Floatation Spa

Last year a new business opened next door to my dry cleaners—a “floatation spa.” The windows of the place were always coated in steam, little rivulets of water running down the glass, so I couldn’t see in as I walked from the parking lot to the cleaners to pick up my shirts.

Naturally, I was suspicious that it was a massage parlor, but what I asked the owner of my dry cleaner, he swore that it wasn’t. He said he’d been worried too, because he thought it might scare off business, but he’d been inside, had met the owners (a married couple in their 50s, he said) and the whole thing seemed legit.

“What’s the ‘floatation’ part?” I asked.

“They’ve got these big isolation tanks,” Joe replied. “They look like huge pods from a sci-fi flick. You get naked, climb inside, and float on the surface of the water. It’s so salty that even I float,” he laughed, shaking his rather large belly with both hands.

“So you tried it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “The owners gave me a free visit. Wanted to allay my concerns, I think.”

“How was it?” I asked, intrigued.

“Kind of weird at first,” he said. “But once I relaxed, it was very peaceful. They leave you in the tank for half an hour and you can’t see or hear or feel anything—well, nothing but the water you’re floating on.”

“It does sound relaxing,” I admitted.

“Yeah. Then you get a massage,” he said. “All strictly on the up and up though.” He smirked at that, reading my mind.

“What’s it cost?” I asked.

“It’s $50 for an hour. For that you get to float for 30 minutes and the massage,” he replied. “You should definitely give it a try.”

I paid for my shirts and as I passed back by the steamed up windows, I decided I would. Because I’m a triathlete, I like a good massage, and I’d heard about isolation tanks before, so this seemed like a good chance to try one out. My mind made up, I pivoted and went to the door.

When I opened the door to the spa, a blast of warm, very humid air caught me in the face, instantly wetting my skin. I was thankful my shirts were under plastic, or I’d have to get them pressed again. A middle-aged woman was at the desk. She looked Greek or Turkish, with long straight graying hair pulled back in a braid. Smiling, she waved me over to the desk and welcomed me.

“I haven’t seen you before,” she said, her voice strongly accented.

“No,” I agreed. “Joe next door was just telling me about your business and I thought I’d give it a try.”

“Ah, Joe,” she nodded. “Nice man. You want to do it now?”

“No, no,” I said. “I can’t right now. Can I set up an appointment?”

“Sure, sure,” she said, head bobbing. “When?”

“Uh, Friday evening?” I suggested.

She consulted a log book on her desk and asked,” 7:00?”

“Sure,” I replied.

“Okay. See you then,” she said.

****

I didn’t think much more about it until Friday afternoon, when I began to wonder what the experience would be like. I was too busy at work to think about it for long, but the whole thing intrigued me. I’d had lots of massages in my life, but always from professional therapists, either working out of a medical office or in their home. Something about the floatation spa made me wonder if it really was legit.

I went home, grabbed a quick dinner and then headed for the spa, arriving just before 7:00. As usual, the windows were completely obscured by moisture.

Stepping inside, I saw the owner, once again sitting at her desk. Over in the corner, a younger woman, maybe late 20s or early 30s, sat reading a magazine. She didn’t look up and I couldn’t tell if she was a customer or an employee.

“Right on time,” the owner said, smiling. “Caroline will take you back.”

The redhead in the corner looked up from her magazine, smiled at me, and uncoiled from her chair.

“Hi,” I ventured.

“Hi,” she replied, still smiling. She was pretty, but not beautiful. Long straight hair, a bit damp from the humidity in the place, her skin that pale pink that natural redheads all have. She looked like she was in her late twenties.

“Right this way,” she said, and led me down a hallway. Walking behind her, I noticed her ass, because she was wearing very tight jeans and it was, well, a nice ass. Plus, it was stare at her ass or her hair, so I picked her ass.

She led me to the second door down the hallway and opened it, stepping in ahead of me. The room itself was stark white and dominated by the large pod-like tank in the middle, its central door open. It sat there like something from outer space. Joe was right. Very sci-fi. In one corner were a shower and a table with towels and some talc. At the other end of the room was a massage table with a retractable curtain like you get in a hospital ward to provide privacy. Next to the table were bottles of various oils.

“Let me show you how this works,” she said, walking to the door of the tank. “Have you ever been in one of these before?”

“No,” I admitted. “First timer.”

“You’ll like it,” she said, still smiling. “A lot.”

She leaned into the opening in the tank and pointed to a button on the far wall. “See that? It’s the ‘get me out of here’ button. We’ll leave you in the tank for 30 minutes, but if you start to feel claustrophobic and want to get out, press that button and we’ll come and get you. And, of course, you can always just stand up and push on the door handle here,” she said, pointing to a u-shaped handle on the door itself.

“While you’re floating, try to empty your mind. You won’t be able to see or hear anything and after a few minutes you’ll get used to the sensation of floating. Once you do, you won’t be feeling much either, so it’s easier to let go of the world around you.”

“Have you done this,” I asked her.

“Oh yeah,” she said, nodding vigorously. “I love it. Mrs. Constantinos lets me have one free session a week. It’s so relaxing.”

It all seemed great to me. “And then I get a massage,” I asked.

“Right,” she said. “One of us will come get you and let you out. Then you’ll get a 30-minute massage, and you’re all done. I hope you don’t have any big plans for tonight, because all you’ll want to do is go home and sleep.” Then she giggled and it made her tits jiggle in an alluring way.

“Go ahead and take a shower over there and then all you have to do is climb into the tank, lower the door. There’s a little shelf right next to the door inside the tank for your wallet and keys. Once you’re in and have the door down, lie on your back. You’ll be amazed at how easily you float.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I think I’m all set.”

“Have fun,” she said, waving to me as she left the room.

It felt a little odd stripping down in such a large room in a public place, but I did, stepping quickly into the shower and rinsing off. Then I did as Caroline told me, placing my wallet and keys on the shelf inside the tank, climbing in, closing the door and lying back in the water. She was right. I was floating right on the surface of the water. The saline content must have been incredible.

At first it felt odd, like I was falling, but after a few minutes I relaxed, focusing on my breathing instead of the weightlessness, and found that I was able to let go of the world around me without much difficulty. It helped, of course, that I’m a yoga practitioner, so I’m used to letting go. Within what seemed like just a few minutes, I was jarred out of my meditative state by a light rapping on the side of the tank.

“Mr. Michaels?” a voice was calling.

“Yes,” I croaked.

“Time to get out sir,” the voice said.

“Okay,” I responded.

“Close your eyes, please,” the voice said.

I did as I was told and then felt a rush of fresh air as the door to the tank opened.

“Okay, you can open your eyes now,” she said. It was the owner, Mrs. Constantinos, standing there smiling down at me. The lights of the room behind her were dimmed. “You liked?”

“It’s great,” I responded truthfully.

“Very good,” she said. “Please step out now for your massage.”

Without even thinking about the fact that I was naked, I stepped out of the tank, down the two steps on the side and onto the cold tile floor. Mrs. Constantinos handed me a towel and only then did I realize I was naked.

“Please go rinse in the shower to get the salt off,” she instructed me. “Then come to the table over there.”

I padded across the tile to the shower, closed the curtain, despite the fact she’d already seen all there was to see, and rinsed quickly. Then I returned the towel to my waist and crossed the room again to the massage table.

“Lie down here, face down, please,” she said. “Take off towel too.”

Although a bit reluctant about the towel part, I lay down as instructed. To my relief, she then put a fresh towel across my waist and gave me an athletic massage. She was small, no more than 5’2” or 5’3”, but very strong and knew how to work the muscles in my back and legs. Neither one of us spoke the entire time.

When she finished, she patted me on the buttocks and said, “All done now. You can shower again if you like or just dress. I wait out front and you can pay.”

“Okay,” I muttered into the hole in the massage table.

She drew back the curtain from around us and once I heard the door click shut, I stood, retrieved my wallet and keys from the tank, returned to my clothes, and dressed. I had to admit, I felt like old pasta—completely relaxed. Caroline was right. All I wanted to do was go home and sack out.

At the front desk, Mrs. Constantinos was beaming up at me. “You like?” she asked me again.

“Very much,” I responded. It was just the two of us in the reception area now.

“We have special right now, “ she said, still beaming. “Four visits, $150. You save $50 if you buy all at once.”

I almost said no, but what the fuck, it had been great, and was just a few blocks from my house.

“Sure,” I said. “Go ahead and put it all on my card.”

“Very good,” she said, really smiling now. “Very good.”

****

Because I wasn’t dating anyone at that moment, I called the spa up on Wednesday to see if they could take me on Friday again. Mrs. Constantinos answered the phone. “Yes, yes, we have space on Friday, but not until 9:00. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” I replied and wrote it in my calendar.

When I got there on Friday night, the lights from inside glowed through the mists on the windows. Stepping inside, I was again greeted by that blast of steamy air.

This time there were two women sitting in the chairs in the lobby, as well as a man in a polo shirt and jeans. He looked at me and nodded, but the women studiously ignored me. One was filing her nails, the other reading Rolling Stone.

Caroline was at the front desk this time. “Hi,” she greeted me, smiling, as she always seemed to. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Likewise,” I said. “Mrs. Constantinos not here?”

“No,” she replied. “She goes home at 8:00. You’re right on time. Are you ready to go back?”

“Sure,” I said, following her as she got up from the desk and headed for the back hallway. Once again I watched her ass float down the hall ahead of me. It really was a nice ass.

This time she took me all the way to the end of the hall, but the room I entered was indistinguishable from the one I’d been in last week. “You know the drill, so I’ll leave you, unless you need anything,” she said, her hand on the doorknob.

“Just one question,” I said. “Who’s going to give me my massage?”

She smiled again, showing more teeth than she had before. “Why, me, of course.” Then she backed out of the room and closed the door.

As before, I showered off, climbed into the tank and closed myself in. Unlike the previous time, though, I had a bit more trouble letting go. Thinking about Caroline giving me a massage was vaguely exciting. I had no reason to assume there was going to be anything more than a massage, but she was—well—attractive, and the aura of this place still made me wonder whether it was more than it seemed.

I hadn’t been worried about the owner. She was so matronly that there was no hint of anything else. But Caroline—she seemed like maybe a bit more than just a masseuse.

Before too long, though, the silence and lack of stimuli took over and as I had the first time, I drifted off into a meditative state.

The light rapping of Caroline’s knuckles on the tank jerked me back to the real world.

“Ready?” she called through the door.

“Yep,” I said.

“Close your eyes, then,” she instructed. I did as I was told and again felt the rush of cool air as the door opened. “Step on out Tom,” she said.

Splashing a bit as I rolled over to my knees, I clambered out through the door. Caroline was standing there with a towel for me and again I realized I was buck naked in front of a woman. With Mrs. Constantinos, it hadn’t bothered me, but Caroline was a pretty woman and my cock began to tingle just a bit. I quickly took the towel and covered myself, although I noted that her eyes never left my face.

“Shower off and I’ll meet you at the table,” she said, sounding happy.

I did as I was told and within minutes was face down on the table, a towel again covering my ass.

“How do you like your massage?” she asked me. “Athletic? Gentle?”

I almost said ‘sensuous’ but she might have thrown me out. So I said, “athletic.”

“Okay then,” she replied, “here we go.”

She proceeded to work me over almost as strongly as her boss had the week before. But unlike Mrs. Constantinos, Caroline was a chatterer. She told me about her daughter (age 11), her graduate studies (exercise physiology), and her asshole landlord whom she hated. I contributed stories about my job (marketing), and my triathlon training (she’d remarked on how muscular my calves were and how tight my hamstrings were). Since we were best buddies now, when she asked me to roll over so she could massage my thighs and chest, I asked her the question I’d been dying to know the answer to.

“When I first saw this place, I assumed it was a massage parlor,” I said. She paused for just a second, both hands on my right thigh. “Do you get hit on a lot by clients?”

“All the time,” she said, her voice a little hard. “All the time.”

“What do you do when that happens?” I asked her.

“Well, the first thing I do is ask if they’re cops,” she said, voice still firm, her hands working even harder into my thigh muscles.

“Why do you ask them that?” I asked, not following.

She chuckled. “Because if they’re cops, they can’t ask for anything beyond the standard massage.” It took a second before I registered the fact that it was therefore possible to ask for more.

“Well,” I said. “I’m not a cop. So if I were to ask for more, what would you say?”

She laughed this time. “I’d say no of course!”

“Then why ask them that question at all?” I wanted to know.

“Because some of the other girls who work here are willing to do more than just the standard massage, and if a guy’s a cop, I want to be able to let them know.”

“Ah,” I said. “I see.”

“I was starting to think you were a little thick there Tom,” she said, moving now to my chest.

“Do you mind if I ask how it all works?” I said. “I’ve heard a lot about massage parlors, but have never actually been in one.”

She laughed again. “Didn’t you just hear me? You’re in one right now.”

I guess I was. “So what are you doing here then? I mean if you only give standard massages?”

“I didn’t say I never give more than the standard massage. I just said that if you asked me I’d say no.”

Now I was confused. “Why? What’s wrong with me?” I opened my eyes to look up at her. She stopped massaging me for a moment, a look in her eye I hadn’t seen before.

“Because,” she said, “If I’m going to give you that kind of massage, I would want to know at the beginning, not halfway through. I’m not into half-assed jobs.”

“Oh,” was all I could think of to say.

“Yes, ‘Oh’,” she said, smirking at me now. “So Tom, do you want that kind of massage from me?”

My brain was working furiously. My cock was communicating its strong preferences by beginning to swell under the towel she’d draped over me. “Uh—yeah,” I said at last.

“I’d like that too,” she said, not smirking any longer. She walked around behind me, sat on a rolling stool, and began massaging my neck. “You got any plans for tomorrow night? I’m working again.”

I did have plans, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. “No,” I lied. “I could come back tomorrow night. What time?”

Her fingers were working under my chin, loosening the muscles of my jaw. I was at about half-mast down under the towel now. “I think I’ve got an opening at 9:00. I’ll check for you on your way out.”

“Okay. Great,” I said. She then wrapped up the massage with a quick stroking of my cheeks and stood up.

“All done here. I’ll go check the book to make sure 9:00 is good.” And as she walked past the table, she reached down and removed the towel from my waist, exposing my mostly hard cock. “My, my—I see you’re almost ready now!”

Then I heard the curtain open, her footsteps recede, and the door open and close with a click. I lay there for a second, hard cock waving over my belly. I reached down and stroked it a couple of times just because it felt good, smiling to myself. Tomorrow night was going to be fun—much more fun than pizza, beer and ESPN with some friends.

****

Saturday was one of the longest days of my life. I started off early with a hard workout—30 miles on the bike and then an 8-mile run. After showering and eating breakfast, it was only 11:00 a.m., so I then put my nervous energy into yard work I’d been putting off for weeks. By the time 3:00 rolled around, I’d crossed off everything on my list. It’s not easy to work in your flowerbeds with a perpetual hard on, but I managed somehow. I ate a late lunch and then attacked my bills and my checkbook. By 5:00, I had my personal finances in order and I still had four hours to kill. So, the only thing left was housework. I vacuumed, I dusted, and I did laundry. By 7:30 there was nothing left to do, so I ate a light dinner, changed clothes, and went and sat on my front porch and watched the day turn to night. Finally, at 8:30 I couldn’t stand it any more. The spa was about a 20-minute walk from my house, so I hit the bricks, trying to appear nonchalant, but really wanting to run the whole way.

Instead of 20 minutes, it took me only 15, but I wasn’t willing to circle the block, so I went on inside. Instead of Caroline, the woman who’d been reading Rolling Stone the night before was at the desk. She looked up when I came in and smiled. I noticed that she had very large breasts—her cleavage exposed by the v-necked t-shirt she was wearing.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you Tom?”

“Yes,” I answered, moving toward one of the chairs along the far wall.

“Caroline will be ready for you in about 10 minutes,” she said.

“Okay. Great,” I replied. I picked up a copy of Newsweek, opened to a random page and stared at the picture, not really seeing what I was looking at.

After a couple of minutes, the woman at the desk spoke again. “My name’s Tina.”

I looked up. She was leaning forward a bit, showing me more cleavage. There was a lot of it.

“Nice to meet you Tina,” I said, trying to sound less nervous than I was. My whole body seemed to be vibrating. I don’t think I’d been this nervous about sex since I was 14.

“Caroline says you’re really nice,” she said, smiling at me.

“Thanks,” I said. I was such a conversationalist!

“Well, if you ever want someone a little different from her, I’m really good,” she said. I realized she was squeezing her tits together with her upper arms, making them look like they were about to explode out of her shirt. Jesus!

“Uh. Okay,” I stammered, my eyes now glued to her cleavage. “I’ll, uh, keep that in mind.”

“Hey,” a familiar voice sounded from the hallway. “Are you hitting on my guy,Tina?”

Caroline was standing at the entrance to the hallway, wearing jeans and a Lycra top, leaning against the wall, a smirk on her face.