A young bathhouse attendant and a wealthy client

I always thought smell was the most important thing. Hot stone, oak whisk, kvassed bread for steam, and honey. And underneath it all, the scent of clean wood, warmed by human bodies. "Margarita's Bathhouse" was an expensive place, private, where people didn't just come to wash. They came to remove the crust from themselves, the one that accumulates from money, negotiations, and the eternal rush. And I, Marina, twenty-two years old, was part of this ritual. His name was Artyom. This was his third visit, and always only to me. Not the kind of brute who jumps in with his hands, no. Silent, with dark eyes that looked not at his body but right through it, as if searching for some kind of flaw within. Today he was especially exhausted. His shoulders were like boulders, his neck tense. I worked silently, the classic way. First, warming up, lightly tapping with a birch broom soaked in a basin of fragrant infusion. The steam room hummed like a living beast, the heat enveloping him, almost to the point of dizziness. I moved the broom along his back, watching his skin redden and his muscles slowly give in. “Stronger,” his voice cut through the noise in his ears and the hissing of the stones. “Don’t be afraid.” I wasn't afraid. I knew strength. I increased the pressure, working with the edge of my palm and the dense bundle of leaves. He groaned, but not from pain—from relief. The sound was low, masculine, and echoed somewhere in the lower part of my stomach like a slight spasm. It was always like that. Their relaxation was my work, but sometimes it infected me too. “Turn over,” I said when I realized that my back was ready. He rolled onto his back. His eyes were closed, but I felt his attention, like physical pressure. I continued the massage, moving around his intimate areas, working his chest, arms, and neck. Then I knelt next to him to sweep the broom over his legs. And then he opened his eyes. - Marina. Enough with the broom. I froze, holding the broom in the air. The damp steam cut my lungs. "What do you want?" I asked, even though I already knew. We were offered "special care" here. Expensive. Very expensive. And I, either stupidly or out of boredom, agreed to it six months ago. But with him... with him, this had never happened before. "I want you to continue. With your skin." He said this without a vulgar grin, even seriously. As a statement of fact. "All of it." My heart was pounding somewhere in my temples. Not from fear. From the fact that this mask of professional detachment was about to fall. I slowly put the broom aside. I stood up. My light robe was stuck to my body from the steam. I unbuckled the belt. The fabric slid to the floor, leaving me naked in this wet, hot world. The air burned my skin differently. Not like the heat of a stove, but like a gaze. He looked at me, openly. I saw how his breathing changed, how the muscles in his stomach tensed. I poured warm water and oil into a wooden ladle and poured it onto his chest. The golden liquid spread across the reliefs. And then I pressed my breasts to his. Skin on skin. Hotter on hotter. This wasn't a massage anymore. It was something ancient, ritualistic. I glided, using oil and water as a layer, rubbing them into his body with the entire surface of mine. His chest, stomach, hips. I felt every muscle, every scar—a small one, on his rib. I felt something hardening under my pubis, swelling, pressing against my stomach. I didn't look at him, breathing in time with these movements. My own clitoris throbbed, traitorous and impudent, from the friction against his thigh. He raised his hand, ran his palm down my wet back, lingered at my lower back, and pressed harder. I made a sound, something between a sigh and a moan. "Get on your knees," he whispered. His voice was hoarse. I obeyed, lowering myself onto the shelf between his spread legs. He propped himself up on his elbows. His cock stood straight and tall, dark against the red skin. Beautiful, honestly. No silly thoughts, just a fact. I took it in my hand, felt the weight, the pulsation. I wrapped my lips around it. Here, in the steam room, everything was different. The heat, the smell, the humidity—it all drove me crazy. I didn't give him a blow job. I drank it in. Slowly, savoring the salty taste of his skin and the drop of predilection, studying his reaction. He cried out when I ran my tongue along his frenulum, growled lowly when I took him deeper. His fingers dug into my wet hair, not tugging, just holding me like an anchor. “Enough,” he said, struggling to get the word out. “Stop.” I pulled away and looked up at him. He was sitting up, his breathing ragged. There was nothing soft in his gaze. There was pure, unfiltered need. He stood up, powerfully, like a rising bear, grabbed me by the hips and lifted me so easily, as if I were a feather. He pressed my back against the hot wooden wall of the steam room. I cried out—from surprise, from the heat on my back, from his strength. "Wrap your legs around me," he commanded. And I wrapped my legs around his waist. He didn't even look for it, didn't take aim. He supported me under the hip with one hand, guided himself with the other, and entered. Sharply, all the way. The world exploded in white light. The wall burned my back, he burned inside, filling me painfully, to the brim. I screamed, and the scream was swallowed by thick steam. He began to move. Not quickly, but with incredible force, pulling out almost completely and then driving his entire weight and length into me again. Each thrust drove me into the hot wall. I bit his shoulder to keep from screaming too loudly, clawing at his back with my nails. It wasn't subtle. It was animalistic, rough, and indecently honest. I came first, suddenly, with a spasm that twisted everything inside and made him groan. But he didn't stop. “Hold on,” he said simply and pulled out of me. My legs were shaking as he lowered me to the floor. But he didn't give me time to recover, taking my hand and practically dragging me out of the steam room, into the dressing room, and from there into the relaxation room. The cool air sent goosebumps across my hot skin. The room was dim, lit only by the glass stove door and a couple of candles. A large leather sofa stood directly in front of the fire. He pushed me onto it. I fell onto the soft leather, and in an instant, he was on top of me. Now everything was different. There was no fury of steam. There was slow, sweeping work. He entered deeply, lingered, kissed me. For the first time all evening. The kiss was wet, demanding, tasting of me, him, and steamed honey. I responded with the same greed. His hands explored my body no longer as a tool, but as an object of desire. He took my breast into his mouth, twirled my nipple with his tongue, and I arched, moaning softly. Then he flipped me over onto my stomach. I could see the stove, the logs burning behind the glass. He entered from behind, one hand pinning my hip to the sofa, the other entwining his fingers in my hair. The pace increased, skin slapping against skin, our ragged breathing becoming one rhythm. I climbed to the top again, feeling everything tighten and warm inside me. And this time he came with me. His fingers dug into my hips, a low growl erupted from his chest, and I felt myself being flooded with a hot, wet, pulsating stream. It pushed me over the edge. The convulsions were so intense that I felt like I was falling apart. He collapsed on top of me, his full body weight pinning me to the couch. We lay there, trying to catch our breath, stuck together, wet, smelling of each other and the sauna. I don't know how much time passed. He rose slowly, sat on the edge of the sofa, and ran his hand over his face. I lay on my side, looking at his profile in the firelight. Tired, a man again, not a force of nature. "Water?" he asked without looking. “In the fridge,” I croaked. He stood up, walked barefoot across the cool floor, and brought back two bottles. He handed them to me. We drank in silence. "Thank you," he said finally. And there was more in those words than gratitude for the service. “You’re welcome,” I replied, my voice sounding hoarse and unfamiliar. “It’s part of the ‘special care’.” He looked at me, and something like a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. Not a cheerful one, but rather… relieved. - I know. He finished his water and reached for his clothes. I watched him dress, the business leather draping itself over his body, returning him to his usual appearance. He placed an envelope on the table—thicker than usual. He nodded at me. And left. I remained lying on the couch. My back ached from the burn on the wall, my legs were wet and sticky, my whole body hummed as if after a long run. I looked at the stove. The fire was already dying down, leaving embers. And the smell. There was still a smell. Of wood, honey, sweat, sex, and the two of us. I closed my eyes. Tomorrow there would be a new shift, new clients, new brooms. But this one, today, with its silent rage and equally silent relief... This one will stay here. In the warmth of the dying embers.