‘Never mind.’ Says Winston and tells the girl something in Chinese. She jots it down and then inputs all of it in her computer. Winston flashes his corporate American Express. She hands us each a card with a number on them and buzzes the side door open for us to enter the facilities. I smell chlorine and the sound of water flowing. We are standing in front of a decent sized swimming pool with crystal clear water and the pool with blue tiles at the bottom. There are some men splashing in it. There is a Jacuzzi at the farthest end of the pool and the place is also equipped with the steam bath and sauna. And there are tropical plants scattered around. Everything looks clean and shiny and reverentially quiet. It’s a high quality and high priced health club. I am not sure, if we swim, but probably take showers before walking down the stairs and to our assigned cabins for our respective massages. The room is dimly lit and the layout reminds me of the tourist class cabins of the SS Marconi and QE II, the luxury liners I had sailed on.

‘That’s your cabin. See you later. Enjoy.’ Says one of them and they both disappear down the corridor.

Not knowing what exactly to expect, I lightly knock on the closed door. A petite young Chinese woman opens the door, bows slightly and lets me in, gently closing the door behind us. She doesn’t speak any English, so our communication is a few words and more gestures. As I remove my outer clothing, she neatly folds each one of the items and places them on a side table. I am down to my jockey shorts. She gestures me to lie down on my stomach on the massage table.

The room is small but seems well organized with shelves full of towels, piles of bed sheets, bottles of fragrant oils lined on a counter, a small stool placed by the side of the massage table. It is lit in a shade of purple haze. Soft piped in music wafting in is soothing and puts me in a trance as I feel her hands touch my back.

Forty five minutes or so later, I am feeling like a million dollars. Winston was right. We’ve been working really hard and it seems with those oils and her magic hands she has squeezed out of my body every iota of the stress and stiffness. All the toxins peeled off. My eyes are closed and the feeling of being lulled to peaceful sleep envelops me, when I feel her hands tugging at the elastic of my jockey shorts. She is gesturing for me to lift my butt to facilitate their removal. I comply. She slowly and softly begins to caress and massage my inner thighs. Ever so gently. I am being aroused. She has been sitting on the edge of the massage table with her back facing me. And then she lithely turns her torso and makes eye contact with me. She points at her blouse and touches the upper button.

‘Open?’ She asks.

Daintily and slowly she unbuttons her blouse and lets it slip off with a slight shudder of her shoulder blades. She is wearing no bra. Her breasts are small and firm with dark pointed nipples. They certainly don’t need support of a bra. She lets my eyes linger on them for a bit longer before turning around and reaching for my inner thigh with her hands. But then stops and brings her hands backward and lifts both of my mine lying limply by my side and with a gentle pressure places my palms over her bare breasts. It feels like a mother buckling her young kid into a seat of a Go-cart, and putting his hands over the steering wheel for him to hold onto when the car begins to gain speed.

When I feel her hand on my penis, it reminds me of Jean Jacques Lesueur – tall, handsome French man with an angular face, curly dark head of hair and a permanent impish grin on his face. He is married to the stunning Danish beauty Katrine and they live in Athens, Greece with their two kids. Jean Jacques is in the business of publishing with his best friend – a young Greek and is the publisher of the Greek edition of Playboy.

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