Rejuvenation House

“Welcome to the Rejuvenation House spa and salon,” said a young woman with a dark complexion. A local, probably, tending the desk in a short fitted white dress which appeared professional, almost clinical, while still tantalizing. “Have you an appointment?”

“Yes, Megan Strauss, room 036.” Megan presented her room card as evidence.

“Ah yes, we have you in for the standard massage,” the attendant said, “But another guest just cancelled and we have everything prepped for a full relaxathon session. It would go to waste if nobody takes their place. Do you have any other plans for the next seven hours?”

“Seven hours?” Megan staggered at the number. “I mean, I couldn’t possibly. I have lunch plans… and I can’t possibly be away from…” Her instincts had taken over, telling her that much time just for herself was selfish, wasteful, unprofessional. That she had work to do. But then, another feeling washed that away like a drawing in the sand. “You know what, I’m on vacation. Could someone let my sister know I won’t be joining her for lunch?”

“Of course,” said the attendant leading Megan into the changing rooms. “I’m a little jealous, actually. I understand it’s quite an experience.”

The audience was treated to a scene of Megan’s silhouette undressing through a frosted changeroom door. Dropping her boxy slacks and shapeless golf shirt, the shadow of her long lean, statuesque form was revealed. She peeled away her undergarments. Inspired by the spa environment to linger and stretch, she arched her back and pushed her modest breasts up and out

She emerged, pulling the terry cloth robe over the white tube top and bikini bottoms she’d been given.

It began simply enough with a soak in a private whirlpool, surrounded by aromatic candles. Once settled, a man with a voice like melted chocolate entered the room, and let her in a guided meditation. Simple and soothing, just enough to help her stay focused on the moment and forget about work for a while.

Then a series of mud baths, and a salt scrub, meant to revitalize her skin. She enjoyed them more than she expected. The meditation had helped her let go of her inclination to analyze the chemistry and biology of the process. She could instead attend more to the various textures and temperatures she was experiencing.

All this was, she later decided, lulling her into a false sense of security, as next was a deep tissue massage.

She laid on a table, feeling quite soothed already, anticipating another mild and relaxing session. The woman who entered to provide the massage was sturdy, matronly, with forearms like a construction worker.

She did some gentle probing around Megan’s major muscle groups. “This is going to take some work,” she said, and then began to stretch, herself, as if preparing for a wrestling match.

The massage was as expertly enacted as it was brutal. The masseuse dug deep, right to the threshold of pain. The woman seemed to know Megan’s limits perfectly, pushing just up to the edge of her crying out before backing off. After each attack, Megan’s tolerance increased slightly and the woman pushed harder.

Every muscle in her body was given this treatment. The knots she’d spent a lifetime cultivating through stress and neglect were shredded under the woman’s powerful hands, but not without collateral damage. It felt as though she were being destroyed and rebuilt, the subject of a sculptor rather than a masseuse.

By the end, she was utterly spent. Weak, shaky, delirious from the adrenaline her body had been feeding her in response to the ****. She needed to be helped to the recovery chamber.

Two strong men helped her lay back in a shallow pool of crystal clear oil and left her there to float. It was dense, so she floated easily on its surface, which was good for the massage had left her too weak to swim. The liquid was body temperature, so if she didn’t move, she could barely feel it. The lights faded unto utter darkness, leaving her senses entirely deprived.

Briefly she lamented being left only with the sensations of her sore and trembling body, but then… fingers.

They started at her extremities. One pair of hands on each of her hands and feet, another on her head. Delicate touches, silky from the oil, slid along and between each finger and toe. Slowly they ventured farther sliding, rubbing, caressing her palms and soles of her feet. All the while soothing fingers ran along her scalp.

It was exquisite.

Too many sensations to focus on a single one, they pulled her consciousness around her body with them. So soothing she hovered at the edge of sleep, so pleasurable she couldn’t dream of falling completely.

Whether minutes or hours later, she couldn’t tell, the hands moved inward, up her calves and forearms, over her forehead and cheeks, and with them another sensation arose, desire. She wanted more, for them to reach higher, to grip tighter, to release a whole other kind of tension.

Slowly, too slowly, they worked their way inward, soothing the muscles in her neck, arms and thighs. All the while stoking a fire at her core. In the silence of the bath, the tiny moan she was unable to contain echoed like thunder.

Hands began to slide along her chest, back, and belly. Tips of fingers would sometimes run along the edge of the scant garments they’d given her, a tease that they might dip under, to rub a breast or sink into her folds, but they to infuriatingly **** to do so.

They would push against that boundary, and retreat. Then repeat minutes later, a millimeter farther, a tiny bit more forceful, as though building to something.

The teasing stoked her fires relentlessly, building her higher and more needful than she could ever remember being, but was also so soft and relaxing that it held her in the delirium at the edge of sleep. An impulse to touch herself grew, for her own fingers to throw herself over the edge of bliss her body was demanding, but her arms would not respond. She felt paralyzed as if in a dream. “Please,” she murmured in her desperation.

The hands though, refused. They slid all over her, caressing every piece of her body except those she craved. She was overwhelmed with pleasure, but denied the release of a need that climbed ever higher. Every time she though it had reached a precipice, it was merely a plateau.

The erotic sounds of gasping, moaning, begging started to fill the space. They sounded distant and foggy through the oil which filled her ears, but stoked the fires within her higher, none the less. She was too delirious with want to recognize she was the one producing them.

Held at the brink of orgasm, too weak to move, too relaxed to think and, too overwhelmed with need to have any desire to stop it, she lost all sense of time and self. She became a conduit for pleasure and nothing else, until her mind and body could endure no more, and she lost consciousness.

She had the vaguest of recollections of being toweled off.

There was a slight awareness of her hair being washed.

Her first sensible thought was that a woman staring at her looked strangely familiar, like someone she had known in her youth. A friend, or maybe a rival she had left behind during her residency after medical school.

Full awareness struck her like an ocean wave. She was looking in the mirror. She was in a salon chair, a stylist just finishing work on her hair, while another applied a final polish to her nails.

Whatever they had done to had worked wonders. The wrinkles from stress were gone, the tension from carrying a whole hospital’s worth of worry felt like a distant memory. Her hair was no longer a mass of barely tamed frizz, but a glossy cascade of dark curls. The strands of grey had somehow been migrated to a single streak of white which danced down one side of her face, seeming playful rather than aged.

She lingered in the changeroom on her way out, admiring her naked form. She looked like a runway model: long and lean, with radiant skin, glowing hair, and relaxed in a way she’d forgotten was even possible. The fire that had been kindled was still burning inside of her, though she mustered enough restraint not to try to quench it in the changing booth.

Putting her clothes back on felt like putting a masterpiece into a brown paper bag. She resolved to find a wrapping which better respected its contents as soon as she had the chance.

The walk back to her cabana was done at a considered pace. For one, pride demanded she see if her makeover would turn any heads. That it did gave her a little thrill. Also, while her muscles no longer complained of the deep tissue massage, they were still weak and trembling from the ordeal.

Finally, and critically, she worried that if she walked too fast, the friction might bring her to orgasm right there on the pool deck.

She found her sister, Tabitha, lounging on the porch of their cabana. She wore a one-piece bathing suit with a print based off some video game armor. Though it was a modest cut, the lines drew focus to her breasts and pubic area, and her supple form seemed to make any fitted clothing seem lude. She also wore large dark sunglasses which hid her eyes, allowing her to watch other guests as much ash she pleased.

Megan wasn’t even sure Tabitha was awake until she said “Jesus fuck, Meg, I hardly recognized you. Did they peel you like a banana or something?”

“Something like that. It was quite an experience.” She found herself repeating what the attendant had said.

“Happy ending?” Tabitha teased.

“God, I wish!” Megan said in an accidental moment of unrestrained honesty.

Tabitha gasped in shock and delight. “Megan Strauss! I would have never thought you capable of such an utterance.”

Choosing to rise above her sister’s taunting, Megan opened their door and sashaying inside said “I. Am. On. Vacation.”

Door closed and locked, blinds drawn, Megan tore off her clothes and attacked her clit and nipples with fury. The **** was so fierce as to be painful, but that only enflamed her pleasure further. The orgasm erupted in seconds with a **** she’d never known from her fingers or anyone else’s. It was a toe curling, jaw clenching, utterly unbridled release. She had to bury her face in the down pillows to avoid the whole resort hearing her come.

Her last thought before falling utterly asleep, was that she wanted more.