Best Bacache Ever

I'm not quite sure what to make of this story myself. It is shorter than much of what I write and is mostly just an enhanced sketch of one of my favorite ideas--the erotic massage. Depending on the reception, I might try a few more of these with different characters/scenarios. The problem with these scenarios is coming up with a sensible and entertaining plot...

As always with my work, please understand that I do not aspire to grounded, realistic story-telling. My aim is to deliver the ridiculously plausible. Or occasionally, the plausibly ridiculous.

Cheers!

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My watch thumped my wrist, telling me to get my ass out of the chair for a minute. I started to ignore it, but then remembered that I had told it to fuck off the prior hour too... maybe the one before that. I twisted in my seat and found that I was indeed a little stiff. Also, maybe a little hungry. I saved my document and made sure that all my surveys and supporting materials were either saved or bookmarked, and slapped closed my laptop.

Standing, I stretched. Yeah, I'd been on a writing rampage the last week, taking advantage of the way the results of my research were dovetailing so well with my own theories. I was putting down words down while it lasted, and my forty year old body was feeling the side-effects. I noticed that there were these things called windows in my apartment, and through them I could see how nice it was outside...

I forced myself to skip the elevator and used the three flights of stairs down to the street. I had skipped both my Tuesday run and my Thursday gym session. By the time I reached the ground floor, I realized that my back was not happy with me about all the slacking. My legs and shoulders weren't too enthused either, but the real pain was in my lower back. Instead of turning right at the bottom of the stairs to the garage where my car was parked, I went left, toward the street. My apartment is in one of those mixed-use buildings, with storefronts on the ground floor and condos (mostly used for rental) above. The building fronts onto a minor artery in a middle class urban neighborhood in Orange County, the part that isn't Mouse infested.

At my age, single, with no kids, Disneyland is not my thing.

I was living in California on a six-month lease while I was researching my latest book. The rent for my little apartment was ruinous, of course. I was renting out my three bedroom house back home and what I was getting for that didn't match what the lease on this frigging condo was costing me.

I didn't want to eat in either the pho place or the breathtakingly mediocre sports bar that anchored the opposite ends of my own building, so I decided to take a walk that I desperately needed anyway, exploring the neighborhood while I was at it. I still had five more months here, after all.

Considering my options, I turned left. To the right was newer development, but all the food that way was chain stuff. As I went to the left, I knew vaguely that in that direction it was mostly older strip shopping centers and former houses converted to commercial or professional buildings. My back was not improving much as I walked, but at least my gait stopped looking funny after a block or two.

I wasn't starving yet, so I determined to walk for a while. It was a nice day, as I said, even by Southern California standards. There were nice looking women to look at, and the weather had them out in even less clothing than usual.

I will admit to doing a bit more girl watching of late than I had since I was much younger. I had been 'between relationships' back home before I left (for quite a while, to be honest), and I saw very little opportunity for me to actually meet any women while I was here, spending all my time in archives, agricultural sites, ports, and mostly at my desk. So I was tending to focus on the eye candy. It was good, though not nearly as good as California would like the rest of the world to think.

I soon passed the point on the street where I usually turned when I left my apartment by car, and I started to pay a little more attention to the restaurants than the women. I finally found a likely-looking sushi place and sat at the counter, enjoying a Dragon Roll that the chef whipped up for me. I chatted with him for a bit about where and how they sourced their seafood. The issue wasn't directly related to my research, but it was close enough that I actually pulled out my phone and made a note or two at one point.

My back again yelled at me when I stood up to pay the check and leave. I had had it. Three Advils were in my future, followed by an evening trip to the gym, even if it was a Friday.

As I barely kept from hobbling on the way back, I crossed to the other side of the street so I could get a better look at what was over there. There was a two block stretch where all the buildings were those converted houses I mentioned earlier. Now those building housed funky little antique shops, tax preparers, and even a palm reader. One larger one held a used bookstore, which I noted for future reference.

Since I had slowed to get a look at the bookstore, I got a better look than I might have otherwise at the building next to it. It was a small, ranch-style house, and was set back further from the road than most others around it. Its driveway had four parking spaces in front, and the only other indication that it was a business and not still a house was a small white sign with red block letters on a metal post by the front door. Idly, I peered to make out what it said.

MASSAGE.

Huh. My back winced as a reminder. A massage would really hit the spot, and might even be necessary to ensure that I could even go to the gym at all that evening. I paused on the sidewalk and pulled out my phone. I don't get a massage more than two or three times a year, but I am always sure to check reviews.

There were, however, no reviews for this place. No website either, at least as far as I could find. Without a business name to be seen, my Google Fu was not up to the task of finding word one about it. I almost turned and went on. There was a big chain massage place just beyond my apartment. And they would likely have a slot available for me, unlike whomever worked here.

They would also probably offer a mediocre massage.

While I was working the internet unsuccessfully, I saw a woman in nice business attire leave the front door and walk to the only car in the lot. She seemed relaxed and in a good mood as she got into her BMW. I stood aside as she pulled out of the drive. I could see through the window that she was already on her speakerphone.

Whoever worked in this place would be a crap shoot. Might be lame, might be great. And they probably would not have an opening. Still, I was here, and my back was bitching about the walk. I walked up the drive, looking to see if there was a phone number or business name or something. Nope, just the small sign.

I shrugged and rang the bell. I was here. I might as well try.

The door opened and a small asian woman about my age looked out. Korean, if I had to guess. She was nice enough looking, and wore scrubs of the kind that massage therapists usually do. She smiled at me and looked me over. "Hello. Welcome," she said, as she stepped backward and swung the door open after the barest pause. "How can we help you today?" Her English was as good as mine. She had to be at least second generation, probably third.

"Hi. I'm hoping to get a massage," I replied, stepping in and looking around what, in houses this old, used to be called the parlor. It was where guests were received in the old days, and it made sense to use one as a reception area now. There were two leather couches, nice, new, and clearly from IKEA or the like. Pots of live bamboo were in all the corners and soft new-age music filled the air. "I know it's hard with walk-ins, but my back is killing me and... well, I saw your sign."

She was out here answering the door, so maybe she might be able to fit me in.

"I usually recommend reservations," she said with a smile, "but we are often slow right after lunchtime. I actually have two girls available shortly, if you would just like the hour. One of them could do an hour and a half before her next appointment. Can I get you to fill out our intake form?"

Wow. So, not a sole practitioner, but a full salon with multiple employees. More importantly, there were

available

employees. My doubts about no reviews faded in the face of the certainty of getting at least some kind of relief for my back. I sat where she indicated on one of the couches and filled out the short form on the clipboard she handed me. Name, address, all that jazz, along with what ailed me. As I cataloged my aches, I found myself writing for a while!

The receptionist (or the boss--I was pretty sure she was the boss) took the clipboard and looked it over closely. "I did not hear a car pull up," she observed as she read. "Did you walk?" I nodded. "Where do you work?" she asked idly as she made little notes on the paper. "Nearby?"

"Yes, actually," I chuckled. "I work from my apartment."

She looked at the form. "Oh yes," she brightened. "You are in that building with the pho shop. It's very good. I eat there fairly often." She looked up at me, as if thinking about maybe going for some pho shortly. "I looked at buying a condo in the building, back when it finished construction," she added, free associating. "Do they still have the black granite countertops?"

I frowned. The building wasn't that old. "Black? Are you sure? I don't know about the other units, but mine has this cheap-looking white quartz. I doubt that they would have needed to change it already..."

She shrugged, almost relaxing. "I see a lot of condos in the area." Briskly, she changed the subject. "Both my available girls can do Swedish and Shiatsu, or did you have something else in mind?"

'Girls'? Not 'therapists'? I revised my estimate back to second generation... with old-fashioned parents!

"I usually just ask for a mild Swedish," I replied, leaning forward on the couch, which was doing nothing for my back. "But as you can see, I have a litany of woes there," I went on, pointing at my manifesto of aches and pains on the clip board. "I'll take whatever you suggest. But I think I just have time for an hour today," I added. With no reviews and no experience of the place, I didn't want to completely throw caution to the wind and commit too much cash. If the massage was good, and I needed a follow-up, I'd make a reservation and do the 90 minute next time.

"I'd suggest shiatsu, then," she said. "But, it is twenty dollars more, is that all right?" I shrugged. She was the expert. "Good. My girls are all independent contractors, so we charge in two parts," she went on briskly. "I ask $55 an hour for the house, as it were." Then she quoted a number for an hour's massage. "That's with either Peng or Erin, they have the same rates, and you will pay whomever you choose, along with any tip, separately at the end." Massages in California were expensive!

Without asking if I was okay with the price, the boss stood and walked to the little desk. "Let's see who'd you like to work with." I'd actually chosen a potential therapist in person before. I just always had been assigned somebody by the spa in the past. She pressed an old-fashioned intercom button and said, "Peng, Erin, we have a customer who needs some work. Could you come out and introduce yourselves?" She turned and smiled at me.

They must have been ready, because it took only a few moments before the door opened and two women entered. To say I was bemused would be underselling it. The two beautiful women were not dressed in the dark blue scrubs of the boss, but instead wore slippers and sported colorful satin robes, tightly belted around their waists.

The short asian woman in the jade robe stepped forward half a step. I guessed that she was in her early thirties, and in that robe it was not a guess but a certainty that she was buxom, narrow waisted, and round in the hips, with long, straight, black hair. Her round face was plain, but her smile maddest pretty. "Hello, I am Peng," she said, nodding. She had an accent, though I could not place it. I'm no expert.

Then an auburn-haired and California-tanned therapist, probably in her late twenties, stepped up beside her. She was much taller, and her figure filled out her crimson robe more sleekly. Nice curves, to be sure, but much less extravagant than Peng's. Both seemed to be wearing robes of the exact same size, which meant that this girl's ended well above her knees. "Hi, I'm Erin," she added.

They both smiled at me.

I froze for just a second in confusion. What kind of place was this? Every detail seemed totally legit as far as I could tell, except for the attire of the workers and the way they came out to be chosen. Hell, the last customer to leave had been a woman! I shook my head. Marketing is important, and this was a hell of a marketing pitch...

I shook my head to clear the doubts and hesitated a second more. Who to choose? It was weird, in that just saying hello to them had given me zero indication of their relative knowledge, skill, or even personality. I was just choosing on looks. At least I had damn fine choices, I mentally shrugged. Peng was a bombshell, but Erin...

I found that my inclination to return for a second visit had already increased.

I smiled. "I can hardly know how to choose, so I'll just say Erin this first time."

Peng actually looked a little put out. It was toward the end of the month. Maybe she needed rent money. As I said, you need lots of rent money to live around here. She bobbed her head at me and departed. The boss filed away my form and told Erin, "Steven here needs a sixty minute shiatsu. He's been sitting at his desk too much."

"Ugh, I know what that can do," Erin said to me seriously. "Let's see how we can fix it." She opened the door across the room and led me into a short hallway with three doors. At the end was what looked like the kitchen. Erin opened door number three, leading me in. I admit, it was hard to keep my eyes off the sweet little curve of her ass under the robe.

I felt a brief stab of worry. I had never had a problem with erections during a massage before, but I'd never had a therapist who dressed like this, either! I hoped that she didn't count on her looks to compensate for lousy technique.

The small ex-bedroom was kept fairly warm. The same quiet music was piped in here, and an aromatherapy atomizer was in the corner, filling the air with what I think was chamomile. A large, sturdy, hardwood-framed massage table filled the middle of the room, covered with a white sheet. There was a large white towel folded at the foot.

"Please disrobe to your comfort level," Erin said. She waved at the table. "Then just lie down and relax. I think we will start with you face down, if you don't mind. I'll be back in a minute." With that, she ducked back out of the room.

I looked around and shrugged. A perfectly normal massage room. Pretty deluxe, actually. My weird feeling receded. I stripped naked, as I usually do for a massage, and approached the table. To my surprise, there was only the one sheet. I shrugged, and climbed onto the table. I grabbed the towel, which really was super soft and generously sized, and draped it over my backside, coving myself from lower back to mid-thigh. I lay down with my face in the softly padded cradle attached to the head of the table, adjusting my dick beneath me.

In a minute, there was a soft knock. I heard Erin return to the room and perceived that she dimmed the lights as she did so. She adjusted the head rest where my face lay just a bit, aligning my neck perfectly. "Let's see how we can make you feel much better," she said softly. The near double-entendre twitched at my hind brain. I was glad I had taken the extra precaution to make sure my dick was aligned so that it would not be a problem if I did chub up here or there...

I heard her pumping massage oil into her hands and rubbing them to warm it. Any doubts about her professional skills vanished in minutes. She was, in fact, very skilled and obviously experienced. She started by exploring my back and legs slowly, testing for my sometimes painful reactions, and feeling for pressure points. "You really are a mess, aren't you?" she observed. I just confessed again, miserably, to having spent too much time at my desk lately, banging on the keyboard.

"At least you are being productive," Erin observed with a smile in her voice. "You could have been just sitting there, surfing..." she hesitated, then went on, "unproductive sites."

It was the mildest of plausibly deniable dirty jokes, but when you are told one like that by a gorgeous woman in a bathrobe, who is running her hands up your thighs as she says it, even a mild joke like that lands hard. Especially so when she then stepped to the towel covering me and began to fold it several times lengthwise into a narrow band that covered little more than my butt cheeks. In fact, I'm not sure it even completely covered my ass once she was done folding...

As she began the massage proper, she started by working my legs, especially the thighs. "I'm surprised you aren't hitting my lower back right off," I observed interestedly.

"Your back, as I said, is a mess," she replied calmly, as if unconcerned that I was trying to tell her how to do her job. "But I'll never get it loose until I take the tension out of your legs and glutes."

Glutes?

Sure enough, once she reduced my left leg to a noodle-like consistency, Erin lifted the towel up on that side and folded it over, leaving my ass on that side bare. She went to work on my cheek gently. Her fingertips worked into my flesh, sliding smoothly with the warm oils. My dick definitely twitched at the most intimate touch I had ever received on a massage table. She lay the towel back into place, switched sides and repeated the process. The difference was, this time I was anticipating the ass rub the whole time she worked my thigh. By the time she was done with my other cheek, I was lying atop a reasonable facsimile of a hard-on. It then was no facsimile as she worked replaced the towel but went back to working the insides of my upper thighs. Her fingers never hit my balls, but I knew they were close, and she was so close, she had to have been looking at them to have avoided touching them.

"All right," Erin said. "Now the back, as promised."

It was amazing. The work she had done to relax my legs (even if it did the opposite of relaxing my cock) had my back almost pain-free before she even got to it. She still worked me over well, the whole length of my back, but I was enthused. "I can't believe you have me feeling so much better already," I said, almost sleepily. My dick had chilled out as she worked on my back as well. This was turning into my usual massage experience as I was used to it. I was zoning out.

I idly thought about my earlier worries concerning this place and especially felt a little guilty about my suspicions of Erin. She really was fucking skilled.

"The legs are the key in a short-term problem like yours," Erin said, working my shoulder blades. "Once they are relaxed, it is just about getting the fatigue toxins out of the back muscles." She went on about vertebrae and lumbar and other professional terms for the body that I wasn't much interested in when I was this relaxed. Her hands caressed the base of my neck. "Your body really is in excellent shape overall," she observed idly. "I'm surprised to see you presenting so much muscle fatigue caused by sedentary behavior."

"Thanks," I replied, grinning to myself in the face support. "I usually take better care of myself, but I've been inspired by my research and working like a maniac while it lasts."