Up all night: my massage from heaven

Looking with dismay at the extortionate prices of the facials at the beauty salon, I hear a voice behind me whisper "come to my house".

I turn around and it's one of the beauticians, looking around nervously to check no one's heard.

I am quite taken aback at this mysterious offer, and giggle with a raised eyebrow that she has just threaded. "I can do any of those facials for half the price at my house," she says.

"Oh," I say, realising that she wasn't being flirtatious - it was just me being a pervert.

"That's great."

The next evening I am at her terrace in Bethnal Green for an aloe vera facial. Straightening my pencil skirt and scrunching up my curls, I knock on the door and beam.

She opens the door promptly and welcomes me, in her white uniform. I realise from her formal manner that this is a professional appointment after all and that, once again, my fertile imagination was running away with me.

I lay on the sofa in her scrupulously tidy living room where a Bollywood film is playing on the television. I almost fall asleep during the facial, it's so relaxing, but then wake up suddenly when she says: "Do you want a free massage?" "Oh yes, that'd be amazing." I say, sitting up expecting it to be just on my shoulders and back. "Please get down to your knickers and I'll be back in a moment."

Oh, so this will be a proper massage, I think to myself. How kind. Or perhaps it's for her enjoyment? Am I about to be seduced?

I have purposely put on my Bordello red escalloped bra and panties for the occasion - just in case my imagination wasn't so wild after all. She knocks and comes back in, turning the lights down.

She starts massaging a jasmine-smelling ointment into the backs of my calves and slowly goes up my thighs. I hum noises of appreciation, trying not to sound too excited. She climbs on my back and gives me a really good shoulder massage. "Turn over," she orders, and I do as she says and she gets to work on my front.

She starts to educate me: "Breast massage is very good for you. It increases circulation." Then it dawns on me that she has a slight foreign accent and that maybe in her country this kind of thing is normal.

"Where are you from?" I ask while she still has her hands full. "Morocco," she replies.

"Oh!" I say, as the penny drops, "well, this is lovely. It's a shame because in England we're a little shy about this kind of massage."