The Korea Girl at the New Aloha Spa

Some older guys are buddies of mine. Winters in Sag Harbor only the fire department bake sale and amateur poetry readings at Ashawagh Hall are exciting. I show up at Rowdy Hall in a tight red dress and start the intravenous Chardonnay drip and make friends. Too bad Rowdy Hall doesn't stock white Burgundies at $250.00 a bottle; I know my buddies would compete to pop for it.

I offer nice svelte curves, smooth white boob skin, great smile, long shapely legs, and a stylish manicure. I give a mystical mix of clean-hair scent and perfume. I do not give pussy or head, but great ear.

In case you're still reading, there is another well-lighted exit just ahead. Without unwarranted elaboration, apart from the usual acerbic observations on the condition humaine, I am going to recount a story my friend, Wally, told me over $78.00 worth of decent chardonnay.

I am warning you the story is true because most of us are here escaping into sex fantasies. Don't take that the wrong way if you have a sex life as exciting as any Literotica story. I mean, you could be lying on the bed on your tummy, reading this story on your computer, while hubby sits on your cushy butt conducting a nice long proctological exam while he looks over your head at the Giant's game on TV.

Wally is about 55, handsome, virile, adequately funded for the bar at Rowdy Hall, literary minded, and a graduate of an excellent local cardiac rehab. program. His wife has America's most desirable 54-year-old body, thanks to $205,000 worth of yoga classes and Caribbean yoga retreats over 40 years. Unfortunately, she seems to have had her clitoris shot off in the war. No libido. Wally's access to her is limited to 15 minutes every other Sunday morning before she erupts out of bed with a cry of energetic joy to head off to yoga. Wally cowers for a few more hours under the covers.

Well, left to surf the internet without adult supervision, Wally began checking out erotic massages in Manhattan. He had to go into the city to see his cardiologist. He said, "Ellen, no one wants to have sex with me."

I have turned my stool to face his. I give my priceless Paris gamin smile, take a breath to inflate my boobs a little. Poor Wally. Such a generous guy with high-priced wine.

"No young woman has any interest in sex with me. No older woman who still wants sex wants it with me; she wants someone 20 years younger. Who wants me? Unmarried women still sexy and attractive are hunting a husband? "Seeking husband, will submit as necessary to occasional humiliation? Attach bank statement, photo of home, and draft of proposed new will for free evaluation of your chances of fellatio?"

He repeats: "No one actually wants to have sex with me." Sensitive moment, here. I reach out and give his brown-spotted hand a squeeze; he gazes into my eyes, but not yearningly. This is a disciplined guy. He knows the score. I adore him. He signals the waiter to refill my glass. I mean, why couldn't I give him maybe hand job? Because then all my buddies would have to have one. I'd be sitting somewhere obviously not a bar with a dick in one hand and a chardonnay in other. I like bars. Still, could be worse...

"You know what? It's so obvious. What do I want? Pussy."

I demurely lower my gaze. Goodness, Wally, such language...

"Sorry," he says. I flick my eyelashes. "And what do they want? MONEY. SO obvious. I have mountains of money," he whispers fiercely, slapping his thigh in frustration.

Wow, I feel a little tingle of arousal down there, after all.

"So fuck it. Fuck it."

I look up, frowning. Talking this way to me is a form of foreplay and you know where that leads.

"I know, Ellen, I'm sorry. I'm very sorry."

This could become monotonous.

"So, I go on the interest to find a spa. It's called the New Aloha Spa. I can walk there from my cardiologist's office. All the girls in the pictures look Asian. About mid-twenties. Maybe 95 pounds. Far as I can tell, though..."

He pauses.

"Kind of svelte, but okay tits?"

Wally nods, glancing down at mine.

Wait! What? What are you implying? That my tits are just "okay"?

I modestly smile.

"I mean, I looked at a lot of sites. Do you know this is a $2.0 billion-a-year industry in New York City? None of them can actually advertise sex, of course. Swedish massage, hot-stone massage, Her Majesty's Royal Navy flogging massage, our special Asian Fusion Groping? And then, they will say, maybe, 'mutual touching,' or "happiest of happy endings.' "

I nod, "Rub and tug."

"Is that what they call it?" He nods to himself. Mutters "So crude, but this was really nice.

"I got an appointment for 5:30, so I could finish with my cardiologist on 58th Street and Lexington and maybe walk down."

Wally, what is happening with your cardiologist? This is what he and I have been discussing on our last three dates at Rowdy Hall. I really want to know. Did he adjust your Warfarin? How is your atrial flutter?

"Kind of a dump, from the outside. Second floor. One little side door. 'New Aloha Spa,' with paintings of a few sickly looking palm trees. No windows.

"You know, buzz, give your name in the intercom. The stairs were about as romantic as my cellar stairs."

"But greeted at the door by aloha girls, I hope—and then, paradise?"

"No, no. I panicked, a little. Two women in black dresses. Prison matrons, sort of. Not sure what age. They could have learned the trade with G.I.'s during the Korean war...

"Right away, they're saying, 'Please, please, come this way.' But I'm taking a good look around. Where is the muscle? I'm even thinking maybe this is 'cosh and rob,' not 'rub and tug.' And no one knows I'm here. No one. I've got Mace and... well, a flick knife. But Ellen, I'm not delusional. I'm not James Bond..."

Wally, could get to the sex part, if there was one? We have two loyal readers still following the story. At this point, they are so desperate, they would enjoy hearing about your Viagra.

"The room is nice. I'm in there, looking at a clean bed, romantic lighting, a little sink, a few clothes hooks. Music. But this matron is still there, smiling. 'Take clothes off, now? Eighty-five dollar. Forty-five minute massage. One hour, one hundred dollars.'

"Ellen, what if I give her a hundred bucks and she starts stripping? What can I do? I can't walk out. Can't do that to any woman. I'll have to do whatever you do... " He pauses, shaking his head, taking a quick gulp of chardonnay. Isn't Wally a great guy?

"I fish out a C-note. No way I'm using a credit card. She takes it, bows, starts out the door. I still have hope. I asked: the girl?"

"Coming, coming."

Okay, Wally is taking off his clothes. Hanging them up carefully. Seems safe enough for his wallet; he can see his pants from the bed. Will he be near delirious with pleasure, a hand slips in around the door...? Got to stop this. They don't have to steal his wallet. That isn't their racket. They're specialists, not generalists.

"Hi-lo!"

Zowie, this is more like it! She's younger than his granddaughter! In a painted-on bright-red dress and nothing else. So cute, cherry lips, demure nose, big brown eyes, black hair wound on top of her head and wrapped with a little gold chain.

Wally is at least about a head taller. Her arms are wrapped around him. Not svelte. Slight chubby girl, especially in the tits. The hug is pushing them together, fattening them outward. He almost can see the nips. She is smiling up; she loves this.

"Now take off clothes?"

You bet, hon! He finishes stripping. She is watching, smiling, helping with him balance while he gets his underwear off his foot.

He is looking at the bed. But she is holding a shorty white bathrobe. Time for a shower.

Takes his hand. Wait. His wallet? Beside his clothes on a hook hangs a small webbed carrier. She nods. This place knows it clientele. Trust, but verify! He heads off for the shower, swinging his web bag, she holding his hand. They march past the matrons, who smile at the happy couple.

Looks acceptable. One long shower stall, long table. Smells okay.

"Wait! Sandals!"

Jeez, this gal has been suppressing a distinctly bossy streak. The round-eye is not entering the shower with his sandals on. She steadies him, again, as he slips them off. Get a GRIP, Wally; this isn't a fucking geriatric nurse. You are still a robust man. You are going to fuck her—or something...

He steps up into the shower, but just to be sure, gets a grip on the shower curtain.

"No! Not pull on this, please! I will help you." She's clutching his biceps very hard.

Christ, maybe this is just an enema.

He is on the slippery warm-wet table. "No, face down!" This is no China doll. She pushes his head down onto the padded face hole. For God's sake move white eyes! Can't you fucking do anything?

Oh, Heaven. She is dousing him with warm water. He doesn't dare lift his head, but he can glimpse her red dress, up around mid-thigh, higher, and her indefinably cute chubby legs are wet. He thought maybe the dress would come off.

"Aren't you getting your dress wet?"

"No." Especially violent blast of water at his head.

And then the hands. Wally's whole life passes before his eyes; he has been misguided. He has been married three times; had whole migrating flocks of girlfriends. No one has ever given him a shower. This babe is laboring like a coolie, splashing him, soaping him; her little hands running up and down in his ass right over his asshole. She is sanding his skin, now, or something.

"Now over!" Yes, right. He groans as he struggles to flip over because he has a bad back. He makes it.

She is leaning over his cock; her smile is sweet, even ecstatic. Her wet dress is plastered onto her boobs, her hips, her pooch. She is soaping his legs, his chest hair, his crotch. Her hands are sliding over and over his dick. Christ, he can't come here! This is only 15 minutes into his hour massage; what will they do for the rest of the time?

"Now come!" Helping him. Actually, dragging him a little. No wonder the Koreans have such great production lines; she is moving him along on a tight schedule. She is kneeling at his feet, her wet back slick and lovely, little neck dewy, and she is slipping on his sandals for him. What has he been missing?

Back at room, on the bed. "Face down!"

A nice massage. Now, she is on the table, astride him. He feels her bare wet legs on either side of him. She is pounding his shoulders. Maximal effort. He can't help it, he reaches back, groping up her leg. So far, okay, apparently. Higher. He can't reach any higher, now. Might dislocate his shoulder.

"So you have no panties?" he asks?

Language barrier suddenly gone. "No, no panties, I am naked under my dress." These chubby, wet, slick legs. Shit, she just rubbed his ass, rocking on his butt.

"Over!" He's trained now, goes groaning onto his back.

She is standing beside the bed, red dress plastered on; her strong arms are working him. She has coated his dick and balls with oil and with both hands is stoking the whole package upward. He has tried to gesture to her. Look, my chest. Nine-inch red scar. Heart surgery. Medication. Not sure how this is... Can he get it up?

Actually, no problem. He could fuck mud, as they say in the Marines. He is bigger than both of her hands.

"Now!" she says, "what should I do?" She is grinning.

Are you joking?

"Just massage body, eighty-five dollars. More, here...?" She is making his dick stand out like a navel gun. "One-hundred more dollar."

Wally lifts his head. Money? All you're asking for is money? I paid my first wife two-and-and-half million bucks for a divorce and she never did this. You want a hundred bucks?

"Yes," he says, "sure. A hundred? Sure?" He lets his head flop back. Here it comes.

So charming. She is giving him a girlish giggle. "Now," she is saying. "One hundred, now."

Oh, course. Pay to play. He lunges up. She shrieks: "Careful!" and grabs his arms. Very strong young lady. Probably could give him a full body-carry over to his wallet.

He's up, naked, handing her a bill.

"Right back." Blows him a kiss.

She's out to balance the books. He's almost giggling. She's worried about a fucking hundred bucks? He struggled through Yale, Stanford Law School, forty years in a law firm... He sees it now. All his life, struggling to be someone, so he could get fucked. Get it. She wants a hundred bucks.

He is giggling. Giggling! Is the beginning of hysteria? He's got to stop before she gets back. He's on the bed, again, on his back, and the door opens.

He sits up. She gives him the timeless agreeable feminine smile of submission of the Orient. She is stripping off the red dress. Just hauling it down over her sweet little, chubby, bouncy, round breasts with full dark nipples bouncing as she drags the dress over them. God, they are the tits of a twenty-something girl. She turns to him, grinning.

What is he allowed to do? You aren't supposed to touch the girl. But she is asserting her chest, thrusting them right at him, and she is grinning.

He reaches out, stops to check her smile—still good—and grabs them. Just grabs one that fills each hand, so firm, the nipples poking out between his clutching fingers. They are irrepressible.

He almost sobs. His head dives down. She puts her hands behind his head and steers him in. He is kissing these tits, sucking like mad, biting... She doesn't mind; she is laughing, hauling him in harder. For a hundred bucks! His whole life has been crap! His whole life! People have been lying to him about this. Bad girls. Whores. Hookers.

Wow, his hands can't even push them together. His lips are moving back and forth like a windshield wiper, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss...

Then, her slender little hand slips down and takes his dick. It is like a hot, throbbing meat horn. Her fingers are around it. Just holding it.

He rolls back on the bed, eyes closed, legs spread. What now?

She has climbed onto the table, straddled him, wet bare legs on him. But this time, she bends over his feet, kissing them, her soft lips are moving up his legs, kissing his varicose veins, bony knees, his thighs, whispering over his quivering belly... Buoyant sweet nipples over his face. He reaches up, twiddling them with his fingers, milking them, rolling them until they are stiff as gristle, sticking out, and, yes, she's panting a little. Thrusting them out for more attention.

And then he notices. The whole time she has been sitting on him. He has been feeling her pussy. It is a soft little promontory with some stubble of hair that tickles him. She has been whisking him with a little cunt-stubble brush. His hand shoots down to check. Yes, a chubby handful of slightly bristly pussy.

"No finger inside," she says. He tickles the slit. She is sighing.

Then, she slips off the table, stands there holding his oil-slicked cock in both small hands, fingers stroking him upward. Tips of her fingers sliding around the swollen head.

Wait! Is he coming too soon?

"On'y ten more minute," she laughs because old guys always ask.

Wally's head flops back. Go for it.

She is bending over, tip of his dick kissing her nipples. She is giving him the rogering of all time. Oh, God...

She is panting, now, lips open. He isn't delusional. She is improvising the sound track."

When he comes, he is almost weeping because with torturous slowness she is pulling out of his prick an endless thread of pleasure and each tug makes face go red, his heart race faster, his hips heave. Can't help it. She nourishes along his cum, drawing it out.

Oh, Christ, he may start weeping. Wacko! He's a wacko! But here is this beautiful, ecstatic orgasm, every inch of his body kissed, rubbed, washed, oiled...She is all over him with her rubbery sweet nipples, stroking him. How could he be getting all this just by telephoning for an appointment and paying $180—the cost of his second wife's pedicures?

"You like this?"

He is trying to tell her yes. He may bawl.

"You enjoy?"

"Yes! I said yes!? Don't you speak freaking English?

Maybe she understands, she is grinning. She is wiping his groin with a warm, wet face cloth. He's been fucking high-maintenance women for five decades and not one has done this.

Why would he want to leave here? Ever? A little nap, maybe, all set to go again.

He has dressed. Gives her another hundred bucks as a tip, which she tucks into her dress. He leans to kiss her.

A big smile. She says, "No face. No face." She runs her fingers around the sublime oval of her countenance, as though creating a protective halo. More like the DMZ, maybe. "No touch face."

A big smile.

Fine. He dives down and plants a goodbye kiss on each swelling boob. She's fine with that. She holds his head. "No face," she murmurs.

Just when he is ready to open the door, she gazes up at him. She gives her pussy two brisk slaps. She says: "Next time. Next time."

"I guess you'll be going back," I say. Really happy for Wally. He seems so young.

Wally is frowning at me, over his glass. "I can't figure out whether I want a new one, next time, or the same one."

"But you graduate to pussy, if you stick with this one," I remind him, using the word as demurely as I can.

"Well, yeah..."

He pauses. Fills my glass. He is holding my gaze over the rim of my glass.

He says, "You know what?"

How would I know what, Wally, dear?

"When I came with that girl, I was thinking of you." Not smiling. He sounds infinitely melancholy.

Oh, Wally, how sweet! I don't know what to say. Because you're dangerously unbalanced.

I did not say that. I already was having fantasies about the girl. Sitting on her "no touch" face and twisting her chubby tits and slapping her cute, stubbly Korean hooker twat till she makes me blubbers. Wally could treat me to a premium session.

I think I may be a little pissed off.

Wally has been watching me, waiting for an answer.

Let's see who can wait longest.