Accept Helga's offer of a massage

"I believe I will take you up on your offer," you say.

"Wonderful!" Helga smiles warmly and gives your shoulder a squeeze. "I will leave your key on the bar. I'll meet you in your room in half an hour. Just need to get changed."

As you follow the plus size woman back into the tavern's kitchen you wonder if she might have an ulterior motive. She didn't come onto you, but there was a bit of tension there. Maybe she was just jealous of how her husband was eyeing you.

"It's right upstairs," Helga says.

You find the room key, wine and crisps behind the bar. At the door to the room you fumble with the key. You pass the wine and crisps off to Worm and snap at him not to look at you. Once inside you practically collapse onto the bed. You pour a cup full of the sour red wine and munch away at the crisps. You've only had a few bites when the weariness of the day begins to overwhelm you. Rather than sink into sleep you decide to relax a little. There is a shoddy robe hanging in the room's tiny closet. It looks like a dog's toy, but at least it smells clean.

You order Worm into the closet and then undress, groaning as the chunky boots come off and your tortured feet are allowed to spread out. You strip out of the corset next, breathing a sigh of relief as your voluptuous body is allowed to return to its natural positions. Not that you're showing any sag, you think, as you admire yourself in the silver mirror. You catch Worm doing the same and you quickly slam the closet door shut. The crinkling vinyl comes off last. You're positively a mess underneath the skintight outfit, your skin is clammy with sweat and red where all the zipperd were in contact with your sensitive flesh.

You're examining a particularly deep zipper mark above your mons when a juanty knock comes at the door. You shrug on the robe and cinch it tight around your waist. It only comes down to the middle of your thigh, meaning if you bend forward at all your bum will be airing out. No time to dress back in your bodysuit. You unlock and open the door.

Helga has cleaned up quite nicely, you must admit. She's bathed and smells of scented oils and applied a tasteful amount of makeup. Her unruly blond curls have ben pulled back and tied up with a cord. She's wearing a modest vintage-style camisole that still manages to accentuate her huge breasts and reveals twin mounds of pale cleavage. She has a gray towel draped over one arm and a box almost like a hand-made wooden fisherman's box.

"Good, you've undressed," she says, blustering past you and into the room. "Why don't you have a lie down on your tummy and we'll get started."

Your stomach suddenly tightens with nerves and you begin to have second thoughts. Helga, seeming to notice, opens her wooden box and lifts out two tin cups and a bottle of wine.

"We don't have to jump right to it," she says. "Let's have a drink."

"I already opened mine," you say.

She shakes her head and uncorks the bottle, pouring a full cup for each of you.

"It will relax you," she said. "It the good stuff."

It is, surprisingly. Very sweet and restores warmth and life to your tired limbs. You and Helga begin talking, first about the tavern, then about Helga's unhappy marriage to Olaf - "He's after every girl in town except for me" - and then you're through most of the bottle without even realizing. You feel a little flustered and laugh a little too loudly, but otherwise you're handling yourself quite well.

"So now are you ready to give it a go?" asks Helga.

"I am!" you reply with enthusiasm. "But turn around while I lie down."

Helga laughs at your shyness, particularly given your bodysuit that she called, with a good-natured giggle, "A bit whoreish." She turns around and you quickly untie your robe, let it fall to the floor, and stretch out naked on your front. Helga has a lovely view of your bum, but with your legs tightly together that's all she'll see. You tell her it's okay and she turns around, favoring you with a low whistle. You go three different shades of red at the older woman admiring your body.

"Very nice," she compliments, trailing a hand down your back to your bum and goosing you with a squeeze. You swat her hand away and both of you laugh about it. "Alright now, just relax. Lay your head down."

Helga fills her palm with oil.

"Where was it? You shoulder?"

"And my neck," you say, pointing to the spot that hurts the most.

Helga's warm, oily hand descends on your shoulder. Her hands are big and strong and yet soft, yielding when the pain becomes too great from the intense pressure she exerts. She squeezes and twists your muscles, leans her weight against your back and circles the heel of her hand into your sorest spots. You don't recognize many of the techniques from your extensive history of professional massages, but she is certainly a skilled amateur. You groan loudly as she releases the tension locked up in your shoulderblade.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asks close enough that you feel her breath on your neck. You turn your head to the side so that she can see your smile.

"It feels amazing."

The pain in your shoulders and back recede and after many minutes Helga turns her attention to your lower back, finding places with her oily hands that you didn't even know were tense. Her practiced massage releases every kink in your back and you melt to her touch. She spreads more oil across your shoulders and massages it into your neck. This has a different feel. Warmth becomes a pleasant tingling. Now you are very sensitive, your back and shoulders responding to the lightest touch of her fingertips.

"Turn over so I can do your front," she says.

Maybe it's the wine lowering your inhibitions, but you don't even think twice. You roll onto your back on the bed, your nipples hard from all of Helga's stimulation. She stands over you, her eyes deliberately wandering over your naked body. You make no effort to cover yourself, from heaving bosoms to the bare mound of your quim. There is a dew of sweat at her forehead and on her lips from the hard work of the massage and it makes her seem particularly attractive.

"There are different muscles on the front," Helga says, measuring out oil from a glass bottle into her palm. "I'll begin with the same base, but you'll need a different remedy."

She applies the oil, beginning with your flat tummy, her hands pushing the tingling concotion across your smooth skin, to just above your pubis and back up. Each time she leans over you her breasts heave in her camisole and threaten to spill out in a velvety tide of pale flesh. Somehow, the top holds.

Helga is surprisingly rough with your breasts. You smile up at her as she circles them with her hands, mashing and squeezing until they glisten like the rest of your body. She applies oil to your thighs and calves and even your feet. She ends with your vulva. You quiver with anticipation, expecting her to stimulate you more than the all-too-brief touch you receive. Her glancing fingers against your clit leave you craving more.

Helga puts aside the oil and retrieves two lengths of black silk from her box.

"Now you have to trust me," she says. "Cross your wrists above your head and cross your ankles."

"You're going to tie me up?" you're not at all afraid of the gentle wench.

"I'm going to bind your wrists and ankles so you can't wriggle away while I apply the wax treatment. Now, cross your wrists and cross your ankles."

She seems to be commanding and not asking, a surprising and sudden turn of character. Stranger still, you really want to do as she says just to find out what she has in store for you.