Husband Away, Father-in-Law Stays - Chapter 25: Chapter 25

I once read a short story about a woman who developed an unspoken spark with her masseur during a session.
Pure fiction, of course. In reality, what happens between strangers like us is strictly transactional—I pay, he provides a service. No hidden emotions, no lingering glances.
I imagine most women would lose interest once they realize that. What they crave isn't just physical touch—it's connection.
After a long, thorough massage, the masseur paused. "One moment," he said before stepping out.
He returned with a steaming towel, draping it over me to wipe away the oil, then instructed me to flip onto my stomach. I almost asked why but held back—probably just part of the routine.
And I was right. They know how to make sure you feel like every second was worth it.
He started on my back again, but this time, his touch was different—lighter, slower, almost intimate. His hands moved like they had a mind of their own, tracing my spine, my waist… every nerve lighting up under his fingers.
Then came the soft moans. "Ah… oh…"
My body reacted instantly, heat pooling between my thighs, my hips pressing into the towel beneath me.
I heard his shoes hit the floor before he straddled me from behind, his weight pressing into my hips and lower back—two of the most sensitive spots on a woman, and he knew exactly how to exploit them. The pleasure was so intense I arched instinctively, lifting myself toward him.
But he didn't go straight for where I wanted him most. Instead, he leaned forward, his hands sliding up my waist, over my back, then circling around to cup my breasts.
When his fingers brushed my nipples, I gasped, a sharp sound I couldn't hold back. He groaned in response, kneading them with deliberate, teasing pressure.
It was electric—like my nerves were wired straight to my core. I melted into the table, my arousal soaking the towel beneath me. My back arched further, offering myself to him as my body twisted helplessly, soft whimpers slipping past my lips.
Maybe worried I was being too loud, he stood briefly to turn up the music before settling back over me. By then, my focus was entirely on the heat between my thighs and the ache in my breasts. His hands moved in broad strokes, but his attention never wavered from my chest.
I must have looked shameless—hips raised, moaning without restraint.
Then he sat up, pressing gently on my lower back.
I understood. Lowering myself, I felt the drizzle of warm oil trickling down my cleft. My pulse spiked—was he really going to…?
Before I could finish the thought, his fingers were already there, tracing, teasing, grazing my entrance with each pass. He was a master at this—just enough to drive me wild without giving me what I needed.
I was teetering on the edge, desperate enough to whisper, "Can you touch me there again?"
His earlier teasing had nearly pushed me over.
"Of course, Victoria," he murmured, his fingers returning exactly where I needed them. "Don't stop," I gasped.
He didn't answer—just moaned in response.
Under his touch, my hips rocked desperately against the towel. When he finally pressed just right, my clit throbbed violently—I came, biting my lip to keep from crying out.
As the waves faded, I reached down, my fingers brushing slick skin. The towel beneath me was soaked.