My Husband’s Massage Betrayal with My Best Friend - Chapter 2: Chapter 2

I picked a seductive female masseuse for my husband—all curves and sultry glances—while he chose a tall, chiseled male masseuse for me, the kind with rough hands and an easy confidence.
The privacy screen divided the room as I slipped into the spa's flimsy disposable lingerie and settled onto the massage table, draped in soft pink sheets.
Normally, I kept my husband on a short leash—and myself on an even tighter one.
I always requested female masseuses. Never once had I dared to try a man's touch.
After all, massages blurred lines. Hands gliding over skin, pressure in just the right places—it was intimate by nature.
But here I was, about to be kneaded by a broad-shouldered stranger while my husband lay just feet away.
The sheer audacity of it sent a thrill prickling down my spine.
"Maybe… maybe we should just go back?" I whispered toward the screen, my voice barely steady.
"What's there to be afraid of?" His reply was light, almost playful. "I trust you completely. Just relax and enjoy yourself."
I could hear the grin in his voice. He was already savoring this.
The image of his masseuse—that sly, feline smile, those knowing eyes—flashed in my mind, and a sharp pang of jealousy twisted inside me.
Right on cue, the deep rumble of the male masseuse's voice cut through my thoughts. "Madam, you're not as uninhibited as your husband."
That single remark lit a fire in me.
Picturing my husband melting under that woman's touch, I clenched my jaw and forced my muscles to loosen.
"Who says I'm not?" My voice came out sharper than I intended. "Show me what you've got."
A low chuckle behind me. Then warmth—his breath skimming my skin. "Don't worry, Madam. I'll make sure you feel good."
Before I could react, the flimsy fabric of my lingerie tore open with a soft rip, followed by the slow drizzle of scented oil down my back.
Then—his hands.
Large. Hot. Palms pressing firmly, spreading the oil in smooth, deliberate strokes.
The truth hit me like a jolt: aside from my husband, no man had touched me like this.
Even if this was just a massage, my pulse kicked into a frantic rhythm. My legs stiffened; my fingers curled into the sheets.
His touch was featherlight at first, teasing, tracing patterns that left my skin tingling.
"Madam, you need to relax." His voice was a murmur. "If you stay this tense, I won't be able to continue."
From behind the screen, my husband let out a low, satisfied groan—clearly lost in pleasure.
Meanwhile, I was wound tighter than a spring.
I sucked in a breath, willing my body to soften.
Then—smack.
A playful slap landed on my hip, sharp and crisp in the quiet room. Not hard, but enough to make me gasp.