A poker room massage. A pretty girl, with strong, experienced hands, massaging my shoulders;
Two pairs and a flush draw. “Raise.” Stack a few chips.
then down my back and along my spine. She’s sat behind me now, working up under my shirt. She’s good. Taking her time.
I lead out, he raises. I think a bit. “Fold.”
Her hands massaging my head with the lightest touch – I could easily close my eyes.
Jacks, out of position. I let them go.
She gently massages my earlobes. It feels like sex. I don’t want her to stop.
Big pot. Pre-flop raiser bets into it. I re-raise big. He thinks for ever but folds. I stack a lot of chips, give one to the dealer, one to the girl.
What the massage girl didn’t know is that, when she was at the base of my spine, she was inches away from a wide mishmash of fresh bruises and welts, radiating heat. I’d booked the massage so I could float free for a while and re-live the session, swimming in memories only a few hours old and full of physical and emotional intensity.
You see: I hadn’t been the only man in the room
You can read about the session here.
More (mostly less sore) sin can be found here: