"Umm~ Yeah~"
The low, velvet moan drifted through the small massage room, soft and liquid, swallowed almost at once by the heavy scent of sandalwood incense and the cool, mineral bite of massage oil.
A single dimmed sconce spilled amber light across the space, catching in faint gleams on the woman's bare back.
She lay prone on the table, skin glistening like wet stone, every slow breath lifting the elegant curve of her spine.
Leon's hands moved with practiced certainty—long, deliberate glides down the length of her back, thumbs sinking briefly into knotted muscle, releasing it in small, blooming sighs of relief.
The strokes grew lighter, more lingering, as the session eased toward its close.
At last his palms lifted away, hovering a moment above her skin as though reluctant to break contact.
"Okay, Mrs. Smith," he said quietly, voice low and professional yet warmed at the edges. "Tell me if you're feeling any more discomfort anywhere."
She turned her head just enough that one eye—dark, heavy-lidded—found his in the half-light. A small, knowing smile curved her lips.
"Well~ Yeah," she murmured, the sound almost a purr. "I have the usual discomfort… like usual… right here." Her voice dipped lower still. "I'd like you to fully fill that discomfort too."
With languid grace she lifted her hips a few inches off the table, letting them sway once, twice, a slow invitation. Then her thighs parted—smoothly, deliberately—opening the shadowed space between them.
Leon's gaze followed the motion. Understanding flickered across his face, calm and unhurried.
"Understood, Mrs. Smith," he said. "I'll make sure to fully fill your discomfort."
His hands descended again, this time toward the soft, exposed skin of her inner thighs.
Mrs. Smith closed her eyes, already sinking into anticipation; the familiar heat was rising in her chest, spreading downward like spilled honey.
Every visit to this spa had always circled back to this moment—100% of her reason for coming here distilled into the promise of what his fingers would soon do.
But just as the warmth of his palms was about to meet her skin, a bright, insistent trill shattered the hush.
Her phone, resting on the low side table, lit up and vibrated against the wood.
Leon's hands froze mid-air. Mrs. Smith exhaled a long, disappointed breath through her nose.
"Can you get me my phone?" she asked, the sensual haze in her voice replaced—for the moment—by faint irritation.
Leon gave a small nod and reached for the phone still buzzing insistently on the low table. The screen glowed with the caller ID: "Bastard." He recognized it instantly.
"It's your husband, Mrs. Smith," he murmured, voice steady and neutral.
Mrs. Smith let out a soft, resigned sigh that seemed to settle into the scented air. "Okay," she said. "Take the call and put it near my ear."
Leon complied without hesitation, swiping to answer and holding the phone gently against the side of her face, close enough for her to speak without strain.
"Hello—" came the man's voice through the speaker, clipped and distant.
Beyond that single word, Leon heard nothing more of the conversation. He had already stepped back into his role, hands returning to their quiet work as though the interruption were no more than a brief pause in the rhythm.
Mrs. Smith's voice floated out behind him, soft and ordinary, the practiced tone of a wife checking in. "What happened?"
But the moment Leon's palms met the warm, oil-slick skin of her inner thighs, a shiver raced through her—a cool thrill chasing heat, electric and immediate.
Her spine arched in a slow, involuntary curve, lifting her hips just enough to press into his touch. Her thighs parted wider still, a silent, insistent plea for him to keep going, even as her lips continued forming calm words into the phone.
And Leon did continue. He was simply the masseur, after all—his duty was to ease every tension his client carried, no matter the form it took.
His hands glided upward with deliberate care, tracing the sheen of oil that already coated her from earlier strokes. They slipped beneath the edge of the draped towel, finding the generous, rounded swell of her hips.
The curves were full, demanding both of his hands to properly encompass even one side. Fingers splayed wide, he kneaded with firm, rolling pressure—deep enough to release, slow enough to savor.
Mrs. Smith responded in kind.
A subtle rock began in her hips, small undulations that matched the cadence of his touch, rolling back against his palms while her voice stayed even on the call—soft inquiries, gentle reassurances, the everyday cadence of marriage layered over the private pulse of pleasure building beneath the towel.
Leon finished the first hip with the same measured, thorough pressure—palms circling, fingers digging into the plush fullness until the muscle yielded beneath them—then shifted seamlessly to the opposite side.
He worked symmetrically, hands gliding over oiled skin that caught the low amber light in liquid sheens, every stroke deliberate, building toward what had always been the unspoken crescendo of these sessions.
Once both hips were eased and warm, his fingers began their slow descent once more, tracing the shadowed valley between them, drawn toward the soft cleft where anticipation had already pooled.
The air thickened with the promise of contact, the faint slick sound of skin on skin the only movement in the hushed room.
But just as the pads of his fingers were about to brush that intimate divide, Mrs. Smith jerked upright—abrupt, almost violent—her oiled hand clutching the phone like a lifeline.
Her body trembled, not with lingering pleasure now, but with something sharper, hotter: fury rippling beneath the surface, taut and barely contained.
"Right now?" she said into the receiver, voice gentle on the surface yet edged with strain. "Okay, I will go and prepare the dinner for your guests." A pause, then softer still: "Yeah, bye. Love you."
She stabbed the end button with her thumb and exhaled a hiss of breath.
"Fucking bastard," she muttered, the words low and venomous. "Can't he at least inform me before, that guests were coming home? Aahhh, I hate it—I hate just how many times has he done this same thing."
The languid, yielding woman who had moaned and arched moments earlier was gone; in her place sat someone coiled and furious, the mask she wore for her husband shattered the instant the call ended.
Then she turned to him, her expression softening into something almost pleading—eyes wide and luminous in the dim amber glow, lips parted on a gentle request.
"Leon dear," she murmured, voice low and coaxing, "can you come here? I think I bit my tongue while talking… can you massage it too?"
Leon exhaled a quiet, inward sigh—resigned yet compliant. He stepped closer without protest, fingers catching her chin with careful lightness.
He tilted her face upward, parted her lips just enough, and then met them with his own.
The kiss deepened at once.
Mrs. Smith's hand rose swiftly, sliding to the back of his head, fingers threading tenderly into his hair to hold him there.
Leon's tongue slipped past her lips, finding the soft, warm interior of her mouth—slow, deliberate strokes that soothed and teased in equal measure, circling the imagined sore spot with practiced, sensual care.
A rush of heat flooded her core; warm, slick arousal gathered between her thighs, the sensation blooming so swiftly it stole her breath. Pleasure coiled tight from the intimate play of his tongue alone.
"Mmm~" The sound escaped her—a soft, relieved moan that vibrated against his lips.
Reluctantly, she pressed a palm to his chest and eased him back. Her face was flushed deep crimson now, cheeks burning, eyes glassy with unsatisfied want.
"Okay," she breathed, voice husky, "this much massage will be enough for me today. I'll come later for… the full treatment."
Leon withdrew at once, stepping back with professional composure. "As you wish," he said evenly.
His own face bore the same telltale flush, color high along his cheekbones. The fabric of his trousers strained visibly at the front—a pronounced tent of arousal that Mrs. Smith's gaze flicked to immediately.
Her tongue darted out, tracing her lower lip in instinctive hunger before she caught herself, shook her head once as if to clear it.
"Okay, bye," she said quickly.
She rose from the table in a fluid motion, heedless of the towel that slipped and bunched unevenly around her hips.
Oiled skin gleamed under the low light as she walked toward the bathroom—each step sending a soft, rhythmic jiggle through the generous curves of her backside, the full swells swaying with unhurried sensuality.
Leon watched, helpless. His length twitched hard inside his trousers, a sharp pulse of need he could do nothing to relieve—not today.
The room held only the fading scent of incense, the quiet slick of cooling oil, and the echo of her retreating footsteps.
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