An Afternoon Of Surrender

The silken touch of her hands felt exquisite on me. But it wasn't just the body that felt good, it was the mind which felt a calming excitement. I had never till now imagined that a woman's touch could elicit feelings of arousal in my hitherto unexplored soul.

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The past few months had drained me. To be honest, it had been more than just a phase. Ever since I had moved from the branch office to the zonal one, life had become a relentless grind. I had walked into the new role imagining some semblance of order, a little less chaos. Instead, I found myself buried under a workload that never seemed to pause, with erratic timings and pressures that bled into every part of my day.

On top of that, I still had a home to run, which, in my case, meant taking care of Rohan. He was just one person, but it was still my family, and I took pride in looking after it. Only, pride wasn't enough to keep exhaustion at bay.

I had never been a fitness enthusiast. Even during quieter times, the gym was more of an occasional indulgence than a routine. Now, it had vanished from my life altogether. With so much to juggle, my health had slowly unravelled. One diagnosis followed another--thyroid imbalance, early diabetes, polycystic ovaries, inexplicable aches in places I hadn't even paid attention to. By the time each day ended, I was too tired to think, let alone move. Frustration had started to creep into my voice, even in the most mundane conversations.

And then there was the weight. It crept up silently, refusing to be ignored. Clothes clung tighter each week, and the folds on my body grew more stubborn, more visible. Every glance at the mirror reminded me of a version of myself I no longer recognised.

One evening, when the pain in my lower back had left me nearly immobile, Rohan brought up the idea of getting a massage. He knew it wasn't a fix, but something about his tone told me he meant it as more than a casual suggestion.

The next day, he handed me a number. "Soumita," he said. "Spoke well of by a friend. Call her."

So I did. I spoke to her on Wednesday. She sounded soft-spoken, unhurried. We settled on Sunday, 3 in the afternoon. Rohan would be away at his friend's, and I would finally have the house, and my aching body, to myself.

By the time Sunday arrived, I had almost forgotten about the appointment. At quarter to three, the doorbell rang.

"Good afternoon, Ma'am. I am Soumita."

She stood at the door, appearing to be in her mid-thirties, a couple of inches shorter than me. Dressed in a simple blue and parrot green sari, she looked every bit the quintessential married Bengali woman.

A gentle roll of her stomach showed between the end of her blouse and the pleats tucked just below her navel. On her wrists were red and white conch shell bangles, along with a gold-plated iron one on the left. A neat streak of vermillion parted her hair with quiet pride. Her eyes were large, the kind that held your gaze a moment longer than necessary, and her smile was warm in a way that did not seem practised. It came from somewhere real.

"Please come in." I tried to return the smile, though I suspected a watchful eye might have caught the flicker of irritation in mine. She was early. I had expected her at three.

"I am sorry, Ma'am. I came a little early," she said, her tone almost apologetic.

"Give me a couple of minutes, Soumita. I was speaking with a friend." I tried to soften my voice.

Truth be told, I had been in the middle of a teasing exchange with a colleague whose wedding was around the corner. We were just getting into the kind of playful mischief that made our afternoons more bearable. Her sudden arrival had broken the rhythm.

I could have asked her to wait, but my colleague had nudged me to go ahead, with a promise to give her all the details later.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," I said, handing her a glass of water and attempting a more cordial tone.

"It's really fine, Ma'am. I should be apologising for arriving early," she replied with another easy smile.

As she took a sip, I noticed how effortlessly fluent her English was, crisp and polished. There was a knowing amusement in her eyes, as though she could guess I had not exactly been discussing grocery lists. It felt like she was saying,

I know what kind of chats happen when you are alone at home on a Sunday afternoon

.

"Call me Rita," I said, hoping to shed some of the formality. "Ma'am makes me feel like I am back at work." More than anything, I just wanted to ease the awkwardness. Afterall, I would soon be half-naked in front of her, or so I told myself.

She did not seem surprised. In fact, she adapted to the shift with such ease that I felt momentarily disarmed.

"Rita, I would like to ask you a few questions before we begin. Is that alright?"

As she asked, she slipped her phone into a large Hidesign handbag. The bag caught my attention. It was elegant, handcrafted, and clearly expensive. Something about it felt slightly out of place.

A professional masseuse carrying a designer bag?

It made me wonder, albeit briefly, if there was more to her work than she had let on.

Perhaps she offered services beyond massage

! The thought lingered for a moment before I dismissed it. It was her life. Her body. Who was I to judge?

"Please go ahead," I said, unsure of what she meant to ask.

"What is a normal week like for you?"

The question caught me slightly off guard. It did not sound like idle small talk. Maybe she was trying to put me at ease, but there was a calm seriousness in her voice that suggested this was part of her process.

"Hectic," I replied. I wanted to elaborate, but no other word captured it quite as accurately.

She nodded, her smile gentle. "That much I already guessed. Your husband's friend mentioned you were a working professional, someone with a demanding schedule. I know a little about you already."

I was about to ask why it mattered, what she really needed to know, but she continued before I could interrupt.

"I like to understand my clients. It helps me connect with them better. Whatever others might assume, massage is not just about touch. It works best when there is some connection beyond the surface."

Her words made more sense than I had expected. I found myself beginning to appreciate her thoughtfulness.

After a brief pause, she added, "It also depends on what kind of work you do. People with desk jobs tend to have different kinds of stress in their bodies compared to those who are constantly moving."

She let that sink in before continuing. "From what I gathered, your job must involve a fair amount of movement. You interact with seniors, coordinate things, manage people. You do not strike me as someone tied to a desk all day."

There was weight in her silences, as though she wanted her words to settle rather than just be heard. I often spoke to friends and family about how demanding my days were, but very few asked about the physical strain. No one really asked where it hurt, or how long it had been hurting.

It felt oddly comforting to speak about it.

"Half the time I am running from one desk to another, from one floor to another. When I am not, I am hunched over my laptop, trying to meet one deadline after another." My voice betrayed the fatigue I had grown used to hiding.

Soumita rose from the sofa and walked over to me. She sat by my side and took my hand in both of hers. It was an unexpectedly intimate gesture, yet natural. Her touch was warm, familiar, as if we had known each other for much longer.

"Let me try to give you some relief, at least for now," she said, her voice soft and sincere.

There was no effort in her tone. It reminded me of the way old friends used to speak, without judgement, without expectation.

"Shall we move to your bedroom, Rita?"

***

I had drifted for a moment. Brought back to the present, I gestured toward the bedroom. "Please, this way."

Inside, Soumita looked around briefly, then said, "I would prefer if you lie on the floor. The hard surface will be better for your back."

It felt like she had read my mind.

The mattress on my bed was custom-made, soft enough for comfort, yet firm enough to ease the lingering discomfort from an old college injury. Even so, I often preferred the floor. Something about its grounded flatness felt right. In summer, though, it posed a challenge. The air conditioner was positioned such that the airflow struck directly if I lay down, leaving me cold and restless.

I could have opened the balcony door facing south or the eastern window to circulate the air better. But with teenage boys living on either side, I never found the courage to leave either one open.

I adjusted the AC to a comfortable 24 degrees and shifted the vents slightly to avoid a direct draft.

Soumita had spotted the rolled yoga mat in the corner. "Shall we use the mat?" she asked, then quickly offered an alternative. "Only if that's alright. Otherwise, maybe an old bedsheet?"

The thought of a bedsheet did not appeal to me. "Let's go with the mat. I hope it will not get too soiled?"

She reassured me with a nod. "Don't worry, Rita. I have a massage sheet with me. I will place it over the mat."

With that settled, she gave me a gentle smile and said, "Rita, clothes please."

I had expected it, yet there was a moment of hesitation. Perhaps she noticed, because she stepped closer and lightly held my hands.

"It's alright. I will help you feel comfortable."

Her voice had that rare softness people often try to fake, but she wore it naturally. She reached for the hem of my top and lifted it over my arms, folding it neatly and placing it on the bed. As she did, her eyes met mine, silent and steady. She said nothing, yet her look posed a question I understood without words. Should she help remove my salwar too?

I did not reply. I only stood still, uncertain yet allowing her to decide. It was not the first time a woman had seen me partially undressed, but outside of my regular beautician, no one else had. Even then, it was usually just a part of the lower garment raised to the thighs for waxing, nothing like this.

Rohan had insisted I wear something a little more... refined. I had chosen a maroon set, hoping it would lend me some confidence. The bra was modest, yet left the mole on my left breast just about visible. I was never someone who wore seductive inner wear. I preferred simplicity. But lately, he had been nudging me to experiment. He had even bought me a few sets to try.

Now, standing there in just my inner garments, the confidence I had summoned began to slip. What replaced it was a quiet self-consciousness. I was acutely aware of the folds and creases on my body, every imperfection illuminated. In that moment, I wished for a figure I could carry without shame.

But she said nothing. Her eyes, if anything, seemed to offer a kind of gentle admiration. Whatever it was, courtesy or something more, her quiet regard began to untangle the tension inside me.

"I suggest you make a quick visit to the washroom," she said.

Before I could wonder why, she added with a trace of amusement, "You know, massaging the lower abdomen sometimes creates... certain urges."

She left the sentence hanging. But I understood.

"Give me a moment. I will be back."

***

Mustering whatever confidence I could gather, I walked towards the attached bathroom on the far side of the room, away from where Soumita stood waiting. Just as I passed her, she gently said, "Please get a towel when you come back."

I nodded, stepping inside. It took me a few minutes, longer than necessary, perhaps to compose myself. While in there, I reasoned with myself. There was no need to be prudish. It was just a massage, after all. A session with another woman, who, I had to admit, carried herself with elegance.

When I stepped out, I was met with a sight I had not expected. Like me, Soumita had stripped to her inner wear. She wore a delicate lace set in olive green.

The irony was not lost on me. Olive was my preferred oil.

She must have heard the bathroom door open, because she looked up mid-fold, smiling with casual ease. "Difficult to give a massage while wearing a sari," she said.

There was no hesitation in her tone. No hint of discomfort. She was standing near the bed, bent slightly as she finished folding the last bit of fabric. Her breasts, full and nearly identical to mine in size, moved softly with her motion as she placed the folded sari aside.

Unlike me, she wore a thong, minimal, high-cut, accentuating the curves of her bottom. As she turned to face me, two details stood out. Her bra barely qualified as a quarter cup. The sheer fabric strained to contain her nipples, the areolas outlined with teasing defiance. I found my eyes lowering despite myself. The thong revealed just a suggestion of trimmed pubic hair, neither exposed nor hidden, just enough to tantalise.

I had never felt drawn to women, nor found folds attractive, yet I could not deny that she looked striking. Something about her confidence, the unbothered ease in her body, made her beautiful. Seeing her in a state of undress similar to mine, even a bit more revealing, soothed my nerves. Until that moment, she had been fully clothed while I stood almost exposed. Now, there was parity.

She, however, seemed entirely at ease. There was no awkwardness in her gestures, no effort to conceal or explain. From the way she moved, it was clear that she was proud of her body and comfortable in her skin.

By then, she had already unrolled the yoga mat and covered it with a long, neatly laid-out tissue sheet. Reaching out for the towel in my hand, she folded it into a narrow rectangle.

"Please lie face down," she said calmly.

I did as told, waiting quietly, my heart thumping in anticipation.

She knelt gracefully on my left and took my palm in both hands, beginning with my fingers. The pressure was light at first, deliberate, almost tender, then gradually deepened. It felt good. Very good.

"Please let me know if the pressure feels uncomfortable," she said, lowering her face so close that I could feel her breath near my ear.

I nodded as best as I could in the position I was in.

Then came her fingers on my shoulders. It felt like pure magic. Her touch seemed to reach places where the pain had lodged itself for months, drawing it out and replacing it with something warm, something that felt lighter than air. From there, she moved to my wrist, then to the forearm.

Her fingers had a way of teasing. Each time I began to truly enjoy the pressure of her thumb, she would move away to a nearby spot, leaving me wanting more.

"Close your eyes, Rita. Feel it."

I did. And she was right. It felt even better when I stopped trying to follow her movements and simply allowed myself to receive them.

After a while, she crossed over and began working on my right hand. Her touch carried the same rhythm and precision, and I found myself enjoying the process far more than I had expected. I made a quiet mental note to get massages more often. If nothing else, I had earned the indulgence.

"Olive, lavender, or sandal...what would you prefer?"

She had shifted beside me again, kneeling. Her voice was soft, patient.

"Sandal, please," I replied, wanting something different.

She reached for her handbag and pulled out a bottle. "Please lift your head and look ahead, Rita."

I hesitated, unsure of why she made that request. As I did so, the answer revealed itself. She was tying a blindfold over my eyes.

I had just begun to ask, "What...?"

"Sshh... Let me give you an experience you will not forget in a hurry."

"But..." I started again, uneasy with the idea. Yet the blindfold was already in place, soft on the inside, with a faint leathery scent I could not place.

In the past, I had blindfolded my husband during one of our rare experimental moments, using nothing more than a cotton handkerchief. This was something else entirely.

"Sshh," she whispered again, this time as a quiet command.

I obeyed. I did not know why, but I did. Perhaps it was the mystery, perhaps the calm authority in her tone. I was unsure. When she unhooked my bra a moment later, it felt expected. I did not resist.

What did surprise me, however, was the way she placed a folded towel over my bottom, and then gently began to remove my panty. Of course, she could not have done that unless I raised my hips, which I did. Almost instinctively. As if she already knew I would.

"You need to lift your waist a bit, Rita. You surely do not want to ruin your sexy panty with oil stains."

My panty, though far less daring than her thong, suddenly felt more sensual because she had called it sexy. The compliment made me feel seen in an entirely different way.

Psychologists often say that when someone gives you a choice with perfect logic, you tend to comply, even if it involves stepping out of your comfort zone. That is exactly what happened. She had placed me in a voluntary bind, one that I could not argue against without seeming unreasonable. So I lifted my waist and let her slide the panty all the way off.

That moment filled me with a quiet panic. I was still covered, technically, but I knew how thin the barrier was. It was a towel, nothing more. One careful motion away from being fully exposed. And the shame of that thought sat heavily inside me, more intense because it came from another woman.

All my earlier shame slowly gave way to a strange calm, broken only by sudden flashes of pain that melted just as quickly under her hands. It felt as though she could sense exactly where the tension had dug in, like stubborn tenants who refused to vacate. And with the right pressure, just her thumb, or the sweep of her fingers--she claimed those spaces back on my behalf.

She moved from my shoulder blades down along my spine, finding points I never knew existed. I could feel myself slipping into a kind of trance, my breath growing steady and slow. The room was silent except for the occasional jingle of her marital bangles striking one another, the delicate chime rising and falling as she continued to work across my back.

When her hands moved to the sides of my rib cage, I felt her fingers brush against the sides of my breasts. The touch was unintentional, or at least appeared so, but the sensation rippled through me. My body stiffened for a moment, then softened. The shiver it caused reached deep.

The silken touch of her hands felt exquisite on me. But it wasn't just the body that felt good, it was the mind which felt a calming excitement. I had never till now imagined that a woman's touch could elicit feelings of arousal in my hitherto unexplored soul.

Apparently on cue and much to my embarrassment, my womanly folds began to moisten. She stopped for the briefest of moments allowing me some respite from warmth of the blush which must have turned my wheatish cheeks a shade of red.

Probably she is allowing herself a moment's rest

, I thought to myself, before I could feel droplets of oil poured on to my legs and on to my feet. If her fingers on my back were like magic, her fingers on my feet felt like a miracle.

I have always had sensitive toes. They were one of the erogenous parts of my body which only my husband knew about. To feel rhythmic pressure on them, simultaneously provided me with blissful relief but at the same time elicited feelings of pure pleasure.

Her fingers on my feet felt like a maestros fingers on the reeds of the piano creating a soft sensuous masterpiece you wished never ended. But they had to, she wasn't just there to give me a foot massage, she had to massage other parts of my body as well.

She did, working her skilful fingers up my ankle, to my calf, gradually moving up towards the back of my legs, one at a time, sometimes, both of them massaged at the same time. I was yet again getting back into trance. The trance getting deeper as her hands massaged my thighs, moving up to the butt cheek, but never for once violating my modesty which was at her complete mercy.