Burning up Under His Touch

I've been pent up for far so long that my hormones are going out of balance. So, I decide to visit a massage parlor that my best friend has recommended to me, hoping that I can completely get rid of the sense of emptiness that's inside me.

When the young and well-built masseuse begins caressing me with his scalding palms, I feel the flames of lust burning brighter within me to the point they are about to swallow my rationality whole…

Ever since I began exploring my sensual side, a door had opened to a whole new realm, and there was no turning back.

I craved the tremors that crawled across my skin and the thrill of losing control. It shattered my dull, ordinary life. Even the hollow ache that followed a climax felt like a beautiful kind of torment.

But eventually, that void became too deep for my husband, Julien Barry, to fill. The longing turned into a fire that scorched me every single day.

Julien tried everything—toys, new positions, exploring every inch of my body—but nothing worked for long.

He told me that I had an insatiable appetite and no man could ever satisfy me.

When my best friend, Elaina Rivers, heard about my situation, she recommended a professional massage therapy center to help channel my desires. She claimed it was the perfect remedy to cure me.

The loneliness and the constant, unmet hunger were becoming unbearable.

After a lot of back-and-forth in my head, I decided to give it a shot.

The massage therapy center was tucked away at the end of a narrow alley. Inside, the lighting was dim and moody, and the decor was simple yet elegant.

A female receptionist led me to a private room. It was sparse, with just a single massage table and a wooden cabinet topped with various glass jars.

I changed into the disposable underwear provided by the center.

The top was little more than a scrap of fabric that barely covered the peaks of my breasts, leaving the lower half completely exposed to the air. The panties were a sheer, delicate mesh that left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

To my shame, the mere friction of the fabric against my skin triggered a physical reaction.

My breasts reacted instantly to the touch of the fabric, my arousal starkly apparent. My underwear was already moist, offering only a translucent veil over my most private curves.

I felt like asking the receptionist for a set of clothes, but deep down, I knew it would be useless.

I tried to calm myself down.

The therapist would be a woman anyway, so there was nothing to be ashamed of. After all, I was here for treatment.

But when the door was pushed open, and I caught sight of the therapist, my heart sank.

Before I came here, Elaina hadn't mentioned that they had male therapists here.

He looked to be in his 20s, fit and athletic, with a clean-cut look and a friendly