SPH Experiences: Spa Day
By Icy-Alfalfa9698.
[google-translator]
A month ago, on a Sunday, I went to the gym just to unwind. The plan was always the same: a light workout and then melt my stress away in the spa. I went to my locker, ready to change into my usual swim boxers, but when I searched in my bag, my hand met only empty air. I’d forgotten to pack them.
I went back out to the main floor, feeling a little lost. At the reception, one of the personal trainers (a Peruvian guy with brown skin, tall, maybe 6’3″) saw me pacing. “What’s up, man? Lost something?”
I told him I forgot my swim trunks and asked if there was anything else available. He walked over with me to a small display. He picked out a sleek-looking pair of dark blue slips. “These are good. What size are you?”
“I have no idea,” I said honestly.
He reached for another pair and handed them to me, saying he thought they would fit me. I didn’t question him. He was the expert. I paid 30 euros and went back to the changing room.
The moment I pulled on the blue slips, I knew something was wrong. They weren’t just streamlined; they were suffocatingly tight. The fabric stretched thin over my thighs and hips, clinging like a second skin. I looked in the mirror. There was no hiding anything. The shape of my soft cock, maybe five or six centimeters on a good day, was compressed and clearly outlined against the stretchy material, flattened by the tension until it was just a small, defined ridge. I was mortified. But I’d paid for them, and the craving for the sauna was too intense. I told myself it would be fine. It would be empty, as usual.
I finally entered the spa. I pushed open the heavy wooden door of the sauna and stepped into a wall of dry, pine-scented heat. And it wasn’t empty.
A young blonde girl was lying on the highest bench. She couldn’t have been older than twenty; her pale white skin was covered in sweat, dripping onto her small white bikini that left very little to the imagination. Her legs were propped up against the opposite wall, oscillating gently, giving me a perfect, unobstructed view of the rounded curve of her ass and the way the thin fabric of her bottoms dipped between her legs. Most absurdly, she was scrolling on her phone, blatantly defying the spa rules.
I entered, saying hello to her and smiling as hard as I could. She was so pretty, I mean. However, she didn’t look up. She didn’t even acknowledge my presence initially. But after a few seconds, as I was sitting on the bench, I saw a flicker of her eyes, a rapid, disinterested glance from her phone down to the height of my hips, right at my crotch, and then back to her screen. It was over in a second—a quick, dismissive assessment.
A wave of embarrassment caught me. I couldn’t stand there risking being seen in this way. I quickly lay down on the empty lower bench, thinking that this way I would draw less attention. This was a huge mistake. Lying down only made it worse. The position pulled the fabric even tighter across my groin, creating a high-definition view of my inadequacy.
I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to will myself invisible. My mind began to race. I imagined her secretly taking pictures on her phone, zooming in on the pathetic little bulge in my too-tight blue slips, sending it to her friends with a laughing-cry emoji. The humiliation was sharp, but with it came a familiar, shameful stir. A semi-hardness bloomed against my will. My cock swelled, pressing desperately against the unyielding fabric, constrained into a hard, little stick of maybe nine or ten centimeters.
After a minute, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to know. I slowly cracked my eyes open and turned my head just enough to see her.
She wasn’t looking at her phone anymore. Her phone was resting on her stomach, and she had propped herself up on her elbows, her body angled towards me. She was staring, openly now, right at my hips, at the distinct, hard ridge straining against the blue fabric. She was leaning forward, trying to get a better look.
Then our eyes met. She flinched as if shocked, a jolt of electricity passing between us. She snapped back to her phone so quickly it was almost comical, but I saw it. I saw the corners of her mouth twitch, the ghost of a smile she was trying to suppress.
She lasted another thirty seconds, pretending to scroll. Then she swung her legs down from the wall, stood up, and walked towards the door without a backward glance. The door opened, then closed, and she was gone.
I’m almost sure the PT knowingly gave me a pair that was way too small as a prank. But I don’t even know how to feel. The humiliation was off the charts, but I haven’t been that turned on in my entire life. What is wrong with me?
The End.
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