The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch - Chapter 4: Chapter 4
You are reading The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch, Chapter 4: Chapter 4. Read more chapters of The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch.
I told myself I'd only try it once—just one time, then never again.
But somehow, it became a habit. Once or twice a week, like clockwork.
I lied to myself, pretending that as long as I wasn't seeking out Technician No. 7 for anything beyond a massage, I was just another customer. Nothing unusual.
Then my period didn't come.
My hands trembled so badly I could barely hold the pregnancy test.
Counting back the days, the baby had to have been conceived around my first… special session.
The problem? That same day, I'd been with both Technician No. 7 and my husband, Adrian.
"The technician was supposed to be sterilized… so the baby… it has to be Adrian's, right?"
But doubt twisted in my gut.
Because Adrian had been diagnosed with a low sperm count.
It was the reason we'd agreed to stay childless.
We'd gone to the doctor together—there was no mistake in the diagnosis.
Which meant…
The massage parlor might have lied.
Technician No. 7 might never have been sterilized at all.
The realization hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Just then, the bathroom door rattled under impatient knocking.
Adrian's voice cut through the silence, sharp with irritation.
"What the hell are you doing in there? Half an hour! Did you fall in?"
Panic surged. I shoved the pregnancy test into a drawer and yanked the door open.
He pushed past me, muttering under his breath.
Dazed, I stumbled to the couch and sank down, my mind racing.
Less than two minutes later, Adrian stormed out, the test strip clenched in his fist.
"Sophia!" His voice was pure fury. "What the hell is this? Explain. Now."
My face went cold. I couldn't speak.
"Say something!" he roared.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "...It's yours."
The slap came instantly—brutal, stinging.
"Mine?" His laugh was harsh. "You know damn well I can't get you pregnant! Who is it, huh? Did you screw around and now you're trying to pin this on me?"
Stunned, I pressed a hand to my burning cheek, staring at his twisted expression.
Tears spilled over.
He called me every filthy name in the book, trashed the apartment, then slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
I sat in the wreckage, numb.
I tried calling my best friend, but her phone just rang and rang.
When Adrian didn't come home that night, the truth settled over me like a suffocating weight.
I'd messed up. Badly.
I went back to the massage parlor the next day.
But the receptionist barely glanced up before saying, "Oh, the female technician and Technician No. 7? They quit."
My stomach dropped. I grabbed her arm. "Quit? When?"
She gave me a strange look. "The woman left weeks ago. The guy just yesterday. They were still on probation—it happens."
Probation?
A sickening thought took shape.
"...Do you let probationary staff—especially male ones—perform intimate massages?"
The receptionist recoiled. "Ma'am, what are you implying? We offer feminine wellness treatments, but only with female technicians!"
My face drained of color.
"But—my friend recommended this place! I've been here before—"
"Then your friend lied," she snapped. "If you don't believe me, call the police!"
Her tone left no room for argument.
The truth crashed over me like a wave.
I hadn't just made a mistake.
I'd been scammed.
But somehow, it became a habit. Once or twice a week, like clockwork.
I lied to myself, pretending that as long as I wasn't seeking out Technician No. 7 for anything beyond a massage, I was just another customer. Nothing unusual.
Then my period didn't come.
My hands trembled so badly I could barely hold the pregnancy test.
Counting back the days, the baby had to have been conceived around my first… special session.
The problem? That same day, I'd been with both Technician No. 7 and my husband, Adrian.
"The technician was supposed to be sterilized… so the baby… it has to be Adrian's, right?"
But doubt twisted in my gut.
Because Adrian had been diagnosed with a low sperm count.
It was the reason we'd agreed to stay childless.
We'd gone to the doctor together—there was no mistake in the diagnosis.
Which meant…
The massage parlor might have lied.
Technician No. 7 might never have been sterilized at all.
The realization hit me like a punch to the stomach.
Just then, the bathroom door rattled under impatient knocking.
Adrian's voice cut through the silence, sharp with irritation.
"What the hell are you doing in there? Half an hour! Did you fall in?"
Panic surged. I shoved the pregnancy test into a drawer and yanked the door open.
He pushed past me, muttering under his breath.
Dazed, I stumbled to the couch and sank down, my mind racing.
Less than two minutes later, Adrian stormed out, the test strip clenched in his fist.
"Sophia!" His voice was pure fury. "What the hell is this? Explain. Now."
My face went cold. I couldn't speak.
"Say something!" he roared.
I squeezed my eyes shut. "...It's yours."
The slap came instantly—brutal, stinging.
"Mine?" His laugh was harsh. "You know damn well I can't get you pregnant! Who is it, huh? Did you screw around and now you're trying to pin this on me?"
Stunned, I pressed a hand to my burning cheek, staring at his twisted expression.
Tears spilled over.
He called me every filthy name in the book, trashed the apartment, then slammed the door so hard the walls shook.
I sat in the wreckage, numb.
I tried calling my best friend, but her phone just rang and rang.
When Adrian didn't come home that night, the truth settled over me like a suffocating weight.
I'd messed up. Badly.
I went back to the massage parlor the next day.
But the receptionist barely glanced up before saying, "Oh, the female technician and Technician No. 7? They quit."
My stomach dropped. I grabbed her arm. "Quit? When?"
She gave me a strange look. "The woman left weeks ago. The guy just yesterday. They were still on probation—it happens."
Probation?
A sickening thought took shape.
"...Do you let probationary staff—especially male ones—perform intimate massages?"
The receptionist recoiled. "Ma'am, what are you implying? We offer feminine wellness treatments, but only with female technicians!"
My face drained of color.
"But—my friend recommended this place! I've been here before—"
"Then your friend lied," she snapped. "If you don't believe me, call the police!"
Her tone left no room for argument.
The truth crashed over me like a wave.
I hadn't just made a mistake.
I'd been scammed.
End of The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch Chapter 4. Continue reading Chapter 5 or return to The Masseur’s Forbidden Touch book page.