tagErotic CouplingsLove at The Body Shoppe

Love at The Body Shoppe

byAverageBear©

Author's Note: It's been a couple of years since I posted a story on Lit. Most of my stories are inspired by true events, but are liberally embellished by my imagination. This story, however, is completely true – every word of it, to the best of my recollection. It starts out a bit slowly to develop the context, but if you'll stay with me, I think you'll see why I'm still haunted by this encounter after more than 17 years.



"LOVE AT THE BODY SHOPPE"

I'd been hooked for a while. No, not on cocaine, not on weed – not even on alcohol. On tanning salons.

Not the kind where you get that beach-ready look, or are in danger of the lobster look if you fall asleep in the bed. I'm talking about the mid-1990's Houston euphemism for live, one-on-one peep and stroke shows.

In other places, their more physically interactive counterparts are known as massage parlors. But in Houston in the mid-1990's, any form of paid physical sexual contact was illegal – and may still be. The "tanning salon" owners knew what they were doing, and they had no appetite for tangling with law enforcement. So they found ways to satisfy their customers without technically breaching the law.

I suppose anyone looking for a genuine tanning experience could rent the beds that they had on display and baste their way to Tropicana heaven. For those of us in the know, however – and it was likely a large majority of their client base – there was a much more erotic experience available from the lovely ladies who manned the welcome desks.

For a fee, you could pick your favorite girl and have her "model" some tanning swimwear in a room at the back. You'd be seated in a comfy recliner chair and asked to wait for her to "get ready."

She'd go off and change to wispy swimwear and then enter the room from another door. Once she pressed the "play" button on a boom box to start the modeling music track, she'd begin to disrobe and invite you to "get more comfortable."

To remove any doubt about expectations, there was always a box of Kleenex and a bottle of body lotion on a little table beside the comfy chair. You've got it – the "getting comfortable" suggestion was for you to get naked and give yourself a hand job while watching the girl dance naked. It was sort of one level better than watching girls at a strip joint. Here, you left happy instead of frustrated.

As for any further expectations, once you'd learned the ropes, you knew not to expect anything more. Each girl would remind you at the outset that there was to be no physical contact, as that was strictly forbidden and against the law. The more bitchy of the "models" would remind you that they were wearing spiked heels and knew how to use them if you got out of hand (no pun intended).

I first learned about the tanning salons shortly after I moved to Houston. My wife and kids had stayed behind in Atlanta to try and sell our house. I was in a new town, in a new job with a new company.

I had some lonely nights the first few weeks, first at a hotel and then in a temporary apartment provided by the company. I didn't want to complicate my life with an affair, but I needed some form of companionship and sexual release. I stayed away from the bars and took to watching porn and jerking off to ease my sexual frustration and loneliness. I still felt lonely with my video companions. I needed human companionship.

Soon after, as I was looking through the classified ads at the back of the newspaper, I noticed some ads for strip clubs. I had been to strip clubs a few times in Atlanta, but I didn't like the dirty feeling of ogling the same girls at the same time as all the other guys in the joint.

In the same section of the classified ads, I noticed ads for "tanning salons." It didn't take me long to figure out that these were essentially private strip clubs.

After my first visit (and a thorough schooling in the "rules"), I was hooked. I could feel a bit of human companionship while keeping my life uncomplicated. Since I was paying, there was no danger of developing a relationship. Since I wasn't technically having sex – or even physical contact – there was no need to feel guilty about cheating on my wife. At least that's what I kept telling myself.

It took nearly six months for our house in Atlanta to sell. After the first 3 months, the company no longer provided temporary housing, so I had to move into an apartment.

With the added expense and still carrying a mortgage, I carefully rationed my entertainment money out of each 2 weeks' paycheck. No ball games, no bar nights, no dance clubs – just "tanning." Of course, I made sure to pay cash each time so there was no paper trail through my credit cards – wouldn't want to rock the boat back in Atlanta.

I made it a point not to be seen too regularly at any one salon. I'd go once a week, but found different salons in different parts of the city, so it was a few months before I made a second visit to the same place.

By the time our house sold, I had just about made the rounds to each of the tanning salons a second time. However, after my wife and kids moved out to Houston, I cut dramatically down on my tanning salon visits. But I couldn't completely stop – I was addicted.

I cut down to once a month, but my guilty pleasure began affecting my job performance. I lost focus. But it wasn't just my addiction that was causing it. I discovered that my new company was involved in some unethical practices, and I wanted out.

With the help of a recruiter, I found out about a really good job opportunity in Arkansas. After a few interviews over the course of a month, I was hired and scheduled to start the following month. My Houston employer was disappointed that my tenure was ending so abruptly, but thankfully the situation never got messy, and I made plans to leave.

Besides dealing with my company situation, the impending move to Arkansas could help me in another way. There were no "tanning salons" in Arkansas, at least not to my knowledge (now, meth labs in Arkansas are different story for another day). I needed to break my tanning salon addiction, and the move would force me to go "cold turkey."

It was late May, and the kids had just finished their school year. We'd be moving the first week of June, and I decided that I would have one last "hurrah" at one of the tanning salons. I was feeling particularly horny, and my wife had become so busy with moving preparations that she claimed exhaustion and refused to join me in any sexual activities.

Departing from my past line of thinking, I decided I'd try to "get lucky" at a tanning salon. I stopped by a pharmacy and picked up a packet of condoms. My stomach fluttered with excitement and anticipation, though from experience I knew not to have high expectations. A pair of spiked heels could be waiting to crush the family jewels.

The first tanning salon on my agenda had the somewhat suggestive name of "The Body Shoppe." A very pretty, very young girl was seated at the front desk. She had auburn hair, pretty green eyes, pouty red lips and a beautiful set of white teeth. She wore a thick gown, much thicker than the outfits I'd seen other girls wear at these joints. It didn't give me much of a view of her figure, but her face was extremely pretty.

She had a shy demeanor and an air of innocence. I felt a pang of guilt at the condoms in my pants pocket.

"May I help you?" she asked.

"I don't know," I replied. I shrugged my shoulders and looked past her at the obligatory tanning bed past the counter.

"Need a tan?" she inquired.

"Um..." I stuttered.

She could tell I was flabbergasted. I think she believed I'd never been to a tanning salon and was trying to figure out how to ask for her services. In truth, I was embarrassed to be soliciting a sexual encounter – whether the usual peep show or something more – with such an apparent innocent.

She had to be barely legal, but I knew these shop owners were careful and would never hire someone under age. They would also never risk providing the full-on sexual encounter I had in mind, as it would surely lose them their license and incur them a hefty fine.

"What can I do for you?" she continued, looking at me with wide eyes and an air of hesitation.

I made a quick decision that would alter the course of my life. "Nothing, thanks," I said. I turned toward the door and left quickly.

In truth, I turned tail and ran. "Stupid, stupid," I said to myself as I climbed into my car.

Unfortunately, the brief encounter had done nothing to assuage my horny state. My dick was at full salute to the young girl's understated charms.

I knew I needed some form of release, so I sought out another tanning salon. I knew of one a few miles away.

As I entered the door, I was greeted gruffly by a thirtysomething bimbo with spiked and dyed platinum blonde hair. "Whaddaya want?" she virtually spat out.

Her outfit was much more revealing than the one worn by the girl at The Body Shoppe, but it was somehow less enticing. Her figure, while not bad, was spoiled by her surly attitude.

Nonetheless, I was still thinking with my prick instead of my brain. I decided to try my luck.

"What services do you offer?" I asked coyly.

"Gimme a hundred bucks and I'll tell you," she replied.

"You want a hundred, just to talk?"

"Look, do you wanna get started, or do you just wanna yap?" she snapped.

"Okay, okay – I'll take the bait. I can't wait to find out what my options are."

I handed her five twenties and stuffed the rest back into my wallet. "Now, what can we do?" I asked.

"Come to the back and get as comfortable as you like. I'll give you a show and you can please yourself. With some extra tips, I might let you see me please myself. But no contact – none whatsoever."

I noticed the spiked heels she was wearing. She didn't have to say anything more.

Suddenly, my raging hard-on went completely limp. I finally saw the transaction for what it was – a transaction. From her perspective, there was nothing to enjoy, nothing to fantasize about, nothing to look forward to other than cold, hard cash.

"Um, I don't think I want to go through with it," I stammered. "Can I get my money back?"

"Hell, no," she exclaimed, "come on back and let's get it over with."

It finally dawned on me that all these months, I'd been objectifying these women at the tanning salons, but at the same time they'd been objectifying me. They were objects of my desire – I was an object of their financial gain.

I hung my head in shame and frustration. "Fuck it," I muttered. I turned and walked out of the shop, chucking the packet of condoms into a nearby garbage can on the way to my car – another fateful decision that I would live to regret.

I headed out of the parking lot and started on my way home. Along the way, however, I began thinking of the dramatic contrast between the sweet young thing at The Body Shoppe and the nasty bitch at the other salon. I couldn't get the girl with the auburn hair, green eyes and shy smile out of my mind.

At the next light, I made a detour and headed east back toward The Body Shoppe.

The security bell dinged as I entered the front door. The desk was empty, and I momentarily wondered if I'd made a mistake in returning. Within seconds, however, the girl with the auburn hair appeared and flashed me a radiant smile.

"Decided to come back?" she asked reticently.

"Yeah, I want to find out what kind of services you offer."

"Sure. We have tanning beds available, or we have modeling of tanning swimwear in a private room at the back."

"And – who would do the modeling?"

"Well, if you'd like, I can model. Or, if you'd prefer someone else..."

"No – no. You'd be just fine."

"So you want a modeling session from me?"

"Um... yep. That is, if you're up for it."

Her eyes seemed to darken, as if a cloud were passing through them. I could tell that she was weighing some decision in her mind.

I felt a wave of compassion for her, and almost told her not to worry about it, that she should gather up her innocence and go back to her mama and her daddy. I could even give her a hundred bucks that would be way better spent on getting her home than on snarky answers from the testy bitch at the other shop.

Her eyes held mine. It was as if she could read my thoughts, knew that I wanted to protect her – from lust-filled assholes, like me.

Finally, she spoke. "Absolutely," she said, "I'm ready. No doubt in my mind."

I heard myself exhale. So this was it. She was going to let me see her naked. She even seemed like she'd make me feel okay about jerking off in front of her.

"I'll take you to the back. You can get comfortable while I get changed," she said as she led me down the hallway. Her body was still veiled behind her plush gown. She left me in a room with a comfy recliner chair, the obligatory box of tissues and body lotion, and the boom box in the corner.

For the first time since my first time in one of these places, I was nervous. My palms were sweaty and my heart raced. For some reason, I cared about what this girl thought of me. I really didn't want her to think of me as some dirty early-thirties prick with a sick fetish, even if that's what I felt like I had become.

I remained completely clothed as I waited for the girl. When she re-entered the room from a side door, she wore a white terry cloth robe. She locked both doors, smiled, walked over to me, and introduced herself.

"I'm Melissa," she said perkily, "and I want to make your day."

Wow. It took me a moment to recover from her bold statement. As I did, I thought about taunting her with a Clint Eastwood movie zinger: "Go ahead – make my day." But I didn't want to emphasize the decade or more difference in our ages by referring to something that was before her time.

Instead, I introduced myself (with my real name, for the first time ever at a tanning salon) and took my seat as she walked over and turned on the dance music. As she began to sway to the beat, she positioned herself directly in front of my chair. Then, unfastening the sash of her robe, she let the terry cloth drop to her feet.

My earlier concerns about not being able to see her figure were misguided. She had a perfectly formed body – not too skinny, curvy in all the right places, but not an ounce of extra fat. She wore a matching bikini top and bottom, a shimmering satiny fabric of mottled pink and blue.

"Pretty outfit," I commented, "for a very pretty girl." Her wide smile betrayed her delight at my simple words.

Right from the start, I could tell that there was something different about this girl. While others always – I mean ALWAYS – collected their cash up front, Melissa didn't even mention it. While others essentially gave me the tanning salon version of my Miranda rights at the beginning of each visit, Melissa said nothing about the rules, and gave no threats of spiked heels to the groin if I were to get out of line.

This was too good to be true. I momentarily worried that she might be an undercover cop. There were too few boundaries being expressed. So I decided I'd keep my jeans on until I was sure. I watched her supple bikini-clad body and searched her beautiful eyes. If she was deceiving me, she should be up for an Academy Award.

I noticed that Melissa's gaze seemed to linger on my left hand. It dawned on me after a couple of seconds that she was looking at my wedding ring.

"Busted," I said. "Yes, I'm married, and no, she doesn't know I'm here."

"So why isn't she keeping you satisfied?"

"It's complicated," I replied. "She stays busy and tired – it's not really her fault. And we were apart for the better part of six months. We've become like two ships passing in the night. I'm probably not working hard enough at it."

"At least you're man enough to admit it," she answered sincerely, "I admire that."

I really didn't know what to think. Here was this beautiful young girl (probably in her late teens) having a serious conversation with me (ancient by comparison at thirty-one years of age) while I waited, mesmerized, for her to strip. Perhaps the fact that I had kept my jeans on gave her the cue that I might me more than just an ordinary lecher.

"What about you?" I ventured. "Anybody special in your life?"

"Not yet. I guess I'm just waiting for Mr. Right," she smiled.

"Good things can come in strange places," I replied.

"I'll bet you're a good thing," she flirted. "And speaking of coming, don't you want to get more comfortable?"

"I'll show you mine if you show me yours," I said playfully, but with serious intent.

Her green eyes became luminescent, and a grin spread across her face. She backed a step away from me and began to sway to the music once again. She began a slow, seductive striptease.

I sat in the comfy chair and rubbed my throbbing cock through the fabric as I watched. She turned away from me as she undid the clasp to her swim bra. With an arm across her freed breasts, she turned to face me. I could see the sheer enjoyment on her face.

She dropped the arm that shielded her breasts and pointed an ornery finger at my hand as it rubbed my dick through my jeans. Her tits were perfect – medium-sized globes of creamy, white flesh, topped like mounds of ice cream with perfect little cherries.

As her tits bobbed up and down to the beat, she shimmied to the music and turned away again. She grasped the sides of her bikini bottom and began to work them down her legs with angular, jerky movements to each beat of the music.

Her beautiful derriere sported the same creamy, rounded white flesh as her perky breasts. As she daintily lifted an ankle to kick off her bikini bottom, I held my breath in anticipation. As she turned, I saw that the vee of her pubic mound was covered with a nicely trimmed thatch that matched the auburn locks adorning her head. If I was her age, I would have thought I was in love.

"Your turn," she chided, continuing her erotic dance.

I smiled sheepishly and stood from the chair. I'm not a dancer, so I simply grasped my polo shirt at the hem and pulled it over my head. Seconds later, my jeans dropped to the floor. I turned away from her for a moment of suspense. After a quick rub of my cock through my jockey shorts to better impress her with my length and girth, I pulled my underwear to the floor. Cock in hand, I turned toward her.

She nodded her head in approval and said, "Now that's what I'm talkin' about!"

What happened next came as a total shock. Whereas EVERY other girl I'd met at a tanning salon would have immediately relegated me to my chair, Melissa moved closer toward me where I stood. She looked me in the eye, looked down at my cock, and looked back at my face with a question mark on her brow.

I nodded my assent. Immediately, she reached out and grasped my now-fully-erect, pulsating hard-on. Involuntarily, I let out a gasp.

She let go immediately. "Did I hurt you?" she asked with a look of concern.

"Not at all," I responded, "it felt so good I couldn't help myself."

"You won't have to help yourself – I'll help you. That is, if you want me to," she said.

I said nothing. Instead, I answered her by reaching out and gently taking her wrist, guiding her hand back to my dick. She gently began to stroke it, smiling as she saw the pleasure on my face.

I couldn't contain myself. This beautiful girl was enjoying every moment of the pleasure she was providing me, and I had to find a way to express my gratitude.

However, I was wary of assuming too much and spoiling the moment. I reached out with my right hand – slowly, tentatively, allowing her eyes to follow its trail – and brushed my fingers over her left nipple. Her areole immediately pebbled in my grasp.

I gently moved my left hand to her other breast, and slowly began to give her a chest massage. Her right hand continued stroking my stiff rod, perhaps a little faster than I could readily handle.

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