Chapter 1 — My Wish Is for 3S

My head's been pounding lately—busy without purpose, exhausted but still pushing through just to fill an empty stomach late at night when the phone rings.

"Uh… hello?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"It's me, uh… I signed up a few days ago. We spoke on the phone."

"Oh! Yes, nice to meet you. What can I do for you?"

As we talk, the man's voice grows excited—he finally got his wife's approval to invite a masseur over. Now he's asking if I'm free tonight.

Huff.

This is exactly when I feel most awkward. If things were scheduled in advance, it'd be easier. But no—everything always erupts out of nowhere, last-minute, chaotic.

So here I am, heading to Life Hotel in Yeongdeungpo. Entering a place I know too well, my nerves tighten again. How will I meet their expectations this time? Will I satisfy them?

Walking into the room confirms what I already suspect—beginners are always different. Worse. Despite my clear instructions over the phone, the wife hasn't even changed. She's fully dressed.

"Welcome."

"Hi, hello."

We exchange the usual polite greetings strangers do. Then, once more, I launch into my standard lecture about massage procedure before I can finally get her to step into the bathroom for a bath.

I hear water running, the scrubbing sound of her brushing her teeth. The husband glances toward the bathroom, then leans in close, whispering in a strained voice.

"She's never done this before… I really appreciate you coming."

"..."

"My wish is for full-service massage… if you could make it happen somehow."

"Hmm… let's see how she responds during the massage first."

"Yeah, but my wife… she plays hard to get."

"Oh please, that's not playing hard to get—that might be genuine hesitation. Either way, I'll try to create the opportunity."

He grips my hand tightly.

I open my bag, take out oil and face packs, change into my massage clothes. Soon, the wife emerges wrapped in a gown, and I guide her to the bed.

I pull her down gently, pressing her face into my knees, and begin scalp massage—kneading, pulling, working my way through another long, tense battle.

Yes. Massaging a woman with zero experience is always a fight—a silent struggle between her and me.

And if the husband wants full-service massage? Then the fight turns brutal.

But I win almost every time.

The reason is simple.

I have the silent support of the husband. It's two men against one woman—2 to 1 odds.

Still, sometimes we lose.

On paper, two men versus one woman should be easy. But we must open a woman's tightly closed heart. We must understand the mind of a woman who, naked except for a thread, feels another man's hands on her body.

How can she possibly feel at ease—knowing her husband watches as a stranger touches her?

If she were cheating behind his back, maybe she'd feel freer. But not knowing? Trapped in hyper-awareness, her mind must be a tangled mess.

Beginners usually come here after the husband stumbles across some site or forum—through random clicks or whispered rumors. He discovers words like massage, full-service massage, swinging, group play… a whole other world opens.

At first, disbelief: Can this really happen?

Slowly, curiosity takes root. He falls into this culture alone, carrying a secret burden he's never discussed with anyone.

He wants answers, but there's no one to ask. He worries about his social standing, fears someone he knows might recognize him. Anxious, restless, he joins forums, lurks silently, spends years just watching.

Then one day, he decides—on his own.

"Yeah. I'll try it."

"What would my proper, reserved wife do?"

"Would she stay still if I stripped her bare?"

"Would she let another man touch her breasts?"

"What if another cock went inside my wife's pussy… ughhh~"

Fantasies like these excite him. Day and night, his nerves tingle, his cock twitching constantly.

By now, marital boredom has likely vanished. Just imagining it keeps him hard.

But… here's where things start to go wrong.

He thinks he's fine. But the real challenge? Getting his wife on board.

"Hey, babe, why don't you strip naked and let a guy massage you?"

Imagine saying that out of nowhere. What do you think happens? I'll leave that to your imagination. And even then, if that's all, he's lucky.

"How about you have sex with another man while I watch?"

One hundred out of a hundred women would think:

"Has he gone crazy?"

She might brush it off at first. But if he keeps bringing it up, repeating himself… that's when she starts to worry.

"Why is he acting like this?"

"Does he have another woman?"

"..."

When people act in ways we can't rationally understand, we call them perverts.

Yes. I'm a pervert. You're a pervert too.

But because you and I are perverts, if a normal, third-party person sat with us and listened to our conversation about *—then they* would be the deviant one. The fool who doesn't get it.

No matter how much we justify ourselves, we must always remember—we live under suspicious eyes. Caution, caution, and more caution. That's the reality.

I've strayed off-topic, but only because I speak from experience—over two years and six months as a masseur, invited into the private spaces of over three hundred couples. I've run one of the biggest crystal cafes, with over ten thousand members. This nonsense philosophy? It's earned.

Anyway, I'm not writing this for just a day or two. So today, I'll stop here.

My fingers glide through the woman's hair, moving slowly, deliberately.

From her neck, along the trapezius, past the shoulder blades, down her spine to her lower back—I massage without pause.

Like most beginners, this woman still wears her bra and panties.

After finishing the buttocks, I move to her thighs. As I pull the gown upward, her panties come into view. One leg opens slightly, and my hand slips deep between them—still over the fabric, but I feel the warmth of her mound against my palm.

Instantly, her body tenses. I feel her flinch, sharp and clear.

That moment—it's the hardest test for me.

Is this tension from rejection?

Or sensation from arousal?

This split-second judgment decides whether tonight succeeds or fails.

Usually, I've already made up my mind by now. But today? Her reaction is too ambiguous. I can't tell.

The massage continues. Her feet are icy, so I spend extra time on the sole of her foot.

"Ma'am, please lie on your back now."

She flips over. I perform facial lymphatic drainage, apply a mask. Place a folded towel over her eyes. Then head to the bathroom for a cigarette.

Only the front remains.

"Uh… hey…"

The husband starts to say something, then trails off, unable to continue.

I climb onto the bed beside her.

One arm stretched out, I begin massaging up to her chest. The gown slips slightly, revealing the edge of her bra—and the pale curve of her breast, the soft line of her cleavage.

As I massage her abdomen, my palm brushes against her pubic bone.

Again, a slight tremor—she feels it.

I untie the gown, push it aside. Begin abdominal massage with oil, smooth and gentle.

Using a towel, I slightly lower her panties. Her pubic hair appears.

As I work, she murmurs:

"It hurts."

"No—ah, that feels good."

Her breath catches. My hands move lower, gradually.

We're still going without removing her underwear. And yet, the husband's gaze grows sharper, colder.

Ah…

Maybe I should stop here.

But the invitation was his. He wanted to see, to experience—and now he'll spend a long, empty night regretting what didn't happen. What can I do?

"Ma'am, please turn over."

With no other choice, I guide her back onto her stomach. From neck to spine, I apply oil—and finally, I remove her bra.

I always say this: the bra comes off naturally. It just… happens.

The back massage continues—deep, intense, blending pain and pleasure. I slide a towel under her panties, then pull them halfway down.

At last, the mountain that's been silent all this time is revealed. The valley begins.

I start massaging the buttocks—slow, soft, careful, warming her up. As I tug the towel downward, the panties flip and slide further down.

Now they're useless.

Quickly, I pull them down to her calves. In one fluid motion, I sweep my hands down her buttocks, then move firmly to her thighs.

The husband, who had been pacing the room like a dog needing to shit, freezes instantly.

Huff… huff…

Is he even breathing?

One leg bends slightly, exposing her pubic hair. My index finger deliberately brushes her outer labia.

I feel the roughness, the dampness—a subtle, electric sensation. Even I catch myself holding my breath.

When she lay on her back earlier, I moved the bra aside. Now her breasts greet me openly. Her nipples, still soft and flat, stiffen abruptly within seconds.

Her thick pubic hair—dense, lush—glistens under the oil, soaked like forest after rain.

I spread her legs and position myself between them.

Her thighs rest on mine. Now my hands become divine instruments, tracing the deep valley between her legs, rising and falling.

Tension fills her abdomen. Her toes curl inward repeatedly. And then—almost unnoticed—her tightly sealed lips part slightly…

Oh… oh god…

When did he take his off?

The husband's pants are already down, his underwear gone. And look at him—so hard, so proud, showing off his erection like a peacock. Hah.

This was what he craved—the sight of his wife being massaged like this.

He wanted to see her react, to feel her arousal grow under another man's hands.

He dreamed of seeing her bra and panties removed by someone else. He begged for it. And now—his wish is granted.

Now he waits for his turn.

With my final movement, I spread her inner lips wide—making sure the husband sees everything—then stand up and stretch, signaling the end.

And then…

I give the husband a nod.

What happens next? That's not my concern.

But one thing—

As I enter the bathroom, before turning on the shower, I hear her moan.

After that, the falling water drowns every sound.

I take my time bathing. When I finally step out, they're already sitting at the table.

The wife carefully hands me a coffee cup. I take the hot drink, and immediately, she slips into the bathroom.

Still shy like a fool…

Shouldn't I leave quickly? Wouldn't that be kinder to her?

I couldn't fulfill the husband's ultimate desire for full-service massage. But seeing his satisfied face, I feel content.

Halfway through my coffee, I agree to call him later, then exit the motel, mission complete.

The night wind brushes my face—cool, refreshing.

May health and happiness walk beside them both in the days to come.