The Spa Massage That Ended at His Beach House

My name is Lorena, and I work as a massage therapist at a luxury hotel spa on the Alicante coast. It wasn’t always like this. I started out as an entertainer and hostess at resort complexes, and since I loved the atmosphere, I got my professional massage qualification so I could land a permanent job somewhere good. I’m twenty-eight, I have steady hands, and a very clear idea of how far I’m willing to go with a client. Or so I thought until that afternoon.

It was the beginning of July, and I had the long shift. The schedule was empty, so I took the chance to go down and cool off at the spa pool. I was enjoying the solitude and the pressurized jets pounding my back and shoulders, that area where everything seems to come undone. My body was loose and my head was blank when the loudspeaker snapped me out of it: a guest had just booked a massage for the next hour.

I had thirty minutes left. I went to the women’s changing room, took a quick shower, and put on the hotel body lotion, the one that smells like berries and leaves your skin soft for hours. The jets had left my body turned on, and I slathered it on more eagerly than I should have. It’s just lotion, I told myself, not quite believing it.

I took out my uniform: the miniskirt and top we’re required to wear, far too provocative for my taste. The hem of the skirt falls right at the edge of the massage table, and some clients leave their hand there, as if by accident, so they can brush my thighs when I walk past. Sometimes they ask for happy endings, or they offer to take me up to their room. I don’t make a scene: if one of them goes too far, I simply step back. One extra outburst and I’d be out on the street. The amounts I’ve been offered are no joke, but I don’t sleep with just anyone.

That afternoon I thought I looked especially good. I hoped the client would be worth it.

***

I went up to reception. Patricia, my shift partner, got on my nerves. She was a freeloader: she stole clients from me, stretched sessions longer than allowed, and there were afternoons when she came back smelling of something she swore was the lotion. I wasn’t fooled. I know perfectly well what that smells like. The moment I saw her name next to the appointment, I planted myself in front of her and told her, very seriously, that this one was mine.

The client had come for a convention starting that day at the hotel and lasting three days. He wouldn’t be some flip-flop tourist or a nobody passing through. He appeared through the pool entrance in a suit, and that already caught my attention. He introduced himself as Marcos.

—Haven’t you been to the spa? —I asked.

—Yes, but I didn’t know I could leave my suit in the locker and come upstairs in a robe —he replied, a little flustered.

I told him to follow me, that he could leave his clothes in the massage room. On the way down the corridor he asked, almost shyly, whether I always went barefoot and with nothing underneath. It made me laugh.

—I always wear my thong —I replied, and winked at him.

He smiled, but the joke threw him off a little. I liked that. I invited him in, asked him to ring the bell when he was ready, and told him he could get completely naked if he wanted, so he’d be more comfortable. He wasn’t bad at all: around forty-five, athletic build, bald, and with a shyness that disarmed me from the first minute.

***

The bell rang. I went in and found him face down, with a towel tied around his waist. I began at his feet, moved up his calves, and then his thighs. The towel was so tight that when I pushed it aside to make room for my hands, I ended up bumping into something soft that definitely wasn’t his legs. Marcos shifted, surprised, but the towel loosened and I was able to keep working his thighs and, underneath the fabric, his buttocks. More than once my fingers slipped, without meaning to, toward his groin. He didn’t say a word.

—If I press too hard, let me know —I said.

He only nodded. That stillness of his, that way of letting himself go without a complaint, was turning me on in a way I hadn’t expected.

I asked him to turn over while I held the towel up like a curtain. I don’t know whether he did it on purpose, but he turned toward me instead of toward the wall, and showed me everything. He wasn’t lacking in the equipment department, not at all. I covered him quickly, and as I adjusted the towel my fingers did what they wanted: they gave a gentle upward tug. I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. Not a blink. That only made me hotter. I wanted to see how much he could take before asking me for more.

—Could you work on my abdomen? —he said suddenly—. My lower back’s fine, but my abdomen’s been bothering me since I took a fall while sailing.

I did as he asked, though it was hard to leave that broad back I loved running my hands over. I moved my hands to his stomach. His own hand was resting on the edge of the table, and as I leaned in I brushed his knuckles with the inside of my thigh, hiking my skirt up a little so he’d feel the hot skin. The abdomen is a tricky area: one careless move and you touch where you shouldn’t. Without fully intending to, I rested my forearm over the bulge to make the long strokes, and I felt it throbbing beneath the fabric.

I kept going like that, feeling it swell. I looked at his face: his eyes were closed and he was breathing faster. His left hand tried to hold the towel tight to contain it, but his fingers were clumsy, searching, brushing against me between my legs. He was getting worked up, and so was I. My hands kept coming closer to the edge of the towel, pushing it down, slipping underneath. Little by little I uncovered him completely, uncircumcised, hot and very soft to the touch. I’d never had one like that in my hands before, and I admit I got more turned on than I should have.

And then, out of sheer nerves, I spilled the oil all over myself. I froze. Marcos noticed. I couldn’t keep going like that, and I didn’t have time to look for another uniform.

***

Luckily I had my gym bag with me, because I had training that day. I told him to excuse me, that I needed a break to change and that I’d make it up to him with ten extra minutes. I asked him to look out the window while I changed. I stayed in my underwear.

—As far as I’m concerned, you can keep going like that —he said, looking at me without even pretending not to.

I smiled, turned to him, and explained that if someone came in and saw me like that, I’d be fired on the spot.

—I’d give you a big tip if you stay —he insisted.

I tried. I moved closer, and his whole hand slipped between my thighs. I felt myself getting wet inside, but I was clear that it had to be him who asked, not me. Besides, I knew Patricia was already suspicious and could open the door at any moment to catch me. Very slowly, almost reluctantly, I stepped back and took his hand out from between my legs.

I put on my leggings and gym top. The leggings were so tight they showed everything, and my nipples were hard beneath the top. He was already on the verge: he hadn’t covered himself, the glans was peeking out from the towel and moving on its own. Getting fired for sleeping with him wouldn’t matter much if it was he who suggested it and handed over a good tip. So I decided to take the risk.

I climbed onto the table and placed his head between my legs, leaning back and brushing his face, waiting for him to react. Then I sat on him and kept massaging his chest while my pelvis slid up and down. The oil had made the fabric in his groin almost transparent. He was rock hard, and even so he didn’t come or ask me for anything.

The melody announcing the end of the session sounded. I climbed down, and he sat up quickly, trying to hide the obvious, and it slipped out twice from under the towel. It nearly brushed my hip. He was so clumsy it was sweet.

—I’ll be back, no doubt about it —he said as he left.

I walked out of the room with trembling legs and an orgasm hanging in the balance. I could feel his eyes fixed on me. I turned, smiled, and winked at him, inviting him to come back another day.

***

Since I was already dressed for the street and it was time for me to leave, I clocked out and headed out of the hotel determined to take care of my own arousal that night. In the parking lot there was a gorgeous jeep with the engine running, but I was too wrapped up in my thoughts to notice. Then I heard my name. It was him, with a bouquet of flowers in his hand. I don’t know how he’d managed to think of that detail and get out before I did.

—It was unexpected, unforgettable —he told me—. I like you a lot. I’m up for whatever you want in exchange for spending tonight with you.

I didn’t answer. I gave him a soft kiss on the lips and got into his car.

Marcos lived in Jávea, in a duplex in a residential complex with direct access to the beach. The drive was short. He told me he was divorced, had no children, wasn’t very lucky with women, and that I’d driven him crazy. I barely talked about myself: opening up to a stranger has never seemed like a good idea to me. When we arrived, he offered me a drawer full of women’s clothes so I could pick out a bikini. I chose one, changed in the bathroom, and we went down to the sand to chat and swap dirty little anecdotes as evening fell.

Everything was itching, I don’t know whether from the built-up heat or from the fabric. I told him I needed to change my bikini, and he sent me to the drawer of his dresser. I found a tiny red one that barely covered me. Too sexy. I put it on and went back to the beach.

He was on a sun lounger. I took a quick dip in the sea and, when I came out, he offered to put sunscreen on me. At that hour it wasn’t necessary at all, but I played along. He spread out a towel, I lay face down, and he started on my legs. He worked his way up my thighs, climbing over me, and with a brazenness I hadn’t seen in him before, he spread them and touched me without the slightest pretense. He poured a cold stream of lotion down my spine. Then I felt something very different: a hot, slippery rod slipping between my thighs, pulling back, appearing again between my buttocks. He lifted my thong, tucked it under the string, and while he massaged my back, his sex went up and down, giving me a pleasure I hadn’t expected.

Just when I thought he was finally going to enter me, he leaned into my ear.

—Dinner’s ready —he whispered.

I got up, flustered and confused. This man is torturing me on purpose. We went inside, I got dressed, and we sat down to dinner. It was a fun dinner: he’s witty, charming, the kind of man who makes you laugh without even trying. I couldn’t stop stroking his legs with my feet under the table. There may be better-looking men than him, but none had kept me on the edge like that.

***

We went back inside and I showered to wash off the salt and lotion. He rinsed off in the pool. I came out in my robe and we met on the terrace. He took my hand and we went to the bedroom.

I pushed him onto the bed, determined not to hold back any longer. I climbed on top of him, moved his clothes aside, shifted my thong to the side, and started sliding over him, rubbing slowly. In one careless moment he slipped in, and I froze for a second.

—Better with a condom —I said.

He nodded. And then he took over. He told me to lie face down, took out a thick oil, and took me from the paradise of the feet all the way to the thighs. He pulled my thong down, took off his clothes, positioned himself over my legs, and gave me a couple of swats with his cock in his hand. I loved it. When he was about to burst, he put on the condom and entered slowly, first the tip and then all of it, filling me completely. He fucked me like that for a good while, slowly, until he made me turn over, spread my legs, and went down on me with a patience that brought out my first orgasm.

I asked to switch. I got on top to return the favor with my mouth. Just as a lash of pleasure ran through me, I opened my lips to gasp and he took the chance to bury himself to the hilt. I slapped his thigh and he pulled back, though later than I wanted. He told me, laughing, that lack of air multiplies pleasure. And damn it, he was partly right: a second orgasm hit me, stronger than the first.

I ended up on top of him, setting the pace, feeling every vein and every centimeter. He was hard to make come, but in the end, holding my breasts, he told me he was going. I was at my limit. A spasm shook me, my legs trembled on their own, and then he finished too. I turned onto my side without pulling away, leaving him inside, and we fell asleep like that.

***

In the morning he wasn’t there. I got into the bathtub and stayed soaking for a good while, thinking it had all been a dream that was too real. Then I heard noise in the house. It was him.

—I couldn’t concentrate on work, so I came back —he said, peeking in with a smile—. You should have left already. Because we’re spending the rest of the day together, playing my endless arousal game.

I sank into the water and smiled. I knew perfectly well that that night at the spa had only been the beginning.