This archive report was first published on 13 January 2020.
January is a hardship month, and my wallet is not cooperating. I was walking aimlessly in the mall, reminiscing about the festive season when I spent freely. To appear relevant, I stumbled upon a station offering massage seats for hire and sale.
As an enticement, they offered unlimited access to the seat for a free trial. I concluded that the massage seat must be the devil's invention, designed to lure happily married men from their beds to the malls and beauty parlors.
The seat looked innocent, but underneath the upholstery lay the devil incarnate. The vendor was considerate, employing a well-mannered attendant named Mary from a remote place called Ruthigiti.
She was shy and polite, requesting me to remove my socks and step on a flat pad. The exercise started politely, but soon I felt restrained, and my arms and head were held in place. The restraint was probably to prevent me from running mad or breaking something in the throes of pleasurable sensations.
But it was a safe bet, as I was assured of being in a secure place with Mary, who was well brought up. She knew what to give to each customer, all of whom happened to be men. Her maternal aunt in Ruthigiti taught her about treating men well.
She could gauge my level of emotional and physical turmoil from a mile and dispensed the massage sensations based on her assessment. The session started with slow but firm caressing on the back and lower posterior region, then the foot massage kicked in, literally throwing me into a spin.
I lasted only fifteen minutes, motioning Mary to terminate the session just as she was about to unleash a fresh wave of sensations. There were no eggs and hooves' soup for recovery, so I just smiled sheepishly at Mary and went back home like the prodigal son who has just repented after a life of debauchery.
