Was it a cuckold massage?

It began as a routine inquiry—a standard request for a home massage for a client's wife. After a few professional exchanges of details and scheduling, the appointment was set. I arrived expecting a casual session, but the moment the door opened, the atmosphere shifted. The woman who greeted me at the gate was striking, clad in a semi-formal dress that clung to her curves in all the right places. A sudden, electric spark ignited within me; looking at her, I felt an immediate, visceral surge of excitement.

She led me back to their bedroom, where her husband awaited. He greeted me with a glass of wine, his tone casual yet probing as he asked if I approved of his wife's attire. As the wine flowed and the tension thickened, the air became heavy with an unspoken invitation. When they were finally ready, the husband made a curious request: he wanted to stay and watch. He settled into a chair, sipping his drink with a predatory gaze, while his wife lay draped across the bed.

I began with her shoulders, the scent of massage oil mingling with her perfume. As I unhooked her bra to work on her back, the husband approached, leaning in to whisper how she was feeling. Then came the command: "Remove her panties; massage her glutes." I obeyed, my pulse quickening as I exposed her skin. As my hands worked over her thighs, the husband didn't stay in his chair. He slid onto the bed beside her, and suddenly, the room was filled with the sounds of their kissing, soft giggles, and hushed, intimate murmurs.

The energy shifted completely when I asked her to turn over. She was an absolute vision of elegance—a perfectly sculpted body, neither too thin nor too lush, with full, heavy breasts and a flawlessly groomed intimacy.

I started at her legs, my movements slow and deliberate. I barely noticed when her husband stripped naked and began kissing her feverishly. For a moment, I froze, unsure of the boundaries, but the husband looked at me and urged me to continue. As if on cue, she spread her legs wide, inviting my touch while she engaged in a passionate exchange with her husband. She took him into her mouth, her body arching and shaking, her own arousal leaving her slick and glistening beneath my hands.

The encounter ended abruptly when the husband pulled away, breathless and spent. "Already?" she sighed, her legs snapping shut in a gesture of clear disappointment. The sudden void in the room left me confused, and I paused the session. From his chair, the husband simply commanded, "Continue." I looked at her; though her eyes betrayed a lingering hunger, she gave a slow, sultry nod.

With her legs closed, I moved upward, starting with a light, soothing massage of her scalp before working down to her shoulders and then her breasts. Under my palms, she began to awaken again. I could feel her nipples peaking, hardening against my touch. I shifted my position to get closer, enveloped by her warmth, knowing she was descending back into a state of deep arousal.

As I stretched her arm, I allowed her hand to rest on my lap. Slowly, almost tentatively, her fingers began to drift upward, brushing against the hard ridge of my erection. Her husband watched, a smirk playing on his lips, and requested that I drop my pants. Though a part of me hesitated, the charged atmosphere and the heat radiating from her made refusal impossible. I stripped naked and resumed the massage.

The tentative rubbing shifted instantly into a hungry, wet heat as she moved to suck me, her mouth expertly claiming me. Between gasps, she leaned in, her voice a feline whisper in my ear: "Lick me. Now."

I dove in, my tongue and fingers exploring every inch of her. I tasted her, teased her, and drove her to multiple crashing orgasms before finally finishing the session by burying myself deep inside her.

That was only the beginning. It became a ritual—a secret addiction we indulged in whenever we found the chance, whether her husband was there to watch or we were alone in the dark.