Under his nose

Names are changed for anonymity.

It was one of those days where the silence after sending my photos felt heavier than usual. No replies, no follow-ups. I'd convinced myself it was my race, my skin, the way I looked. Then Mr. Smith's message appeared. He wanted a massage for his wife, but with add-ons. It had to be exactly the way he wanted it. He laid out the short version, and I agreed. The next day, we talked for hours on the phone. He detailed the plan, step by step. It was far beyond anything I'd ever done. I asked if his wife was okay with it. She's the one getting the massage, after all.

"She's always interested in massages and trying new things in bed," he said. "I'm sure she won't have any issues. If there is any, we can stop immediately."

That was solid. I agreed.

The day came. I arrived at their house—neat, warm, slightly cluttered in that lived-in way. Mr. Smith answered the door, mid-fifties, calm demeanor, a handshake that said I trust you. Mrs. Smith was in the living room, sipping wine. She looked nervous, but curious. We chatted for a while—about traffic, the weather, the neighborhood. I let her set the pace. When I felt her shoulders drop, that subtle release of tension, I suggested we start.

"Take your time getting ready," I said. "I'll step into the bathroom."

I excused myself, as planned. When I came out, I wore only a towel wrapped around my waist. She was already on the massage bed (their bed, actually—a king-sized platform covered in a soft sheet), face down, naked, a towel draped over her lower back. Mr. Smith sat on a chair near her head, close enough to hold her hand. He'd assured me he'd be there the whole time so she'd feel safe.

I started at her feet. Slow, deliberate. The goal was comfort. If she tensed up, the whole plan fell apart. I worked her soles, her toes, the arches. Small talk in between—compliments on the room, her jewelry on the nightstand. Not a great talker, so I let the silence do its work. The warm oil dripped between her toes. Her breathing evened out.

After her feet, I knew she was ready.

"Mrs. Smith," I said softly, "I'm going to move up now. If anything feels wrong—pressure, position, anything—just say the word. We can stop any time."

She murmured, "Okay."

I poured oil onto her right calf, let it warm in my palms, then began. Firm strokes, kneading the muscle, working toward her thigh. Her legs were still closed, thighs pressed together. I moved higher, my fingers brushing the sensitive inner skin just below her ass. She didn't flinch. Good.

I switched to her left leg, repeated the same. Calf, knee, thigh. She spread her legs slightly—room for my hands, she told herself. But she gave me more access.

All she knew was that this was a regular massage. Only Mr. Smith and I knew the real plan.

I continued, my thumbs digging into the soft flesh of her inner thighs. On one upward stroke, my knuckle brushed her labia under the towel.She twitched—a sharp, involuntary jerk.

Mr. Smith leaned in. "Everything okay, honey?"

"Mmhmm," she managed. "Just... a spot."

I didn't stop. On every stroke, I let my hand drag over her pussy lips, just enough to feel the heat, the slight slickness. She spread her legs a little wider.

Time for the next step.

"Mrs. Smith, would it be okay if I sit on your thighs to work on your glutes? Better leverage."

She nodded, her face still buried in the pillow.

I swung a leg over, straddling her thighs. I removed her towel. I started working her glutes—kneading, pressing, the heels of my hands digging into the firm muscle. With every shift of my weight, my hard-on rubbed against her. I positioned myself little higher, at the edge of her glutes rubbing my cock on her glutes. I made sure my hard on was rubbing her cheeks on every strokes on her back. Her body language was proof that she could feel it now. She didn't resist.

I gave Mr. Smith the cue—a slight nod. He stood. "I'm grabbing a beer. Anyone want one?"

"No thanks," she mumbled.

"Be right back."

The door clicked shut.

I moved fast. I untucked the towel, letting it fall open. I poured oil directly onto my cock, slicking it from base to tip. Then I adjusted the towel back into place, but loosely. I shifted my position, crawling forward. Now my oiled, hard cock nestled directly between her legs was pressing against her pussy. Every time I leaned forward to press into her spine, I rocked my hips, rubbing myself along her slit.

Mr. Smith returned. From his angle, it looked like I was still sitting on her, giving a back massage, towel modestly covering everything. But underneath, my cock was sliding against her wet lips. She thought I was doing this behind his back. She didn't dare say a word.

Mr. Smith took her hand. "He's a professional. He knows what he's doing. Are you enjoying it?"

"Very much," she breathed.

That was all I needed.

On the next downward stroke of my hand along her spine, I thrust my hips forward. My cock slid into her pussy in one slow, oiled push. She gasped—a muffled sound, half moan, half surprise.

Mr. Smith squeezed her hand. "Everything okay? Should we stop?"

"Don't stop," she whispered quickly. "Please. Continue."

In her mind, I was fucking her right under her husband's nose, and he had no clue. Every stroke on her back was a thrust inside her. I kept a steady rhythm—downward press of my palms, forward push of my hips. Her pussy gripped me, hot and wet. She was struggling to stay quiet, her breath hitching, occasional moans slipping out.

After several minutes, I paused. "Should I turn over for the front now?"

She shook her head, voice strained. "Can you... keep doing my back? It really hurts. I need it well massaged."

I glanced at Mr. Smith. He gave a small, satisfied smile. "Go on," he said.

We continued. I fucked her deep and slow, then faster. Her moans grew louder, her fingers gripping the sheet. I gave Mr. Smith the second cue—a nod toward the bathroom. He excused himself quietly.

The moment the door closed, I drove into her hard, fast, my hands gripping her hips. Her moans turned into cries, her body trembling underneath me. I came deep inside her, a hot pulse, and she clamped down around me, a shuddering orgasm that made her arch her back and scream into the pillow.

By the time Mr. Smith returned, I was sitting upright, towel back in place, hands moving in professional circles on her lower back as if nothing had happened. She rolled over slowly, face flushed, eyes glazed. I oiled my palms and started on her front—shoulders, arms, legs, avoiding the obvious, playing the perfect gentleman.

She watched me the whole time. Desire, confusion, gratitude—all mixed in her eyes.

I finished the massage with slow, soothing strokes. Dried my hands. Packed my oil.

At the door, Mr. Smith asked her, "How was it?"

She smiled, dazed. "Amazing."

He smiled back. "Every bit of it was my planning. Did you enjoy it?"

Her eyes widened. For a long moment, she just stared. Then she laughed—a breathless, relieved laugh. She came to me, wrapped her arms around my neck, and hugged me tight.

"If I'd known," she whispered in my ear, "I'd have asked for more. I thought you were doing it all behind his back, right in front of him. It was scary and exciting. I loved it. And the massage was incredible too."

She turned to Mr. Smith and kissed him deeply.

I said my goodbyes and let myself out, Mr. Smith's satisfied nod still warm in my memory.