Quiver me sphincters!

Mrs Finlayson and Uberkate

Uberkate is not only a great mate and an amazing jeweller, she also comes up with the best ideas ever, which almost always involve champagne. Yesterday afternoon was testament to this when she organised massages for herself, myself and Mrs Finlayson. We began festivities by rolling a bottle of Croser in record time.

We then walked to the massage place.  It was on of those fancy Thai places that make you feel like you are in Bangkok as soon as you step in the door.

Spiked tea

We had a little tea and half an hour of reflexology before stripping off for the main attraction, an hour of Thai massage with oil.

My masseuse asked me if there were any areas I would like her to concentrate on. I told her I tend to carry my stress in my lower back and by bum, which is why it is so large.



Apart from the snort of someone else from another cubicle laughing at my failed, lame joke.

If you thought the Thai people were as funny as the Irish, you would be so wrong. So very, very wrong. I mean, how many Thai Comedians are on the circuit at present? Zero.

But they make up for their lack of humour by extreme massaging.*

When I have a massage, I tend to do one of two things. I either fall asleep after 7 minutes and wake up at the end. When this happens, I often question whether I should have to pay as I was not awake to enjoy it.

The other thing is that I sometimes brew up a bit of a fart, and then have to spend the rest of the time in agony trying to hold it in.

I lay down in the nuddy, all bar my undies, while the lady got a massaging. Oh holly sweet Jesus and his dog! The pummelling and stretching. The oil. The sensation that you are being tongue lashed by a large oxen type creature. All very good indeed.

She got to my lower back and whipped my undies down over my butt in one swift moment. Hello sailor! I felt vulnerable, exposed. The tea I had drunk on arrival must have been packed with rohipnol, as I could not move or talk or nothing. I was in a total zombie like state. I was at her mercy.

Pumelling and kneading my ample ass, the masseuse obviously enjoyed a challenge. But it was not until her finger dipped dangerously close to my asshole that I snapped out of my coma.

I spent the rest of the massage wondering if I had in fact been digitally penetrated.

After we paid and left the establishment, we stood on the street corner waiting for the lights to change when I flagged my concerns with my mates. Uberkate suggested I really clenched my butt, which I did. And nothing. 

It was concluded that although the masseuse came mightly close, I had been spared a lesbiany anal encounter.

We walked home in the dark, via the bottle shop, and proceeded to roll another bottle. All the while, clenching and questioning. And clenching.

And this is where I would normally pose a question to you, the reader. But I just cannot think of one today.

Have you ever been fingered by a masseuse?

*I know. Generalisation. Sorry. Am suffering Post Traumatic Shock.