Chapter 1 — My Wife's Massage Review. Part 2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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I've always had a voyeuristic streak. I love watching people have sex—especially secretly. In real life, that's hard to pull off, so I usually just watch porn.

One day, I brought up the idea of giving my wife a massage.

“How do we do this? Do I keep my clothes on? Or take them off?”

“Hmm… just your underwear.”

“That's embarrassing! Can't I keep my clothes on?”

Of course I agreed—after all, I was dying inside. Yes! But I played it cool. “Sure, whatever. We'll do it with clothes on.”

Still, I managed to get her to agree. The next day, I started searching for a masseur, but no luck. Then, through a chat on a forum, someone introduced me to a man.

We exchanged messages, asked questions, and finally spoke on the phone. His voice was pleasant, and he seemed like a genuinely decent guy. He said he'd learned massage out of curiosity, never imagining it would come to this. We arranged to meet at a café in town.

I went alone. When I saw him, he was just as described—dignified, refined, a true gentleman. He ran his own business. He chuckled awkwardly when I told him about my wife—her personality, her sexual tendencies, her erogenous zones. I made it clear: as long as she enjoyed it, penetration was allowed.

We booked a luxurious sixth-floor suite in Daegu, known for special events—a terrace with a hot tub and beach umbrella overlooking a beautiful river. My wife and I arrived, hearts pounding.

All the way there, she was visibly anxious. As a couple, we could read each other's subtle gestures, expressions—unspoken things. I held her hand tightly.

“Honey… do we really have to do this?”

She was so nervous. Again and again, she asked if we could back out.

I soothed her as we pulled up to the motel—its name oddly distinctive. She ducked her head, covering her face like she was sneaking into an affair.

In the elevator to the sixth floor, she was completely stiff. I started to wonder—was I pushing her too far?

Inside the room, I gasped. It was like a sports arena. A bedroom and living area four times the size of a normal motel room, slightly dated but recently renovated. The bathroom was spacious, with a large whirlpool tub.

I opened the window—surprise! There was a terrace, complete with an outdoor hot tub and beach umbrella. Impressive. Perfectly suited for an event like this.

As we were exploring, the doorbell rang. Ding-dong. The moment we'd been waiting for.

My wife was tense. I wasn't—after meeting the man earlier, I was calm—but being with her like this stirred something strange, illicit.

I asked her to open the door. She refused, too embarrassed.

The stranger stepped in, carrying a high-end bag, a plastic bag, and… a bouquet of roses. I hadn't expected that.

He handed the roses to my wife, who stood trembling beside me, barely making eye contact.

She was surprised, then delighted. She accepted the flowers, and we all sat in the living room. The plastic bag held canned beer. He said he'd brought it to ease her nerves since it was her first time.

My wife enjoys a can of beer now and then. We passed paper cups around, and the tension began to melt.

The man was middle-aged, dignified, clean-cut. Was my wife starting to like him? She laughed more, sat close to me, then subtly shifted away. Huh. Women.

The masseur began preparing—pulling out bottles and mysterious items from his bag.

He told my wife to change into a robe, then excused himself to shower. She looked at me, uncertain.

“It's okay. Go ahead.”

“Do I take off my panties too?”

Wait—what? Was she really asking that? Did she want to? A strange mix of betrayal, jealousy, and confusion hit me.

Was I the weird one? I told her to keep her bra and panties on, just wear the robe. Good call, right?

She went behind the bathroom partition, stripped down to her underwear, then danced around nervously before putting on the robe and sitting beside me.

From where I sat, I could see right into the bathroom. The glass walls left nothing to the imagination.

I pretended not to look, but I stole glances at his naked body. For my wife, this was her first time seeing a strange man naked. Understandable.

After showering, the man put on his underwear and robe neatly, then carried a chair from the desk into the bathroom. He gathered his bottles.

He asked me to fill the terrace hot tub with lukewarm water.

A few minutes later, my wife sat on the chair. I leaned forward, eyes wide, ears perked—this was really happening.

He wrapped a large towel around her shoulders, sprayed water on her hair, then applied some liquid from a bottle and began a scalp massage with skilled hands.

When he pressed behind her ears or on her scalp, she let out soft cries.

After two or three rounds of washing and massaging, the scalp session ended. Next: the outdoor hot tub.

He poured something into the tub. Bubbles formed, filling the air with a sweet scent. He told my wife to get in.

Her eyes widened. She'd have to undress completely.

He stepped aside, assuring her that with the bubbles, nothing would be visible. She insisted he turn off the terrace lights.

She stepped in, lying back with only her head above water, eyes closed, breathing in the floral fragrance.

The stranger, now completely naked beneath the bubbles, began massaging her neck and shoulders, easing tension from her muscles.

Then his hands disappeared beneath the foam, diving under the surface. I couldn't see anymore—no live broadcast now.

Later, she told me he massaged her arms. Haha.

I asked, “Wish he touched other places?” She laughed, shooting me a sideways glance. Pervert.

Next, foot massage—on the opposite side. He massaged her feet with such care that I felt guilty. I'd never done this for her after all these years. I felt ashamed.

As he worked, her thighs occasionally rose above the water. She seemed self-conscious, closing her eyes completely.

After the foot massage, he offered to wash her. She refused, too embarrassed.

So she showered herself, put her bra and panties back on, and rewrapped her robe.

While she was in the shower, the masseur busied himself preparing things—pulling out more items from his bag.

My wife lay on the bed. He placed a blindfold over her eyes.

I swallowed hard.

But then he made her sit up. Brought the chair back. Told her to sit on it.

She stood, confused, and our eyes met. What the hell? she seemed to ask.

Ah! He was going to massage her scalp again. She'd lain on the bed for nothing, now embarrassed and flustered.

He started massaging her shoulders through the robe—soft, slow, rhythmic. Her neck, her head. Up and down, his hands worked gently.

She sighed, drowsy. “So comfortable… I'm falling asleep.”

His hands moved down her arms, to her wrists, kneading gently.

Man, is he going to tire himself out before the main event? I thought. This is supposed to be a four-hour session—makes sense now.

Finally, she was laid back on the bed.

The masseur placed a chair at the edge, sat, then positioned her face-down. He put a pillow between her legs and tucked her head between his thighs.

From a distance, it looked bizarre—like she was sucking his cock.

He began on her shoulders, arms, neck, spine—every inch, no spot missed, sweating heavily.

Earlier, I'd wondered why he'd placed a towel around his neck. Now I saw—he used it to wipe sweat mid-massage.

After a while, his hands moved down her spine to her buttocks.

My wife gasped.

“Huh? Does it hurt?”

She moaned again—“Mmm…”—soft, deep.

Was she in pain? Or pleasure? I couldn't tell.

Her moans grew more frequent. The masseur seized the moment, focusing intensely on her buttocks.

“Mmm… uh… ah… ahh…”

I was puzzled. During sex, my wife never moaned like this. Something was off.

He was just pressing her tailbone—why was she reacting so strongly?

Later, I learned the truth. This sly bastard had learned from a friend who was a doctor—specific pressure points that trigger female arousal. Places that look completely innocent to the untrained eye.

My wife had no idea. For all that time, she was being sexually tortured. What a dirty old man. Haha.

Her moans turned into cries. Her ass lifted, twitched, writhed—clearly in agony.

Just as she neared collapse, the torture paused. He pulled her legs toward him, spread them wide, and sat between them—ready to begin again.

This time, I knew—she wouldn't last long.

He massaged her calves lightly, then her feet—each toe, rubbed, pressed, pulled, squeezed. Then back to her calves.

Then—oh!—his hands slowly glided up her thighs.

The moment his fingers touched her thigh, she gasped—“Ugh!”—a strange, guttural sound I'd never heard before.

His soft hands continued. She gripped the sheets tightly.

He glanced at me—then at her—then gave me a look. Can I take off her panties?

Oh, hell yes. Do it.

He must have read me. His hand slipped under the robe, and her ass lifted—“Oop!”—helping him slide them off.

I expected her to resist. Instead, she raised her hips, making it easier.

A strange mix of emotions hit me—jealousy, disappointment, and something darker, more exciting.

I pushed it aside. This was the moment—no room for hesitation. I had to watch closely.

I swallowed—gulp—so loud it echoed.

Her panties came off. Her legs spread. Her thighs and ass were now fully under his expert hands.

She gripped the sheets, thrashing.

“Uhk! Ahn~~~ uhh… hah… hah!”

Something was clearly happening under that robe, but I couldn't see.

But judging by this man's character, he wouldn't do anything inappropriate.

She must have been in pain—her moans didn't stop.

After what felt like an eternity of torment, he patted her ass, sat her up.

“Now take off the robe.”

After torturing her to near-unconsciousness, now he wanted her naked?

She glanced at me.

“What should I do?”

I thought, What do you mean? You're loving this, you horny bitch.

Outwardly, I smiled and nodded.

She untied the robe slowly, fidgeting with the lights.

Too bright, I thought. The masseur quickly turned off one lamp, turned on the bathroom light. Perfect. Soft, dim.

How long had she waited for this moment? I felt a flicker of resentment—but also gratitude that she was going along with it.

In the gentle light, she slipped off the robe.

Mind the gap here?

Truthfully, she wasn't stunning naked—but she had her charms. Natural, firm B-cups, perky nipples. Pale, smooth skin. Slim waist, no belly. Tight, round, plump ass.

At home, when I ask her to pose sexily, she mimics a famous singer—bending at the waist, one hand on the floor, then slowly rising, tossing her hair.

When she bends over, from behind, the slit between her ass cheeks—ah—a wet, glistening clam, hesitating between open and closed.

Now completely naked.

She lay back, legs spread. Embarrassed, she covered her face with both hands.

The masseur, thoughtful as ever, pulled a blindfold from his bag and tied it on.

She relaxed slightly, one hand drifting to cover herself—her plump mound barely hidden.

More exciting for me, I thought. Sly bitch.

But this man—was he a eunuch? No reaction at all.

He still had his underwear and robe on—maybe he was tenting underneath, but I couldn't tell. No visible change.

Could my wife really be that unattractive? No—this guy must be a eunuch.

I was still thinking that when his hand slid toward her bare, spread legs.

Shit! Was he going to touch?

But—ah!—he covered her mound with a towel instead, since she kept flinching.

Only then did she lower her hand.

Then he touched her thigh again.

Here we go. She moaned loudly.

“Uh… uh… mmm… mmm… ah… ah… ahnnn…”

She wasn't exhaling—just inhaling. Damn, she's going to pass out. You bastard, give her a breath!

Something was clearly happening. He wasn't touching her directly, but she was writhing like crazy. I had a hunch, but no proof.

Maybe there was a secret spot on her inner thigh? His hands moved fast, up and down, subtly brushing her mound.

I stared, unblinking—was he grazing it on purpose?

Yet every time it seemed like he'd touch, he pulled away.

The towel she'd used to cover herself had long since slipped aside. She didn't notice, squirming like an eel pulled from water.

The masseur, now clearly excited, moved faster, more urgently.

After a long while—

She was nearly unconscious.

Kneeling, hands folded, I'd been watching, entranced.

He turned to me, nodded with his chin—something.

I didn't get it. I blinked, wide-eyed. (Even when I open them wide, they still look small. Haha.)

He made eye contact—then mimed drinking with one hand. Thirsty.

I rushed to hand him bottled water. He pointed at my wife—let her drink first.

I gave her a sip. Then him. Then, since I hadn't done anything, I took two sips myself.

But as she sat up to drink, she fumbled with her blindfold.

What are you doing? I asked, startled.

“I need to pee,” she said.

What? After all this buildup—she couldn't hold it?

Later, I found out: she went to the bathroom, but no pee came out—just a flood of slick pussy juice. She wiped and came back.

Back in position—legs spread, knees near the masseur's waist.

Now his hand hovered near her plump mound.

The room fell silent—then erupted again.

Yes. Moans poured out, nonstop. His hands slowed—then pressed firmly against her pubic bone with his fingers spread.

“Mmm… hah… hah…” She screamed, mortified, making sounds I'd never heard.

His fingers, slick with her juice, pressed into the left and right sides of her slit.

Her pussy was swollen, red, inflamed.

She always gets red when excited—but today, it was extreme. I'd never seen it like this.

After more torment, he changed positions.

Now, she lay on her back.

He cleared the chair, laid her flat, then knelt at her head.

He reached under her back—“I'll take off your bra.”

Why not just ask her to do it?

Later, I learned: women feel a thrill when a stranger undresses them. This guy—was he a graduate of a professional sexology program? Haha.

Now completely naked, her best feature—her breasts—stood firm, nipples erect. Even I had to admit—damn.

They were hard, perky—arousal on full display.

The masseur, who'd shown no reaction until now, looked surprised.

He didn't drool, but his expression—I can almost hear him lick his lips.

Then, as if catching himself, he straightened up, knelt between her head, slid her head between his knees, and began circling her breasts with his hands—starting the next torture.

She shook her head, unable to endure, tearing at the sheets.

I almost sat close—but thought, if she grabs me, she'll tear me apart, so I moved just out of reach.

But my eyes never left her.

His hands moved up and down, massaging her breasts.

Ah! I was so focused on her chest, I'd missed something important.

Every time he leaned forward to massage her breasts, his crotch brushed against her face.

This had been happening the whole time?

She could feel it, couldn't she? Even through his underwear.

His cock was hard—tenting visibly. Definitely not a eunuch.

He tormented her breasts, skillfully avoiding her nipples.

Then—suddenly—he sat up, pulled off his underwear. Damn. I was turned on.

A strange feeling.

His hard, veined cock was about to enter my sweet wife. A cold wave washed over me—uneasy, conflicted.

I'd wanted this. I'd set it up. So why did I feel this way? I was pathetic.

In my daze, the masseur finally touched her breasts—both hands, slow, careful, full of care.

Like handling delicate porcelain.

Gently pressing, releasing, pressing, releasing.

Then circling her areolas, softly massaging—brushing her nipples lightly.

She cried out—“Ugh… ugh…”—like she was in pain.

Then—what the—?

She grabbed his cock with one hand and sucked it in.

No—she didn't bite. She swallowed it.

My shy, proper wife—gone. In her place, a wild woman, sucking this stranger's cock like a madwoman.

But then he gently pulled out, shifted position.

Thank God. Thank you, sir.

He told her to lie face down.

She obeyed, like a student caught doing something wrong—ashamed, embarrassed.

She couldn't see, blindfolded—but she knew. She'd done it. But she held back. How much torture had she endured to snap like that?

I forgave her. On humanitarian grounds.

He spread oil evenly over her back, waist, ass, thighs—massaging every inch with smooth, relentless hands.

Her body had long lost reason. Oiled, writhing—like an eel on sand.

I couldn't hear her pussy sounds over her moans and the slick oil, but I knew—she was flooded.

Her pussy, untouched by oil, was soaked in thick arousal.

After a while of soft, wave-like massage, wait— he started applying oil to his own ass, stomach, chest.

Then he climbed onto her back.

He slid up and down her body—slip, slide, slip, slide—until he reached her plump, round ass.

“Uhk… ugh… ugh… ugh…” She was an animal now.

I moved behind them, watching closely—worried his cock might secretly touch her pussy.

Damn. I was losing my mind. My cock felt like it would burst. Never felt like this before.

Even when excited, it never got this hard, this painful. Clearly, I was a voyeur.

His cock, slick with oil, slid down her ass crack and grazed her pussy.

“Ahhh… ugh… ugh… hah…”

This bastard—my wife was suffering, and he showed no mercy. He rode her like she was a slide.

Is my wife's ass just a slide to you?

After sliding around, her moans rising in pitch, just before she passed out, he changed position.

Now, she lay on her back—flat.

He avoided her swollen, inflamed pussy, but oiled her chest, stomach, thighs, calves.

Then foot massage—spreading her legs wide, massaging carefully.

Didn't we just do this? He reapplied oil and started again. Who was he teasing?

Foot massage. Waist. Stomach. Thighs. Calves.

When massaging her thighs, his hand kept rising—each time, her ass arched, her back bowed like a bow.

I had no idea she was this flexible. After about 200 arches, he shifted up—breast massage.

Her body was wrecked—swollen pussy, oozing arousal, holes raw.

His hands moved to her chest, rhythmically torturing her.

Skillfully avoiding her nipples—how? With such speed, he should've brushed one by accident. No—this was technique. Not once did he touch.

She was beyond caring—burning hotter. I watched, mouth dry.

Suddenly—her scream.

“Aaaahhh~~~ Auuuuggghhh~~~!”

A fox would howl like that.

He finally touched her nipples. Hard. Twisting, pinching, rolling.

She screamed like she was dying.

Then, again, he applied more oil to his body—and climbed back on.

A few light warm-ups on her stomach—then slowly up to her chest.

Her breasts disappeared under his ass.

Up and down—her nipples popped out with a ting each time.

TING. TING. Her firm breasts were ruined.

His cock—hard, veined, throbbing.

Every time he moved, it dipped into her cleavage, peeking in and out—like playing hide-and-seek.

He's going to cum on her chest. No, not allowed—

If he cums on her chest after all this, he's dead. Minimum.

But as if mocking my worry, he pulled his head out, in and out, in and out—calmly.

My wife, mouth dry, kept licking her lips, panting.

Hurry up and do something—

At home, during sex, she gets aroused quickly and begs me to fuck her. Today, three hours of torture—how could she endure?

Her toes and fingers twitched—clutching the sheets. Like grilled squid on a hot plate.

My wife had never been this sexually charged. Her moans, her writhing—just watching made me insane.

Earlier, I'd felt a twinge of jealousy seeing her enjoy it so much. Now, I just wanted to see her spread her legs in front of me—take this stranger's cock.

I wondered—what would it feel like when another man's cock entered her? My head spun. Maybe I'd allow it.

She moaned, lost in pleasure. Penetration seemed possible.

After torturing her so cruelly, the masseur slid off gently.

Then said, “Just a moment—bathroom.”

He motion for me to follow.

I followed, curious.

He said, “Now we start the erogenous massage. I need your consent—and hers.”

I told him—“If my wife agrees, I want full penetration. I want to watch.”

He said to ask her how she felt.

I went to her.

“You good?”

“Yeah. My body feels light.”

She loved it—more than expected.

But I couldn't ask directly about penetration. I hesitated.

“Is that it?” she asked.

“No. Now the erogenous massage starts.”

“Okay.”

Seriously? Does she even know what that means?

But he insisted—he wouldn't proceed without clear consent.

“So… erogenous massage, touching, maybe penetration. Is it okay?”

Silence.

Then—“What do you think?”

“If you're okay, I want to try.”

“Then I do too.”

You know the feeling—happy, but a little sad.

If she'd said no penetration, I'd have begged her to make an exception.

Anyway, I told the masseur—she allows penetration.

He nodded, met my eyes, and returned.

He held a warm, damp towel.

He gave her a full-body oil massage—chest, waist, thighs, calves—then wiped her chest and pussy clean with the warm towel.

Then he moved beside her, cupped her breasts, softly caressed, kissed.

She writhed again—“Ah… ah…”—as he gently sucked her hard nipples.

Smack, smack—he devoured her breasts.

Below, chaos.

After a long assault on her chest, he finally moved to her pussy.

Wiped it again with the warm towel.

But strangely—he only wiped the oil around her pussy. The arousal leaking out? Left untouched. Even though it was soaked.

Then he softly stimulated her pussy with his hands.

Every touch made her jerk, moan—“Ahh… ahh…”—like she couldn't take it.

I knew a secret—when she's fully aroused and says “Fuck…”—you need to fuck her fast. Or she'll curse you. Haha.

But this guy didn't know. He kept indirectly stimulating her, driving her crazy.

To me, she looked insane with arousal. White fluid oozed from her hole. Her pussy twitched—slurp, slurp.

After torturing her pussy edges, his hand covered her entire mound. Then, with his middle finger curled, he slowly stroked upward.

His finger, slick with arousal, brushed her clit and hole—“Ugh… ahh… ahh…”—she gasped.

Up. Down. Up. Down.

This bastard was killing her. She shook her head—“Save me… I'm dying…”

He cleaned his finger with the warm towel, then took something from his bag—click—foam came out. Hand sanitizer.

Good man.

Then, his middle finger slowly disappeared into her pussy.

She screamed—“Augh… ugh… ugh…”

What was he doing inside? She thrashed, sweating, body convulsing.

Then—her nails came out.

What did that mean?

Yes. Correct answer. A bad habit before orgasm. My back never heals.

But suddenly, the masseur pulled his finger out, took something from his bag.

Ooh! Gloves.

Said he'd been scratched before—learned his lesson. Haha.

I nearly laughed. To readers—this moment was so intense. I was watching, tense, serious—then boom, I burst out laughing.

He put gloves on her hands.

Then, in a 69 position, climbed onto her stomach, licked her pussy.

“Ahh… ugh!” She scratched his waist with her gloved hand.

He just took it—must've felt safe.

My wife usually scolds herself for this habit—but when aroused, she's in another world.

One thing was clear—she was loving it.

“Ahh… ugh… fuck… fuck…”

English mixed in.

Suddenly, his fingers moved fast—her back arched like a bow. Her stomach hardened—a muscle formed.

He looked at me—motioned to hold her hands.

I grabbed them—so strong.

Her moans stopped—1 second… 2 seconds… 3 seconds… Her grip tightened—back arched—face twisted—

“Aaaahhh!”

A hot jet burst from her pussy. It didn't stop. She screamed like a madwoman.

The stream slowly faded. His fingers slowed. Her body relaxed.

I let go.

He gently wiped her sweaty face. Then himself.

Took a breath—then softly massaged her pussy again.

The slurp sounds grew faster—his finger disappeared again.

Then—she reacted again.

Again—held on—came—collapsed.

She'd never come like this before. The whale pussy I'd only heard about—my wife had it.

On the way home, she told me—“I can't describe how intense it was…” She loved it.

Finger in—come. Five or six times. Each time, she thrashed, exhausted.

Finally, he nodded at me—enough.

He got up, warmed a towel, and carefully wiped her down—every inch.

I'd never done that for her. Truly devoted.

She woke slightly—asked to remove the blindfold. Then covered her face, embarrassed.

How hard he'd worked.

Men—let's be honest. Most just want to taste another man's woman. A fantasy every man shares.

So why didn't he penetrate her? He had the chance. She wanted it. She agreed.

They say in arousal, emotion overpowers reason. After orgasm, regret can follow.

My wife—her first time. High chance of regret. Could lead to depression.

It made sense. Before meeting, he'd asked detailed questions—her personality, relationships. I'd thought—why does he need this for a massage? Now I knew.

My wife was conservative, introverted, not social—typical, feminine. He judged she might regret it, get hurt.

I felt ashamed. As her husband, I'd created this for a fleeting thrill.

The masseur praised her—“Your body is beautiful. You're lovely.”

Women…

She was over the moon.

He talked to her casually—she quickly forgot her embarrassment, returned relaxed.

Seeing her like that—so beautiful.

She wasn't embarrassed at all—naked in front of two men.

I held her tight, kissed her chest, neck, pussy—arousing her.

She responded faster than usual.

I guided her hand to the masseur's cock. She took it—like repaying kindness—sucked and stroked with care. Smack, smack.

I couldn't hold back—pushed my cock into her pussy.

She moaned—“Ah… mmm…”—and sucked his cock harder.

It felt different. So this is why men invite others for threesomes. Truly erotic.

Her pussy stretched around my cock—her mouth full of another man's cock—white fluid oozing—

Slurping sounds, moans of one woman, two men—filling the room.

I climbed fast. Laid the masseur down—told my wife to suck him. She sucked his cock, pussy twitching, leaking white fluid.

I entered her from behind. Thrust hard.

Lost in uncontrollable arousal—transformed into a superhuman.

“Huh. Huh-huh-huh… ahh… ahnn… ugh… mmm…”

She came—experiencing cunnilingus and rear-fucking for the first time—shaking with unbearable ecstasy.

I came—then the masseur, moaning loudly, shot load after load into her mouth—“Ahh… ahh…”

She swallowed every drop—sucked it all out, licked him clean.

Finally, I came hard inside her—pulled out slowly—thick cum oozed from her gaping hole.