Chapter 2: Hands-On Training
The coins from Uncle Groat’s strongbox felt like they were burning a hole in the pouch at her waist, even through the linen of her skirt. Mina walked not to the market, but to the river’s edge, to a quiet spot behind the tanner’s yard where the water ran fast and cold. She hiked her skirts, wading in until the current swirled around her knees, and scrubbed at her thighs with a handful of coarse sand until the skin stung pink. She couldn’t wash the feeling away, but she could wash the evidence. The mechanical, transactional chill of it lingered far longer than any scent.
A day later, the guilt had curdled into a jittery, restless energy. The extra coins were hidden in a flour jar. She needed to be useful, to do something normal. The Guild board had a new posting: ‘Assistant Wanted, Bathhouse & Spa. No experience necessary. Competitive rates.’ It seemed fortuitous. A place of cleanliness. Of calm. She put on her second-best dress, a blue one, and went to apply.
The Bathhouse of Solace was a grand, low building of pale stone, steam curling from its many chimneys into the afternoon air. The manager, a man named Borin, was not what she expected. He was about fifty, with a vast, friendly belly that strained his silk tunic, a beard that seemed to be trying to escape his face in three different directions, and eyes that lit up like festival lanterns when she walked into his office.
“Mina! A delightful name for a delightful prospect!” he boomed, coming around his desk to take both her hands. He didn’t let go. His palms were damp. “Strong hands! Excellent. The work is physical. Intimate. Do you have qualms about intimacy?”
“I… I suppose it depends on the kind,” Mina said, trying to gently retrieve her hands. He held on, patting them.
“The cleansing kind! The restorative kind! Here at the Solace, we are healers of grime and tension.” He finally released her, his gaze dropping to her chest and staying there for a beat too long. “The uniform is a bit… specialized. For the mineral pool VIP service. It’s designed for freedom of movement and client comfort. You understand.”
He produced a garment from a drawer. It was a bikini, but unlike any she’d seen. Two tiny, triangular patches of crimson silk were connected by strings so thin they looked like they’d snap under a stern gaze. The bottom was a slingshot affair, a mere ribbon meant to barely contain anything at all.
Mina stared. “Is that… all of it?”
“It’s about synergy with the water!” Borin said enthusiastically, his face earnest. “The fabric becomes virtually weightless when submerged. The clientele are paying for an unencumbered experience. Now, go, change! The VIP alcove needs preparing. I’ll meet you there for orientation.”
The changing cubicle was humid. Mina struggled into the thing. The top did little but perch precariously, offering coverage that was more symbolic than actual. The bottom was worse. The ribbon at the back vanished between her cheeks with an intimate, shocking precision the moment she stood up straight. She felt wildly exposed, more than in Uncle Groat’s workshop. At least there had been the pretext of machinery. This was just her, in practically nothing, in a bathhouse. She wrapped a large, rough bathing sheet around herself like a shield and scurried through the steamy corridors.
The VIP alcove was a misty paradise. A small, private pool of water shimmering with golden minerals glowed under a domed ceiling of colored glass. Marble benches lined the walls, and sheer, gauzy curtains billowed in the steam. The air smelled of lavender and wet stone. It was beautiful, and it made her feel like a trespasser.
Borin was already there, wearing only a pair of tight, short linen drawers that left very little to the imagination. His chest was a forest of grey hair. He beamed at her.
“Ah! You kept the sheet on. A common rookie reflex. Shed it, shed it! You must be one with the environment to serve within it.” He made a fluttery gesture with his hands.
Flushing, Mina let the sheet drop. The steam kissed her skin. Borin’s eyes went wide, his jaw going slightly slack. He made a low, appreciative noise in his throat. “Yes. Oh, yes. The uniform… fits. Perfectly. The synergy is immediate.”
He seemed to remember himself and clapped his hands. “Right! Orientation. Your primary duty, beyond maintaining the water’s mineral balance, is to assist clients with their therapeutic washing. A back scrub. A scalp massage. It requires proper technique. I shall demonstrate.”
He moved behind her, standing very close. His bare belly brushed against the small of her back. “The first principle is leverage. You must brace the client. Like so.”
His hands, big and hot, landed on her bare shoulders. He pulled her back against him, her body aligning with his. She squeaked, the sound echoing off the marble. The slingshot bikini, under the pressure, did exactly what it was designed to do. It disappeared.
“You feel the stability?” he murmured, his breath hot and damp in her ear. It smelled of yesterday’s garlic. “The client is secured against the edge of the pool for their safety and your… control.”
He was pressed firmly against her now. There was no mistaking the enthusiastic, rigid proof of his arousal, tenting the linen of his drawers against the cleft of her rear. The absurdity of it—the serious lecture, the clinical terminology, juxtaposed with the blatant, physical truth of him—struck her with a wave of dizzy confusion. This wasn’t the sinister calculation of Uncle Groat. This was like being mauled by an overexcited, horny bear.
“Mister Borin, I think—” she started, trying to lean forward.
“The second principle is the circular motion!” he announced, as if he hadn’t heard her. One hand slid from her shoulder down her arm, coming to rest on her hip. The other produced a large, sea-sponge from a bucket. “Using the natural abrasion of the loofa, one applies even pressure. Observe.”
He began to “wash” her lower back with the sponge, his movements broad and slow. His hips, however, maintained a tiny, persistent grind against her. The sheer curtain of the alcove wafted in the steam, probably revealing the entire ridiculous pantomime to anyone passing in the hall.
“The client will experience a deep-cleansing sensation,” he panted, his lecture starting to unravel. His free hand, the one on her hip, slid around to her stomach, splaying possessively over her navel and pulling her even tighter against him. “A… a renewal of the epidermal… the epidermal layer…”
His words dissolved into a ragged groan as she, trying to regain her balance, shifted her weight and rubbed against him more firmly. It was an accident. A complete accident. But the effect was electric.
“Ah! You see?” he gasped, triumphantly. “The uniform’s design features facilitate unintentional… therapeutic friction. A happy accident of engineering!”
He was now openly rutting against her, his “demonstration” forgotten. The sponge fell into the water with a plop. Both hands were on her hips, gripping her, as he moved with a desperate, hilarious vigor. His drawers provided a frustrating barrier, but he seemed undeterred, humping against her with the focused energy of a dog trying to dig a hole in a sofa.
“Is… is this part of the service excellence?” Mina asked helplessly, her face burning, her body responding to the crude stimulation despite the overwhelming absurdity. Her switch, it seemed, could be flipped by sheer, unadulterated lunacy.
“The pinnacle!” he wheezed. “Client satisfaction is… is paramount!”
With a final, mighty thrust that pushed her up onto her toes, he shuddered against her. A damp, warm patch spread across the back of her bikini bottom. He let out a long, satisfied sigh, his weight sagging against her for a moment before he stepped back, adjusting his now-soggy drawers with a businesslike air.
He was beaming. “Excellent! You took to the technique instinctively. You’re a natural. The job is yours.” He reached for a ledger on a nearby shelf, scribbling in it. “Your first shift starts now. Your first client, a Magistrate Poultro, will be here in one hour. He’s very… particular about his lower back.”
He handed her the sponge. It was still damp. “Remember the circular motion. And Mina?” He winked, a grotesque, cheerful gesture. “The ‘happy accidents’ are where the real tips are. Don’t be afraid of them.”
He bustled out, whistling a jaunty tune, leaving her standing alone in the steamy alcove, the ghost of his ridiculous, enthusiastic thrusting still echoing in her bones, a fresh, damp stain on the back of her virtually nonexistent uniform. She looked at the golden water, then down at herself. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, hysterical and sharp. It wasn’t the dark, shameful transaction of the workshop. This was something else. Something stupid and raw and almost funny, if it weren’t so utterly degrading.
She sank onto a marble bench, the cold stone a shock. An hour. She had an hour before Magistrate Poultro arrived, expecting a particular lower back scrub. She stared at the sponge in her hand. The absurdity of it all settled over her like the steam—thick, smothering, and inescapable. She was going to have to wash a stranger’s back while wearing a piece of string, and somehow, she knew, it would not be a simple back scrub. Not here. Not for her. The bathhouse, a place for washing away dirt, was just another layer of grime waiting to happen. And the worst part was, she could already feel that stupid, familiar hum starting up again, mingling with the urge to laugh until she cried.