finish.”
I feel his hands on me. I wait for him to finish.
“I was going to say, if you’re that nervous and pent up, your problems are larger than a week in a spa can fix.”
I look back. Did he really just say pent up ? But his face is looking away, unreadable.
“Are you wearing shorts?” he asks a minute later.
“What?”
“Some people who are … unusually uncomfortable … sometimes wear shorts. It’s fine. I just need to know so I can plan my time accordingly.”
“No. I’m not wearing shorts.”
“But you’re wearing panties. You’re not bare down there.”
Bare down there? Did he really just say that?
“What business is that of yours?”
“I’m your masseur. It matters for the massage.”
“Well, then I guess you’ll find out.”
I’m still looking up. He’s still looking away from my face — possibly at the concealed region where I may or may not be bare down there . I wonder where his mind is — it’s a double entendre at least.
“I’m sure you are. I mean, if you left your bra on.”
“Is it a problem?”
“No, no. You are who you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If you think I should have it off, I’ll have it off.”
“I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Bullshit.” I’m not sure why I say it. He might not even be saying what my gut says he is. This man is my masseur, and he does need to do his job. Maybe this isn’t a set of personal judgments, the way it feels. Maybe he’s not presuming I’m some sort of an ice queen, the way he seems to be.
Hearing the word exit my lips, I wonder how I feel. It was an angry word, but I don’t think I’m mad. Agitated, yes. Uneasy and uncomfortable. Defensive, maybe. It’s hard to relax.
Marco has slipped his hands beneath my shoulders and down my back, using my body weight to provide the pressure. His hands are slick with oil. Hot to the touch. I can feel his movements shift my bra on my chest, making my stiff nipples stiffer.
“I’ll take it off.”
“Don’t take it off,” Marco says.
“I just didn’t know. You didn’t tell me how much to take off.”
“That’s because it depends by client.”
“How do most people here get their massages?”
“Most of them? Nude.”
I asked the question and Marco gave a factual response. Still, hearing him say “nude” conjures all sorts of images in my mind, stirring new emotion. I picture myself naked, concealed only by a thin sheet. I imagine a stranger’s hands everywhere in that state, and wonder where anyone draws the line.
“You wouldn’t want to be nude,” he says.
“I just didn’t know.”
“But you wouldn’t do it. That’s why I don’t specify. I tell my clients to get comfortable, and they decide what that means for them. I don’t want to dictate it, because if I do, they’ll adjust to what I say rather than choosing their own comfort level.”
“Doesn’t it defeat the point if you laugh at someone for their choice?”
“I didn’t mean to laugh. It just caught me off guard. Nobody leaves on a bra. I thought those things were really uncomfortable.”
“They are.”
“Well, that says a lot, Miss White.”
I wonder what that means. Probably that he’s decided I’m some sort of stuck-up rich bitch. The kind of girl who’d choose discomfort over practicality, if it meant keeping a big bad man away from her private bits. He probably thinks I shower in a bathing suit. He probably thinks I make my gynecologist work through a sheet, conducting her business solely by feel.
“You do a lot of massages?” I ask.
“A lot. Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He takes the bait. “ Hmm , what?” His voice is curious. He’s still working from behind, oiled hands beneath me, possibly sitting on an ottoman.
“You just seem like you might be new.”
“I’m not.”
“What with the
I feel his hands on me. I wait for him to finish.
“I was going to say, if you’re that nervous and pent up, your problems are larger than a week in a spa can fix.”
I look back. Did he really just say pent up ? But his face is looking away, unreadable.
“Are you wearing shorts?” he asks a minute later.
“What?”
“Some people who are … unusually uncomfortable … sometimes wear shorts. It’s fine. I just need to know so I can plan my time accordingly.”
“No. I’m not wearing shorts.”
“But you’re wearing panties. You’re not bare down there.”
Bare down there? Did he really just say that?
“What business is that of yours?”
“I’m your masseur. It matters for the massage.”
“Well, then I guess you’ll find out.”
I’m still looking up. He’s still looking away from my face — possibly at the concealed region where I may or may not be bare down there . I wonder where his mind is — it’s a double entendre at least.
“I’m sure you are. I mean, if you left your bra on.”
“Is it a problem?”
“No, no. You are who you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It doesn’t mean anything.”
“If you think I should have it off, I’ll have it off.”
“I just want you to be comfortable.”
“Bullshit.” I’m not sure why I say it. He might not even be saying what my gut says he is. This man is my masseur, and he does need to do his job. Maybe this isn’t a set of personal judgments, the way it feels. Maybe he’s not presuming I’m some sort of an ice queen, the way he seems to be.
Hearing the word exit my lips, I wonder how I feel. It was an angry word, but I don’t think I’m mad. Agitated, yes. Uneasy and uncomfortable. Defensive, maybe. It’s hard to relax.
Marco has slipped his hands beneath my shoulders and down my back, using my body weight to provide the pressure. His hands are slick with oil. Hot to the touch. I can feel his movements shift my bra on my chest, making my stiff nipples stiffer.
“I’ll take it off.”
“Don’t take it off,” Marco says.
“I just didn’t know. You didn’t tell me how much to take off.”
“That’s because it depends by client.”
“How do most people here get their massages?”
“Most of them? Nude.”
I asked the question and Marco gave a factual response. Still, hearing him say “nude” conjures all sorts of images in my mind, stirring new emotion. I picture myself naked, concealed only by a thin sheet. I imagine a stranger’s hands everywhere in that state, and wonder where anyone draws the line.
“You wouldn’t want to be nude,” he says.
“I just didn’t know.”
“But you wouldn’t do it. That’s why I don’t specify. I tell my clients to get comfortable, and they decide what that means for them. I don’t want to dictate it, because if I do, they’ll adjust to what I say rather than choosing their own comfort level.”
“Doesn’t it defeat the point if you laugh at someone for their choice?”
“I didn’t mean to laugh. It just caught me off guard. Nobody leaves on a bra. I thought those things were really uncomfortable.”
“They are.”
“Well, that says a lot, Miss White.”
I wonder what that means. Probably that he’s decided I’m some sort of stuck-up rich bitch. The kind of girl who’d choose discomfort over practicality, if it meant keeping a big bad man away from her private bits. He probably thinks I shower in a bathing suit. He probably thinks I make my gynecologist work through a sheet, conducting her business solely by feel.
“You do a lot of massages?” I ask.
“A lot. Yes.”
“Hmm.”
He takes the bait. “ Hmm , what?” His voice is curious. He’s still working from behind, oiled hands beneath me, possibly sitting on an ottoman.
“You just seem like you might be new.”
“I’m not.”
“What with the
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