The Oil Sheikh's Masseuse | مدلكة شيخ النفط
"A Thai masseuse at a private Abu Dhabi clinic. The sheikh who books her services has tension she wasn't trained to release—but learns to anyway."
The Oil Sheikh's Masseuse
مدلكة شيخ النفط
The Emirates Spa serves only the elite.
Oil money, royalty, the kind of wealth that doesn't ask prices. I'm one of six masseuses—brought from Thailand for our expertise.
Today's client is Sheikh Hamad.
I'm Sunisa.
Thirty-four, trained in Bangkok, working here for three years. Good money. Better than home.
I've learned to keep my eyes down and my hands professional.
Sheikh Hamad tests that resolve.
He's in his fifties.
Handsome in that Gulf way—strong nose, greying beard, eyes that hold power. When he enters the treatment room, the air changes.
"Assalamu alaikum," he says.
"Wa alaikum assalam, Your Excellency."
The massage begins normally.
His back is tight—stress, probably. I work the knots, feel the tension release under my fingers.
"You have excellent hands," he murmurs.
"Thank you, sir."
"Very excellent."
His tone changes something.
A hint. A suggestion. I've had clients proposition me before—I always refuse. It's against policy. Against my values.
But Sheikh Hamad doesn't proposition.
He just... lies there. Breathing.
And I find myself thinking things I shouldn't.
"Your shoulders are very tense," I say.
"Much responsibility."
"Perhaps you need more sessions."
"Perhaps I do."
He books weekly appointments.
Same time. Same room. Same careful dance of professional touch.
But each week, he says something more.
"Your hands are healing."
"I sleep better after you work on me."
"I think about you. Between sessions."
"Sir, that's not appropriate."
"I know." He doesn't apologize. "Tell me to stop booking."
"I can't. You're a client."
"Then tell me your feelings aren't involved."
I can't tell him that either.
Week six.
His hand catches mine mid-stroke.
"Sunisa."
"Sir?"
"Stop 'sir.' For one hour. Just... Hamad."
"Hamad." The name feels dangerous in my mouth.
"I've been married three times. I have more money than I could spend in ten lifetimes. And you're the first person in years who touches me without wanting something."
"I'm doing my job—"
"Your job is massage. What happens between us is something else."
"What happens between us?"
"I don't know yet." His eyes meet mine. "But I'd like to find out."
I should refuse.
Report the interaction. Request a different client. Every professional instinct screams against this.
But his hand is still on mine.
And I haven't felt like this since before I left Thailand.
"The spa closes at ten," I hear myself say. "My shift ends at nine."
"I'll send a car."
"Hamad—"
"One dinner. Conversation. If you want to leave after, I'll never mention this again."
Dinner is at his private residence.
Not a palace—a penthouse. Elegant, not ostentatious. He's waiting in casual clothes, looking almost human.
"You came."
"I came."
"I wasn't sure you would."
"Neither was I."
We eat. We talk.
About his life—the pressures, the loneliness of extreme wealth. About mine—the daughter I support in Thailand, the dreams I put aside.
"Why aren't you married?" I ask.
"My wives wanted my money, not me. The first two left. The third died." He shrugs. "I stopped trying."
"That's sad."
"That's reality. Until recently."
"What changed recently?"
"A Thai masseuse started working at my spa." He reaches across the table. "And I remembered what it felt like to be touched without conditions."
"I'm not—"
"You're not trying to marry me. You're not trying to get pregnant. You're not trying to get anything. That's why I can't stop thinking about you."
"What do you want from me?"
"Everything. Nothing. Whatever you're willing to give."
I give him a kiss.
Just one. Tentative.
He responds like a man dying of thirst.
We end up in his bedroom.
Larger than my entire apartment. But I'm not looking at the room—I'm looking at him, undressing, revealing a body still strong despite his years.
"Your turn," he says.
I undress.
"Beautiful."
"I'm not thin like Arab women."
"I don't want thin." He pulls me close. "I want you."
He touches me the way I've been touching him.
Firm pressure, attention to tension. He finds knots in me I didn't know I had.
"Let me take care of you," he murmurs. "For once."
He does take care of me.
With his mouth, his hands, everything. The sheikh becomes servant, dedicated to my pleasure.
"Ya Allah," he groans when he finally enters me. "You feel—"
"Don't stop."
He doesn't stop.
We make love until dawn.
Then lie in sheets that probably cost more than my yearly salary.
"Stay," he says.
"I have work."
"Quit. Stay here. With me."
"As what? Your kept woman?"
"As whatever you want to be."
"I want to be respected."
"Then I'll respect you. Publicly. Privately. However you need."
"Your family—"
"My family wants me happy. For once." He kisses my forehead. "Let me be happy, Sunisa. Let us both be happy."
One year later
I'm not a masseuse anymore.
I'm Sheikha Sunisa—unofficial title, but everyone uses it. Hamad's partner, his confidant, his peace.
"Happy?" he asks.
"You keep asking that."
"Because I keep not believing the answer."
"Believe it." I kiss him. "I'm happy. Happier than massage ever made me."
"I still want you to massage me sometimes."
"Oh?"
"Just you. In private. Ending the way it should always have ended."
I push him onto our bed.
"Where would you like me to start?"
"Everywhere."
Alhamdulillah.
For hands that heal.
For tension that releases.
For a masseuse who found her sheikh.
The End.