Author's note: My first submission to Literotica. This story is true, and as accurate as it can be after all these years. I have only changed or been vague about names and locations, to protect real people's anonymity.
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London, 1986, just after eleven in the evening. A young man detaches himself from the crowd leaving a student bar and walks, alone, towards the nearby Tube station. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets and he tucks his head down as if against a cold wind, although it is early summer and the air is still and warm. He strides with aggressive purpose to the Tube, stops for a moment, then carries on walking. He is not yet ready for the underground journey. He is angry with himself for going to the bar that night. Because he knew that Debbie would be there - it is, after all, where they first met eight months ago. But tonight is the first time he has seen her since that dreadful phone call in which she told him, with great tenderness and tact, and many tears, that she was not ready for the kind of commitment he wanted from her, and that they should go their separate ways. "I'm so, so sorry, Rob ... You're such a sweet guy, really you are ... I'll always care about you ... I hope we can still be friends somehow."
And she was there tonight, of course. Looking beautiful and happy. Laughing and joking with a group of friends including this one guy who was sitting close to her and whose jokes seemed to make her laugh just like Rob's used to. And then she saw Rob come in and her face ... that expression ... dismay and pity and sadness. A drink was bought. Awkward pleasantries were exchanged. Rob, this is Tom, from the drama group. Pleased to meet you, Tom. Really I am. Seems like a nice guy, Rob said to Debbie when he got the chance, and realised as soon as he said it that what he thought of Tom simply did not matter.
Now Rob is walking to the next Tube station, burning off the anger. The walk takes him along a typical outer-inner-London street. Closed shop fronts, pubs, a cheap Indian restaurant, late night convenience stores. And, at the end of the street near the traffic lights, a small neon sign. It reads: SAUNA MASSAGE.
Rob realises where he is. Before he came to University - before he finally lost his virginity, before he met Debbie - he was an enthusiastic user of soft porn magazines. The newsagent's top shelf. And once he was done with the pictures and the fake readers' letters, he always found himself fascinated by the small ads in the back pages. Ads for "saunas" in London with names like "Nadine's" and "Exclusive". Once or twice back then he summoned vast reserves of courage and actually called a couple of the numbers, just to find out. It was always a woman who answered, told him what the price was for a sauna and massage, and said she couldn't say any more over the phone but that if he'd like to drop by he wouldn't be disappointed. He made a mental note of a couple of the addresses. Or rather, they just stuck in his mind somehow. And who would have thought it - his angry, tearful walk past his normal station has taken him right along one of those streets whose names he has stored in his memory this past year or two.
He approaches the shop with the neon sign. Thick red curtains are drawn across inside the front window. Another bit of neon proclaims the premises to be EXCLUSIVE. A name from the porn mag small ads. The outer door is open, but only to reveal a closed inner door with a spyhole at eye level.
Rob is a good boy. A good student. A reliable friend. A devoted boyfriend, given the chance. A well behaved son, apart from the adolescent porn habit which he thinks his parents never discovered anyway. Always striving to do the right thing. And, he thinks to himself bitterly, where has that got him? The image of Tom and Debbie laughing together, looking into each other's eyes, clouds his inner vision; his stomach churns.
He is still in front of the shop. He is a good boy. He is a good boy standing late at night in front of a neon-lit sauna-massage joint in London. He is single, no ties. His heart races. The excitement, apprehension and guilt he he used to feel when he bought porn from the newsagent are magnified a million times. He rings the doorbell of the sauna.
The delay is just long enough to make him think there's nobody there. Then, as he is about to walk on, the door opens a crack. A woman speaks, in a pleasant, London-tinged voice. "You looking for a massage, darling?"
Dry-mouthed, Rob stammers "Ye ... yes ... please."
"OK, just a sec."
The door closes; he hears a chain being taken off it, then it opens again, wide this time. "Come in, sweetheart." The speaker is concealed behind the door as she opens it, slightly disorientating Rob as he steps inside. He hears her close the door behind him as he takes in his surroundings. A clean but spartan reception area: there's a desk with a phone and a clipboard on it, a worn-looking sofa, and stairs going down into a basement. The owner of the voice steps round Rob and stands behind the desk.
She is probably about thirty, black, and beautiful. She is wearing some kind of masseuse's white coat or tunic, short sleeved, fastened with poppers down the front. It hugs her curvy, firm-looking figure very tightly, and the top couple of poppers are undone to reveal a sumptuous cleavage and a glimpse of a black lace bra. Her hair is styled into a bob. She has strong, sensual features and gorgeous eyes. "You been here before, darling?"
"Er ... no ... no I haven't."
"OK, well, it's fifteen pounds for half an hour massage plus sauna and shower." She looks at him more closely. "You ever had a massage in London before?"
Rob can barely speak. "No."
"RIght, well, the fifteen is for the sauna, shower and massage but we have a tipping system for extras, yeah?"
He looks blank. He knows he only has seventeen pounds on him. She spots his hesitation, smiles ever so slightly. "There's a cash machine just past the traffic lights, love. It's up to you what you spend. Most people find another thirty is enough. Up to you. I'm free at the moment so if you want to get some more cash and come straight back, that's fine. Up to you, yeah?"
It's up to him. And at this point he could walk away. He's already done the most transgressive thing of his whole life just by ringing the doorbell of the sauna. That could be enough. Enough to prove that he's not just a good boy and a sweet guy who gets dumped because he hasn't got what it takes to sustain a beautiful girl's affections; that there is more to him than that; that he has a dark, dangerous side. But he only walks as far as the cashpoint. Thirty pounds is nearly a week's rent. He is a student, and his parents do their best to help out but they are not wealthy. He cannot afford this, and he knows it. But he is drunk, and angry, and the woman in the sauna is very beautiful. Up to him. His hands are shaking as he withdraws thirty pounds from the machine and stuffs the banknotes into his wallet. He walks back to the sauna and rings the bell.
This time the woman opens the door straight away. "I thought I might see you again!" she says, jovially. "Right, darling, that'll be fifteen pounds, please. And I need you to sign in here."
Bizarre. On the clipboard there is some kind of attendance sheet, showing times in and out for customers. The names and signatures are all illegible. Rob supposes this must be part of the pretence that this place is a legitimate massage facility. Maybe it is, after all? But, then again, they have a tipping system for extras ... he scribbles something on the sheet and hands over twenty pounds and gets a five pound note back. The woman locks the money in the desk drawer, grabs a towel from somewhere and says "Come with me, darling." And she heads down the stairs.
With the sound of his own heartbeat thumping in his ears, Rob follows her. Facilis descensus averno. As they go down the stairs, the sound of a radio becomes louder. He emerges from the stairwell into some kind of open central space, off which there are three or four rooms with numbers on their doors. At one end there are open shower cubicles ("Showers are over there, sweetheart.") and next to them a heavy-looking wooden door with a small glass pane let into it ("And sauna's there, if you'd like to pop in."). She opens the door of room four. It is small and cramped. Along one side is a massage couch with a long, wide strip of tissue paper laid along its length. The wall above the couch is covered by mirror tiles. On the opposite wall is a framed print: an airbrushed, softcore image of a nude woman seen from behind. There is a plastic chair, and a small cabinet on which is a bottle of baby oil, a tin of talc, and a box of Kleenex. The woman hands Rob a plastic wash bag which must have been hanging on the back of the door.
"Right, darling, you can put your valuables in the bag and keep it with you. You get undressed, go in the sauna if you like, grab a shower, and when you're ready for your massage just buzz me on this here, all right?" She points to an intercom device on the wall. "Would you like a glass of water, or some juice maybe?"
"Ah ... juice ... juice would be great, thanks."
"OK sweetheart, I'll bring some down. See you in a bit, yeah?" She flashes a dazzling smile and goes back upstairs, closing the room door behind her.
To Rob's surprise, he feels absolutely calm now. And safe. Above all, safe: safe in this small basement room where nobody except the beautiful masseuse can find him. He hears a Tube train rumble close by. He places his watch, wallet and glasses in the bag, takes his clothes off, folds them neatly onto the chair and heads for the sauna, towel wrapped around his waist. He has never been in a sauna before. But then again, that's not the only thing he's trying for the first time tonight.
Inside the sauna cabin, the dry heat takes his breath away for a moment. He feels the sweat begin to flow down his back, closes his eyes, relishes the aroma of the warm wood. He lets his mind's eye linger on the image of the big-breasted masseuse in her tight tunic, and his cock begins to swell under the towel. Suddenly the sauna door opens. Rob looks up to see another man - middle-aged, paunchy. For a second Rob panics before rationalising that he can't be the only customer in this place. "All right?" says the man, not looking at Rob. "All right," replies Rob. As if the two had sat opposite each other on a train. Rob waits for what he thinks might be a decent interval before leaving the sauna, with a final nod of acknowledgement to its other occupant, and going to the shower. There, he washes off the sweat and lets his incipient erection die down. He is not quite sure what the etiquette will be come massage time. Back in room four, he dries himself off before pressing the intercom button. His voice trembles. "Er ... hi ... er ... room four ... I'm ready for my massage." He drinks from the glass of orange juice that he finds on the small cabinet. Then, naked, he leans against the couch and waits.
Somebody turns up the radio volume. U2, "Pride in the Name of Love." One of his and Debbie's songs. There is a soft knock on the room door. "Come in," he says.
As the masseuse enters the room Rob immediately notices that she has undone at least one more of the poppers on the front of her tunic; it is very obvious indeed that she is no longer wearing a bra. Rob's transfixed stare at her chest is all too blatant, and she gives a little giggle. Then she starts to speak so that Rob is compelled to look her in the eye.
"Right, darling, did you have a nice sauna and shower?"
"Y ... yes ... thanks."
"Good. My name's Shelley, by the way." She holds out a hand in greeting; Rob shakes it. "What's yours?"
"Er ... Tom."
