The first knock came ten minutes before my massage was due. It was the underlings coming to prepare, carrying a massage table and an assortment of towels. They set up on the balcony and carefully lowered the bamboo blind to preserve my modesty - probably already compromised by the fact I had changed into a robe before they arrived.
Once all was ready they departed with the words " ready, coming soon" and I sat down on the bed intrigued to see who would appear. It was a full ten minutes later when the second knock came - "massage madam". I opened the door to find one of the hotel employees and a tiny woman in a sari, who swept through the room and onto the balcony. I followed meekly.
Earlier on we had had the whole " how much to you take off" debate, and in the absence of instructions I had kept on my knickers under my robe. She looked me up and down and gestured for me to take off the robe and sit down to have my head and shoulders massaged. I did what I was told.
It felt slightly incongruous sitting on the balcony in my knickers with only a bamboo blind between me and the squawking birds and honking horns of Kochi Fort. But after a couple of minutes of her ministrations I probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd been naked in the high street.
I noticed a rhythm to what she did. Every stroke was repeated seven times, and each pattern of strokes was mirrored on the other side of my body. She used loads of oil - a strongly perfumed almost medicinal blend.
Once she had finished my head and neck she waved me to lie face up on the table and started slapping copious amounts of oil onto my stomach and the front of my legs. It was time to resolve the knicker dilemma. "On or off?" I asked. She waved imperiously towards the chair so I threw my modesty - and my knickers- to the wind.
Years ago I went to a massage class, and used to practise on friends. One of the books I used to refer to emphasised the importance, when massaging a woman, of not "patronising" her breasts by ignoring them, or massaging around them. This was the source of some amusement to me and my friends over the years. Suffice it to say this lady did not patronise any part of my body, but dealt with me in a way that was not only thorough but also what one of my friends would call "matter of fact" - by which she means verging on brutal. I'm made of sterner stuff though.
At the end of an hour practically every inch of me was dripping with oil and had been pummelled into shape. My arms and legs had been bent and rotated in all directions, and the soles of my feet slapped.
For someone so tiny she gave a mean massage!
Once all was ready they departed with the words " ready, coming soon" and I sat down on the bed intrigued to see who would appear. It was a full ten minutes later when the second knock came - "massage madam". I opened the door to find one of the hotel employees and a tiny woman in a sari, who swept through the room and onto the balcony. I followed meekly.
Earlier on we had had the whole " how much to you take off" debate, and in the absence of instructions I had kept on my knickers under my robe. She looked me up and down and gestured for me to take off the robe and sit down to have my head and shoulders massaged. I did what I was told.
It felt slightly incongruous sitting on the balcony in my knickers with only a bamboo blind between me and the squawking birds and honking horns of Kochi Fort. But after a couple of minutes of her ministrations I probably wouldn't have noticed if I'd been naked in the high street.
I noticed a rhythm to what she did. Every stroke was repeated seven times, and each pattern of strokes was mirrored on the other side of my body. She used loads of oil - a strongly perfumed almost medicinal blend.
Once she had finished my head and neck she waved me to lie face up on the table and started slapping copious amounts of oil onto my stomach and the front of my legs. It was time to resolve the knicker dilemma. "On or off?" I asked. She waved imperiously towards the chair so I threw my modesty - and my knickers- to the wind.
Years ago I went to a massage class, and used to practise on friends. One of the books I used to refer to emphasised the importance, when massaging a woman, of not "patronising" her breasts by ignoring them, or massaging around them. This was the source of some amusement to me and my friends over the years. Suffice it to say this lady did not patronise any part of my body, but dealt with me in a way that was not only thorough but also what one of my friends would call "matter of fact" - by which she means verging on brutal. I'm made of sterner stuff though.
At the end of an hour practically every inch of me was dripping with oil and had been pummelled into shape. My arms and legs had been bent and rotated in all directions, and the soles of my feet slapped.
For someone so tiny she gave a mean massage!
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