Addictive Japanese Massage - Chapter 1: Chapter 1
You are reading Addictive Japanese Massage, Chapter 1: Chapter 1. Read more chapters of Addictive Japanese Massage.
My husband surprised me with a trip to Japan—not just for cherry blossoms or sushi, but for something far more intimate. An authentic erotic massage, he called it.
I should've known the "special service" would push my limits.
Lying face-down on the table, towel draped over me, I tensed when the male masseur whispered, "Relax, ma'am. Stay quiet, and your husband won't hear a thing."
My fingers dug into the sheets.
They say the seven-year itch is inevitable, but for us? The spark fizzled out by year five.
We still loved each other—desperately. But the bedroom had become a battleground of exhaustion and hesitation.
So when we found this place—renowned for reigniting passion—we took the plunge.
Opposite-sex therapists only, they insisted. Essential for awakening desire.
For love, I agreed.
The room smelled of sandalwood, the air thick and warm. Too warm.
I clutched my towel, heart pounding. A stranger's hands on my bare skin? The thought twisted my stomach.
Then the door opened.
Footsteps.
I held my breath as the masseur knelt over me, his voice smooth. "Apologies for the wait."
The towel slid away—only from my back. I exhaled.
His hands were magic.
Knots I didn't know I had unraveled under his touch. Firm, confident strokes melted my tension.
Okay. This is fine. Professional.
Then—his fingers traced lower.
My hips.
The pressure changed. Slower. Deliberate.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"This technique improves circulation," he murmured, sensing my stiffness. "Certain areas... require extra attention."
I swallowed hard.
Was this still just a massage?
His hands glided down my legs, teasing every inch—light as a whisper, then deep enough to make me gasp.
I bit my lip, thighs pressing together.
God, it had been so long since I'd felt like this.
His touch was intoxicating. Skilled.
And the worst part?
I didn't want him to stop.
I should've known the "special service" would push my limits.
Lying face-down on the table, towel draped over me, I tensed when the male masseur whispered, "Relax, ma'am. Stay quiet, and your husband won't hear a thing."
My fingers dug into the sheets.
They say the seven-year itch is inevitable, but for us? The spark fizzled out by year five.
We still loved each other—desperately. But the bedroom had become a battleground of exhaustion and hesitation.
So when we found this place—renowned for reigniting passion—we took the plunge.
Opposite-sex therapists only, they insisted. Essential for awakening desire.
For love, I agreed.
The room smelled of sandalwood, the air thick and warm. Too warm.
I clutched my towel, heart pounding. A stranger's hands on my bare skin? The thought twisted my stomach.
Then the door opened.
Footsteps.
I held my breath as the masseur knelt over me, his voice smooth. "Apologies for the wait."
The towel slid away—only from my back. I exhaled.
His hands were magic.
Knots I didn't know I had unraveled under his touch. Firm, confident strokes melted my tension.
Okay. This is fine. Professional.
Then—his fingers traced lower.
My hips.
The pressure changed. Slower. Deliberate.
My pulse roared in my ears.
"This technique improves circulation," he murmured, sensing my stiffness. "Certain areas... require extra attention."
I swallowed hard.
Was this still just a massage?
His hands glided down my legs, teasing every inch—light as a whisper, then deep enough to make me gasp.
I bit my lip, thighs pressing together.
God, it had been so long since I'd felt like this.
His touch was intoxicating. Skilled.
And the worst part?
I didn't want him to stop.
End of Addictive Japanese Massage Chapter 1. Continue reading Chapter 2 or return to Addictive Japanese Massage book page.