The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage - Chapter 20: Chapter 20
You are reading The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage, Chapter 20: Chapter 20. Read more chapters of The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage.
After a quick 10-minute warm-up, we slipped into the pool. Coach Daniel motioned for me to swim a short stretch so he could assess my form. I pushed through the water with everything I had, but his sharp gaze caught every flaw in my technique.
First, he took my hands, guiding me to relax my body while keeping my legs close and kicking gently. A few minutes later, he led me toward the deep end. At 6 feet tall, he stood effortlessly, his head still above water, while I—barely 5'3"—struggled to touch the bottom, my toes straining uselessly. Panic shot through me, and I clung to him, my arms locking around his torso. His grip tightened in response, steadying me as my chest pressed flush against his solid frame. His breath warmed my ear as he murmured, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," before carefully carrying me back to shallower water.
"My apologies for startling you, miss. Would you like to take a break?" he asked, his voice low and reassuring.
"I'm okay," I managed, though my pulse still raced. "Just… still getting used to the water."
"Then we'll take it slow," he promised.
We started with a jellyfish float, his hands supporting my upper abdomen as I stretched out. Following his cues, I kicked, swept my arms through the water, and lifted my head to breathe. Gradually, my movements smoothed out, and I needed his support less—only bumping against him when I started to sink.
Occasionally, whether by accident or not, his hands brushed against my chest or lower stomach. A few times, the contact lingered—grazing over my breasts before sliding down, leaving a strange, tingling heat in their wake. When I glanced down, I couldn't miss the unmistakable bulge straining against his waistline, growing more pronounced by the minute.
Before long, my breathing and strokes synced effortlessly. Exhausted, I hauled myself out of the pool and collapsed onto a lounge chair. Coach Daniel appeared with a cup of herbal tea—a special courtesy, he explained, one he hadn't offered in previous sessions.
Then he suggested a post-swim hot oil massage to ease muscle fatigue. "It's a new program we're testing," he said. "You'd be helping me gather data for my training report."
I agreed. After all, I usually went home completely wiped.
After a quick rinse in the locker room, I changed into the club's disposable bralette and shorts—though the top was a size too small, barely containing my curves. Wrapped in a robe, I was decent enough.
Inside the dimly lit massage room, Coach Daniel waited. The space was draped in warm-toned gauze, soft lighting, and soothing music, with ten beds partitioned by low screens. I chose one in the corner.
For the first ten minutes, his hands worked gently from my scalp down to my neck and shoulders. Then, in a murmur, he said, "We'll begin the hot oil now."
All I could muster was a quiet, "Mhm."
He helped me sit up, peeling off my robe with slow, deliberate fingers—the way someone might undress a lover. Hesitant but committed, I let him, then instinctively crossed my arms over my bare chest before lying back down.
Exposed like this, my pulse hammered. My breasts rose and fell with each unsteady breath.
"Turn over, please," he instructed.
Once I was face-down, he warmed oil between his palms and began kneading my back. His touch was skilled, dissolving tension until all that remained was a simmering, unfamiliar thrill. This wasn't like massages from female therapists. Every press of his hands felt like a caress—intimate, deliberate, electric.
First, he took my hands, guiding me to relax my body while keeping my legs close and kicking gently. A few minutes later, he led me toward the deep end. At 6 feet tall, he stood effortlessly, his head still above water, while I—barely 5'3"—struggled to touch the bottom, my toes straining uselessly. Panic shot through me, and I clung to him, my arms locking around his torso. His grip tightened in response, steadying me as my chest pressed flush against his solid frame. His breath warmed my ear as he murmured, "Sorry, didn't mean to scare you," before carefully carrying me back to shallower water.
"My apologies for startling you, miss. Would you like to take a break?" he asked, his voice low and reassuring.
"I'm okay," I managed, though my pulse still raced. "Just… still getting used to the water."
"Then we'll take it slow," he promised.
We started with a jellyfish float, his hands supporting my upper abdomen as I stretched out. Following his cues, I kicked, swept my arms through the water, and lifted my head to breathe. Gradually, my movements smoothed out, and I needed his support less—only bumping against him when I started to sink.
Occasionally, whether by accident or not, his hands brushed against my chest or lower stomach. A few times, the contact lingered—grazing over my breasts before sliding down, leaving a strange, tingling heat in their wake. When I glanced down, I couldn't miss the unmistakable bulge straining against his waistline, growing more pronounced by the minute.
Before long, my breathing and strokes synced effortlessly. Exhausted, I hauled myself out of the pool and collapsed onto a lounge chair. Coach Daniel appeared with a cup of herbal tea—a special courtesy, he explained, one he hadn't offered in previous sessions.
Then he suggested a post-swim hot oil massage to ease muscle fatigue. "It's a new program we're testing," he said. "You'd be helping me gather data for my training report."
I agreed. After all, I usually went home completely wiped.
After a quick rinse in the locker room, I changed into the club's disposable bralette and shorts—though the top was a size too small, barely containing my curves. Wrapped in a robe, I was decent enough.
Inside the dimly lit massage room, Coach Daniel waited. The space was draped in warm-toned gauze, soft lighting, and soothing music, with ten beds partitioned by low screens. I chose one in the corner.
For the first ten minutes, his hands worked gently from my scalp down to my neck and shoulders. Then, in a murmur, he said, "We'll begin the hot oil now."
All I could muster was a quiet, "Mhm."
He helped me sit up, peeling off my robe with slow, deliberate fingers—the way someone might undress a lover. Hesitant but committed, I let him, then instinctively crossed my arms over my bare chest before lying back down.
Exposed like this, my pulse hammered. My breasts rose and fell with each unsteady breath.
"Turn over, please," he instructed.
Once I was face-down, he warmed oil between his palms and began kneading my back. His touch was skilled, dissolving tension until all that remained was a simmering, unfamiliar thrill. This wasn't like massages from female therapists. Every press of his hands felt like a caress—intimate, deliberate, electric.
End of The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage Chapter 20. Continue reading Chapter 21 or return to The Woman Trapped in a Sexless Marriage book page.