I was intrigued by a certain spa. This spa was purported to only allow pretty therapists, and based on my first couple of visits, I can say that they have made every effort to deliver that promise.

Before I continue, please remember that, normally, ATW sex is prohibited in spas. The customary ES is a handjob. So don’t ask me where this spa is located and who the therapist is. As you read further, you will realize that divulging such information could get the therapist fired.

For one whole week, I visited the spa daily, attempting to sample each and every therapist. In each visit, I was curious about their top-rated therapist, and who was always “reserved.” I would go to the spa, ask for this therapist, and the person at the counter would say that she is “reserved.” On one day, she had three consecutive clients on queue.

Then, through a stroke of luck, she was available.

She was attractive. A head-turner, to say the least. She was tall and slim. Her body was taut, not chubby or flabby. She looked partly Chinese and she reminded me of a much prettier Regine Velasquez. Her complexion was smooth and fair. Her eyes were like dark marbles. The upper mounds of her breasts were clearly visible through her outfit.

I lay face-down on the massage bed, towel still wrapped around my waist. She introduced herself, opened up the usual topics of conversation—my name, my general place of residence, my line of work, and if I worked nearby—and then proceeded to unfurl my towel.

“Oops,” she said purringly, grabbing onto my groin. “I think the towel caught onto something.” This therapist was no shy lass.

The massage went as predicted, the same way massages are performed in other spas. There was the customary testicle-brushing and the crack-teasing. We engaged in small talk. She asked who was my usual therapist. I gave the tale of yesterday’s therapist who gave me a massage but where I refused the handjob. She laughed. She had heard of that story.

She commented on my looks, asked my age, and probably feigned surprise when I answered. “You look much younger,” she said. All that while, I was getting hard.

There was a pause. I heard cloth rustling. I heard fumbling and the sound of containers placed on hard wood. I was face-down on the bed so I could not see what was happening behind me. I guessed the therapist was rubbing lotion on her hands. That was the routine before the ES, where the therapist would then begin to stroke one’s manhood while lying prone on the bed. Then, to my surprise, I felt her warm body on my back. She was rubbing her firm nipples on my body. She was naked from the waist up. She proceeded lower, reached for my penis, and flicked her tongue around its tip.

“Nakakalibog ka,” she cooed as she licked the part between my ear and my jawline.. You are turning me on. Despite the warm temperature of the room, I shivered.

She gestured for me to flip onto my back. I readily complied. I had a flag pole between my legs and she teased it with her fingers, rubbing it up and down with her thumb and forefinger. She asked if I had a condom. I shook my head. I didn’t expect sex in a spa, I said. She pursed her lip in mute frustration. “Next time,” she said. “Bring one.”

And then she proceeded to alternately stroke and suck my hardness. And while she hand-pumped me, she offered her nipples to my mouth, which I willingly ravished. When I was nearing the edge, she immediately smothered my penis head with her mouth. And as I toppled over the precipice, she took it all in. When I was spent, she spit my jism onto a towel, smiling.

Needless to say, I returned the next afternoon. With a condom. And we had sex. There was no massage. We went straight to the business at hand. She undressed quickly and pushed me onto the bed. This definitely was not a “make-love” session; it was raw and heated. It was over in mere minutes.

“Sex isn’t allowed,” she said as she snuggled on my shoulder, both of us huddled together, breathing deeply, trying to fit ourselves on a bed that was clearly meant for just one individual. “And I really don’t do this with any guest.” But, she said, she found herself fixated, almost enamored, with me.

I was skeptical about that claim. She was, after all, the top-rated therapist. And there must be a reason why she is #1. I wondered if it is because of her tantalizing looks or because she provided more than the usual HJ. Or both.

She continued to stroke me. I mentioned that I probably can’t do another round. She dismissed that and performed tricks that made my eyes roll over in its sockets. Another round ensued. I felt I was close to a cardiac arrest. “Ang galing mo,” she moaned while I pumped. “Nakaka-addict ka.”

I showered and dressed. She gave one more tug and planted a short but soft kiss. She dug her fingernails onto my forearm, moved close to me, and ordered me not to get any other therapist. Just her.

And to test her sincerity, I withheld the tip. She did not ask for it. She texted me the next day. She wanted me back in the spa. I thought that she would now ask for the tip. And while I was ready to fork out the fee. I also decided to bring a modest gift. I was still skeptical. And when I handed over the gift, she smiled and said that I really didn’t have to bring anything. “Just yourself,” she said. She doesn’t just do with anyone. And she can’t come with anybody else. Or so she claims. She says that she prefers older men and shuns the twenty- and the thirty-somethings. They are allowed to look but not touch.

The sessions are becoming progressively wilder. In the last session, she wanted me to pull out when I was about to come and to spray my juices all over her. Come in my face, she said. That was a challenge, I told her, since it would take time for me to pull out, yank the condom out, and then traverse the distance from waist to face. I could foresee disaster—the bed was small, the chance that I would stumble onto the floor was high, or worse I would accidentally knee her face. So we settled on a blowjob-and-masturbation for the first round and the usual copulation for the second.

I keep telling myself that there has to be a catch somewhere. And I am still waiting for it. Maybe I am just paranoid. Maybe she is a pathological liar. Or maybe she is really, plain and simple, telling the truth. I wrote once about the rules of the spa and the rules of the massage parlor. No ATW sex in spas, I wrote. And the ES fee is the same as the room rate. But there are exceptions to the rule.