My First Time with the Friday Client at the Spa

I worked at the front desk of Aurora Spa, a rather exclusive place tucked away on a quiet street downtown. It was my first job in the field and, every so often, the bosses let me give anti-stress massages to clients who couldn’t wait. I was learning on the job: basic techniques, just the right pressure, reading the body. I had never crossed a line with anyone, not even once had it occurred to me.

Until she started coming on Fridays.

Helena always arrived late in the afternoon, just as the sun went down behind the buildings and the waiting room smelled of eucalyptus. She was an elegant woman, with a well-kept figure, brown hair with a glossy shine that fell to her shoulders. She had an attractive face and one of those smiles that change the whole atmosphere the moment they walk through the door. Sometimes she wore skirts that traced her silhouette, other times impeccably cut trousers, always with discreet heels and a faint perfume that lingered at the counter for hours after she left.

I confess I looked forward to that day with an anxiety that was already bordering on ridiculous.

That Friday in particular I was right at the entrance when she came in. The clock read six-thirty. I looked up and saw her cross the threshold with that contagious smile.

“Good afternoon! How are you all?” she greeted us with her usual politeness.

“Good afternoon, very well, and you?” I answered before thinking.

She looked at me steadily, one eyebrow lifting just slightly.

“You? Do I look that old to you?” she said, and laughed softly.

I smiled back, more awkward than nervous.

“Not at all! What makes you say that? It’s out of respect.”

“Using tu with me isn’t disrespectful.”

There was a brief silence, the kind that feels longer than it is.

“Do you have an appointment?” I asked, recovering my composure.

“Not really, but today I need one of those massages that leave you feeling brand new. I called Carolina, the girl who usually takes care of me, and she said her afternoon got complicated. She told me to ask for Mateo.”

“That’s me,” I replied, trying not to blush.

She narrowed her eyes as if sizing me up for the first time.

“Ah, good. Carolina told me you’re good.”

“Thank you,” I muttered. “Go to cubicle five, make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be with you in a moment.”

I could hardly believe it. I’d spent months watching her pass by in the back with Carolina and, just that afternoon, she was mine.

***

When I went in, she already had on the white robe and her hair tied back in a high ponytail. Something about that bare nape, the curve of her neck under the amber light of the cubicle, left me standing still for a moment in the doorway. On any other client it would have been just another detail; on her it was an image hard to forget.

“You can take off whatever you have underneath and lie face down,” I told her, handing her a folded towel. “Cover the lower part of your back with this. I’ll be right back.”

I went out and closed the door without latching it all the way. A few steps later I realized I had forgotten the bottle of hot oil on the service table. I went back. The door was still ajar, open by barely a handspan.

I shouldn’t have looked. I know that. But I did.

She was turned away, letting the robe fall over the back of a chair. She kept only a single piece of white lingerie on, a tiny garment of fine lace that seemed woven more to be seen than to cover anything. No bra. She covered her breasts with her forearm in a modest gesture that made her seem even more intimate.

I swallowed, stepped back, and waited in the hallway long enough to pretend I was acting naturally.

***

I went back in when she was already lying down, with the towel covering her buttocks and her forehead resting in the padded face cradle of the table. I put on a soft playlist we usually used for long sessions: slow piano, some string arrangement, nothing distracting.

“I’m exhausted,” she said, her voice muffled by the wood. “This week was brutal. I hurt from my neck all the way down to my feet.”

“You need to let go. Close your eyes and take your mind to a place you really like. A beach, your childhood home, anything. Breathe in deeply and let the air out slowly.”

She did it several times. I started at the nape of her neck and shoulders, sliding my thumbs behind her ears, down over the trapezius muscles. I dripped a few drops of scented oil along her spine and watched her skin goosebump at the first touch. Her back arched just slightly, an involuntary gesture I took in with a new kind of clarity.

I ran my thumbs over each vertebra, from the base of her skull to her waist. At some point I understood I was no longer giving her a therapeutic massage. My hands lingered where they shouldn’t, pressed with a rhythm different from the one in the manual. She didn’t object. Her breathing had grown slower, heavier.

Something carnal took hold of me, without warning, like a tide. Before I could think twice, I pulled the towel away completely. There she was, nearly naked on my table, the woman whose arrival I waited for all week. The reality of having her like that hit me straight in the chest.

I warmed more oil between my palms and started on the backs of her thighs. One hand on each leg, I moved up and down, tracing the full curve, pausing near the crease of her buttocks, then descending again. I stayed there longer than any protocol would recommend. She remained silent, but her fingers had gently closed around the edge of the table.

They were no longer massages. They were deliberate caresses, charged with an intention I still didn’t dare name. I moved down to her calves and from there to her feet. I devoted myself to each one separately, toe by toe, with a slowness that seemed to go on and on. Her heels, her ankles, that fragile hollow behind the heel bone where almost no one allows themselves to touch.

A sigh. Long, deep. It wasn’t tiredness.

It’s now or never, I thought. My pulse was hammering in my temples.

“Turn over,” I said, almost without a voice.

She did it at once, without opening her eyes. She took the towel and half-covered her breasts, leaving her nipples just barely concealed by the edge of the fabric. I didn’t know whether it was carelessness or invitation. I lowered my gaze to her crotch and saw what I already suspected: the white fabric was darkened in the center, soaked in a way that was unmistakable. And that wasn’t oil.

Immediate arousal swept through me, impossible to hide under the uniform trousers.

I parted her legs just a little and dripped a few drops of oil into the crease of her thighs. I positioned myself to one side and started massaging that whole area in slow circles, never touching the center. I ran my fingers near it, brushed the edge, pulled away. The tiny piece of fabric became more and more translucent, revealing the exact shape of what it covered. Her breathing had turned into a string of tightly held gasps.

Then I felt her hands on my back.

I hadn’t seen them coming. They rose from the waistband of my uniform, settled on my shoulder blades, and pressed with a force that held more urgency than exhaustion. In response, I placed my thumbs right over the wet fabric while the other eight fingers kept working her inner thighs. She let out a moan she could no longer control.

From there on I stopped thinking.

I lowered the garment carefully, sliding it down her legs until I took it off. She was left completely naked, her eyes still closed, surrendered to the advance of my hands. I walked around the table to the head end, knelt on a low stool, settled her thighs over my shoulders, and, with my thumbs, opened her.

On the first stroke of my tongue I felt her shudder from her belly. I explored slowly, searching with the tip until I found the exact place where her body responded most intensely. When I did, her fingers closed in my hair and her knees rose until they nearly touched her breasts.

The tremors came more often. Her whole skin was goosebumped. I stayed there, buried in her, attentive to every new sound, every change in rhythm. Her body suddenly tightened, her thighs squeezed my ears, and the first orgasm came in broken gasps she no longer tried to stifle. I didn’t stop. I kept the same rhythm until I tore a second from her, and then a third, shorter, more spasmodic one.

Only then did she lift her head and look at me for the first time since she had come into the cubicle. Her eyes were shining, her hair half fallen out of the ponytail, a flush creeping down her neck.

***

I brought over the low chair we used to lean on between client and client, took her hand, and helped her down from the table. She took my shirt off with surprising calm, as if she had been planning that gesture for hours. Then she lowered my trousers. She knelt in front of me, slid my boxer briefs down to my ankles, and began her own ritual, a mix of caresses and mouth, unhurried, with a gaze that held me just above the stomach.

I stroked her hair, took the back of her neck in one hand, and let her do as she pleased until I felt I was about to lose control. Then I sat down on the chair.

She settled on top of me, facing away from me at first. I watched her rise and fall while I held her hips, the muscles in her back outlining themselves with each movement. We stayed like that for a good while, without speaking, with the piano still playing softly through the cubicle speaker.

Then she turned and looked at me straight on. She kissed me for the first time. She tasted warm, of something I couldn’t identify. I matched her movements with mine, one hand on her waist, the other in her hair. I moved from one breast to the other with my mouth while the rhythm sped up and our bodies began to press together without either of us planning it.

When I felt there was no going back, I held her tightly and let it happen. She clung to my shoulders, hid her face in my neck, and let out a deep sound, almost a sob, at the exact moment I came inside her.

We stayed still for a long while, foreheads pressed together, breaths colliding. Neither of us said anything.

Before she got up, she kissed me again, slowly. She leaned toward my ear and said in a low voice:

“It was the best massage I’ve ever had in my life. Thank you.”

She picked up the robe, dressed without looking at me, and left the cubicle as if nothing had happened. I stayed seated, the chair still warm, listening to the sound of her heels fading away down the wooden hallway. It was the first time I had crossed that line with a client. And I knew, with uncomfortable clarity, that it would also be the last time I could feel so clean while doing it.