The first of several incoming reviews of this still smart little venue. There follows an overview of the premises and its modus operandi, which will serve as a reference for all, then the particulars of this particular encounter. Separate reviews for all the others following, will mostly likely be restricted to describing the respective masseuses and events.
A while back, I noticed some chat on the London Massage threads that a new place, Elite Spa, had opened up on Massage Mile, the Finchley Road*. This is an area already fairly bristling with massage options and what seems, at any one time, to be a dozen shop-fronted venues alone, in the 1/2 mile or so between Swiss Cottage and Finchley Road & Frognal stations. Most of these seem to be Oriental-owned & staffed businesses, and Elite Spa stands out here with its emphasis on Hamman, and so far, none of the staff I've seen have been oriental.
Three massage staff are assigned each day, from its 11am opening until the doors close, 12 hours later. One may be assigned to the Spa area; a glorified, occasionally functional jacuzzi and treatment area downstairs. Because the business is newish, and, by the standards of its peers, is fairly well presented - the paintwork has not yet become much scuffed or chipped and mould has yet to form - it almost, but not quite passes first glance as a legitimate spa, which no doubt will give it a slightly better chance of surviving the Police and immigration service crackdowns, when they inevitably look to this area for some low-hanging fruit. This is further reflected in the slightly more pronounced coyness of the staff and masseuses here; which may be a necessity for them as I have occasionally seen what look like legitimate customers in there, who can't quite read the metaphorical writing between the lines. It is, after all, quite possible, as I have discovered here, to have lain entirely naked here, having enjoyed close brushes, turned over, and still walk out 15 minutes later, with your manhood entirely unfondled. But make no mistake: this venue is what we are all here for., though, with some exceptions, unless the masseuse knows you and your established tastes, you'll likely have to ask for it.
Appointments:
You can call to make advance appointments, or say you'll pop along in 1/2 hour, and unlike some of the other venues in the area, they will actually keep yours. Or you can try just walking in, in which case, depending on the time of day, you might have an evens chance of being able to bag an appointment there and then. Enquiring after who is available, you'll be given a name, and perhaps a nationality (as so often, Romanians are presented as Spanish), and you take your chances.
Most, but not the girls are on the chubbier+ side and 4-6s for appearance. Rates are £55 for a 1hr massage for the venue, of which the masseuse will be paid about £15. Extras, where they are available, are extra and variable in character and quality.
Facilities.
They've spent a bit of money on appearances, and it is pleasant enough to look at, though it's a bit of a cosmetic botch-job (thin walls and air-conditioning piping trailing on the floor, anyone?) and will inevitably soon start to show the signs of poor design and maintenance. That said: it is clean, and you'd take the showers here over the festering mould at San Ling, down the road, any day. The massage couches are sturdy enough and feature head-holes, there are clothes hooks for your gear, and the lights are dimmable. The music is some wretched alt-takes on classics & film scores, so you'll be pummelled to the sounds of pan-piped Ravel or The Godfather theme on Spanish guitar: it never changes. This is not mood-enhancing, but it does slightly muffle the sounds of Trevor or Hamid coyly asking for relief in the accompanying chamber. You hear a tap on the door, and...
The Masseuse
...enters. In this instance it is Alina, a small-ish, slightly chubby-ish, pretty-ish young lady of indeterminate age, but perhaps somewhere from mid 20s to early 30s. She is dressed with ubiquitous sports-casuals, and has her dark hair tied back quite severely. Her English is good enough for most light conversation, and she has a brusque, no-nonsense manner about her. I'd guess she's Bulgarian or Romanian; she has some of that defensiveness about her.
I ask for a firm massage and she begins to duly oblige; it being quickly apparent that she either has some formal training in this, or she's acquired enough through a combination of YouTube and on-the-job observation to acquit herself well. Shoulders, back, legs and arms are all given a thorough and invigorating seeing-to, employing wrists, fists and forearms. Occasionally, I feel my foot cradled on her thigh, perhaps even between them, and it feels warm and intimate, like skin, and inwardly, I stir. I couldn't recall the sound of her leggings falling to the ground, but she moves deftly; I barely hear her padding around to the head of the table, but then I see her crocs facing me through the table head-hole, and that her leggings remain on. Hopes somewhat dashed, they are revived a little when her rotund tummy presses gently against my head, and then more firmly as her knuckles, now in fists again, reach down the full length of my spine to end the movement on my buttocks, but respectably so. Still, it's a delight to feel the towel pushed back a little further than it strictly needed to.
My circadian clock tells me we are approaching 40 minutes, and indeed, on cue, she asks me to turn over. My modesty is still covered, but is removed altogether before she proceeds to work my thighs. I am now unmistakably in the zone, and in anticipation, I feel an erection slowly begin to rise, and, as she presses and rolls on, only inches away from it, within a minute it is ready and proud for her. She will merely proceed, unfazed, if you say nothing, and I don't recall her ever asking if I wanted extras - so if you do, now is your moment, if you haven't already prearranged it.
AFAIK, Alina is only prepared to offer a relaxing finish with top on, or top-off. I mentioned she is pretty-ish, and I hold by that, though her expression as she goes about her extra-curricula work somehow recalls an slightly fearsome, stoutly built, raised-on-a-farm, young aunt, if that means anything to any of you (I myself have no such relative, but I do have a vivid imagination) - in that she is dutiful, and diligent, without showing affection for you or the task, beyond a certain pleasure at her own handy competence. Th e milking done, she will offer to towels and ask to collect her dues, which I think amount to c. £30 or £50 respectively according to your tastes.
Over several appointments, I've noticed that the sessions tend to clock in at around 50minutes from the moment the masseuse enters the room. NB: that is not necessarily a hard and fast rule, as I've had ones which have reached an hour 'in the room', but it does mean that, if you need to, and if there is no appointment abutting yours, you'll have good time to use the shower. The receptionist will doubtless thank you, or wish you a good day as you make your way out. The traffic roars by and since you are freshly unburdened, your only real concern now is which way to turn. There's a Japanese restaurant on the corner, only two doors away to the right, which I've often thought looked appealing, but which haven't yet sampled for a post-squeeze refreshment. Details to follow when that eventually happens.
*Those unfamiliar with the area should note that whilst Finchley Road does indeed head towards Finchley, it isn't actually anywhere near its namesake.
