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.
