Section 1: The Setup and the Beginning of the Massage
I had arranged for a personal masseuse to begin giving her weekly massages -- something to help her relax after a long week of work, managing the house, and taking care of the kids.
But this wasn't just about stress relief.
I had purposely chosen a man I knew would physically and sexually appeal to her. He was handsome, athletic, charming -- the kind of presence you didn't ignore. My hope was that over time she would become more attracted to him, more comfortable around him, and maybe... more curious.
Each week, he was instructed to dress in something manly, but just sexy enough to spark imagination. And every week, I asked him to get just a little more comfortable -- a little more revealing -- without ever crossing a line she didn't choose herself.
He'd talk to her, get to know her. He would casually let her know how much I spoke of her, how much I adored her. I even hinted to him which parts of her body were most sensitive -- the places that, if massaged just right, might arouse her without warning.
It was all designed to awaken something in her. Slowly. Naturally. With permission.
For her birthday, I told her we'd be doing something a little different: a special massage session where I would be learning alongside her.
What she didn't know was that I had arranged with him to use her as the demonstration. I was going to study his hands, his technique -- all while admiring her body through two full-length mirrors I brought into the room.
I made sure I looked and smelled my best. This wasn't just a casual experience. This was something we had both wanted in different ways, and I wanted to savor every part of it.
She entered the room and I could see she was nervous -- a little anxious -- but not resistant. I had a feeling she'd been enjoying her weekly time with him more than she let on, and maybe fantasizing about what it would feel like to let go. To give in.
Eventually, she laid down and settled into the table, her towel modest but clearly not meant to stay in place forever.
He began talking me through the techniques. Soft pressure here. Glide there. I stood on the other side of the table, matching his movements, copying his strokes -- four hands moving across her skin in near perfect sync.
I hoped she was enjoying the dual sensation -- the masculine weight of two sets of hands focused only on her body, slowly working away her tension.
After a while, I didn't need instruction anymore. I just mirrored his flow, matched his pressure.
And that's when I broke the silence.
"Is this what you normally wear when you massage her?" I asked, my voice casual but curious.
He chuckled softly.
"Pretty much," he said. "It's usually up to the client. If they ask for less, I go with less. She never asked, so I never offered."
Before I could respond, she interrupted -- surprising both of us.
"I didn't know that was an option," she said playfully, ending with a soft, flirtatious giggle.
We both paused.
Without a word, he reached down, untied the drawstring of his pants -- those loose, pajama-style bottoms that always hugged his manhood a little too well -- and let them fall to the floor.
He wore nothing underneath.
He stood there fully exposed, already semi-aroused, the outline of his cock hanging thick between his thighs.
Then he pulled off his tank top, revealing a lean, muscular chest -- sculpted but not exaggerated.
He stepped back toward her and resumed the massage as if nothing unusual had happened.
The air changed.
Following his lead, I undid my shorts, let them fall, and stripped off my shirt. I was fully erect -- and I knew she could hear us both undressing. Even if her eyes were closed, she could see the pile of clothes at our feet through the hole in the massage table.
She didn't say a word.
And that silence said everything.
We worked down her body slowly, deliberately, hands gliding over smooth skin, following muscle lines and tension knots. Our fingers brushed close to her hips, and that's when I noticed it -- the smallest movement. A subtle roll of her pelvis against the table.
A grind.
Like her body was trying to find more pressure. Or maybe... contact.
I stayed focused, but my eyes kept drifting toward her. Her breath had changed -- slower, deeper. I glanced down and saw her head shift, chin lowering slightly. She was looking down through the headrest.
Looking to see if we were still naked.
Looking to see if the two men massaging her -- her husband and her regular masseuse -- were standing beside her fully exposed and fully hard.
She saw.
And she said nothing.
He moved to the foot of the table. Gently, he lifted both her feet and rested them on either side of his hips. His hands began working her calves, his thumbs digging deep in slow, circular motions. He looked up at me.
"Why don't you handle her thighs?" he said.
His tone was still instructional, but something in it had changed. More knowing. More inviting.
I nodded and stepped closer.
I began on the inside of her thighs -- slow strokes, firm pressure from top to bottom and back again. Each pass let me slide the towel up an inch further. His position between her legs helped keep her thighs open. It was subtle, but enough to let us both catch a perfect glimpse of her bare ass and the glistening space between her legs.
She was wet.
From the anticipation. From the tension. From being watched, wanted, and touched.
We didn't rush.
We took our time.
Each stroke brought me closer to the edge of her pussy, but I didn't touch it -- not yet. I stayed close enough to tease, to make her wonder, to make her need it.
Each time I got close, her thighs would part a little more. Or she'd shift. Tilt her hips. As if silently begging me to make that one move.
I looked up and said, "I'm going to go back to the top of the table. You've got this handled."
He nodded without speaking.
I stood near her head, close enough that my erection hovered just in front of her lowered face. She didn't move -- not at first -- but I could see the tension in her jaw.
He continued his work below, parting her thighs a little wider with each slow pass of his hands. My cock brushed her hair as I leaned forward, planting slow kisses down the center of her back.
I kissed the small of her spine, licking softly as I went.
Her head shifted.
She knew what was pressing against her scalp. She didn't pull away.
I reached her ass and began massaging her cheeks -- firm and slow. With each squeeze, I pulled them apart, exposing her further, giving him a full view.
Then I slid a finger across her soaked lips.
She moaned.
Soft. Controlled. But very real.
I looked at him. His cock was fully hard, resting at the edge of the table, thick and curved and slick at the tip.
My hand returned to her pussy, teasing her outer lips, stroking with purpose. His fingers brushed mine as he reached up under her cheeks.
Four hands now circled her ass.
Her body rose slightly, shifting forward.
Then I felt her arm move.
Her hand reached between us, curling upward -- and suddenly, she lifted my cock to her mouth.
She didn't suck. She didn't stroke. She just held it there, resting it against her lips, licking the precum from the tip with slow, precise flicks of her tongue.
I froze.
It felt... different.
Not rushed. Not greedy. Just... wet, warm, slow.
Perfect.
I lost focus. I couldn't keep my rhythm. I paused to savor it.
And she let it fall from her mouth -- just as slowly -- and then turned over, onto her back.
