Hot spring place or something

The last pizza of the night was always the weirdest, and this one was no exception. The address led him to a narrow, unmarked door squeezed between a boarded-up pawn shop and a place that exclusively sold mismatched teacups. A flickering neon sign, shaped like a steaming rock, buzzed ominously.

Here was the thing: this wasn’t his first time here. But every damn time he came here, he had to double-check. The vibes around this address were plain weird.

He checked the order slip again. ‘Aethereal Springs. Again.’ He wanted to sigh.

He pushed the door open, a little bell jingling overhead. The air inside was thick with the smell of sulfur and sandalwood. A middle-aged brunette emerged from a beaded curtain, her smile warm and immediate. She was the manager of Aethereal Springs.

“Ah! You are here! And right on time, as always,” the hot spring manager greeted. She took the large pizza box from him. “Your punctuality… it has a very pure spirit. The pizza always arrives with such positive energy.”

“Uh, thanks?” he said, fumbling for the credit card reader. “Just doing my job.”

“No, no. It is more than that.” She waved away the machine. “This one is on the house. And I insist you take something for yourself.” She handed him a small, wooden token. “A complimentary soak. You look like you carry much tension in your shoulders.”

He stared at the token. “In there?” He gestured vaguely toward the beaded curtain, from which a low, inviting gurgle could be heard.

“It is a singular spring. Very special. Very spiritual. You will find it… clarifying.” Her dark eyes twinkled. “Go on. No one is here at this hour. You will have it all to yourself. Ah, and don’t worry, I will pay you. As long as you first take my offer.”

“Err…”

“See?” She showed him the dollar bills. “I’m not lying. Have some faith, hm?”

“O-okay…”

Welp. Guess he was doing this. Entering a shady artificial hot spring store. Gotham was fucking weird.

The changing room was a tiny, cedar-paneled closet. The pizza guy shrugged out of his red uniform jacket, the damp Gotham chill still clinging to the fabric. His jeans came next, then his socks. He hesitated, his fingers hooked in the waistband of his boxers.

‘Looks like no one is here either.’

With a final shrug, he pushed them down.

The cool air of the room hit his skin, raising goosebumps. He was obviously generously endowed, even soft. His length, a solid nine inches, rested heavily against his thigh, and his full sac hung low beneath it. He quickly wrapped a small, rough towel around his waist, the thin fabric doing little to conceal the prominent bulge. He took a deep breath and slid the wooden door open.

He probably should have realized that since there was only one hot spring that the place did not belong to one singular gender. It was a mixed hot spring.

A cloud of mineral-scented steam washed over him. The spring was a natural-looking stone pool, the water dark and impossibly clear, lit from below by a soft, amber light. And it was not empty.