Massage 9

It was quite hot today. While waiting, I wondered what she would wear. Would she wear the same skirt as last time? A short skirt or a long skirt?
A little while later, the supervisor came out of the shower. Perhaps he was too relaxed in the shower, or maybe the alcohol was taking effect; he went straight to bed and fell asleep.
I sat on the sofa in the room, thinking about her last words to me and then about what the supervisor had said to me today. I tend to overthink, but it's a good way to pass the time. Before I knew it, my phone rang. The caller ID showed the contact name "Massage."
I answered and told her to wait for me on the sofa in the hotel lobby; I would come downstairs to pick her up.
I quickly grabbed my room key, went out, pressed the elevator button, and rushed downstairs.
When I got downstairs, I saw her and her husband sitting on the sofa in the hotel lobby.
Me: I'm so sorry, it's so late today, and you had to have your wife come to my room.
Him: It's okay, just message me when you're done, and I'll drive over to pick her up.
She didn't speak, and her husband leaned close to her ear and whispered a few words. I watched from the side, feeling quite embarrassed.
She seemed impatient with her husband's whispers, her brow furrowing slightly. Then she gestured for him to leave. I took her toolbox, waved goodbye to her husband, and led her towards the elevator.
In the lobby, I walked ahead, and she followed closely behind. Tonight, she was wearing high heels, as I
could hear the clattering of her footsteps behind me. When I stopped at the elevator, she seemed distracted and didn't watch where she was going, so she didn't stop and bumped into my back. She let out a soft cry, and I quickly turned around, almost falling flat on my face. I raised my right arm, which she grabbed to regain her balance. She smiled at me, and I looked at her high heels. Tonight, she was wearing black stilettos. Her legs weren't short to begin with, so the combination made them appear even longer and thinner. The elevator was on the 22nd floor, and we were on the first floor, waiting for it. I exchanged some polite words with her.
She smiled and responded without saying a word to me. I had a feeling she wasn't very happy that night. Therefore, I didn't dare mention what I'd said to her after she left after my massage last time, nor did I press her to find out if she was warning or encouraging me.
The elevator finally arrived. I let her go in first, then followed. In the cramped elevator space, I could smell her shampoo and shower gel; she must have just finished showering and was about to rest when we called her out. No wonder she seemed a little unhappy. Inside the elevator, I checked her outfit in the mirror. The elevator mirror was great; it allowed me to see her without looking directly at her. Besides the black high heels, she was dressed very boldly today: a tight-fitting short skirt that hugged her hips, flesh-colored slingbacks, and a white floral A-line blouse. It didn't accentuate her chest, but it highlighted her shapely hips. Her outfits always surprised me. She wore light makeup, but perhaps she was in a rush to leave, as the foundation on her cheeks wasn't blended evenly, and there was some white powder around her ears. She must have been really in a hurry to leave today. This didn't look like a proper massage therapist at all; she was dressed better than many unprofessional ones. Seeing my flushed face, she smiled and said as we exited the elevator, "Try to drink less in the future, and try not to call me out after 10 pm. We have a child at home." I apologized, but inwardly wondered if her husband had forced her to come out tonight. No, no, no, not for clients, it was a massage! Yes, a massage!
We reached the room door. Before entering, I explained the situation of the guest lying on the bed. Of course, I wouldn't reveal his identity or name; I just said he was a close friend of mine, from out of town, who had drunk too much and needed a massage. I didn't trust him to go to the bathroom, so I asked him to come to the hotel, and I would pay double.
She: Aren't you going to give a massage?
Me: There probably isn't enough time, I'll pass.
She said, "Then I'll massage you first. When you're done, check the time. If it's enough, I'll massage him. Didn't you say he was sleeping like a log? Anyway, he doesn't know." She laughed after saying that.
I said, "No, he's my older brother. I promised to find him a massage therapist who comes to his home."
She seemed a little disappointed, reluctant, but still agreed.
We went into the room. The supervisor was already fast asleep in the middle of the bed. We worked together to move him to the edge. He woke up once, glanced at her, then at me, and went back to sleep. I thought to myself, "At least you saw it. I've done my job."
She massaged his back first. It took a while, so I went into the bathroom to shower. I was exhausted today.
I took off my clothes and stood under the tap. I listened to her rhythmic massage. The supervisor seemed to be enjoying the massage, occasionally letting out relaxed hums. I was actually a little jealous.
It felt like my personal female masseuse was giving my best friend a massage, or rather, my best friend was enjoying the services of my personal masseuse. This jealousy was inexplicable. I lathered up my body with shower gel, my hands roaming over my skin. Maybe it was because I'd had too much to drink, but for a moment I thought of her black stilettos, her tight-fitting short skirt, and the uneven foundation on her face. I actually had a physical reaction. When men fantasize, their imaginations run 3D, even 4D. I released myself amidst the rhythmic back massage, in the imagined space of her tight-fitting short skirt, in the inexplicable jealousy, and with the lubrication of the shower gel. This release was particularly intense; I felt my legs go weak.
I rinsed myself clean, put on my underwear and bathrobe, and pushed open the bathroom door. She went out the door.
I pushed it open and saw her already massaging my supervisor's legs. Since I couldn't help, I sat inside in a chair by the window, holding my phone, pretending to be scrolling through it.
Actually, my attention was completely elsewhere. So, I watched her massage another man out of the corner of my eye.
I really didn't understand why I was jealous. Massage was her job; her hands touched different men's bodies every day, tracing the same areas on my body.
She wasn't my girlfriend, lover, or wife. Where did my jealousy come from?
Was it because I was sharing this woman's massage with my supervisor, whom I knew well? It was ridiculous.
I watched her focused massage; she was quite strong. The woman was very attentive during the massage. While she was massaging the manager, her arms moved dramatically, especially her upper body, so I could almost see her breasts swaying rhythmically, back and forth, as if they were about to break free of her bra. After
finishing the leg massage, she looked at me, wiped the sweat from her brow, and asked if I wanted the manager to have an oil back massage.
I went to the bedside, leaned close to the manager's ear, and asked if he wanted an oil back massage. The manager opened his eyes, glanced at me, and nodded without saying a word. Perhaps he was tired, or perhaps he was too comfortable with the massage to speak. So I gestured for her to continue the oil back massage for the manager, while I remained seated in the chair by the window, continuing to watch out of the corner of my eye as she gave oil back massages to other men.
The process was similar. She first removed the supervisor's bathrobe, then sprayed essential oil on the supervisor's back. Then, she rhythmically ran her oil-covered hands over the supervisor's back. Her warm hands felt incredibly comfortable on the supervisor's back, and the supervisor occasionally let out soft moans. I watched intently, as if her hands were also stroking my back. She seemed to notice me glancing at her out of the corner of my eye. For some reason, I always felt she was very reserved when massaging the supervisor. For example, with the oil-covered back massage, her hands only explored the supervisor's back, without exploring the chest area at all. But when she massaged me, her touch on my front was much more extensive. Maybe I was just overthinking it, taking myself too seriously.
After finishing the upper body massage, it was time for the buttocks. She pulled down the bathrobe covering the supervisor's buttocks, suddenly letting out a soft cry. I looked over. It turned out the supervisor had only worn a bathrobe after showering, and underneath she wasn't wearing any underwear. She had used too much force, pulling the bathrobe almost up to his thighs, exposing his pubic hair. Her scream startled him, and as he turned around, his genitals were exposed again. She quickly turned away and apologized.
I quickly explained to the supervisor, who immediately lay face down on the bed, saying he thought the massage would only massage the back, not the buttocks. The supervisor was also embarrassed, and besides, there were two men and one woman in the room, not just one man and one woman.
I asked the supervisor if she wanted to continue, but she glanced at me, somewhat disappointed, and said, "Let's stop here for today."
I busied myself comforting her. It seemed like this was the first time she'd encountered something like this, and from a respectable person's perspective, being in a hotel with two men and a woman, especially with one man completely naked in front of her, was bound to be quite frightening. I told her that was it for today, and I'd still pay double. Seeing her covered in sweat, whether from exhaustion or nervousness, I suggested she go to the bathroom to shower. She refused, hurriedly packed up her tools, said a quick goodbye, and headed for the door.
It seemed she was really shaken. I quickly followed her out the door, but without a room key, we couldn't go downstairs. I caught up with her, helped her with her suitcase, and we stood together at the elevator entrance waiting for the elevator to go down.
Me: I'm so sorry about today, there were quite a few unexpected incidents.
Her: I also bear some responsibility. Let me apologize to that gentleman.
Me: Is this your first time giving a massage to two men?
Her: No, usually it's at home, and my husband is here too. Today, maybe because he wasn't with me, I wasn't very calm.
Me: I understand, don't worry. I'll try to schedule appointments with you alone in the future, and I'll never let this happen again.
She seemed relieved, no longer as nervous as when she first left. She smiled and thanked me, expressing her gratitude for my understanding.
The elevator arrived quickly, and I walked her downstairs with me, also sending a WeChat message to her husband to let him know we were done.
As soon as I reached the bottom of the stairs, I looked up and saw a familiar face in the lobby.
Her husband had been waiting there all along; it seems even someone as composed as him can be a little uneasy sometimes. Seeing us emerge from the elevator, he rushed over, beaming at his wife. But she seemed unimpressed, tossing her tools to me and walking straight out of the hotel. Leaving my husband and me feeling awkward, I transferred double the massage fee to him. After confirming receipt, he thanked me, said we could meet again next time, and then followed his wife out of the hotel.
I stood in the lobby for a while, and through the hotel's floor-to-ceiling windows, I happened to see them in the parking lot not far from the hotel entrance. The man tried to take his wife's hand, but she swatted it away, pointed at him, and said something. The man looked helpless, but still forced a smile, helped the woman to the passenger side door, unlocked the car, helped her into the passenger seat, then stuffed his tools and other belongings into the trunk, quickly got in, and sped away from the hotel parking lot, disappearing into the night.
Seeing the couple arguing made me feel uneasy. Everything that happened tonight was because I had asked her out so late.
I suddenly worried that they might block me after this; I still had a lot of money left on my membership card
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