No Pain, No Gain!

Hey Ya'll, 

Ever wondered what its like to be a lady who lunches all the time. An unemployed busy-body whose husband is always working away, you probably have children in private school, and a friend circle which including the names Pippa, Harriet and Felicity. A wonderfully luxurious cocktail of Pilate's, Champagne afternoon tea and sneaky Tuesday afternoons stolen with a gardener whom tends to not only your roses but you as well, right after Murder She Wrote. Ahh yes, and the husband doesn't even know a thing! 

One thing that posh ladies who are unemployed do is go for spa days and massages on a regular basis, and as a wanna-be-posho, I try to keep up with this trend by booking in a massage every couple of months or so to relieve all the tension that builds up through people generally just getting on my fucking wick! However, my normal salon, which is college based training new, upcoming college-grad's on the best techniques and methods, was closed for the summer break and so I booked in with somewhere new. And so, walking into the new Chiropractic Surgery and taking a seat I glanced round the converted 19th Century waiting room. As the pre-twenty-something receptionist handed me a clipboard I read through the registration form before filling it out as best I could. After a quick pop to the little girls room I was ready to be rubbed down and have all the tension of the past few weeks eased away. 

Soon I was greeted by a tall gentleman, softly spoken with a wonderfully smooth and relaxing voice, possibly even sexy to an extent. He welcomed me into the small but airy consulting room and ushered me to sit on the massage table. Seating myself we talked for a few minute about my specific areas of tension and 'tight areas'. But with such a chocolatey-velvet voice I struggled not to imagine this as a weird porno whereby I would have added extras to complete my "treatment". To look at the poor man he wasn't that much of a painting, or at least not for me. He was no Mr. Warehouse put it that way. But Mr. Masseuse was very calming and relaxed in his attitude, especially given the fact he was sat bouncing softly on a Pregnancy Ball. Fairly young, probably no older than early-thirties, blonde hair - short but messy and with a twang in his husky voice that seemed European, or at the very least well travelled I listened carefully as he grilled me on not drinking enough water. 

As he got up and left the room, I undressed down to my panties as I usually would and did that odd shuffle you do when trying to get onto the massage table whilst attempting to keep my dignity and not look like a dead seal by the time the Masseuse comes back, which is always milliseconds after they initially leave. Placing my head in the doughnut I saw two feet appear, clad in a socks and sandals combo. 
"Yes, that's defiantly got 'home-schooled in Prague' written all over it!" I thought to myself as he lubed - I mean oiled up! Getting cringier by the minute he awkwardly asked if he could undo my bra and after saying yes politely it was unclasped quicker than you could say 'Playaaa'. 

As he started to work on my shoulders I winced at the pain. 
"This is meant to be relaxing not punishing?!" I pondered, gritting my teeth through the searing sting. "Or maybe that's what he wanted?!" my mind said, altering what was a normal visit to the Chiropractors into something much seedier. 
"Wouldn't it be hilarious if there was a mirror on the floor so you can see your face crumple when you are kneaded within an inch of your life by a smooth talking, beardy European man with no clear sense of sandal-etiquette" I chuckled to myself as I braced once more for his powerful push. 

As time went on I wondered if it would ever end and I will just get a nice smooth caress. No. The pain and struggle continued as Mr. Masseuse stretched, pulled and pushed my back like he was making a loaf of bread. 
"I will pay for my kindness and inability to saying ease up on the pressure tomorrow" I thought to myself wrenching once more as he Mr. Masseuse bore into my spine once more with his knuckles. It was almost laughable in some instances, especially when he went up round the back of my neck, a sensitive, sweet-spot anyway. I think the fact that he was discussing a "friend" of his whom enjoyed the feel of ladies walking on his back didn't help to stifle the sniggers and in all fairness I was just waiting to feel something oddly shaped and sticky on my back. 

But again and again I watched those socked-up, granddad-trainer-sandals pace in front and to the sides of me ready to deliver the sharp pinch of back-fat. Suddenly, as if the pain in my shoulders and spinal column wasn't enough to leave me paralysed, I felt a sharp jab on my Love-handle. And again, this time rolling the burn from my tail-bone to my hip. This had gone from what I envisaged as an oddly erotic, 1980's style porno, to a full blown BDSM, bondage sesh with zero safe-word. No longer could I contain my torture and out escaped a little "Eeeep"!

"What was that?!" I scolded myself, wondering if Mr. Masseuse though he may have stepped on a mouse. But alas, the agony had somewhat eased. I was tender in a spot I never even knew was tender! I was more sore their than anywhere else on my body. But after a few more 'oohs', 'ahhs' and "Eeeeps", the agonising manoeuvres were met with some reassuring 'hmms' from Mr. Masseuse. Kindly he said that my sides and the bottom of my back was seized up and needed to be released. Listening to his creamy tones I soaked up the moments of painlessness. But then a jab. Right to the buttocks. And then the other. Right in the middle of each Arse-cheek. Under my bum. On the sides of my bum  and back to the middle of each cheek again. "That hurt. That really hurt!" I squealed in my head. Agreeing with my pain he pokes some more along my thighs and concludes that whilst they are not the problem, my derrière, love-handles and calves were all seized up and needed to be "worked on". 

Facial distortion over with I was finished off (No Pun Intended!) with a firm rub to the nape of my neck to which made me squirm with a cold mixture of delight, tickles and the gratefulness that my hour-long ordeal with Mr. Masseuse was nearly over with. But then, just as I had contained my giggles so far he came out with the phrase "Mmm, yes. Your neck is spasticated." And oh dear. It had slipped out in a pure gaffeur of excitement and hilarity. Laughing and chuckling away to myself, imagining partly the look on my Mr. Masseuse's face and also reliving those words in my head I tried to excuse my behaviour by stating that I was ticklish their. I mean how old was I - Four!? 

With a buttery-smooth response, slightly sexy in a way from Mr. Masseuse saying that "it's be its OK to be ticklish" I was brought back into the room, in my imagination now with red and black walls, dimly lit and smelling of candle wax; When in reality it was still light outside and with a cool but warm breeze through the third floor sash window. Slowly and rather gently wiping off the excess oils Mr. Masseuse exited the room and I swiftly shot up and snatched at my clothes, shoving them on as quickly as I could, knowing Mr. Masseuse was waiting behind the frosted glass door. After I was dressed I invited him back into his room and listened to all the things he had to say about my body and how to try and alleviate some of the stresses in it. 

Granted I have probably over-exaggerated the whole BDSM, rough and ready, porno vibe but in my mind it sounds better than a whitewashed Chiropractic Surgery in which a Professional well-educated man with a slight accent massages the aches and pains of an overly excited twenty-three-year-old. Nevertheless I left the Treatment room, glad to be home safe in the knowledge that I will not be signing up to a life-time of luxurious mani's, pedi's and massages any time soon, and certainly not to the sado-masochistic Mr. Masseuse with his dulcet tones, heavy handed nature and odd footwear choices

'Til next time, Love A.Lou xx