Chapter 2

“Hmm, okay,” I say, distracted by the idea of Monica having her entire body cleansed. Jesus. I hope the swimming pool is cold. I desperately need my libido quenched.

“I’m ready to go change for the pool,” Monica said. “I’ll see you there… Diana, wasn’t it? Not Diane? Like Diana Prince?”

I grin. “Mmm, yeah, though I’m not the one who could be mistaken for an amazon.” And I’m not the goddess, either, though usually I like that connection.

Monica just raises an eyebrow.

“Ah, sorry, sometimes my inside thoughts become outside words. Bad habit.”

She grins at my embarrassment. “That’s okay. I’m flattered. See you in fifteen?”

My swimsuit is fairly modest. If my bikini is too revealing my boobs tend to look like they’re slapping around in their pens. I can totally rock a tank top or a V-neck dress, but for active wear I need a heavy duty sports bra. Since that’s not an option, the twisted bandeau top of this purple bikini gives a good amount of hold and lift, with just a little bit of skin shown at the top and bottom, not enough to quake badly in the tight hold. The bottoms are full coverage, consistent with the top not being overly revealing.

I wonder how the others see me. Especially, I wonder how Monica must see me. My belly’s flat, though my waist is maybe a little thicker than I’d like. My hair is a darker brown than my eyes, in loose curls to my shoulders, but at its best it’s untidy, not a neat perm. At work I pull it back with a clip, but here it’s falling where it wants. I think I look okay for not leading an active lifestyle, but I’m no model.

If I were to work out more, not only would my waist be more trim, but I’d probably be able to wear a sports bra that doesn’t look like it was designed for the military. Which would make working out easier. I’ll get to doing that, one day.

I’m wearing my sunglasses. My regular rimless glasses are in my purse for later.

I drop my keycard into my purse, and step into my flip-flops. A sign in the room says towels are provided at all facilities, so I don’t take one, but I do slip on a thin knitted wrap for warmth. I have no idea what to expect once I leave the pool area. I jog to the elevator, but once downstairs I walk sedately out to the pool.

Anita and Kayla are at a table, sharing a carafe of ice water with Margot and Heather. Tiff, Kayla’s MOH, and her girlfriend Emma are already being scraped or pummeled or steamed or washed or whatever their spa appointment is for. Allison, who’s Anita’s MOH, is doing her own thing somewhere. I find a towel, drape it over another chair, and drop my purse onto it as I greet everyone. Then I step out of my flip flops, jog over to the pool, and dive in without checking the temperature.

The water is perfect, which means it initially feels cold, but after I swim as far as I can underwater, that perception changes to refreshing. I pop out of the water, breathing rapidly, wishing as I always do that I spent more time in water.

I swim several laps before climbing out, pleasantly winded. There’s another towel on a chair beside mine now. “Auntie Monica?” I ask Heather.

“Auntie Monica,” she agrees, with a grin. “I hope you don’t mind that Tiff tossed the two of you together.”

“It’s fine,” I say, privately deciding that Tiff is my Person of the Year. “It should definitely be more interesting than solo. She’s told me a little of what to expect, since I’m a spa virgin.” Damn. That concept should have stayed on the inside, too. The words make Heather’s cheeks color, though she smiles in understanding.

I pour myself a glass of water and down it quickly, then lean back and close my eyes to rest.

A few minutes later, a new voice breaks the comfortable silence. “Hey.”

I recognize Margot’s voice responding to the newcomer. “Hey. Diana was just telling us you’re helping her with her virginity issues.”

My eyes fly open. So does my mouth, to object, but I catch sight of Monica, and something within me glitches, so she gets to answer uninterrupted. “Someone should have taken care of that years ago.”

“I mean I’ve never been to a real spa!” I splutter.

And… hot damn. She doesn’t need to wear a conservative swimsuit, and she doesn’t. The red triangle top leaves little to the imagination. Rivulets of water still run down her belly and thighs. She doesn’t dry off, just sinks down into the chair beside me. “So,” she says, “twenty minutes until you lose your virginity.”

“I can’t wait,” I say. I pour her a glass of water. She thanks me as I hand it to her. Then I refill my own glass and swallow it in one gulp.

The room is opulent. As we enter, one of the hotel staff – not a spa worker, I’m guessing, in her white jacket and tie – presents us each with a glass of champagne, then wheels a chilled bottle into the room, before leaving us.

I’ve switched out my sunglasses for my normal ones.

“If I’m about to lose my virginity,” I murmur to Monica, “this is exactly where I want it to happen.” And who I want it to happen with. Thank Sagan that one stays on the inside.

“Mmm, I almost wish I still had mine to lose,” she replies.

We’re directed to changing rooms, where disposable underwear and towels await us. Wrapped in a towel, I return to the room, take a large sip of my champagne, then lie face down on the spa bed, adjusting the towel to cover my back. Monica does the same. I get a close up glimpse of her toned body as she arranges her towel.

The body polish is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. One therapist works on each of us. First, she uses a machine to heat every exposed surface with steam, carefully adjusting the towel to uncover only what she needs. Then she works in aromatic oils. The scents of lavender and sage are heavy. Again, uncovering only what’s needed, and turning me over when she finishes with my back. She’s so careful that I don’t think I really need the disposable bra and panties.

After the oil there’s another cream rub. This feels thick, maybe a little abrasive. She works it in with a heavy touch. Everywhere her fingers have been feels deeply relaxed.

When we’ve both had this paste ground into us, we’re separated into rooms with a shower over a table. I’m not allowed my champagne during the transition. They probably don’t want me drinking the substance on my body. There’s no towel here, as the therapist uses warm high pressure water to cleanse the paste, the water not only leaving my skin clean, but massaging it until it feels fresh and tingling. The disposable underwear makes sense now.

The therapist soaps me all over one last time, rinsing me again with the warm water, then leaving me with my refilled champagne glass to dry myself and change into my bikini. The next stop is a hot tub room with a small whirlpool for two. There’s a carafe of ice water. Monica is there ahead of me, in her red bikini, her firm breasts tightly gripped by the narrow triangles. She’s already poured me a glass of ice water.

“How did your deflowering feel?” Monica asks, with a wicked smirk.

I breathe in the steamy air for a moment before replying. “I didn’t realize how accurate the virgin label was,” I say. “I’ve had sex that didn’t feel as good as that. Also, I think you’re glowing. Your skin has a rosy hue.”

“So does yours,” she says, “though they might have hidden some red and infrared lights in here to give that effect.”

“And we get to do it all again at two?” I ask.

“Not the same, though,” Monica says. “Swedish massage. We should take another half hour in a hot tub beforehand. I think if it relaxes me more than I am now I’m going to have trouble walking away from the table.”

I’m surprised at how comfortable I am with Monica, given what her proximity does to my libido. She seems equally comfortable with me, and I swear I’ve caught her eyes checking me out.

“You said you came here to connect with Heather, and you met her last year after email. It doesn’t sound like you see her often,” I say.

“Yeah, I don’t live near the rest of you,” she replies. “I’m coastal. It’s quite a trek for her or for me.”

“Well, that sucks,” I say. When her eyebrow rises, I add, “Because you can’t see each other easily, I mean.”

“Of course,” she says, then picks up her champagne glass. As she turns, her toes brush my ankle. She doesn’t move them away. She must not have noticed, but suddenly I’m overheating in the warm bubbles. I take a couple of deep breaths.

“We should probably dry off and head to lunch,” Monica says after a time.

“Yeah, okay,” I agree. I drink more water, then finish my glass of champagne. We collect our belongings and one of the supplied towel robes each, then head to the dining area.

I think everyone’s there but Hannah and Nyss. Allison is telling the group about being hit on by a girl from another wedding party. In the fashion of irony, the only lesbian bridesmaid in a straight wedding managed to find the only straight girl in a lesbian wedding party. She’s promised to introduce her to the group later.

Tiff shows up a few minutes later. She and Emma have a similar glow to Monica. They and the brides have appointments later in the afternoon.

“We’re going to go for a preparatory hot tub soak at one-thirty,” said Monica. “Anyone up for joining us?”

Everyone agreed except Allison, who needs to hunt down the girl she met for their scheduled massage. So a little later we’re all crammed into a single hot tub drinking wine. When our appointment time approaches I’m feeling slightly light-headed. I drink plenty of ice water before we head inside.

It’s a similarly opulent room and a similar setup. More champagne. This time we’re advised to strip naked. The experience will be better nude, but we can keep on any items of clothing we need if we’re uncomfortable; swimsuit, underwear, or the spa will provide disposable underwear.

“Nude, right?” I whisper.

“Better to be,” Monica replies. I feel her eyes flick over me before she steps into the changing room.

I take off my bikini, wrap my towel around me, return to the table and lie face down, wriggling as I tug the towel out from beneath me.

Monica does the same, adjusting her towel casually and efficiently. I don’t see a damn thing, but wholly shih tzu, Helen of Troy is only a couple of yards away, nude under a single piece of cloth. She turns her head toward me, her eyebrow raised as though she knows exactly what I’m thinking. Did my inside thoughts sneak out without needing words?

The therapists take over, sliding folded towels into place, removing the ones draped over us without accidental revelations. The women are good at their job. Then they begin the torture session.

I thought I was relaxed, but my therapist finds knots and pockets of tension. I gasp in pain more than once. Even Monica, whose body is far too grand to suffer the stresses of mortality, groans at some of the stretches. There’s a core of pleasure in the sounds she makes that make my insides melt. I’m going to leave a damp patch on the table if I can’t start ignoring her. The massage has become torture in multiple dimensions.

Forcing myself to focus on the pain helps. It relaxes me, too, because I feel the pain becoming diffuse as the knots soften. I almost doze.

A lowered voice and muffled sounds catch my attention, and I glance across to see Monica’s therapist positioning her on her back. Two towels preserve her modesty, but leave acres of gleaming skin on display. Her head is turned toward me, watching with amusement as my therapist works out the last hotspots of my upper back.

Then I’m also turning face up, as the therapist expertly moves the towels to keep parts of me from view. She stretches my cheeks and my forehead, then works her way down to my toes. My muscles feel hot. But with the heat of a relaxing open fire, not the burning of exertion.

She turns me back over, then her powerful fingers dig into my ass, making me grunt in real pain. The tension there is high.

Monica’s therapist follows suit. Monica rests her head on her arms. When the therapist moves the towel I get a perfect view of taut side boob. It quivers as the therapist’s fingers press into her lower back. Not the soft wave that mine would, but with a resilient ripple.