Chapter 1: The Nuru Table
The air in the treatment room was too thick, too sweet. Jasmine, maybe sandalwood, something expensive meant to calm the nerves. It wasn’t working. Paul Gillespie lay face-down on the massage table, the linen cool against his bare skin. His clothes were a folded heap on the low bamboo bench. The dim amber glow from the wall sconces painted everything in a guilty, honeyed light. He heard the soft click of the door opening, then closing. The whisper of footsteps on polished concrete.
“Hello, sir. I’m Candy. I’ll be taking care of you today.”
The voice was a soft, practiced melody.Young. He kept his face buried in the headrest, giving a muffled grunt of acknowledgement. The rustle of fabric followed. The soft, distinct sound of a sash being untied, then the heavier drop of material onto the floor. His muscles tensed. This was the part he both craved and despised. The moment of transition, from a legitimate massage to something else. The point of no return.
He lifted his head, turning it slightly to get the first glimpse. She was standing by the small counter, her back to him, reaching for the oil bottle. The sight was a physical blow.
Her body was a landscape of unbearable perfection. Tight, round ass. A narrow waist flaring into slender shoulders. Long, toned legs that seemed to go on forever. Her hair, a rich honey-brown, was pinned up in a deliberately messy knot, a few tendrils kissing the nape of her neck. She turned, oil bottle in hand, and the full, perfect curve of her breasts was silhouetted against the soft light. He was staring, his mouth gone dry. She was, without question, the most stunning girl he’d ever seen here.Anywhere.
She met his gaze. Her professional smile, a vacant, pretty thing, froze. Then it shattered. Her eyes, a wide, clear blue he’d known since they were the size of saucers, flew open in pure, unadulterated horror.
“Oh, fuck,” she breathed. The words weren’t seductive. They were a gasp of pure panic. Her hands flew up, not to beckon him, but to cover herself, crossing over her chest as if the gesture could somehow erase the last ten seconds.“Mr. Gillespie?”
“Charlie?”
His own voice was a stranger’s, a dry crack in the silent, perfumed room. Charlotte Reed. Tom’s daughter. Tom, his best friend since college. Tom, who had pictures of this girl, this young woman, in a graduation cap and gown on his desk not six months ago. Charlie, who used to call him Uncle Paul. Charlie, who was now standing naked in a room that reeked of illicit sex, staring at him with the terror of a trapped animal.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he choked out, pushing himself up on his elbows, the sheet pooling at his waist. He was suddenly, acutely aware of his own nakedness, his middle-aged body exposed under her horrified gaze.
“I work here,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “I… I need the money. For school. My dad can’t…” She trailed off, shaking her head. The professional facade was gone, replaced by a raw, shamed girl. “Please. You can’t be here. You have to go.”
“Go? Charlie, for Christ’s sake, you can’t be here either!” He sat up fully, the sheet falling away. He saw her flinch and look determinedly at the wall. A fresh wave of his own shame, hot and sour, rose in his throat. He scrambled for his clothes on the bench. “This is… Jesus, Tom would have a heart attack. Does he know?”
“Are you insane? Of course he doesn’t know!” Her whisper was fierce now, laced with desperation. “And what about your wife? Does she know you come to places like this?”
That shut him up. He froze, one leg in his trousers, the other out. They stared at each other across the three feet of impossible space, two criminals caught in the same heist. The balance of power had shifted, then shattered, then re-formed into something ugly and mutual.
“Please,” she said again, the word breaking. A single tear traced a path through her perfectly applied makeup. “If you walk out now, the manager will know something’s wrong. She’ll ask questions. I… I need this job. I really, really need the money. I’ll lose the shift. I might lose the job.”
“You want me to stay?” The absurdity of it was almost laughable. “Charlie, look at us!”
“I know!” she hissed, wiping angrily at her cheek. “Just… just get back on the table.Face down. Please. We’ll do the massage. A real one.Nothing else. Just… lie down and let me do my job so I can get paid.”
He stood there, paralyzed. The moral calculus was impossible. Walking out meant protecting some abstract concept of her innocence, but it would expose her, cost her a job she clearly desperately needed. Staying meant… God, staying meant lying naked while his best friend's daughter touched him.
With a groan that came from the depths of his own wretched soul, he let the trousers slide from his leg. He turned his back to her and slowly, stiffly, lowered himself back onto the table, fitting his face into the hollow of the headrest once more. He heard her shaky exhale.
The room was silent except for the frantic hammering of his own heart. Then, the soft squirt of oil into hands. The scent of jasmine bloomed again, cloying and suffocating.
Her touch, when it came, was a bolt of lightning. Her hands, slick and warm, landed on his shoulders. They were trembling. She began to knead the muscle, her technique obvious, practiced even, but her fingers were like live wires. Every inch of his skin was hyper-aware. This was wrong. This was so profoundly wrong.
He tried to make his mind go blank. He focused on the grain of the leather headrest, the muted hum of the building’s HVAC.It was useless. All he could feel was the pressure of her palms, the slide of her thumbs along his spine. He thought of Tom, laughing over a beer. He thought of Charlie as a gap-toothed kid on a swing set. He thought of his wife, hundreds of miles away, probably watching TV in bed.
Her hands moved lower, down to the small of his back. The tension there was a solid rock. She worked at it, her breaths audible, shallow little puffs of air. His own body was betraying him. A low, traitorous heat was spreading, a purely physical reaction to the proximity of a beautiful, naked young woman, a reaction he had come here specifically to indulge. The shame of it coiled in his gut, sickening and exciting all at once.
“Just relax,” she whispered, her voice strained. It was what she was trained to say.
He couldn’t. His mind was a riot. This was the nightmare scenario. The secret, shameful part of his life colliding with the one part he’d managed to keep clean. And she was trapped in it with him.
Her hands slid lower, skirting the edge of the sheet draped over his ass. The air between them changed. The professional pretense was too thin, too fragile.Her touch hesitated. He knew, with a dreadful certainty, what the normal progression was here. The unspoken question, the client’s guiding hand. He held his breath.
Her fingers didn’t venture further. They retreated back to his back, her strokes becoming harder, almost punishing. She was fighting it, too. Fighting the script, fighting the expectation, fighting the sheer, surreal horror of the situation.
They were both acutely aware of the wrongness , of the fact that he was naked covered by a small towel and she was naked under the kimono, and he had seen her totally naked. The first 5 minutes were torture for both of them. No talking, there were no words. Then both of their familiarity with the usual situation made them forget briefly. Her hands flirting with the towel , his body responding to the touch of a beautiful young woman. She found her hands doing their usual job... relaxing and trying to arouse ..for the extra tips.. and his body responding treacherously. Then they would separately remembered blushed and stiffened ashamed. This pattern repeated a couple of times in the first 30 minutes. When she massaged his arms and hands it seemed enormously intimate to them both and they could not look at each other. When she began on his lower legs his body remembered countless massages where the masseuse would slide her naked body along his. He became aroused and moaned a little as she started oiling his legs. When her hands slid along his legs she knew that usually she would let them slide up the clients thighs to get them aroused, so they would tip generously. These thought distracted her and her hands went up his thighs up to the edge of his thighs..he groaned , she gasped and withdrew both shocked, both acutely aware of the usual contract her.
Her hands jerked back as if burned. The oil made a slick, separating sound. For five full seconds, there was only the frantic rush of their breathing, syncopated and raw in the quiet room.
“I’m sorry,” Charlie whispered, the words choked. “Old habit.”
“Don’t,” Paul managed to say, his face still buried. His erection was a brutal, undeniable fact now, a tight ache pressed against the table. Shame flushed through him, hot and cold at once. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not with her.
The silence that followed was a living thing. It was broken by a soft, damp sniffle from behind him. He couldn’t bear it.
“Charlie, just… stop. This is insane.”
“I can’t stop,” she said, her voice hardening with a desperate edge. “If I stop now, with you… like that… she’ll think I freaked out or you were unhappy. She’ll ask. They always ask. Please, just… let me finish the time. I’ll stay up here. Just your back and legs. No… nothing else. I promise.”
The logic was perverse, but he understood it. They were both trapped in the performance. To break character now was to risk everything. He gave a tiny, miserable nod against the headrest.
Her hands returned, landing on his calves. The touch was mechanical, a rote kneading of muscle that felt more clinical than erotic. She was keeping her word, staying away from the danger zone. He tried to will his body into submission, focusing on the knot of anxiety in his chest, the sour taste in his mouth. It was no use. The memory of her naked form, the sheer illicit proximity, the warmth of her hands, the scent of her fear and jasmine… it all conspired against him. He remained painfully, visibly aroused.
Time seemed to move incredibly slowly - Jesus Paul thought there are two hours, that is an eternity. Charlie moved to his back again and began leaning over and redoing his back, her breasts leaned on him , pressing on him through the kimono which was coming open. She had not noticed , he felt the breasts and tensed but when they both felt bare breasts on his bare back they both shuddered, his erection now painful and he needed to adjust himself. She recognised the movement all too well , from all the other men she had roused to hardness, the telltale shifting of hips. She blushed ashamed but also a little professional pride. He was so painfully hard he could barely think.
The ache was a brutal, constant throb. He could feel the ridge of his cock pressed hard against the vinyl of the table, a humiliating beacon of his base nature. He tried to shift, to ease the pressure, and the small movement made her hands freeze on his shoulders.
“Don’t,” Charlie whispered, a sharp plea. Her voice was closer. He could feel her breath, warm and unsteady, on the back of his neck. The kimono had fallen open; the heat of her bare skin radiated against his back. It was an accidental intimacy, worse than if it had been deliberate.
“I can’t… help it,” Paul groaned into the headrest. The admission was vile. “God, Charlie, just… ignore it. Finish and let’s get the hell out of here.”
Silence. Then her hands left his skin entirely. He heard her step back, the soft sound of her feet on the floor. The space where her warmth had been turned cold. A minute passed, maybe two. He didn’t dare turn his head.
When she spoke again, her voice was different. Flattened. Resigned. It was the voice of “Candy,” but stripped of all pretense of seduction, leaving only a bleak practicality.
“They monitor the time. A two-hour session that ends early… with a client who’s… visibly unsatisfied… it gets noted.” A shaky inhale. “My manager, Simone. She’ll pull me aside. Ask what went wrong. If I say nothing, she’ll assume I didn’t perform. That I didn’t… take care of you.”
Paul squeezed his eyes shut. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying the easiest way for both of us to walk out of this without anyone asking questions is for you to… finish.” The word was clinical, clean, and it hung in the jasmine-scented air like a guillotine blade. “It’s what you came for, isn’t it? What you pay for. Just… get it over with. Then we’re done. We never speak of this. Ever.”
The proposition was so horrifyingly logical it made his stomach lurch. His mind screamed in revolt. But beneath the shame, a darker, hungry part of him, the part that had driven him here tonight, stirred. It saw the perfect, round curves of her from memory. It felt the lingering heat where her skin had touched his. It wanted the release from this unbearable tension.
“Charlie, no. Fuck no. I can’t let you do that.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” she snapped, her control fraying. “I’m telling you how this works. This is my job. My fucking job. And right now, you’re a client who’s going to leave frustrated, and that is bad for business and worse for me. So make a choice. Get up, get dressed, and guarantee I have to explain myself to a woman who thinks I fucked this up. Or… just turn over.”
"No Charlie please I can't" But she began helping him to roll onto his back, gently cajoling him over, the pretence of the towel remained and she covered his hard manhood making a tent with the towel. He was absolutely mortified of the situation. But Charlie had become Candy again. Paul closed his eyes as she stood behind him and began massaging his upper chest, his raging hard on ill disguised by the tented towel. Candy was in charge, now teased his stomach, leaning over his face, breasts deliberately brushing his face. His eyes tight shut the sensations exhilarating taboo and so so shameful. She next switched to his legs and he heard the rustle of the tie and the familiar sound of kimono falling to the floor. He was horrified squeezed his eyes shut. "Look at me Mr Gillespie: she whispered as she crawled onto the table straddling his legs. "No Charlie I can't" his hard on pulsing "It's Candy!" she corrected and finally removed the towel and slid her wonderful young body along his squeezing the long hard cock between their bodies. She was in her normal routing, blanking out the who and working for large tips as she had been trained.
The heat of her was instantaneous, a brand against his skin. She settled her weight onto him, her thighs gripping his hips, and the soft, wet warmth between her legs pressed against the rigid length of his cock. Paul gasped, his eyes flying open despite himself.
Her face was above his, but her gaze was focused on the wall behind him, her expression a blank mask of professional concentration. It was Charlie’s face, but the eyes were Candy’s—distant, glazed, performing.
“Look at me,” she whispered, her voice hollow. “Just… look at me, this is happening Candy will give you what you need.”
She began to move, a slow, rhythmic rocking of her hips. The slick friction was exquisite, a torturous pleasure that shot straight to his core. His hands, which had been clenched at his sides, twitched. He wanted to grab her, to dig his fingers into the smooth curve of her waist and thrust up into her. The urge was animal, overwhelming.
“God…” he choked out, his head thrashing back against the table.
“Shhh,” she soothed, but it was a mechanic’s sound. Her movements became more deliberate, more practiced.
"$100 for hand relief, $50 more for oral or $200 for full service, what'll it be?" She asked in her practised way. His shock could not have been greater, he had to have known she did this as soon as he saw her but still the clear offer shocked him. "I , I , Charlie.." "It's Candy" she snapped grinding her pussy along his cock as she had done for so many men before.
The words were a bucket of ice water, yet his body burned. "Charlie, don't—"
"It's Candy," she repeated, her voice flat as a pharmacist reciting side-effects. Her hips didn't stop their slow, torturous grind. The wet heat of her through the thin barrier of their skin was maddening. "Hand, mouth, or fuck. Prices are firm. Most guys in your… condition… take option three."
His mind fragmented. One part screamed. Another part, the part that had walked in here, was already doing the math. The part that was painfully hard, that could feel every shift of her tight young body, wanted the friction to continue, to deepen, to finish. The shame was a taste of copper and bile at the back of his throat.
"Full," he heard himself rasp. The word was foul. It hung between them. "Jesus Christ, full."
She didn’t react. She simply stopped grinding, lifted herself off him. The cool air on his wet cock was a shock. He kept his eyes screwed shut, listening to the sounds of her moving. The tear of a foil packet. The efficient, slick sounds of her rolling the condom onto him. Her hands were steady. Professional.
When she climbed back on, she didn’t hesitate. She positioned herself above him, one hand guiding him. He felt the insistent, incredible pressure of her entrance against his tip.
"Look at me," she commanded, her voice low. It wasn't a request.
He opened his eyes. Her face was still that mask, but up close he could see the faint tremor in her lower lip, the slight flutter of a pulse in her throat. She held his gaze as she sank down onto him, taking him inside her in one slow, excruciatingly deliberate motion.
"Fuck," he groaned, the sound ripped from him. She was tight, impossibly so, and so hot. She was also utterly still, letting him feel every inch of her, letting the reality of the penetration lock them together.
Then she began to move. It was a workmanlike rhythm, up and down, deep and steady. Her breasts swayed with the motion. He could see the sheen of sweat on her collarbone. Her eyes never left his, but they were glazed, looking through him at some point on the wall.
He was lost in a vortex of sensation and sin. His hands came up, grabbing her hips, his fingers digging into her flesh. She flinched, almost imperceptibly, but didn’t stop. Her own hands came to rest on his chest, not caressing, just bracing. The slap of skin, the wet, rhythmic sounds of their joining filled the silent, perfumed room. His breath came in ragged pants. Hers was controlled, measured.
"Faster," he grunted, the urge to just finish, to end this, overwhelming him.
She complied, her pace quickening, her body slamming down onto his with more force. A small, choked sound escaped her. He didn’t know if it was pain or protest or just physical effort. Her professional mask finally cracked at the edges; her brows drew together, her mouth opened slightly. She was looking at him now, really looking, and the shared horror in her blue eyes was more intimate than any sex had ever been.
It was that look that did it. The sheer, devastating wrongness of it. The pleasure coiled, intense and undeniable, at the base of his spine. He couldn’t stop it. "I'm… Charlie, I'm gonna…"
"Don't say my name," she hissed through clenched teeth, riding him harder, her own body tensing. "Just… come."
He did. With a broken, shuddering gasp, he arched beneath her, his grip on her hips turning viselike as he spilled into the condom deep inside her. The climax was sharp, almost painful, a wave of release that left his soul feeling scraped raw.
She felt him pulsing and stopped, staying seated on him until he was completely spent. Then, with that same chilling efficiency, she lifted herself off. He slid out of her. The loss of contact was its own kind of shock.
He lay there, wrecked, staring at the ceiling. He heard her move away. The soft snap of the condom being removed, tied, discarded in a small discreet bin. The rustle of the kimono being retrieved and put back on. The sound of her tying the sash was the loudest noise in the world.
Neither spoke for a full minute. The room now smelled of sex, cutting through the jasmine.
"Time's almost up," she said, her voice back to that empty, pleasant tone. "I'll step out so you can dress. Your total will be at the front."
She didn't wait for a response. The door opened and closed softly.
Paul lay there for another thirty seconds, then dragged himself off the table. His limbs were heavy, leaden. He cleaned himself with the provided towel, the act now feeling grotesque. He dressed with fumbling fingers, avoiding his own reflection in the dark glass of a framed picture.
When he opened the door, the hallway was empty. He walked to the lobby, a sleek space of low white sofas and orchids. A different woman, older, elegant, sat behind the desk. Simone.
"Candy was satisfactory, I hope?" Simone asked, her smile knowing.
"Yes," Paul managed, the word ash in his mouth.
"That'll be four-eighty. Two hours, plus the premium service."
He handed over his credit card, not caring about the paper trail, about the charge his wife might see and question. That was a problem for another, damned day. He scribbled a signature. These joints usually used a nondescript wording on statements.
Paul went back to his hotel ashamed guilty but also more satisfied than he had been in years, there was that moment when her eyes, oh god her eyes. The next 20 hours were a blur - sleep work and a new obsession.
He found himself in reception again almost exactly 24 hours after the last time.
"2 hour Nuru - Candy please if she is working"
"Nice to see you again sir, yes Candy is available" and he showed him into the same room.
He showered and wrapped himself in an available robe and awaited his new obsession.
"what the fuck Mr Gillespie?" Charlie said, shocked , frightened , ashamed.
"I have booked Candy for a Nuru Massage for 2 hours"