She opens a door to a private room—massage table in the center, dim lighting, the scent of eucalyptus.
"This is your first massage with us, correct?" She's reading from my intake form, not looking at me.
"Yeah."
"Any injuries or areas of concern I should know about?"
"My back. Gets tight."
"I can help with that." Still not looking at me. "You can undress to your comfort level and lie face down on the table under the sheet. I'll give you a few minutes to get situated, then I'll knock before coming back in."
"Ingrid—"
"I'll be right back." She slips out, closing the door behind her.
Fuck.
I strip down to my boxer briefs, fold my clothes on the chair.
Lie face down on the table, pull the sheet over my lower half.
The table's comfortable, but I'm wound too tight to relax.
A few minutes later, there's a soft knock.
"Ready?" Her voice is muffled through the door.
"Yeah."
She enters, closes the door softly.
I can't see her—face down in the cradle, staring at the floor—but I can feel her presence.
Hear her moving around, probably sanitizing her hands, preparing oils.
"I'm going to start with your upper back and shoulders," she says, all business. "Let me know if the pressure is too much or not enough."
Then her hands are on me.
Warm.
Firm.
Professional.
But I feel the slight tremor in her fingers as they press into my shoulders.
She tries to hide it.
Tries to treat me like any other client.
But I know better.
"You left," I say quietly.
Her hands pause. Just for a second.
"I'm going to use more pressure here. You're very tight."
