No. 93807 - Published 20 Oct 2009
Named ?The Old Coach House?, the premises were tastefully furnished in a 1970s black ash Habitat sort of way ? currently making a return to fashion, I believe. Despite the name, there was no sign of any old coaches; no Brian Clough, not even a Sven; so who could it be? Some mysteries are best left unexplored.
I had seen from the website that she understood colour co-ordination - her knickers matched the cushion covers perfectly. Nice touch. When I first set eyes on her I could see that Annita was pure vintage 1990 Bangkok and possessed that unmistakable Torquay factor: I thought I?d died and woken up in Devon. Her beauty, like a hangman?s trapdoor, was flawless.
It was a bright autumn afternoon as I strode into Fenny Stratford - 11 degrees on the Celsius scale and free parking for two hours; return forbidden within two hours. My kind of town.
With Annita in mind, my heart was full of hope and my balls full of spunk. I didn?t catch the receptionist?s name, perhaps she didn?t throw it, but she was just like the Medusa ? no, not a med user, perish the thought ? but a more charming and well spoken lady you couldn?t hope to meet; not as far south as Milton Keynes, anyway. Dreadlocks like cobras; she was obviously a Versace fan.
She led me up the stairs to the operations room; more Habitat and a black and grey Berber carpet; should last well ? nice choice. I was then introduced to the shower; I nodded politely; its head drooped like a post-tumescent penis and dribbled like it had a dodgy prostate, but I did my best to scrub up. Nice toiletries, by the way.
The couch had a hole for my face ? I peered through it and said ?I can see your feet, Annita?; she giggled and said that she didn?t mind ? already we were building up an intimate rapport. As the massage progressed, Annita asked me about my kop. ?Listen pet? I said, ?if you?re going to talk football, just stick to St James?s Park, ok?? Turned out she was concerned about my cough. What a sweetie!
The sight of Annita naked and the feel of her soft olive skin beneath my hands caused an instant erection. Me, not her. Then she made me happy, in a semi-detached, non-erotic, polite, matter-of-fact sort of way. Like a best friend, really, rather than a lover. I showered, dressed and left. Was that me there? Better go back next week to find out.
For the record, it was ?75 for an hour's massage and happy ending, ?10 for naturist option and ?10 for 'body to body' massage.