The Shoreside Massage Company is a chain of massage parlors renowned across Monsoo for peerless quality. We’ve had such a long history of success that our reputation has even been expanding to other worlds in the Peldak Protectorate.
So dedicated to the customer experience is SMC that prospective employees -like me- must undergo a three year training course at a dedicated college. Aliens come from far and wide to experience our massages, so we learn everything about their biology and customs to make the trip worthwhile.
As I’m in my third year of instruction, it won’t be long before I graduate and take all my skills with me to one of our many stores across the planet. In previous weeks, I’ve aced all my tests, working my magic on volunteers of various species. I’ve perfectly rubbed a cabella’s head-tail to massage under their bone plates, I’ve made one of those stoic issei squeak as I pressed between his shoulder-blades, and I even managed to avoid fainting as I looked upon the disgusting body of a hemlock.
22 species in the Protectorate, and I’ve almost left all of them satisfied.
There’s just one left.
The most important one.
As I sit in class, the instructor enters. We all stand as she walks to her desk, and don’t sit until she reaches her destination. Just like us, she’s wearing the uniform of the Shoreside Massage company. It’s a light pink, silky cloth, with elbow-length sleeves except for missing shoulders. There’s a prominent blue sash separating out tops from our long skirts.
“Good morning, everyone. I’ve procured a number of volunteers from the nearby military base. These peldaks will be your final test, so put all your skill and knowledge of their biology into giving them the best experience possible.”
“Yes ma’am!” We shout in unison. Our voices are clear, concise, and we’ve intentionally lowered the pitch, just as peldaks like.
As we walk from the instructional classrooms on the east side of the academy to the practical massage rooms that make up the west wing, my friend nudges my shoulder. “Ngor, have you ever seen a peldak?”
I keep my chin high, exuding the confidence inherent in someone at the top of their class. “Regrettably, I have not. I wasn’t born on an island that featured one of their bases, and my time in this academy was spent studying.”
“Oh, haha! So you’ll be in for quite a shock.”
I raise an eyebrow, “what do you mean?”
“Well, let’s just say the books don’t do them justice, teehee.”
I want to ask more, but I know she won’t answer.
We’re taken to the dedicated massage rooms and split up so we can each complete our assignments. We’re graded based on the feedback of the volunteer, so there’s no need to be supervised by our instructor. I walk through a door from the hallway into the prep area. All sorts of incense, oils, and records line the walls. Every sense, save sight, needs to be accounted for. Incense fills the lungs, oils soothe the skin, record players emit soft music, and we even have jars of candies to account for taste.
Each species has their own desires, and I expertly grab the correct combination of additives so this peldak volunteer can leave feeling rejuvenated.
Leaving the prep room, I enter the massage room proper. A domed room with vibrant green Monsoo plants growing from two half circles of dirt that circle the room, with two doors built in the opposing gaps of soil. I set up the incense on a slow burn, I place the Peldak record on the player so the room fills with a repeated thumping -similar to an army on the march- and I dim the lights.
With the room ready, I clear my throat and take a moment to practice my new huskier pitch. Back straight, chin up, shoulders back, peldaks demand confidence from those speaking to them.
Opening the door with a bright smile, “hello-?” I freeze. What’s standing in front of me is a giant of a man, thick and muscular, with pale skin, wearing only a towel around his waist. “U-uh…” My eyes dart up and down, a sort of primal fear runs through my body. “I mean, welcome, sir! I just want… to thank you for volunteering to help my studies.” I bow respectfully, then pass out of the way so he can enter.
“Hmh.” He nods somewhat dismissively, then hunches forward a little so he can get in through the door.
No! What a poor opening, I got it mixed up! I’m a girl, and it’s the Peldak women that demand a thick layer of respect when addressing them. Peldak men want your speech to be more casual. I shouldn’t have called him sir, but…
“Do I lay here?” He points to a padded table in the center of the room.
“Y-yes! Yeah. That one, sir-“ I clear my throat to disguise almost failing again. “Face down, please.”
I’ve read extensively about peldak biology. The men are 6’10 on average, and this man seems to be a great deal taller than average, at least 7’5, maybe 7’7. I’m only 4’9. I think reading ‘7 feet’ over and over didn’t adequately prepare me for how the sheer size difference would actually feel.
The beast of a man lays on the table, and I’m only surprised that it can hold his weight for just a moment. The table must have been built with the peldaks in mind. The table is low, to my knees, and the top of his back is only level with my hips, allowing me to reach over him.
I take a deep breath and walk over, grabbing the jar of heated mineral oil. “I’m going to start by lathering your back. This will moisturize your skin and help relieve the tension in your muscles.”
“Go ahead.” His voice is so inhumanly deep. Even when making mine huskier, I still sound like a child.
Sticking my hands in the jar, I pull the oil out and start lathering his back. The oil is warm, a bit more viscous than water, and heated well. This man’s back on the other hand… it’s actually quite repulsive. The more I look at it, the less I like it.
Muscle over muscle, hard like marble, and there’s no real give to his flesh. It doesn’t feel like skin, it’s as if my hands are gliding over a chiseled statue. Peldaks have a different muscular structure than other humanoids, and their backs are especially well developed. So many muscle groups that flat out don’t exist elsewhere. I’ve memorized the names of all of them, but in the books I’ve read, they’ve always been color-coded. I’m finding it a little difficult to distinguish between them now that I’m seeing them in person.
Then there’s his skin. I’ve seen fair skin, I’ve seen porcelain skin, but his flesh is this ghastly pale with seemingly no pigmentation. His arms from the elbows down are a reddish tan, as is his face, neck, and a small patch of skin between his shoulder blades. For the rest of his body, it’s like he’s never once stepped out into the sunlight. Which, to be fair, he might not have. I’ve read that his home world of Peldor doesn’t have a sun.
I slide the mineral oil down his back, into the small divot of his spine, then around his built shoulders, moving down his biceps. Each bicep is thicker than my skull, and he’s not even flexing. His fingers are similarly thick, with callouses and compounding scar tissue. My hand isn’t even half as big as his, I’ve never had to put in so much work to spread oil.
Then comes the next arm, but I only get down to his elbow.
“O-oh.”
“What is it?” His deep, booming voice echoes through the small domed room, cutting through the music.
“I-I, uh.” I gulp. “Sorry, sir, I wasn’t expecting you to be so… large, and I didn’t get enough oil.”
“Ha!”
“I-I’ll, I’ll be right back!” I rush back to the supply room door, my slippery hands unable to get a good grip on the door knob, but I eventually get it open. What an absolute blunder! I didn’t grab enough oil? Are you serious? Stupid, so stupid. My cheeks are hot and my chest hurts. This has been one failure after another.
Grabbing a new jar, I rush back out, but I cant get a good grip on the large twist top.
“Come on… come on..!” I mutter. The peldak chuckles from my failure, this is the worst-case scenario. I put the glass part of the jar in my armpit and squeeze hard on the top with both hands, trying to force it open, but my hands are too slippery. Then I put the glass between my thighs and try it that way, but I can’t get it.
This was one of the first things they teach you. If you need more than one jar, open them both first, since it’s nearly impossible to open one if your hands are covered in oil.
“Here, girlie,” the peldak puts and arm out, “let me.”
I raise an eyebrow, but move over to his hand. I hold the glass section tight, and put the lid to his hand. With just two muscular fingers, he pinches the jar and, even though the lid is covered in the oil from my hands, he effortlessly twists it open.
“Th-tha-“ I clear my throat. “Thank you.”
With his face down into the padded hole on the table, he nods and grunts.
With another jar of oil in hand, I can finish applying it to his skin.
His legs… dear heavens, each thigh is thicker than the width of my shoulders, they’re so disgustingly large. One of the muscles is even larger than my waist. I’d say I feel bad for those poor peldak girls, but they’re just as tall and nearly as muscular. No wonder their birthrate is such a constant issue. Though I’ve already screwed up so much, I probably shouldn’t be letting my mind wander like this. It’s just hard to stay focused when dealing with this monster.
“Alright, dear,” my nerves have recovered slightly, so my voice is steady and husky. “The oil is applied, so I’ll begin the massage now.”
“Go ahead,” he says.
And so, I begin.
Peldaks are a hardy people, with muscles thick like marble. I’ve had to undergo a lot of strength training in preparation for working on them, and its finally time to show off the fruits of my labor. I sink my fingertips into the muscles near his spine, between the shoulder blades. I can only penetrate maybe half a centimeter into his flesh, so I switch to my knuckles to give my massage a bit more firmness. Standing at his side, I don’t have a great amount of leverage, but I was trained for this. I hope onto the table, my legs spread so my feet are at his sides, then I press my fists down onto his equivalent of deltoids. Pressing down with my hands, I shift my weight off my legs until I’m in a handstand; a difficult maneuver requiring quite a lot of balance.
It’s a difficult procedure, but I start going through all the pressure points.
My training and reading finally comes through. Now that I’m properly looking at him and his muscles, it’s all clicking into place. The gaps between his bulging muscles, the folds, the veins, the oil accentuates the shadows and makes each muscle group pop more. Dig my thumb into this gap, roll my knuckle across here, press my elbow into this spot, it’s all working!
I’m sweating a little since his skin requires a lot of force. To be honest, I think he’s flexing just to make it more difficult. Like he’s trying to impress me by making his muscles artificially harder.
With the scent of incense, the marching music, and my expert massage, everything is perfect.
“How does that feel?”
“You can start now.”
“…” I pause the massage. “Oh, haha, I get it.” I continue pressing the knuckle of my middle fingers into the center of his shoulder blades.
“Get what?”
Is he serious? “Eh, uh, haha, nothing. Um… I-I’ll be starting the massage now!”
“About time…” He grumbles. “The oil is rubbed in enough, I think.”
He thought I was just rubbing it in? Are you serious? But I was putting my all into that massage! I’m even kind of tired now…
Okay, just think… What did the book say to do in this circumstance? His muscles are a little too dense for a normal massage, so what? Treat him like one of those hemlock freaks?
I hop off the table and rush into the backroom. I’m just panicking at this point, so it might not be the right answer, but there’s not much I can do. I grab a sturdy stick resting against the wall. It has grooves for the handle so I don’t slip, and a bulged section on the end which adds to the impact. With that in hand, I run back up to the table and stand with my feet on either side of the table.
“J-just let me know if this is too hard, o-okay?”
The peldak’s back quakes a few times, “trust me, it won’t be.”
“Okay…” I raise the stick, then swing it down onto the inner muscle of his right shoulder blade, connecting with a thwack. “H-how’d that feel?”
“Eh, good enough. You could swing a little harder though.”
I swing again, harder, hitting his lower back, just to the right of his spine. “And… that?”
“Better.”
Then I hit as hard as I can, right into the pressure point at the base of his neck.
“Hmm.” He moans a little. A signal of approval!
Nice! He’s actually feeling this!
So I keep going. Over and over, as hard as I can, thwacking his back, shoulder, arms, and legs with my stick. Each hit carries the maximum amount of force that I can apply. I feel like each should be leaving a bruise, but he’s a peldak and I’m a monsoorai, so obviously that’s not possible. This could be a metal bat and it wouldn’t leave a mark against his flesh. Some of my hits even hit the pressure points I’m aiming for, but most miss.
“Mhm. Fair enough,” he says, stretching his shoulders forward, causing his muscles to bulge and flex. “I heard your academy’s massages were good, and I guess this is worth the wait.”
“…sure! I’m happy our quality is to-“ I swing again, and accidentally hit the back of his head. I gasp.
“…quality is to my what?” He says without a care in the world.
“To… to your liking! Haha.”
I press the bulged endpiece of the stick against one of the pressure points on the back of his thigh, then hop to put all my weight on that specific spot. This doesn’t elicit a reaction from my brave volunteer though, so I quickly go back to just hitting him.
All the manuals and books I’ve read said that peldaks are a hardy bunch, and a lot of pressure needs to be applied, but they’ve never advised hitting them with sticks. I might be doing this massage wrong, but… if it works, it works, right? Maybe he’s just a particularly muscular peldak and a massage just isn’t possible with monsoorai strength. The least I can do is pretend it’s a legitimate method by timing my whacks in step with the musical marching.
It’s a marathon at this point, hitting him over and over, but I’m confident in my stamina.
“Alright..!” I jump off the table, winded. “Roll over to your back, please.”
He does so, exposing his chest and abs to the air. “Now I’ll-“ I gulp down air. “I’ll apply the oil to your front, and quickly get back to the massage.”
He nods with a peaceful expression on his face, his eyes closed and his mouth relaxed.
Seeing a man with ten rippling abdominal muscles is… it doesn’t look right. None of him really looks right. His pecs don’t have nipples either. I know they’re useless on men, but the lack of them is distracting, and wrong. Unlike his back, his front is a mess of scar tissue, large and small. It’s clear he’s never run away from the enemy. The more I look at this peldak, the more viscerally disturbing he is.
But nevertheless, when I finish the oil, I go back to smacking him with the stick. Striking his neck -though avoiding his throat-, I even see him smile a little. If he’s enjoying it, who am I to complain? My grade might suffer though.
The last section to receive my ‘massage’ is the bottom of his feet. His feet… well, it’s obvious that he’s spent many decades of his life marching around in combat boots. There are so many callouses and scarred-over blisters that he could probably walk on broken glass without issue.
I swing the stick and catch the bulged end right in the center of his arch. “Ah!” His body jolts.
“Are you okay?”
“Y-yeah.” I look over and see him blush a little. A face as pale as his, it’s easy to see. He clenches his foot, and the joints of his toes pop.
Flashing a smile, I strike the same spot a few more times, causing the giant to wriggle on the table. Looks like I finally found a spot where I can relieve some tension! When he stops having a reaction, I switch to the arch on his other foot and continue again. Good to know he’s at least feeling something.
I have him roll over a few more times over the course of the massage, and continue hitting him until my stamina is spent.
“A-ah-all… alright… you can sit up now.” I take a deep breath as he does.
He flexes, thick veins bulging an inch out of his pale, shiny skin. He raises his arms, causing each muscle group to stretch and bend up his torso. “Hngh! Yeah..! Good.” He lowers his arms and gives his hands a few test squeezes. His fists tighten so much, his knuckles turning white, that I’m confident he could crush my skull like an orange. “That wasn’t half bad, girl.”
“Thank you,” I give a respectful bow, then approach with a warm towel. “Allow me to wipe the oil off your body.”
He nods, then sticks out his arms and legs to give me easier access. During this process, I need to return to the backroom twice in order to grab more towels.
“And there you go,” I say with a reserved smile.
“Thanks.” The peldak nods, plants his feet off the side of the table, then stands to his full height. I rush over to the door and open it for him. Each step is accompanied by a thud and a rumble that shakes the room. I’m confident he’s putting more effort into his stomps, but I can’t prove that. “I’ll tell my buddies about you guys.”
“Thank you, the Shoreside Massage Company thanks you for spreading the word, and I welcome your continued patronage.” Though hopefully his friends have slightly less developed muscles so I won’t need a stick.
With his exit, I sigh and roll my shoulders forward. “Monstrous-“ I’m about to say ‘freak’, but stop just in case his long ears can hear me through the door.
Returning to the instructional room, all my classmates are exhausted. They’re breathing hard, rolling their hands and wrists.
“What a bunch of freaks!” One classmate says.
“Those muscles aren’t human. It was like I was pressing my knuckles against a tree!”
“My guy was flexing just to make it harder on me, I know he was. You’re supposed to relax when getting a massage!”
I raise my voice, “did any of you start beating your volunteer with the hemlock stick?”
“Tsk, no, but I should have. That’s a good idea.”
We moan and complain for a few minutes more, until our instructor comes in.
“I have your feedback from the test subject. The criticism is fairly uniform, they say your massages need more force. That’s to be expected, I guess.” Our instructor scratches the back of her head, “Ngor.”
I jump to my feet, “yes, ma’am?”
“Your… your volunteer says you beat him with a stick.”
“I did, yes. Did he not like it?”
“No, he responded positively, but that isn’t the sort of image our company is going for.”
“But ma’am, isn’t customer satisfaction the most important thing in our line of work?”
“…” She looks at me for a moment, the classroom silent. “You’re not beating our customers with sticks. I know your volunteer was a bit bulkier than others, but just strength train your hands more.” She looks at her clipboard, “well actually he had about a hundred pounds of muscles on the other volunteers, so he was a lot bulkier, but still.”
“Wait, was I set up to fail?!”
“You’re the top student, you were given the hardest volunteer. Heh, figuratively and literally. Look, just don’t use a stick next time. It’s not a big deal. He said he was messing with you when he said he couldn’t feel your initial massage anyway.”
I scowl and take my seat. Filthy peldaks… They pretend they’re these honest, straight forward, non-liars, but I don’t see a difference between them and a cirathan.