Addictive Japanese Massage - Chapter 3: Chapter 3
You are reading Addictive Japanese Massage, Chapter 3: Chapter 3. Read more chapters of Addictive Japanese Massage.
My fingers clamped around his wrist, my voice coming out in a ragged whisper. "Not there." Even now, I was still resisting.
"Madam, this is standard procedure for our Erotic Massage," the masseur countered smoothly, brushing off my objection like it was nothing.
Powerless to stop him, I stayed frozen on the table as he slicked more oil across my skin, his palms gliding in slow, hypnotic circles along my waist.
Then—warmth began coiling low in my belly, my resolve dissolving with each pass of his hands.
Just as I started slipping under, my husband's loud moans snapped me back to reality. Annoyance flared—he wasn't even trying to fight it.
Fine. If he could give in so easily, so could I.
The masseur's touch grew bolder, teasing along my stomach, drifting dangerously close to my thighs.
Knowing my husband was just feet away should've shamed me. Instead, it sent a thrill through me that only made everything more intense.
"Madam, I need better access to your thighs and lower abdomen. Would you mind turning over?" His voice was all polite professionalism.
Cheeks burning, I gave a dazed nod.
But as I rolled onto my back, I kept a death grip on the towel—one hand clutching it to my chest, the other anchored over my hips.
My pulse hammered in my throat.
What if he yanked it away?
"Just breathe, Madam."
Before I could overthink it, his oiled hands were on me again, sliding across my stomach.
A full-body shiver wracked me.
My waist had always been my best feature—not model-slim, but toned with just enough softness. My husband used to say it was perfect for holding.
Now the masseur's hands mapped every curve, his fingers nearly meeting as they spanned my waist. No wonder this felt so damn good.
The slick sounds of his movements filled the room, each slow circle warming my skin until the heat seeped into my bones.
When his hands dipped lower, even the thin barrier of the towel couldn't stop my sharp inhale as he grazed a spot that made my toes curl.
Then he was between my thighs, gently coaxing them apart to work the same magic there.
Every accidental brush of his knuckles against that delicate skin left me throbbing.
Just as my quiet whimpers escaped, he pulled back.
"Madam, the next phase requires a specialized tool. No skin contact—just through the towel." His voice had gone gravelly.
I barely managed a mumbled "Mmhmm," too far gone to care.
The door clicked shut, then open again. Fabric rustled.
Then—
Something scorching pressed against my lower stomach.
My eyes flew wide. "Why is it burning?!"
"Special technique, Madam." That rough voice again. "Still no direct contact."
Before I could protest, the heat returned—relentless and impossible to ignore.
"Madam, this is standard procedure for our Erotic Massage," the masseur countered smoothly, brushing off my objection like it was nothing.
Powerless to stop him, I stayed frozen on the table as he slicked more oil across my skin, his palms gliding in slow, hypnotic circles along my waist.
Then—warmth began coiling low in my belly, my resolve dissolving with each pass of his hands.
Just as I started slipping under, my husband's loud moans snapped me back to reality. Annoyance flared—he wasn't even trying to fight it.
Fine. If he could give in so easily, so could I.
The masseur's touch grew bolder, teasing along my stomach, drifting dangerously close to my thighs.
Knowing my husband was just feet away should've shamed me. Instead, it sent a thrill through me that only made everything more intense.
"Madam, I need better access to your thighs and lower abdomen. Would you mind turning over?" His voice was all polite professionalism.
Cheeks burning, I gave a dazed nod.
But as I rolled onto my back, I kept a death grip on the towel—one hand clutching it to my chest, the other anchored over my hips.
My pulse hammered in my throat.
What if he yanked it away?
"Just breathe, Madam."
Before I could overthink it, his oiled hands were on me again, sliding across my stomach.
A full-body shiver wracked me.
My waist had always been my best feature—not model-slim, but toned with just enough softness. My husband used to say it was perfect for holding.
Now the masseur's hands mapped every curve, his fingers nearly meeting as they spanned my waist. No wonder this felt so damn good.
The slick sounds of his movements filled the room, each slow circle warming my skin until the heat seeped into my bones.
When his hands dipped lower, even the thin barrier of the towel couldn't stop my sharp inhale as he grazed a spot that made my toes curl.
Then he was between my thighs, gently coaxing them apart to work the same magic there.
Every accidental brush of his knuckles against that delicate skin left me throbbing.
Just as my quiet whimpers escaped, he pulled back.
"Madam, the next phase requires a specialized tool. No skin contact—just through the towel." His voice had gone gravelly.
I barely managed a mumbled "Mmhmm," too far gone to care.
The door clicked shut, then open again. Fabric rustled.
Then—
Something scorching pressed against my lower stomach.
My eyes flew wide. "Why is it burning?!"
"Special technique, Madam." That rough voice again. "Still no direct contact."
Before I could protest, the heat returned—relentless and impossible to ignore.
End of Addictive Japanese Massage Chapter 3. Continue reading Chapter 4 or return to Addictive Japanese Massage book page.