Addictive Japanese Massage - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
You are reading Addictive Japanese Massage, Chapter 4: Chapter 4. Read more chapters of Addictive Japanese Massage.
My eyes snapped open with a gasp. "Why is it so hot?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them.
Panic surged through me. Who wouldn't freak out when something warm and oval-shaped suddenly presses against you during what's supposed to be a relaxing massage?
My mind raced through a dozen worst-case scenarios before I even looked. If this guy was trying anything inappropriate, I'd walk out immediately - and make sure my husband taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget.
When I finally dared to look, my breath caught.
Just a massage gun.
Held in the therapist's perfectly professional grip.
God, how embarrassing. My imagination had gone straight to the gutter when it was just standard equipment. Even worse? Part of me had been... disappointed.
The masseur's confused expression made my cheeks burn. I must have been louder than I thought, because my husband's sleep-thick voice carried across the room. "Babe? Everything okay?"
The roughness in his tone told me exactly how much he was enjoying his own massage. Typical. Here I was having a moral crisis while he was in bliss.
"Nothing," I muttered, the unfairness of it all knotting my stomach.
His skeptical "Really?" sent my pulse skyrocketing. For a wild moment, it felt like getting caught in an affair. "Just not used to this tool," I lied quickly.
The excuse satisfied my husband, but the masseur knew better. Our eyes met, and to my relief, he played along seamlessly. "This is our newest model, madam. The heated head helps relax muscles faster. Should I increase the intensity? It'll help the oils penetrate better."
"Yes, please," I agreed too quickly, desperate to move past the awkward moment.
As my husband's attention drifted back to his own treatment, I exhaled in relief. The masseur had saved me - and earned my trust in the process.
The warm gun hummed against my lower abdomen, rosemary-scented oils melting into my skin. When I sighed without thinking, the therapist took it as permission. His hands slid down to my thighs, working the tense muscles with practiced precision.
I stiffened for half a second before forcing myself to relax. His fingers found every sensitive spot, the occasional brush of his knuckles sending electric tingles through me. Meanwhile, the massage gun traveled upward, gliding over my chest with the slick oil.
Every nerve buzzed with conflicting sensations - pleasure warring with lingering embarrassment.
"Madam," he murmured, voice dropping an octave, "this area requires special attention for maximum effect."
Before I could process his words, he'd positioned my leg over his shoulder, the massage gun working in slow, deliberate circles that made my breath hitch.
Panic surged through me. Who wouldn't freak out when something warm and oval-shaped suddenly presses against you during what's supposed to be a relaxing massage?
My mind raced through a dozen worst-case scenarios before I even looked. If this guy was trying anything inappropriate, I'd walk out immediately - and make sure my husband taught him a lesson he wouldn't forget.
When I finally dared to look, my breath caught.
Just a massage gun.
Held in the therapist's perfectly professional grip.
God, how embarrassing. My imagination had gone straight to the gutter when it was just standard equipment. Even worse? Part of me had been... disappointed.
The masseur's confused expression made my cheeks burn. I must have been louder than I thought, because my husband's sleep-thick voice carried across the room. "Babe? Everything okay?"
The roughness in his tone told me exactly how much he was enjoying his own massage. Typical. Here I was having a moral crisis while he was in bliss.
"Nothing," I muttered, the unfairness of it all knotting my stomach.
His skeptical "Really?" sent my pulse skyrocketing. For a wild moment, it felt like getting caught in an affair. "Just not used to this tool," I lied quickly.
The excuse satisfied my husband, but the masseur knew better. Our eyes met, and to my relief, he played along seamlessly. "This is our newest model, madam. The heated head helps relax muscles faster. Should I increase the intensity? It'll help the oils penetrate better."
"Yes, please," I agreed too quickly, desperate to move past the awkward moment.
As my husband's attention drifted back to his own treatment, I exhaled in relief. The masseur had saved me - and earned my trust in the process.
The warm gun hummed against my lower abdomen, rosemary-scented oils melting into my skin. When I sighed without thinking, the therapist took it as permission. His hands slid down to my thighs, working the tense muscles with practiced precision.
I stiffened for half a second before forcing myself to relax. His fingers found every sensitive spot, the occasional brush of his knuckles sending electric tingles through me. Meanwhile, the massage gun traveled upward, gliding over my chest with the slick oil.
Every nerve buzzed with conflicting sensations - pleasure warring with lingering embarrassment.
"Madam," he murmured, voice dropping an octave, "this area requires special attention for maximum effect."
Before I could process his words, he'd positioned my leg over his shoulder, the massage gun working in slow, deliberate circles that made my breath hitch.
End of Addictive Japanese Massage Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to Addictive Japanese Massage book page.