Addictive Japanese Massage - Chapter 9: Chapter 9
You are reading Addictive Japanese Massage, Chapter 9: Chapter 9. Read more chapters of Addictive Japanese Massage.
I carefully returned everything to its place, pretending I'd never stumbled upon his secret.
When my husband emerged and found me staring blankly, he pulled me into a hug. "Hey, what's going on in that head of yours? I'll make it up to you next time—promise."
I decided to test the waters. "You've been burning the midnight oil lately. Is work really that crazy?"
"Just wrapping up a big project. Almost done," he said, but his eyes flickered away like a faulty neon sign.
Liar.
A woman's gut instinct is a scary thing.
But I wasn't about to confront him without proof. I played the long game—taking PTO, swapping my usual wardrobe for incognito-mode sunglasses and a baseball cap, then staking out his office with my camera like some suburban Nancy Drew.
I prayed this was all in my head.
I'd given myself seven days to figure it out. Turns out, I only needed three.
There he was—my husband, wrapped around some red-dress-wearing homewrecker like human Velcro, their mouths locked together before they even reached his car. My hands shook, but I methodically raised my camera. Click. Click. Click.
What was wrong with me? Hadn't I been enough? Or was this just some pathetic midlife crisis—him chasing cheap thrills like a dog after garbage trucks?
I pocketed the memory card, my stilettos cracking against the pavement like gunshots they were too busy to hear. By the time I reached the car, they were already fogging up the windows.
I wrenched the door open with one hand and yanked them apart with the other. The woman scrambled to adjust her rumpled dress while my husband's face cycled through emotions—irritation, shock, then pure deer-in-headlights terror.
SLAP.
"Care to explain why you're tongue-wrestling your secretary?" My voice was ice, but my hands burned.
"Baby, wait—it's not what you—"
"Then enlighten me."
The stammering confession that followed was pathetic. Apparently, after that damn massage "awakened his urges," he couldn't concentrate at work. When his flirty subordinate started batting her eyelashes, he'd folded like a cheap lawn chair.
The kicker? He actually claimed it "didn't mean anything"—that I was his "real love."
Please. I'd seen more sincerity in infomercials.
I shoved him so hard he hit the car door. "We're done. Expect divorce papers."
In my book, cheating was a capital offense. No amount of begging or promises could scrub that stain away.
Back home, I compiled evidence like a prosecutor prepping for trial. I took him for everything—the house, the savings, even the goddamn espresso machine. Let him cry over spilled milk in his studio apartment.
But even after the ink dried, something nagged at me.
Ever since that massage, our intimacy had become... erratic. The pleasure would ambush me at random—during board meetings, in grocery store aisles—then vanish like a prank call, leaving me cold. It was like going into heat on some biological timer.
Since when did massages come with expiration dates?
The Sunday after finalizing the divorce, I drove to the parlor. A "FOR LEASE" sign hung crookedly on locked doors.
The diner owner next door filled me in between flipping burgers: "Place got raided. Rumor is they were spiking their oils with some delayed-release... adult ingredients." He eyed me. "You weren't a regular, were ya?"
"Friend recommended them," I lied smoothly. "Said their deep tissue was amazing."
He warned me about sketchy spas and mentioned a local news segment. I found the article on my phone in the parking lot.
Turns out, their "special blend" contained a slow-acting aphrodisiac—harmless in small doses, but I'd basically marinated in the stuff. My hospital results showed traces still lingering, though thankfully nothing permanent.
And all because two idiots got addicted to synthetic passion.
When my husband emerged and found me staring blankly, he pulled me into a hug. "Hey, what's going on in that head of yours? I'll make it up to you next time—promise."
I decided to test the waters. "You've been burning the midnight oil lately. Is work really that crazy?"
"Just wrapping up a big project. Almost done," he said, but his eyes flickered away like a faulty neon sign.
Liar.
A woman's gut instinct is a scary thing.
But I wasn't about to confront him without proof. I played the long game—taking PTO, swapping my usual wardrobe for incognito-mode sunglasses and a baseball cap, then staking out his office with my camera like some suburban Nancy Drew.
I prayed this was all in my head.
I'd given myself seven days to figure it out. Turns out, I only needed three.
There he was—my husband, wrapped around some red-dress-wearing homewrecker like human Velcro, their mouths locked together before they even reached his car. My hands shook, but I methodically raised my camera. Click. Click. Click.
What was wrong with me? Hadn't I been enough? Or was this just some pathetic midlife crisis—him chasing cheap thrills like a dog after garbage trucks?
I pocketed the memory card, my stilettos cracking against the pavement like gunshots they were too busy to hear. By the time I reached the car, they were already fogging up the windows.
I wrenched the door open with one hand and yanked them apart with the other. The woman scrambled to adjust her rumpled dress while my husband's face cycled through emotions—irritation, shock, then pure deer-in-headlights terror.
SLAP.
"Care to explain why you're tongue-wrestling your secretary?" My voice was ice, but my hands burned.
"Baby, wait—it's not what you—"
"Then enlighten me."
The stammering confession that followed was pathetic. Apparently, after that damn massage "awakened his urges," he couldn't concentrate at work. When his flirty subordinate started batting her eyelashes, he'd folded like a cheap lawn chair.
The kicker? He actually claimed it "didn't mean anything"—that I was his "real love."
Please. I'd seen more sincerity in infomercials.
I shoved him so hard he hit the car door. "We're done. Expect divorce papers."
In my book, cheating was a capital offense. No amount of begging or promises could scrub that stain away.
Back home, I compiled evidence like a prosecutor prepping for trial. I took him for everything—the house, the savings, even the goddamn espresso machine. Let him cry over spilled milk in his studio apartment.
But even after the ink dried, something nagged at me.
Ever since that massage, our intimacy had become... erratic. The pleasure would ambush me at random—during board meetings, in grocery store aisles—then vanish like a prank call, leaving me cold. It was like going into heat on some biological timer.
Since when did massages come with expiration dates?
The Sunday after finalizing the divorce, I drove to the parlor. A "FOR LEASE" sign hung crookedly on locked doors.
The diner owner next door filled me in between flipping burgers: "Place got raided. Rumor is they were spiking their oils with some delayed-release... adult ingredients." He eyed me. "You weren't a regular, were ya?"
"Friend recommended them," I lied smoothly. "Said their deep tissue was amazing."
He warned me about sketchy spas and mentioned a local news segment. I found the article on my phone in the parking lot.
Turns out, their "special blend" contained a slow-acting aphrodisiac—harmless in small doses, but I'd basically marinated in the stuff. My hospital results showed traces still lingering, though thankfully nothing permanent.
And all because two idiots got addicted to synthetic passion.
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