The love of a long soak in hot water is an ancient pursuit, and one not only enjoyed by humans but by other primates, as wildlife films have shown us. The Romans had their elaborate bathhouses like the one at Bath. Separate Turkish baths for better-off men and women were common in many towns and cities in Victorian England, as well as the more basic public bathing establishments for the poor, and many modern Japanese prefer to take their holidays at a spa.
In recent years, the Scandinavian variant on this theme — the sauna — has become popular and many small establishments may be found on our high streets, nestling amongst the coffee bars, wine merchants and charity shops. Although some may be genuine, many are really establishments where clients can pay for an erotic massage or more intimate sexual services. In other words, they are brothels although keeping a brothel is illegal in the U.K.
They are generally owned and managed by a woman, and the masseuses are usually much older than the girls who ply their trade on the streets. Many of them are single parents struggling to make ends meet; they often suffer from depression and may have an alcohol problem, though few use hard drugs.
This is Rachel’s story, a story which has a happy ending. As the reader it is up to you to decide whether Rachel actually worked as a prostitute at all, depending I suppose on your opinion about erotic massage. She does eventually enjoy a lot of sex with both men and women but never for material gain, unless you count a free Mediterranean holiday on a luxury yacht as the guest of a wealthy man as payment for sexual services.
ooOoo
Chapter 1 — Rachel’s Dilemma
Rachel was at her wits’ end. She was nearly forty with two children at primary school, without a job, and no income other than benefits… and the government was planning to cut those. There were days when she was forced to go without food just in order to feed and clothe the children, and pay the cost of heating and electricity.
It was all the fault of that low-life of a husband. When they had got married they had both kept on working so that they could buy their dream home in the leafy suburbs. She had a well-paid job as a physiotherapist at the large hospital in a nearby city, but when they eventually decided they could afford to have children, she retired from her senior post to become a full-time mother. She thought that everything was okay until the day he buggered off to live with his floozie in a loft apartment in a smart development in the city centre.
She had always left all the financial matters to him, but she quickly discovered with a shock that they had fallen into serious debt because of his extravagance — the fancy car, and those so-called business trips to America, and unknown to her, the mortgage on his apartment. It turned out that the bastard had been cheating on her for years.
They sold the house, but after settling all the debts there was virtually nothing left, and she was forced to move with the children to a two bedroomed flat on a run-down estate of what had been social housing until the government forced the council to sell them. If she could have got a divorce, he would have been forced to pay maintenance for the children, but she couldn’t even afford the cost of a lawyer, and he couldn’t be bothered.
She couldn’t even go back to working at her profession. The hospital had outsourced physiotherapy services to a private company, but with the financial cutbacks in the health service — the government called them efficiency savings — and even they were laying off staff, starting with the those on the highest grades. She didn’t even have the option of setting up in private practice. There was no way she could afford the expense of renting somewhere which she could fit out as a treatment room, let alone the cost of equipment and insurance; and childcare was prohibitively expensive.
ooOoo
Rachel really didn’t know what to do, but one day when she was on her way back to the bus stop with two carrier bags of groceries from the cheap supermarket she saw a glossy poster in the window of the new wellness clinic which had recently opened on the high street. It was an advertisement for trained masseuses who could work for a few hours each week. She thought she might as well apply since that was at least something she could do.
Massage was one of the skills that she had most enjoyed learning when she was at college, although she had rarely had occasion to use it in clinical practice, and it was no longer part of physiotherapy training. She was wearing her usual pair of well-worn jeans and a faded tee-shirt so, knowing the importance of first impressions from her experience of interviewing job applicants, she decided to come back the following day dressed in a more appropriate fashion.
The following morning, after taking the children to school, she looked through the few remaining smart clothes in her closet and eventually chose a plain navy skirt and jacket and a simple white blouse. She applied her makeup with care, choosing subtle shades to enhance her olive skin — the heritage of an Indian grandmother — and tied her long glossy black hair back in a French pleat. Once she was satisfied that her appearance was suitably professional without being too nondescript, she put on her only pair of smart shoes and, after a quick glance in the mirror in the hall, left the house before her courage failed her.
From the outside, the wellness clinic was rather anonymous — more like a solicitor or accountant’s office — with window blinds concealing the interior from curious eyes. Rachel was surprised to find that the interior was equally bland — just a single room plainly decorated in relaxing pastel colours with a reception desk staffed by an attractive business-like looking girl facing the door. To one side there was a waiting area with several comfortable armchairs around a couple of low tables and a coffee machine and chilled water dispenser.
In the opposite wall were two doors, one with a sign saying “Office” and the other “Treatment Rooms”. For a moment Rachel thought she must be in the wrong place — except for the large head and shoulders photographs of contented looking men and women on the walls, it looked just like a dentist’s surgery, with none of the bustle of a conventional hair or beauty salon that she had expected.
Rachel approached the desk and when the girl looked up, explained that she had come about the advertisement in the window for trained masseuses. The girl said nothing but just opened a drawer in her desk and took out a form which she asked Rachel to complete, politely indicating that she should take a seat while she did so.
The form was fairly simple, just a couple of sides of A4 asking for the usual information — name, address and telephone number, National Insurance number etcetera, and for details of professional qualifications and past employment history. Once she had completed the form, Rachel handed it to the receptionist, who asked her to wait and then got up and knocked on the door to the office. After a brief interval, she opened the door and disappeared inside, coming out a couple of minutes later. She told Rachel that the Manager would see her soon and suggested that while she was waiting she should help herself to a cup of coffee.
After about fifteen nervous minutes, Rachel began to think that she was wasting her time and that she might as well leave, but then the telephone rang on the receptionist’s desk and after listening for a couple of seconds she smiled and said to Rachel, “Mrs Robinson will see you now,” before going back to manicuring her nails.
As Rachel was walking across the room to the office door she thought to herself that the job of the receptionist seemed to be rather boring and hoped that the lack of activity wasn’t indicative of the state of the clinic. She knocked on the door and was immediately greeted by a well-spoken and rather melodious middle-class voice asking her to come in.
