeezing as they go, pace unchanged. I am half-expecting him to slap my ass and demand to know if I have been a bad girl.