First off: for the purposes of the following, I have put some thought into what terminology shall be used so as not to be crass or too erotic. Therefore, the words “fanny”, “boobs”/ “breasts” (interchangeably) and “bum” shall be utilised. And I’m extremely sorry, but it is necessary to have the inclusion of “flap” (as in relation to fanny). Apologies in advance.
Also, a disclaimer: I solemnly swear that in no way has any of the following been made up, exaggerated for comic relief or been a figment of my imagination. It is a 100 per cent sincere play by play. Right, let’s get into it.
So I just had an Ayurvedic full body massage. And wow.
I was waiting patiently for my 2pm slot (God, these words are holding so many connotations for me right now), when my therapist arrived. A lovely looking little woman of about 30 or so. She led me into a darkened room where two beds with shackles were erected (sorry!) in the centre. Brief visions of Fifty Shades entered my mind but I pushed them away.
“Take off all your clothes,” she instructed.
“Even these?” I gestured towards my undies (especially being worn for the occasion).
“Off!” She demanded, helping me out of them. Righto.
I stood there awkwardly with a hand strategically over my nether lady parts as she laid down a sheet. Then she whipped off her top as well. Nice boobs on her, I noted amidst my surprise. Was she going to go topless too? But no; she pulled on an apron and rubbed her palms together in naked anticipation.
I lay on my stomach with my legs firmly clasped together as she drizzled me with copious amounts of oil. I felt like a rotisserie chicken, glistening with gravy and about to be demolished. “You are very, very, very beautiful,” she said as she smothered my thighs. I swear I could hear her lick her lips.
Then she wrenched apart my legs, positioning my feet at either edge of the bed and the massaging began. I relaxed into it as she pummelled the shit out of me (not literally, rest assured; the only secretions on my part were tears as she murdered my calves). I was falling into a bit of trance when she said, “You have a very beautiful, beautiful body.” May I remind you, this was called up to me from down beneath my completely unclad, splayed legs.
Despite my growing discomfort, I noticed she was prodding me with cushiony palms. I had a cheeky sneak peek to catch sight of these bulbous babies and saw that she wasn’t rubbing with her hands at all; she had these sack-like things stuffed to bursting with God knows what. It reminded me of a bag of dog poos. (I later learnt it was in fact pottali, a cloth bag-like contraption full of herbs and seeping with hot oil).
I went a bit rigid as she moved north. As she rounded my inner thighs, I was on full alert. She was getting her groove on, kneading up and down with relish and increasing momentum. I was starting to fear for my private cavities. And oop! There we are, a cheeky finger in the crack. Do we acknowledge it? Nope, we continue the tempo. And get a few more encounters with the inner front fanny flaps to follow.
“I don’t have a husband,” she declared.
What on earth compelled her to say that? Was I being hit on by my five foot nothing, Indian lady masseuse? I clucked my tongue in sympathy (I’ve always wanted to use that expression!), at a loss for how to react, and on we went.
After awhile I felt the bed creak and a warm weight settled itself on the back of my thighs. Yes, my friend was now straddling me. And quite literally – I shit you not – spanking me. Slapping my bum around willy nilly, quite enjoying it too judging by her noises of glee. Fuck it. I reciprocated with a few forced giggles.
At one stage I had my bum thrust in the air as she was kneading my hips and I heard and felt a vibrating sensation at the end of the bed. I feared for the safety of my anus, and immediately reacted by clasping my arse cheeks. But all was well; my friend had just received a txt, and I waited patiently as she responded to the message.
Then – the roll over. I had been anticipating the attention to the front. Once again she started from the ankle and worked her way up. Did she spend longer on my front inner thighs than any other part, or was I imagining things? Any way about it, there was further contact with the flaps yet again. Her face gave nothing away as I tried to search it from beneath a subtly squinted eye.
Then came the gentle stroking and fluttery fingers tracing my breasts (ok, fine, my chest). Curiously, her manipulation of my mounds was probably the least invasive part of the experience. (I guess when her finger went up my fa-noo, nipple contact became pure PG). She lightly palpatated my face before wiping the oil off my body with paper towels. Then she proffered me a towel.
“Shower,” she gestured towards the adjacent room. “Shampoo,” she handed me a sachet of conditioner. So I did as told and went to wash myself.
Midway through lathering my hair I opened my eyes and there she was, silently drinking in the sight of me under the fall of water. I spluttered and had a coughing fit and she was at once by my side to aid in patting my back. I washed out the soap and turned off the taps. Was she now going to offer to dry me?
But no, she turned and started cleaning up the room. Curiously, I felt a little disappointed. She could’ve at least followed up with the equivalent of breakfast-in-bed the morning after. I dressed myself and thanked her in Hindi (oh yes, I know a fair few terms now). She smiled a big, beautiful smile and told me to “please come back for more”.
I walked out feeling a bit molested, a touch bewildered and slightly post coital.
I have booked in for a repeat performance tomorrow. Hey, what’s some Indian lady love if my body feels this fantastic afterwards?
(P.S: She really was a lovely women though. And her accidental (?) grazing of my private regions was all in good taste. I just think I was shocked at how the external view of the humble Indian woman can become one with no reservations when away from men behind closed doors. I also think she was rather taken with my physique and skin colour; I’m not exactly the most curvaceous and womanly of gals. Also, the pearly pale glory my skin has become without it’s abundance of tanning products was quite foreign to her. It’s just an extension of cultural boundaries that I’m not familiar with – I can’t imagine the Bowen therapy woman at Health 2000 would do her treatment with such vigour and dedication to giving a sensational massage).