Chapter 1 — How a Perverted Couple Makes Up After a Fight

As everyone knows, we're a sexually open couple. We're not really perverts, but we assume others would call us that, so we call ourselves perverts first. When you're a couple like us—free with sex and open-minded—you have to watch what you say, so we usually avoid fighting.

For example, when emotions run high and you blurt out things you shouldn't—especially about sex—it can easily destroy everything. So we hold back. But on the flip side, when you suppress too much, it eventually explodes—and when we fight, it lasts. And when it lasts, both of us lose. So we resolve things in bizarre, unconventional ways. Here's one of those stories.

(I originally intended to post this on a general board, but I'm not sure if it violates their rules, so I'm posting it here instead.)

Not long ago, we moved here and had a fight. Nothing unusual—started over something trivial, then snowballed. When we fight, we go into a silent treatment. We sleep in separate rooms. (We have the space, so why not?)

One day, my wife came into my room while I was lying down. She probably wanted to make up, to say something to smooth things over. But I ignored her. She must've been hurt, because she just turned and left.

The next day, I felt uneasy. While working, I started plotting. I contacted a man I'd previously scouted out—someone I'd considered for a surprise event for my wife.

This guy's specialty? Amazing massage skills.

I've never personally received a massage from him, but after reading through his emails, I could tell he was seriously skilled. Exactly the kind of person my wife—someone who loves massage more than food—would appreciate. And from the photos he'd sent earlier, he had the face of a Korean pretty boy.

My wife likes soft-featured men.

I told the guy to text her directly.

"Your husband contacted me. I'm a professional masseur, and he arranged a 90-minute massage session for you as a peace offering. Location: [address]."

Here, many massage places are just slightly modified homes, so she'd believe it. Plus, the guy actually had a massage table—just having one would make her think he was legit.

Later, the guy called me back. My wife had texted him—she was at a shopping mall, and said she couldn't find the place without a map. I told the guy to give her directions clear enough that she could find it even without a map, and to send her a map if possible.

A while later, I texted the guy again.

She was on her way.

I was curious what would happen. I asked if I could come by—maybe watch. I also asked if outdoor sex watching was okay. He said, without hesitation:"Of course."

He even used Google satellite to show me the best route to approach the house, and exactly where I could watch from.

After some time, a message came from him: She arrived. She came from the mall, was sweating, so she went to shower.

I couldn't focus on work. What were they doing now? I was too curious. I drove over. It was about 20 minutes from my workplace.

I approached the house just as he'd described. He'd known I might come, so he'd left one window's blind slightly open—perfectly positioned.

About an hour had passed since she arrived. I peeked through the gap.

In the middle of the living room stood a massage table. My wife was lying on it, receiving a massage. The guy was working on her professionally. I could barely breathe.

The guy really was good. Even I could tell.

He massaged her with care. I could hear her soft moans now and then. Then I saw him focus on the area between her legs.

Her hips began to sway. She rolled over onto her back. I nearly jumped—what if she turned and saw me? I ducked quickly. Still, I couldn't help but think: bold of her, lying there in broad daylight for a strange man in what she thought was a massage parlor.

Once she was properly on her back, he began massaging her breasts and stomach. Her body trembled. Her moans grew breathy.

Then his hand moved lower—lower—until his fingers were working on her.

Her hips started dancing. She was clearly enjoying herself.

She reached out and grabbed him.

Even from a distance, I could tell things were progressing. She started stroking him, then pulled him toward her mouth.

The guy stepped to the front of the table. She took him into her mouth and began sucking. He stroked her with one hand, pleasing her with his mouth. Moans began to leak through the slightly open window.

Then she climbed onto the table, turning onto her hands and knees. Her pale skin looked even lighter from this angle.

He rolled on a condom and immediately started. Her moans grew so loud they spilled out of the house.

They moved together like seasoned sex partners—like they'd done this countless times before. After that position, he flipped her onto her side. Then flipped her back and continued. The massage table creaked violently—I worried it might break.

What impressed me most? He cleverly angled their bodies so she couldn't possibly see me. A truly thoughtful guy.

After about thirty minutes, he looked ready to cum. He asked her, "Can I cum on your body?" She said, "Okay."

He pulled off the condom, turned toward her face, and started jerking off. That huge cock swung wildly in front of her face. Then, with a long groan, he erupted.

An insane amount of cum shot toward her face—so much that it coated her completely. Her cheeks, her nose, her lips—drenched in thick white.

I watched until the end, then drove back to work. I couldn't focus. All I could see was that scene—over and over.

More than an hour passed. It had been nearly three hours since she'd gone to his place.

I texted the guy. No reply.

Another hour passed.

Then, finally, a message: She just left.

Later, we chatted on MSN. He told me he'd known I was there. He'd made sure she didn't notice—kept her gaze carefully away from my direction. After I left, he gave her another massage. Got turned on again—fucked her a second time.

After sex, they shared drinks and chatted. Then, as she was about to leave, they had sex one more time before saying goodbye.

He said she was incredible. Her body was a work of art. (She's about 164cm, 51kg—when she wears a swimsuit, everyone turns to look.) And she knew exactly how to enjoy sex—he praised her endlessly.

He even suggested: I'm a certified masseur. What if I became her personal masseur?

I told him that was up to him—and up to her. He could figure it out.

When I got home from work, my wife looked just like she had yesterday. Ate dinner half-heartedly, then came into my room and turned on the computer. Then she followed me, yanked my pants down, and started. When she looked up, she smiled.

"You're such a cute one. How did you even think of this?"

Sexually open couples make up in perverted ways.