Exfoliating Shower

The corridor is lined with glowing, recessed lighting that guides you to a set of sleek, silver doors. They glide open silently, revealing a pristine white room with a massive circular glass pod at its center. The glass is heavily frosted, obscuring the details of whatever lies inside, though the soft interior lighting gives it an ethereal glow.

Waiting beside the pod is a petite, serene-looking attendant with a clipboard. She has sharp, clever eyes and glossy black hair pulled into a tight ballet bun. Her pale green silk uniform drapes flawlessly over her curves, and her name tag reads Suki.

"Welcome to the Purification Chamber, John," she says, her voice a soothing, practiced murmur with just a hint of playful warmth beneath it. "Before you enter the sanctuary, we need to wash away the city. Environmental contaminants, stress residue, dead skin cells. It prepares your pores for today's therapies."

She taps the glass pod with a manicured nail.

"Here's how this works. You'll step inside the chamber and disrobe completely. When you're ready, pass your clothing, shoes, phone, wallet—everything—through the retrieval slot here." She gestures to a slim, dark opening at waist height on the pod's exterior. "I'll secure your belongings while the purification cycle runs. The cycle is fully automated. Warm mist, hydro-massage jets, and a gentle air-dry. You'll exit on the opposite side into the Atrium hallway."

Suki smiles—a sweet, perfectly professional smile that somehow still makes your stomach flip.

"Any questions?"

You shake your head. It seems straightforward enough. A little elaborate, sure, but this whole place is elaborate.

"Wonderful. Step inside whenever you're ready."

You step through the glass door. It seals behind you with a soft hiss. The interior is warm and softly lit, the frosted glass turning the outside world into a blur of pale green and white.

Through the glass, Suki's muffled voice: "Go ahead and undress, John. Pass everything through the slot."

You strip efficiently—suit jacket, button-down, undershirt, belt, slacks, socks, and finally your boxers. Naked, you bundle the whole pile together and push it through the slim retrieval slot. You hear Suki's soft hum of acknowledgment as she receives it on the other side.

"Thank you," she calls. "The cycle will begin momentarily. Just relax."

The warm mist starts to fill the chamber. You close your eyes, tilting your head back into the spray, letting the heat work into your shoulders.

Through your closed lids, you catch a flicker of movement—a shadow shifting against the frosted glass, low and quick, gone as soon as it registers. You crack one eye open. Nothing but pale green blur and drifting steam. Probably just Suki moving around out there, doing whatever attendants do. Or a trick of the light through the mist. You're an accountant, not a paranoid conspiracy theorist. You close your eyes again and let the jets work.

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"Oh, he has no idea what's happening on the other side of that glass."

The studio audience erupts into giggles as the massive LED screen shows the frosted silhouette of John, arms lifting to wash his hair, his broad shoulders and narrow waist backlit in perfect, mouth-watering outline. Somewhere in the third row, a woman in a leopard-print top has her phone out, filming the screen itself despite the usher's frantic gesturing. On the right of the screen: Suki, still standing beside the pod, her serene professional mask completely dissolved into wicked delight.

She turns directly toward the hidden camera—the one she knows is there—and her eyes sparkle with mischief.

"Ladies," Chloe narrates, stalking the stage, "our girl Suki is about to give us a very thorough preview. And hey—remember that little referral tip we got before booking this one?" She raises an eyebrow at the camera, smirking. "Whoever called that in? Girl, you were *not* lying. We've got so much material to work with today, it's almost unfair."

Suki sets the bundle of clothes aside and turns back to the frosted glass. She presses her palm flat against it, right alongside the silhouette of John's chest. Then, slowly, theatrically, she sinks to her knees.

The audience screams. Somewhere near the front, a cluster of women start up a rhythmic chant of "Su-ki! Su-ki!" that ripples backward through the tiers.

Suki positions herself directly in front of the blurred outline of his groin. She tilts her head, appraising the silhouette with an exaggerated, scholarly frown. Then she extends both hands, holding her index fingers apart—measuring. She widens the gap. Widens it more. Her eyes go huge in mock astonishment.

"Oh, wow," Chloe howls, clutching her chest. "Suki, you absolute menace!"

Suki isn't done. She cups her hands around her mouth and leans toward the silhouette, her lips pursed in an exaggerated, silent kiss aimed directly at the shadow between his legs. She mimes a slow, deliberate lick up the length of the silhouette, her tongue tracing the frosted glass.

The audience is in hysterics. A woman two rows back actually slides off her seat entirely, cackling on the floor while her friends howl and try to haul her back up. Others clutch each other, stamping their feet, wiping tears of laughter.

"He's just washing his hair in there!" Chloe shrieks. "He thinks he's getting exfoliated! Suki, you deserve a raise!"

Suki stands, smooths her uniform, and retrieves John's clothes. She turns to the hidden camera one last time, winks, and carries the bundle to the metallic drawer in the wall. She places everything inside with ceremonial slowness, then presses a button. The drawer retracts into the wall with a mechanical clunk-whirrrrr and disappears down an internal chute.

Suki retrieves a single white robe from a hidden compartment and waits.

-----------

Inside the chamber, the warm air-dry finishes. A soft chime echoes, and the glass door on the far side slides open—the one leading into a softly lit hallway.

You step out, blinking, feeling remarkably refreshed. Then you remember.

Your clothes.

You circle back around the pod, peeking your head around the edge. Suki is still there, standing perfectly composed, holding a folded white robe.

"Oh, hey," you say, your voice cracking slightly. "Uh—can I get my clothes back?"

Suki's expression remains perfectly, professionally serene. "Oh, John," she says, her voice dripping with honeyed sympathy. "Didn't you read the agreement? All garments are securely vaulted for the duration of your journey. It's part of our purification protocol. External fabrics can reintroduce contaminants."

She extends the robe toward you.

"This is your resort attire. Please don it and proceed to the Atrium. Your belongings will be returned at the conclusion of your visit."

You stare at her. Then at the robe. Then back at her.

"I don't... is there anything to wear under the robe?"

Suki's smile doesn't waver. "The robe is the attire, John."

A long, horrible pause.

"Enjoy your journey."

You take the robe. She turns and glides away, the silver doors hissing shut behind her.

You stand there, completely naked, holding a robe that feels thin as tissue paper. The cool air of the hallway ghosts across your bare skin. You signed the paperwork. You agreed to the storage. You can't exactly chase down a spa attendant and demand your boxers back.

Swallowing hard, you pull the white robe on. It's incredibly soft, but dangerously light. The hem barely brushes the tops of your knees. Beneath the fabric, you are completely, undeniably bare. Every shift of your weight sends the terrycloth brushing against your groin, a startling jolt of friction against skin that is suddenly, acutely sensitive.

You secure the magnetic clasps, one on your hip and one on your chest, take a deep breath, and walk down the hallway.

The corridor opens into the Atrium, and you stop dead.

It's a massive, sunlit oasis filled with lush greenery, trickling water features, and velvet lounging pods. And it is filled with women.

Dozens of them. Gorgeous, polished women lounging with magazines, sipping champagne, chatting softly. Most wear the same white robes, though some are in sleek swimsuits or yoga gear. Female attendants in pale green silk glide between them with trays of fruit and flutes of sparkling wine.

Every single person in the room is composed, elegant, and entirely in her element.

And then, there's you. The only man. Frozen at the entrance, clutching your lapels, hyper-aware that there is absolutely nothing between your most private parts and the cool marble floor.

A stunning blonde on a velvet sofa looks up from her book. Her eyes lock onto yours. A slow, amused smile spreads across her glossed lips.

Heat crawls up the back of your neck, spreading into your ears, and you can't tell anymore if it's dread or something far more traitorous curling low in your stomach. Every instinct screams at you to bolt back the way you came—except there's nowhere to go, no clothes to retreat into, nothing but this thin scrap of terrycloth and dozens of unbothered, curious eyes.

---

"Okay, ladies," Chloe announces, waving a hand at the screen where John stands frozen in the Atrium doorway. "Time for our first official poll. On your keypads, rate our accountant's robe-game on a scale of one to ten—one being 'get back in the shower,' ten being 'rip it off him right now.'"

The audience erupts into laughter, fingers jabbing at keypads as the screen displays a live poll graph, the bar rocketing toward ten.

"We'll be right back after this break—and if you were voting 10, then trust me - you do not want to miss what happens next."