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Easier said than done. The temperature is somewhere above two hundred degrees, and my sweating isn’t lady-like at all. Thank goodness for deodorant, or else I’d reek. Speaking of reeking, the Dom’s body odor is making me dizzy—and the heat isn’t helping at all. Or the vodka shot. What keeps me sane is Art. His yummy smell is much closer and counterbalances the stranger’s BO.
The door opens, dropping the temperature a few degrees, and a new person enters the room. He says something to Art and the Dom/sub pair in Russian, and they reply eagerly with, “Da.”
The newcomer walks up to an oven-like contraption and opens it. The temperature rises a bit.
Curious.
He leans down, and I notice a bucket with water at his feet, with a ladle inside.
Wait a sec…
Before I can say anything, a ladleful of water goes into the oven.
The hot coals (or is it rocks?) inside make the kind of “shh” sound that a mother dragon would make if her offspring were talking too loudly at the library. Instantly, a wet heat of cosmic proportions permeates the room, reminiscent of said dragon mommy’s breath, and breathing gets harder.
I can’t believe that stinky banya has even hotter parilkas. It must feel like a portal straight to hell.
The guy ladles more water in.
This is how cannibals on a low-fat diet must cook their food—by steaming it.
Another ladle.
I’m on the verge of fainting.
Looking at my arm, I’m surprised my skin is not blistering. Also, now it smells even worse in here. The newcomer’s deodorant is either lacking or isn’t strong enough. I scoot closer to my husband-to-be and his magic scent, which helps.
Art must notice my discomfort because he says something in Russian, and the dude plops the ladle into the bucket with a disappointed grunt. Sitting down opposite us, he begins to smear himself with something that, according to my never-wrong nose, must be honey.
Honey, sure. This ordeal already reminds me of the experience a turkey must have on Thanksgiving, so why not add in a basting?
“That’s great for the skin,” Art says, following my gaze. “Next time, I can get some for you.”
Is he volunteering to apply it? Or lick it? Either way, I want it but shouldn’t.
The honey-smeared dude interrupts my train of thought. He must’ve decided he’s delicious enough now because he takes his tree flogger and gives himself a whack on the back.
Okey-dokey. That’s one way to atone for the sin of making this already-hot room even hotter.
He grunts in pleasure, and the submissive moans nearby—a veritable orgy.
“You want to see how that feels after all?” Art murmurs in my ear.
“Okay.” Wait, why did I say that? He isn’t talking about—
Art smacks me lightly with the flogger on my lower back.
Holy wet heat.
It’s like my lower back flew too close to the sun, à la Icarus.
“Too intense?” Art asks.
“Yeah.”
“You need to get even warmer,” he says.
Sure. Warmer is what I need at this juncture.
