Chapter One: A respectable house

Martha Wharton surveyed the unspoken, hidden chaos of her house. It wasn’t actually her house, of course. She was a cockney immigrant to New York. She had arrived as a fifteen-year-old in 1857, and started as a chambermaid in a grand house in Murray Hill. Hard work, charm, a capacity to put up with no end of shite, and, most importantly, a gift for exploiting the weaknesses of others, had allowed her to thrive.

Now twenty years on from her arrival, the Archer’s was her sixth house, and she had run it like a dictator for over five years. It was a beautiful, huge town house on Fifth Avenue. Like most of the grand houses of Manhattan, it was built on a firm foundation of lies, graft, and exploitation.

Spencer Archer was a respectable businessman who ran a trading house and a string of warehouses. His father had built the business, as well as purchased the land to put up the warehouses on South Wharf and at the Brooklyn yards. The hard work had all been done. Spencer’s job was simply not to screw it up. He achieved this by meeting with his general manager and cost accountant for an hour or two each day, and entertaining his customers and bankers several nights a week.

His reputation was impeccable among the other respectable men of New York City. Martha knew that this meant only that they showed discretion when they saw one another at the upscale brothels of Midtown, did not sleep with one another’s wives, and only cheated foreigners and southerners in business deals.

At this very moment, the 'respectable' Spencer was plowing the new German wash girl in her attic dormer. Martha always had a pretty young thing on staff for just that purpose. She preferred an all English staff, but that was becoming more and more difficult. For lower positions like wash and chamber maids, she had to resort to Germans, Italians, blacks, or when she was truly desperate, the Irish. She shuddered at the thought.

The lady of the house, Mrs. May Archer, was in her sitting room, as she nearly always was, these days. The doctor was set to arrive by mid-morning. Martha gathered a coffee tray and went up the main staircase and into May’s suite to check on her progress. May had made it to her daybed, but was still in her dressing gown. Edith, Mrs. Welland’s personal attendant, was brushing May’s long, chestnut hair. Martha shot Edith a disapproving look as she carried the silver tray across the room.

“Good morning, Mum,” Martha began in her thick accent. “Running a bit behind aren’t we? The doctor will be here, soon. We want to be at our best don’t we?”

“The doctor is worthless,” May uttered in a sad whisper.

“Now, now. We mustn’t say things like that, Mum. I have the shortbread biscuits you like, and fresh cream for your coffee. Edith, let’s get the Mrs. put together, shall we?” Martha said this with a pleasant voice, at the same time she glared daggers at Edith.

Martha went up the back staircase, past the third floor where her room and the guest rooms were, and up to the cramped, stuffy fourth floor staff rooms. She walked down the narrow hallway and stood at the bottom of the tiny spiral that led to the attic. She could hear the grunts of Mr. Archer, and the moans of the young German.

“Ja! Ja! Das fühlt sich gut an … aah, aah, aah.”

Martha smiled. The little German cunt has already learned how to fake it. She might make it, after all. When Martha heard a long groan from Spencer, followed by silence, she had her moment.

“Greta! Greta! What are you doing in your room, girl? I need your help on the main floor. The doctor will be here any minute and I’ll need to greet him. I need you to help the cook while I do that,” Martha shouted into the attic opening.

It was an absurd fib. Martha never helped the cook. But, Mr. Archer would take the hint. Such was the mendacity of the Archer house, and indeed, most of New York society. Everyone knew about the bad behavior of others, but it was never acknowledged or addressed, directly. One spoke around the evil, then spread gossip without attribution, later.

Doctor George Beard arrived just as the clock in the foyer chimed for the tenth time. Martha smoothed her white uniform and checked her hair. She greeted him as he stepped through the vestibule. He was older, and married, but quite handsome. As usual, however, he could not see past her uniform, and showed no interest. She took his hat and coat.

“Miss Wharton. How’s the patient?”

Martha’s silence told him all he needed to know. She escorted the doctor to Mrs. Archer’s room, primarily to check on how well Edith had done. As it turned out, she had pulled off a minor miracle. May’s hair was up and presentable, held in place with tortoise-shell combs. She was in a chair, rather than the daybed, and she was wearing a dress. It was just a simple housedress, but Martha was aware that even that had likely been quite a challenge. Martha gave Edith an approving glance.

“Pull open the drapes, please,” Dr. Beard directed. May squinted and tried to pull away from the light. “I know, Mrs. Archer. It’s bright. I just need to get a look at you.”

In the light, for a moment, Martha saw the women who had once been the most pursued debutant in Manhattan. Her violet-blue eyes, the full lips, the purity of her skin, were beautiful. She had retained her narrow waist, despite two (lost) pregnancies, and her full breasts and buttocks were still the envy of New York. It was so sad that she was practically locked away now.

“Alright, Edith. Let’s leave the doctor to it.”

Chapter Two: The good doctor

Doctor Beard held May’s wrist. He opened his railroad watch and compared it against May’s rhythm. It was neither alarmingly slow, nor alarmingly fast. He assessed her color. He asked about her sleep. He was concerned about her bowel movements. May answered his questions with the same flat affectation.

“You have followed all of my directions? You have taken the quicksilver pills? And the caster oil each morning? You have avoided noise and excitement?” Dr. Beard asked as he wrote in a black leather journal.

May nodded at each question. She had been a dutiful patient, despite her total lack of confidence in the doctor’s advice. He had been treating her for months with no apparent change. She was as sad, and tired, and fed up with her life as ever. The doctor stroked his salt and pepper whiskers and looked at May as if she was an injured foal, rather than a grown adult.

“Good, Mrs. Archer. I’m going to go talk to your husband, now, about your treatment plan. We may make some changes,” Dr. Beard said as he packed up his black satchel. May started to say something, but the doctor went on as if he couldn’t see or hear her. “Good day, Madam.”

Martha led the doctor to Spencer Archer’s den.

“George,” Spencer said with an extended hand.

“Spencer,” the doctor greeted in return. “Let’s chat.”

They sat on a large, tufted leather sofa. Spencer offered Beard a cigar, which he readily accepted,

“There is no improvement, is there?” Spencer asked. The doctor shook his head.

“It is a very stubborn case of neurasthenia. There are no positive signs. The medicines are not helping. The weekend visits to your country house have had no apparent effect. The trip to the warm spring last month…nothing. Correct?” Beard asked. Spencer affirmed his assumption.

“I wish I could say that she is my only patient like this. May’s condition may be somewhat worse, but she is not alone,” Beard offered between puffs of his cigar. “This melancholy, this distant nature, it is spreading through Manhattan, most especially among women.”

“But why? What is the cause?” Spencer asked.

“It is almost certainly the noises and smells of the city,” the doctor explained. “The nerves are weakened by the constant noise, allowing the ethers generated by the city’s noxious smells to invade the body. Women are more susceptible due to their inherent weakness. These causes cannot be questioned. The science is irrefutable.

“Temporary removal from the city usually works or, at least, it used to. I’m seeing more and more stubborn cases like your May. And, many relapses from patients that I thought had been cured,” Dr. Beard explained.

Spencer nodded as he watched the blue smoke from his cigar rise toward the ceiling. “What am I to do, then, George? I cannot go on like this.”

Beard ran his hand across his whiskered chin. “I think your best option is to send her away, Spencer. Really away. There is a sanitarium upstate. It’s very nice. You could take the train to see her once a month. There’s a shooting club up there. It would not be a complete waste of your time.”

Spencer shook his head. “I could never do that.”

“I understand completely, of course. You love your wife,” Beard offered.

“No,” Spencer said. “I mean, yes. But, I worry that my reputation in the City would be damaged.”

“You could send her to Europe,” the doctor offered.

“I don’t like that option, either. People might think I cannot control my wife. I couldn't have that,” Spencer replied.

They puffed their cigars.

“Spencer,” Dr. Beard began, “I don’t recommend this option, but I should make you aware. Do you remember Anne Welland?”

Spencer hesitated, and then said, “Oh, of course. Yes, David Welland’s daughter. Very pretty. A dark brunette. She went to Europe, years ago.”

“Yes. She is back. She is a countess now. She married — and then divorced — Count Olenski of Poland. She remains a handsome woman. She is also very rich. She inherited her father’s fur trading money. She renovated and moved back into her father’s mansion in East Harlem.”

Spencer nodded with increasing recognition. “Yes, yes. I recall someone mentioning this. Especially the divorced part,” Spencer said with a salacious smile and a wink. “But, what does this have to do with May, my good man?!”

“Countess Olenski has started something she calls a ‘spa.’ Sanitas per Aquam,” Beard explained.

“Aquam. Water. So…baths? In New York? That’s it? We tried the warm springs, already. They didn’t work,” Spencer said, incredulous.

“There is more. But no one is quite sure exactly what. Her patrons are hand selected and they keep very quiet. Her staff is also highly curated. No one will reveal what goes on in there. But I have had several patients who swear by whatever Countess Olenski is doing. They don’t even have me do house calls anymore.”

Chapter Three: The Countess Olenski

Spencer Archer stepped from the carriage and offered a hand to his wife. After a moment’s hesitation, May climbed from the black lacquered coupé. She had not been to this part of the Island since she was a teen, when she would ride her horse along the country lanes.

She looked up at the large brick manor. She glanced around at new brownstone townhouses that had begun to fill-in the open land that surrounded the mansions and farmhouses of this once rural part of Manhattan. The smell of fresh sawdust and wet grout still hung in the air. They walked up the granite steps and pulled the bell of the huge house. They were greeted by an immaculately dressed black man.

“Good morning,” the towering man said. “Who may I say is calling?”

“Spencer Archer. I’m here to meet with the mistress of the house.”

The dark man looked at Spencer blankly, then turned toward May. “I assume you are Mrs. May Archer, then? The Countess told me to expect you,” he said warmly. Returning a dismissive gaze to Spencer, he said politely, but firmly, “I will escort Mrs. Archer to the Countess. The first visit takes several hours. The Countess will dispatch one of her carriages to return Madam, when she is ready.”

Spencer looked as if he had been jabbed in the nose by a pugilist. “My good man, I will be meeting with Countess Olenski,” as he tried to step around.

The man placed his large, white-gloved hand on Spencer’s shoulder, stopping his progress. “No, sir. The Countess only meets with patients.”

“This is outrageous. I demand to speak with your mistress immediately!” Spencer said, loudly.

“That won’t be happening,” the man said, slowly and quietly. “Mrs. Archer will be well taken care of, if she chooses.”

Spencer’s outrage faded in the face of the doorman’s resolve. It was clear the large man was not about to budge. And, what was the loss? No one had seen him back down to a colored man. His reputation would remain intact with anyone that mattered. If he left now, he would have hours to himself. There would be no brooding wife. He had already cleared his business calendar. The prospect of spending unscheduled time at one of Madam Woods’ uptown brothels, or perhaps the option to head downtown to a Chinatown 'Theatre,' quickly began to outweigh his husbandly responsibilities. He looked at his wife, as if seeing if she would be alright being left alone.

May found herself intrigued. She had enjoyed seeing her husband wither. The large, handsome black man’s quiet power was calming, somehow. She had little idea what was on the other side of the door, but she was confident that this day would be different from yesterday. And, different might be better. She gave Spencer a nod and stepped through the door.

“I am Robert, Ma’am,” the man said as he walked May across an expansive foyer to a salon. The room was large, bright, feminine, and filled with art and decor of a wide variety. There were paintings of various styles, most featuring women in beautiful settings. Some of the images were scandalous. There were also artifacts that looked to be of African, Muslim, and Oriental origins. “The Countess will join you, shortly,” Robert said. “I’ll have some tea brought in.”

May sat on a yellow settee. She was nervous, but not anxious. She realized it was excitement — a feeling she hadn’t experienced in recent memory. A young woman entered carrying a tea tray. May was taken aback at the maid’s appearance. She was not in a uniform. Instead, she was in a white, silken robe that barely reached her knees. She was bare-legged and wore slipper-sandals with a slight heel. How odd, May thought. The woman had brilliant red hair, which she wore loosely piled, as if the removal of a single hairpin would send it cascading down her body.

“Hello, Madam,” the girl said with a thick Irish brogue. “Robert asked me to bring in some tea.” She bent to set the tray on the coffee table. May noticed the woman’s breasts moved freely under the robe. It was shocking. The woman poured a cup. Her fingernails were manicured and polished. This is no ordinary maid, May thought.

“Oh, thank you, Mary!” a voice said from the foyer. A tall, lovely woman with raven hair arranged in an elaborate, layered braid walked into the room. She, too, was in a simple silk dressing gown, though hers was royal blue. She greeted 'Mary' with two European kisses, followed by a peck on the lips. Definitely not an ordinary maid.

May stood and extended a hand. “Countess Olenski, I presume.” The Countess took May’s gloved hand, but then leaned in to kiss the air adjacent to each cheek.

“Mrs. Archer. I am so very pleased to meet you. I was lightly acquainted with your husband, many years ago. If I’m not mistaken, he was at my coming-out party. And I saw him at Columbia socials, and the like, before I left for Europe. You seem younger than he and I.”

As they sat down next to one another, May confirmed that she was just twenty-six, and that she had married Spencer when she was eighteen.

“That rogue,” the Countess said with a smile. “Snatching babies like you in his late twenties. I married an older man, as well. It was wonderful. For a time,” the Countess added. May returned a nervous smile.

“He’s a very lucky man. Does he know it?” The Countess asked. May’s slight smile disappeared.

“Of course, he doesn’t,” the Countess huffed. “They seldom do. They think we should be the ones grateful for our good luck that they deigned to marry us and squirt us full of ‘their’ babies. Babies that they pay no attention to until they are sixteen. The fools,” the Countess snickered with disgust as she patted May’s thigh. “Why are you here, pretty young lady?”

May opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. She sat uncomfortably on the edge of the sofa as her bustle poked into her lower back. She looked around the room in silence and took in the collection of exotic and erotic objects. “Doctor Beard…he says —”

“George Beard! The ‘world’s greatest medical expert on neurasthenia’?! The man is a quack. Especially when it involves women. Why are you here, May?”

“My husband—“

“I’m not concerned with your ‘sporting man’ of a husband, my dear. Why are you here, May?”

May looked into the dark brown eyes of her inquisitor. They were warm and welcoming. May’s own eyes watered slightly. She cleared her throat. “I’m…I’m dead inside,” she finally stammered.

The Countess wiped a lone tear that had appeared at the corner of May’s eye. “I know you are, May. I felt that way, myself, for a long time. So many women do. If you want to feel differently, if you are willing to challenge everything to do so, I can help you,” she said as she stroked May’s cheek. May nodded.

“I’m so pleased, May. Let’s start with you calling me Anne, shall we?”

Chapter 4: A seductive tour

Anne pulled May to her feet. “I will take you on a tour. But, first we need to get you as comfortable as my other guests. Mary will help you.”

The comely Irish girl reappeared and led May out of the parlor and down a hallway. They entered another room marked, 'Changing Room.' Inside, there were a dozen dress dummies standing next to open closets. Mary brought May to one such closet, where a white silk robe hung, as if waiting for her.

Mary held out her palms in a way which made it clear May was to hand-over her elaborate hat. Mary unpinned it with some effort, then handed four pins and the hat to Mary. With a throbbing heartbeat, May turned and felt Mary separate the hooks and loops of her long blouse. Staff had dressed and undressed May most of her life. Why did this time feel so different? May moved quickly, fearful that she would stop altogether if she gave what was happening too much thought. Mary peeled off May’s four layers of stiff, starched petticoats, one at a time. She freed May of her elaborate wire bustle. May exhaled her usual sigh of relief when Mary released her tight corset.

May was used to 'the help' leaving her alone at this point in the disrobing process, but the redhead remained. She met May’s curious look with intense, blue-green eyes. Maids, especially Irish maids, rarely made direct eye contact. Mary had no such inhibition. May felt as if Mary wanted to eat her alive. She raised her arms and Mary pulled her under-blouse over her head. May’s full breasts tightened with embarrassment, or perhaps, excitement. Mary stepped closer and undid the bow on May’s lace pantalettes. They dropped to the marble floor.

Anne was waiting in the hallway. She took May’s hand, and from there, they walked hand-in-hand, like schoolgirls. “May, do you trust me?”

May answered quickly, surprising herself. “Yes. Yes. I’m not sure why, but I very much do,” she said.

“Good. Now I need to trust you. You are about to see things that, if exposed, would ruin me. Despite my wealth, New York society would see to it that I was banished, or far worse. It would ruin the lives of my staff and those of my patients as well. Do you understand?” Anne said, stopping to take May’s face in her hands. “Lives depend on your total discretion.”

“I swear it,” May said.

They passed through a pleasant reading room. A plump, rosy-cheeked woman was sitting in a white robe like May’s, puffing on a pipe. She was paging through a gold-leafed, leather-bound volume.

“Are you enjoying The Thousand and One Nights, Emily?” Anne asked.

“Oh my, yes. Mr. Burton is very…illuminating. I will need to secure a copy for my Philadelphia library,” the woman said with a laugh.

Anne and May continued their tour. May was both horrified and stimulated to feel her body bounce and move freely against the silk fabric as she walked along. They strolled into a gymnasium. A black man tossed a medicine ball to a woman dressed only in bloomers. A second woman, in dance skirt and tights, performed calisthenics at a dance bar. “We embrace all of the sensations of the body, May. Even the hard ones,” Anne explained.

There was a small chapel-like space. It was unadorned with crosses or icons of any kind. There was just a small fountain and Arab pillows on the dark wood floor. Anne put a slender finger to her lips. A nude woman sat cross-legged. “Eastern meditation is part of our treatment,” Anne whispered as they left.

Anne then showed off an expansive Turkish bath. There was a central communal bath, and on one side, a huge steam room. “Wherever the Ottomans went, they built bathhouses such as this. They were generally for men only, except for courtesans, of course.”

“How were you able to see them?” May asked. Anne only smiled.

On the far side was a series of chambers, each containing an elevated leather bench. In one of the small rooms, May saw a woman, lying prone, having oil rubbed into her naked buttocks, by a man. She gasped at the shock of the scene, causing the man to look up. He was quite young, and very handsome, with burning dark eyes. May blushed.

“Does that intrigue you? Or does such a sight make you want to flee, May?” Anne asked.

“I’m fine,” May said, though she said it in a hushed voice that was less than convincing. Her heart beat wildly, and her skin tingled.

They exited the bathhouse, passing through French doors into a soaring atrium. Ornate ironwork held the largest panes of glass May had ever seen. Potted plants were placed throughout the courtyard. Geranium vines hung from metal columns. Palm trees reached two-thirds of the way to the atrium ceiling, which itself was mostly glass. Orchids circled the trunks of the palms.

“This is the solarium, my dear, May. Here, my guests enjoy the healing power of the sun, a verdant setting, and the relaxing sounds of flowing water. It is the largest, privately owned solarium in the New World,” Anne explained proudly.

A series of fountains fed into one another, forming a cascade that ultimately spilled into a natural-looking pool. In that pool, a woman that May recognized as Susanne Jansen, was swimming a languid side-stroke. Her famous blonde hair was pinned up precariously to stay dry. She was naked. Totally and completely naked.

Two other women were on chaise lounges. One was wrapped tightly in a sheet and appeared to be sleeping. The other was in the standard issue white robe. The robe had fallen open, and the woman appeared quite focused on Susanne Jansen.

Anne and May followed a path through the flowers and trees until they came to a line of ornate Persian screens. May heard voices on the other side. “What’s over there?” She asked.

“It’s the Therapy Garden,” Anne said curtly. “We will see that another day. Let’s head back to the baths. I think you’re ready for your first treatment. Do you?” Anne asked. May nodded. As they turned, May thought she heard something … something like a woman’s moan.

Chapter Five: A new friend

Anne and May walked arm-in-arm. They passed the pool just as Susanne Jansen stepped out. She reached for a thick Turkish towel, but made no attempt to cover herself. May tried to avert her eyes, but they kept being drawn back to the blonde’s Venus-like form.

“Hello, Anne,” Susanne said in her haughty New Amsterdam accent. “And, hello to you, May. I haven’t seen you for quite some time. Oh, pardon-” Susanne said as she realized May was blushing and attempting to look anywhere, but directly at her. “I forget when I’m around new patients,” she explained as she wrapped the towel tightly around herself.

“Are you headed to the steam room, by chance?” Anne asked. “Would you show May the ropes while I get a massage room ready for her?”

Susanne offered her arm, inviting May to trade companions. Nervously, May did so. Susanne waved at her disappointed admirer on the chaise lounge as she pulled May to her hip.

“You’ve made a marvelous choice, May. I was in tears nearly every day before I began coming here.”

They walked into the bathhouse. Susanne handed May a towel like her own and they approached the heavy, carved door that served as entrance to the steam room.

“Just put your robe on one of those hooks, May,” Susanne instructed.

May put her hands to the sash, took a deep breath, and pulled open the bow. She hung up the robe and then clutched a towel to her body.

“My God, you are like one of those Rubens paintings that the Countess has in her sitting room,” Susanne said, admiring May’s body.

They made their way through the thick, hot fog of the room, and took a seat on the marble terraced bench. Susanne pulled a couple of combs from her hair and bent to shake her tresses loose, and then dramatically flipped the corn silk mane over her head. May copied her, though she nearly fell when she attempted the hair flip.

Susanne leaned back against the marble wall and opened her towel. “Aaaah,” she sighed. The steam provided just enough of a veil of privacy that May gathered her courage to, again, follow Susanne’s lead. She opened the towel and enjoyed the feeling of the super-heated, moist air against her skin.

May watched through the mist as Susanne ran her hands along her Grecian body, pushing the sweat and condensed steam across her skin like a lotion. May imitated her, once more. The feeling was glorious.

They lay there, mostly silent, until Susanne sat up and moved closer to May. Susanne positioned herself on the terrace above May.

“Mind if I braid your hair?” Susanne asked. May let out a half giggle, but said it would be fine.

“We weren’t ever really, friends, were we May?” Susanne said, as she ran her nails through May’s long, brown hair.

“No, I suppose we were never close. But not, unfriendly,” May responded hesitantly. Susanne’s inner thighs pressed lightly against May’s shoulders.

“Of course, not unfriendly. That is not what I meant. Our social orbits sometimes crossed. Our husbands do business together. But we’re not really, friends,” Susanne continued.

“I suppose,” May said, suddenly nervous where this was headed.

“That is a good thing, May. There is hope for us. I’m not a real, fully formed person out there. I don’t like myself, out there,” Susanne said as she began to twist May’s hair into a loose braid.

“Out there, I am the great, great granddaughter of one of the original Dutch colonists. I am the wife of a man who is also a descendant of those original families,” she continued, as she incorporated smaller strands of May’s hair.

“I am a graduate of Vassar, as you are. I am a secretary of the Debutant Society. I am regarded as a prominent member of society. And, I am nothing. I don’t feel anything that I’m not allowed to feel. I don’t think anything that I’m not allowed to think. I am not friends with anyone, out there. Not a real friend. In here, we can be friends, May,” Susanne said as she tightened May’s braid.

May was not sure what to say. She related to Susanne’s point of view, but was embarrassed to say so.

“There!” Susanne broke the uncomfortable pause. “That should keep the oil out of your hair. I’m sure the Countess will have a massage room ready for you. I think I will find Robert in the Therapy Garden,” she said in a hungry tone.

“Robert?” May asked. “You don’t mean the doorman?”

Susanne laughed. “Oh, my dear. He is so much more than a doorman!”

Susanne guided May to a cold shower. Somehow the steam had cooked the inhibitions out of her, and she walked around the bathhouse, naked, without a thought. Her skin was so heated that the cold water felt tepid. Though, the tautness of her nipples told a different story.

Susanne ladled May a cold drink of water, and then kissed her, directly on the lips. “Have fun, May. I know I will.” And with that, Susanne wrapped herself in a fresh towel and sauntered toward the solarium.

Chapter 6: An unexpected touch

Anne found May sitting in her robe at the edge of the communal bath, her lower legs gently kicking the cool water.

“Relaxed?” Anne asked. May smiled.

“Well, let’s get you extra relaxed, then,” Mary said in her Irish lilt.

They led her into one of the small chambers. The room smelled of tea tree and other oils. Given what she had seen earlier, May had a foreshadowing of what was about to happen. She was amazed at herself that she did not bolt from the room. She lay face down on the bench without prompting. Would it be Anne that would touch her? Mary? Or, would it be that handsome young man she had seen before?

She did not protest when Anne pulled her towel away. A wave of goose flesh traveled across her body. May realized it was from excitement rather than cold. She felt warm oil as it was poured along her spine, sprinkled over her buttocks, and then dripped along her hamstrings and calves. Four gentle, but firm, hands began to rub the oil into her skin.

The few words exchanged confirmed Anne and Mary had remained. It was they who were touching her. No woman other than her nanny had ever touched her in this way. She had not felt Spencer’s touch, like this, since their first year of marriage.

May exhaled as Mary pressed on her lower back and pushed up to her shoulders. She flinched and giggled and then sighed as Mary worked the soles of her feet. The pairs of hands gradually moved toward one another. Anne stroked between her shoulder blades; Mary worked her calves. Anne massaged the flute of her back; Mary caressed her knees. May gasped when Anne finally reached her round bottom; she clenched when Mary ran her hands along her inner thighs.

A persistent fist wedged May’s legs apart. She gasped when Anne’s strong hands gently parted her bottom cheeks. She suppressed a shriek, and did not protest. The hands came closer, sometimes overlapping, as they worked her buttocks and upper legs. May thought she might scream as Anne — or was it Mary — circled her anus with a fingertip. She did scream, in her head, as a finger flirted with the curly hair of her sex. May felt as if she might tremor if they kept this up.

“Let’s give your front some attention, shall we, May?” Anne said. May rolled over obediently. She was shocked to see that both Anne and Mary had abandoned their robes. Mary was covered in pretty freckles. Her hair was no longer pinned above head, but was in a simple, long ponytail. She had small breasts with matching pert nipples, and a brilliant blaze of thick ginger hair between her legs.

Anne was full figured, like May herself. Her large, firm breasts swayed slightly as she ladled drips of oil back and forth across May’s torso. May felt a sudden desire to take one of Anne’s large nipples into her mouth. She squinted her eyes shut to ban the image, and thought, from her mind.

They began, as before, at her opposite ends, but quickly converged at May’s chest. It might well have been that they were as excited as she was. Each focused on a breast. Mary tried, but failed to cup May’s full breast in her small hands. The flesh, slick with oil, slipped through Mary’s grasp. She altered her technique, and pressed her palm against May’s erect nipple, pushing the breast into her chest until it slipped away, again.

Anne worked May’s right breast with one hand, while she, not so gently, pinched the nipple. She would then release the breast and switch hands, repeating the maneuver. May’s own hands began to stroke her stomach and thighs, as if they had a mind of their own.

“May I use my mouth, Mum?” Mary asked, breaking a long silence. May met Mary’s eyes, then looked at Anne.

“Yes, May. The question is to you. You are in charge here,” Anne said with bemusement.

May left her body and looked down at the scene. She watched her own mouth utter the words, “Yes…please.”

Both Anne and Mary bent to take a turgid nipple between their lips. May arched off the bench and moaned. Her hips rocked, involuntarily, at the same time she spread her legs farther apart. She curled her arms back to embrace both women, pulling them to her as they suckled.

A hand moved along May’s left side. It was Mary’s. Though they did not speak, Anne’s hand followed down the right, as if coordinated. May both desperately hoped, and was dreadfully afraid, that those hands would find her center. Within seconds, they did. A finger snaked its way through her downy hair to caress her lips, then slipped inside. Another set of fingers spread her open, allowing greater access.

“Aaah,” May gasped, causing the probing fingers to stop. “No! More!” she moaned in a desperate whisper.

Two fingers now worked within her, while the edge of a palm pressured her sensitive nub. All the while, the intensity and force of the sucking on her nipples increased. When Anne introduced a gentle bite of May’s swollen nipple to the bundle of feelings she was experiencing, she felt a pressure build within her unlike any she had known before.

She felt as if the sensations from her nether lips, her nub, her nipples, and her warm skin, formed a tower of vibrating bricks. That tower reached higher and higher, toward the ceiling of the room, until it suddenly collapsed. The energy of the crash caused May’s breathing to stop and her vision to narrow, a pause allowing an explosion to build. When the energy was finally released, May was wracked with glorious convulsions. Anne and Mary held May tight to the bench until her passion ebbed.

Anne kissed May on the forehead. “We will leave you alone. Mary will fetch you in a bit.”

May curled into a ball and broke into tears. They were not tears of sadness, nor even of joy. They were a release.

Mary gathered May after a few minutes. They rinsed off, then went to the changing room, where they reassembled May’s elaborate, layered costume. “This is madness,” May said with a laugh, as Mary weighed her down with petticoat after petticoat.

Anna escorted May to the entrance, where a carriage was waiting to return her to Fifth Avenue. A man opened the heavy door. It was not Robert. It was the young man that May had seen in one of the massage chambers. He smiled.

“Ah, May,” Anne said, “I’d like you to meet my son, Charles. He helps out around here.”

To be continued…