Ten Minutes in The Hot Tub by Robin Rose

Ten Minutes in The Hot Tub

by Robin Rose

My eyes scan a flock of leotarded limbs in search of Andrea in her yoga class. Here, at New York’s exclusive Hamilton Club, the women wear diamonds and designer Spandex while working out. At 24, I’m a decade or two younger than most of the class members; I have long, dark hair and a slim, curvy body. Yet, standing on the threshold of the exercise room, peering across the glossy wood floor, I can’t help feeling intimidated. Fresh from their aromatherapy facials and French manicures, these Manhattan women shine with a certain polished health and sophistication.

Andrea—tall, flaxen-haired, and fabulous—is front and center, the most radiant of all. Five foot ten, she stands before the mirrored wall, focused on her strong, slender limbs as they flow through the postures. From behind, I watch her white-blond ponytail swish, exposing the back of her long, pale neck, and I bite my lip.

Unlike me, Andrea belongs to the Hamilton Club. I, Lara, am here for the first time as her guest. This morning, Andy’s phone call came as a surprise and so did her invitation to an elite club for a spa date. I accepted in the spirit of adventure, and that same mood has brought me here to the exercise class where she suggested we meet.

Standing just outside the room, I admire Andrea’s broad, toned back, her long arms—triceps firm, biceps defined—in a dynamic yoga stretch. I shift my gaze to her mirror reflection and trace the V of her prominent pelvic bones with my eyes. I appreciate Andy’s cinched waist and large breasts, her nipples pressing their points into the flimsy fabric of her sky blue workout top. Andrea’s cheeks are pink with exertion, her full lips slightly parted. Her bright green eyes widen as they spot my brown ones in the mirror, and my breath catches as—with a wink and a silent laugh—she tosses her silky blond ponytail.

Until the class ends, I work on my poker face. But when, at last, the others file out, Andrea walks up to the mirror. Closing her eyes, folding both hands in a prayer position over her heart, she bends into a quick half-bow. Then she emerges from the classroom, her skin glistening, her face flushed, her green eyes filled with light.

Beside me, Andy’s chest shines with a thin film of sweat. Her flimsy workout top, moist and nearly transparent, looks glued to her skin. Andrea places one palm—ever so casually—on my upper back and kisses both my cheeks European style.

“Lara dear,” she says.

Beneath my sleeveless, tomato red dress, my body stirs. Andrea takes my hand—hers is warm from exercise—and leads me to the ladies’ changing room. Here the walls are lined with wood veneer lockers. Andy peels off her damp yoga gear and hands me a locker key. Standing naked, she rests one hand on an upholstered chaise. Her large, pale breasts—with nipples and aureolae the palest pink—point unabashedly at me.

Most of the women around us have wrapped their torsos in towels, but Andrea struts to her locker naked, extracts a hairbrush, and glances back at me. I’m procrastinating, pouring myself a glass of lemony ice water from the pitcher on a nearby refreshment table. Andy returns to the flowered chaise and sinks into it, stretching her long legs, brushing her shiny blond hair.

My hands finally approach my zipper, slip the red straps of my dress over my shoulders. Turning to my locker, I pretend that Andy—nude on the chaise—isn’t a compelling vision. I pretend her bright green gaze doesn’t unnerve me. There’s a terry cloth robe inside my locker, and I remove it, willing my eyes to focus on the fluffy white fabric. But my gaze betrays me and shoots furtive glances at Andy’s wide hips, at her inner thighs and the shadowed cleft between them.

Andy’s blond thatch is shaved slender; the pale flesh of her vulva is visible, like an upside-down tulip, with lips blossoming on either side of her narrow light blond strip. Yet—at a quick glance, anyway—Andrea’s sex doesn’t look exposed the way mine feels after shaving. Her petal-like parts look sturdy enough to command respect, like a painting by Georgia O’keeffe.

Draping the robe around my shoulders, I step out of my panties while Andy watches, her hands twisting her hair into a knot on top of her head. Someone else might mistake her bemused expression for daydreaming, but I know better. After only one previous encounter, I know Andrea’s gem-green eyes are burning a trail down the front of my body, and I can feel them land, searing, on my pubis that, just this morning, she suggested I shave bare.

Quickly, I belt the terry cloth robe and hug it around my shoulders. But that comfort lasts only as long as it takes Andrea, loosely donning her own robe, to lead me to the whirlpool. There, standing barefoot on the jade green tile floor, she nods at three naked women already submerged in the circular tub, their breasts floating among the bubbles. Then, her back straight, her neck long and regal, Andy allows her robe to fall and steps into the swirling water. Sinking down to the underwater bench, she lets the whirlpool flow over her shoulders.

The hot tub ladies murmur among themselves, most of their words indistinguishable beneath the hum of the bubbling water. But when Andrea beckons, I feel their attention sharpen on me. So much adrenaline courses through my system as I untie my sash. Andy stares as my robe falls open, as the warm, wet air hits my skin. The others slide sly glances at my shorn pubis, while I yearn for the proverbial fig leaf. Anything, even a G-string, would offer some protection. But with nothing, I’m a girl among women, a working class lass stripped bare before the aristocracy, a submissive waiting for dominants to determine her value.

For several terrible moments, I stand like that—my robe hanging open, my thighs pressed together—my private parts, smooth as those of a prepubescent child, on merciless display. Finally, Andrea tilts her chin at a brass hook on the wall, and I hang my robe with all the dignity I can muster. Then, glancing back at the clock—as if knowing the time could help orient me—I step forward. It is ten after four as I walk across the wet tile floor, through the steamy air into the whirlpool.

Andy motions me to join her on the narrow, underwater bench, directly across from the semicircle of ladies, the ten-foot length of the tub away. At the bench, I stop before her gem green eyes, before her glossy lips and flushed cheeks. Less than half the bench lies empty. There’s no way to sit without sliding into Andy’s silken flesh, without causing our dripping shoulders to meet like lips in a chaste, tongueless kiss. I lower myself onto that underwater bench, and our bare thighs connect—my right and her left. Andrea’s skin is as supple as water; for an instant I doubt the touch.

Not daring to face her, I stare straight forward into a blurry middle distance with the semicircle of ladies in my peripheral vision. My right thigh senses the merest increase in pressure, so slight I can’t be sure it’s really happening, can’t be sure it’s Andy’s intention instead of some motion of the bubbling water. Sitting perfectly still, I hardly dare to breathe, as below the water, Andy’s calf grazes mine. Her toned leg feels yielding; her moon-round face is composed, eyes shut, damp lashes resting on her heat-reddened cheeks.

I lean my head back, letting my long, dark hair stream into the water, feathering my breasts and shoulders. My eyes close, and my thighs slip apart on the bench.

“Mmm.” I hear Andy’s throaty murmur as my flesh settles into hers.

“Andy?” I whisper.

“Hush.” Her voice is low and light. Under the water, her hand moves to my knee. “Hush,” she repeats, as though comforting a child.

Unable to move or speak, I wait, while between my legs, between the shorn lips of my bare vulva, there’s a quiver. Then comes the rise and stir of that narrow strip, blood rushing to the area, engorging the veiled sliver until it protrudes from between my lower lips, lips swelling to open of their own accord, as yet untouched, caressed only by the water. Then, while my clit pulses with anticipation, Andy’s hand—hidden by bubbles and foam—begins its slow journey up the inside of my thigh.

Across the tub, one woman speaks in a voice that carries, “Bunny, what did you think of that new manicurist?”

“Not much,” comes the answer. “Better keep your hands above the water though.”

“Hot water peels the polish right off,” the third woman agrees, as Andy’s finger reaches my slit.

Tears well in my eyes as she traces those swollen lips. Tears of gratitude, tears of longing and sheer lust gather as her finger gently skims, over and over, the surface of my throbbing sex. Then, at last she whispers, “Lara, open your eyes.”

I blink into the harsh reality of the Hamilton Club, the semicircle of female faces, the jade green floors, and lime green tiled tub. My eyes shut again, fast.

“Open your eyes, Lara.” Her voice is low but insistent; her finger strokes my slit. Sometimes she grazes my throbbing nub, others she skims just left or right. But when I don’t obey, her hand stops. “Open,” is all she says.

Then, reluctantly, I open again to the ladies’ whirlpool at the elite Hamilton Club.

“Look at me,” she commands, as her finger returns to its magic.

I turn to her fixed green gaze. Our eyes lock, and there’s a rush of relief—as if her intensity can hold and embrace me, insulate us from all others. My eyes drink in Andy’s face while my clit screams out for her touch. No longer is her fingertip enough; my body craves, begs, demands more.

“Darling, you know they can’t find decent service people here,” complains a cultured voice in tones that cut through the whirr of the whirlpool. “The new elevator man is quite impertinent.”

Andrea’s finger strokes with infinite patience, with infinite lightness of touch. She makes circles, grazing the most tender, swollen part of my clit. “I want you to do something for me,” she says in a low voice.

I’m barely able to nod.

“It’s a hard thing, but it will make you strong.” Her finger flicks my clit. “Will you do it?” Another flick. “Will you trust me?”

I don’t trust her, but that doesn’t stop me from saying, “Yes.”

“But you must admit the masseuse they hired last month is pretty good,” comes a strident voice from across the tub.

“If you like that sort of pressure,” I make out her friend’s reply.

“Turn your face toward those women,” Andy whispers, indicating them with her chin.

“Why?” I don’t turn.

“Bad girl.” Her finger shoots into me, penetrates my opening for the first time. “You need to do what I say.”

“I do?” Tears fill my eyes as her forefinger slides in and out.

“Listen to me.” Her thumb covers my clit.

Eyes welling, my lips mouth the word, “Why?”

“I know what I’m talking about, Lara.” Andy’s confidence seems absolute.

I stifle a sob as her fingers play with me, but there’s no question of stopping her now.

“It doesn’t matter what those women think,” she continues, her tone emphatic, her voice low. Her fingers never stop. “We can take life on your own terms, Lara. We can honor our needs and desires, instead of worrying what others think.”

“Yes,” I hear myself agree aloud, as a tear trickles down my face.

“You can see this through,” she says, and I discover I want to.

“Yes.” It’s more a breath than a word.

“Now.” Andy’s quiet voice is fire; her finger moves in and out.

I turn my head; my brown eyes release the shelter, the anchor of her green ones. Andy’s hand keeps caressing my sex while my face rotates toward the semicircle of ladies. As if that trio knows something is happening, as if they sense some subtle energy shift, the group grows quiet; their eyes focus on me.

“That’s good.” Andrea’s soft voice at my ear feels like a lifeline. She penetrates me with a second finger. “See the woman on the far left?”

I shoot a glance at the snub-nosed, forty-something brunette.

“I want you to make eye contact with her.”

Automatically, my eyes lower.

“No,” she hisses, fingers plunging. “You can do this.”

I am silent, conflicted, too filled with sensation to think.

“Don’t do it for me,” Andy says, her jaw clamped, her fingers stabbing. “Do it for yourself.”

I feel the bright eyes of the snub-nosed lady burning my face, and I recognize the part of me that wants to confront her. My gaze lifts to meet hers, and, although my lips tremble, my eyes hold steady.

“Yes, my lovely, yes, my sweet,” Andy croons, stroking my clit and rhythmically thrusting her fingers. Tears begin to travel down my cheeks, but I don’t care. I let them flow freely, cleansing my face as I present it to the semicircle of strangers. What does it matter that the snub-nosed woman sees me cry? I don’t care if the whole semicircle stares. Nothing is more important than my connection to Andy and the sensations searing my body.

“Can I help you?” the snub-nosed woman asks in a shrill voice.

Without looking away, I manage to shake my head no.

“Good work,” Andy whispers, after a long moment. “Go to the next one. Let her see you, too.”

The second woman is pixie-like and freckled, with short, curly hair. But her eyes narrow with disapproval; her mouth is pursed like a prune. I feel her grim stare tearing my chest apart, ripping my rib cage open, left and right like a pair of French doors. Yet, as Andy’s fingers continue thrusting, as the tears slip down my cheeks, I find I can take it. I can let her see me. I even want her to.

“Is something wrong, dear?” she asks with false brightness.

Shaking my head no, I revel in the certainty that—while raw emotions are visible on my face—underwater, beneath the bubbles, all is private.

Yes, the pixie-faced woman sees everything and nothing; she can make of it what she will. But I’m free to meet her stare; her opinion no longer controls me. Exulting in the weird, heady freedom of exposure, I feel Andy’s fingers plunge.

“Now the last one,” she says.

I turn my attention to the final woman, trembling with terror and joy. She’s the oldest, fifty-something, I guess, her hair silvering at the temples, wrinkles creasing her forehead.

The woman nods, and I manage to return that nod while Andrea’s fingers pierce me. Then I hear Andy’s voice say loud and strong, “Lara Leeds, I’d like you to meet Bunny Harper, Claire Sanford, and Mary Barton.”

They nod politely as I force a raw, but triumphant “Hello.”

If only those women would get out of the tub and leave me alone with Andy’s fingers! But I’m condemned to their company as wave after wave of torturous pleasure washes over me, bringing me closer to a climax I’ll never reach in their presence. Finally, Andy’s fingers pull out, and in a tender gesture, her hand cups my pulsing sex.

Leaning close to my ear, her lips brushing the lobe, she whispers, “Sauna,” and rises from our underwater bench. Then she walks out of the hot tub, giving the trio of ladies a quick wave.

I follow fast, no longer giving a thought to my nakedness as I rise, dripping, from the whirlpool. Like Andrea, I grab a towel from the pile waiting on a shelf and wrap it around my waist. The clock on the jade-tiled wall reads four-twenty as I follow her to the dimly lit, cedar-scented sauna. Finally, we are alone. Andy spreads her towel on one wooden shelf-bench, and I take another.

“I hope you don’t mind,” she says, lying down on her back, “but I made us both manicure appointments.”

“Manicure?” I repeat stupidly, as my skin cries out, no! No, no, no!

“Four forty-five appointment.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “That gives us fifteen minutes.”

So Andy has a schedule, and, incredibly, it includes a manicure—for which she collects the bill. Then, while our nails are drying, we drink herbal tea in a well-lit salon, wearing our street clothes and making small talk with other members of the club. But on our way to the lobby, Andrea selects the stairs instead of the elevator. In a deserted stairwell, she pulls me toward her, clasping her long arms around my back.

Pressing her chest into mine, she stage-whispers, “A plus on your hot tub lesson.”

Her mouth brushes mine; her tongue parts my lips, darts inside to command and explore. For a few minutes, Andy kisses as though she’ll devour me. Then we hear footsteps, and she breaks away. Laughing, she slaps my butt, hard. I flinch at the slap and the sudden change. My ass cheek stings, but it’s nothing compared to my clit, which is—once again—electrified.

Andrea heads down the staircase, and I follow her high-heeled pumps and her narrow skirt that looks poured over her hips. Moisture dribbles onto my panties; my clit throbs as I watch Andy sweep into the lobby with exquisite nonchalance.

“Darling,” a man says, moving toward her. Dark-haired and six feet tall, he’s wearing a suit and tie. His mouth presses hers in a quick, ordinary kiss, releasing Andy’s anything-but-ordinary lips—lips that moments before devoured mine—to form an odd half-smile.

“Lara,” she says, as I stop before them. “This is my husband Sam.”

“Hi.” Sam lifts his hand in a quick wave. “Member?” he asks, tone clipped, but friendly.

I shake my head no, doubting I’ll ever see the inside of the Hamilton Club again, feeling my wet panties. “Just trying things out,” I manage, clit still pulsing. I give Andy a significant look. “But thanks for the invite. It was great,” I say and mean it. Then, looking forward to my vibrator and the privacy of my bedroom, I turn from Andrea to her husband and shrug. “What can I really say about ten minutes in the hot tub?”

_______________

Robin Rose writes erotica, memoir, and mainstream fiction. Her work appears regularly in literary magazines, and she has a pair of erotic novellas in the works. Robin lives in the New York area.

email Robin Rose