Husband's Erotic At-Home Massage

Gwen had barely settled onto the couch beside her husband when the doorbell rang. At thirty-two, she still got that small, private thrill when Cody looked at her the way he was looking now—warm, a little secretive, already pleased with himself. He was thirty-four, still built like the man she'd married, and tonight he'd come home early from the office in a soft gray T-shirt and jeans, insisting she change into something easy. She'd chosen an old cotton tank and thin sleep shorts, her dark hair twisted up, bare feet tucked under her. The living room of their apartment smelled faintly of the citrus candle she'd lit. Nothing about the evening had suggested company.

"Don't get up," Cody said, grinning as he rose. "Stay right there."

He opened the door, and the man who stepped in filled the frame. Broad through the shoulders, dark hair cut short, a rolled massage table under one arm and a black case in the other hand. He looked about twenty-eight, sun-warmed skin, the kind of muscular ease that came from work rather than a gym mirror. "Sergio," he said, offering Cody a handshake, then turning that same steady attention on Gwen. His gaze didn't rush. It moved over her face, the line of her throat, the way the tank sat against her chest, and lingered there just long enough that heat climbed her neck. "You must be Gwen. Your husband booked the full session. Said you've been carrying a lot of tension."

"I... yes." Her voice came out thinner than she liked. She stood anyway, suddenly aware of her bare legs, the way the shorts rode high. Sergio's hands were large, the knuckles neat, the fingers long. When he set the case down and snapped the table open in the cleared space by the window, those hands moved with unhurried confidence, locking the legs, spreading a fresh sheet, lining up bottles of oil that caught the late light. Cedar and something warmer rose into the room.

Cody dragged a chair into the corner and sat, elbows on his knees, watching her with an expression she recognized from their better nights—approval, hunger, permission already written across his face. "Relax," he told her. "That's the whole point. I wanted you to have something good."

Sergio patted the table. "Face down to start. Whatever you're comfortable leaving on is fine. Most people lose the shirt."

Gwen glanced at Cody. He nodded once, slow. She peeled the tank over her head, breasts bare in the warm air, nipples already tight from the draft and from being looked at. Sergio didn't comment. He only held the sheet so she could climb up and settle onto her stomach, then drew the linen to her waist. His palm settled between her shoulder blades, broad and steady, and the first press of oil-warmed skin against hers pulled a quiet sound from her throat she hadn't meant to make.

He worked her shoulders first, thumbs finding the knots she'd been ignoring for weeks. The pressure was professional, deep, almost clinical, and for a few minutes she let herself sink into it. Oil slid under his hands. The room filled with the soft sound of skin on skin and the low creak of the table. Cody stayed quiet in the corner. She could feel him there anyway, the weight of his attention like another pair of hands.

Sergio's strokes lengthened. He followed the long muscles beside her spine, then drifted lower, palms spreading over the small of her back, thumbs circling just above the waistband of her shorts. "These are in the way if you want the hips worked," he said, voice low near her ear. "Your call."

"Take them," she murmured.

He eased the shorts down and off, folding them aside. She wore nothing underneath. Cool air touched her ass, then his oiled hands, broad and sure, working the tops of her thighs, the outer curves, never quite where the heat was gathering. He returned to her back, but the strokes had changed. Slower. He traced the sides of her rib cage, the edges of his fingers brushing the soft outer swell of her breasts where they pressed against the sheet. Gwen's breath caught. A second pass, deliberate, and his knuckles grazed her again. She shifted, hips lifting a fraction before she could stop herself.

"Easy," Sergio said, though he didn't sound like he wanted her easy. His hands slid down, over her ass, thumbs parting just enough to make her aware of how wet she already was. He worked the insides of her thighs in long, firm strokes that stopped a breath short of her pussy, then started again higher. Each time he came closer. The teasing dip of two fingers between her legs—light, almost accidental—drew a soft moan out of her that she didn't try to swallow.

Cody's chair creaked. "She likes that," he said, rough. "Don't stop on my account."

Sergio's hands paused, then resumed, bolder. He stroked along the crease where thigh met ass, oil making everything slick, and let his fingertips glance over her folds. Gwen's toes curled. The next pass wasn't a glance. He cupped her from behind, palm warm against her, middle finger sliding through the wetness he'd found, not pushing in, just learning her. She moaned again, louder, and turned her face so she could see Cody. Her husband was hard in his jeans, eyes dark, one hand resting on his thigh like he was holding himself still by force.

"More," she whispered. The word felt huge in the quiet room. She parted her thighs on the table, deliberate, offering. "I want more. Cody—"

"Yes," Cody said at once, leaning forward. "God, yes. Whatever she wants. I want to watch you take care of her."

Sergio exhaled, something like a laugh under it. "Then turn over for me."

He helped her roll. The sheet fell away. Gwen lay on her back, breasts bare and rising with each breath, nipples tight, her pussy glistening between thighs she couldn't quite close. Sergio poured oil into his palm and warmed it, then set both hands on her. He slicked her collarbones, the upper curves of her breasts, circling inward until his thumbs brushed her nipples. She arched. He took more oil and painted her slowly—under her breasts, over the soft stomach, down through the neat dark hair above her pussy, then lower, coating her lips, her clit, the insides of her thighs until she shone.

"Beautiful," he said, and bent his head.

His mouth closed over one nipple while his fingers found her. Two of them slid in easily, thick and sure, curling as his thumb settled on her clit. Gwen cried out, hands gripping the edges of the table. He sucked, tongue flicking, and fucked her with his fingers in a steady rhythm that made wet sounds she would have been embarrassed by an hour ago. Cody had stood. He was closer now, just beside the table, watching Sergio's hand disappear between his wife's legs, watching her breasts move with every thrust of those fingers.

The first orgasm hit fast and mean. Her thighs shook, her pussy clenched hard around Sergio's fingers, and she came with a broken sound, oil and her own slick smearing his wrist. He didn't stop. He switched nipples, sucking the other one deep, and kept his fingers moving through the aftershocks, thumb circling her clit in tight, ruthless passes. "Again," he said against her skin. "I can feel you. Give me another."

She did. The second one rolled up from somewhere deeper, longer, her back bowing off the table, a raw moan tearing out of her as she pulsed around him. Her vision went bright at the edges. When it eased she was panting, skin flushed, staring up at the ceiling like she'd forgotten the room.

Sergio straightened, breathing harder. The front of his pants was strained. Gwen reached for him without being asked, fingers clumsy on his belt. "I want to taste you," she said. Cody made a low sound of approval. Sergio shoved his pants down just far enough. His cock was thick, heavy, already wet at the tip. She wrapped her oiled hand around him and stroked, slow, learning the weight of him, then leaned up and took him into her mouth.

He tasted like salt and skin. She sucked him eagerly, cheeks hollowing, one hand working what she couldn't fit, the other braced on his thigh. Sergio's fingers threaded into her hair, not forcing, just holding. Cody watched her lips stretch, watched spit shine on Sergio's cock, and said, "Fuck, Gwen. Look at you."

She pulled off with a wet sound, stroking him, eyes on her husband. "I want him inside me."

"Then take him," Cody said. "I want to see it."

Sergio climbed onto the table between her thighs, the frame creaking under their combined weight. He rubbed the head of his cock through her soaked folds, once, twice, then pushed in. Gwen's mouth fell open. He was thick enough to make her feel every inch, the stretch bright and perfect, oil and her own wetness letting him sink to the hilt. He held there, forehead nearly touching hers, both of them breathing hard.

"Move," she whispered.

He fucked her in long, deep strokes, missionary on the narrow table, her knees hooked over his arms. Each thrust rocked her up the sheet. Her breasts bounced. He dropped his mouth to them again, sucking a nipple while he drove into her, and the combination undid her. She came with a sharp cry, pussy fluttering around his cock, nails digging into his shoulders. He didn't slow. He fucked her through it, hips snapping, the wet slap of their bodies loud in the apartment. A second climax chased the first before she'd finished shaking, smaller and meaner, tearing another moan out of her. Her legs trembled. Cody's hand was on her ankle, grounding, his voice rough with awe. "That's it. Come on his cock. I can see you squeezing him."

Sergio pulled out, cock gleaming, and helped her turn. "Hands and knees. Or over the edge—whichever you can hold."

She chose the edge. He bent her over the table, feet on the floor, ass up, and pushed back in from behind. The angle was deeper. She gasped, fingers clawing the sheet, and he set a harder rhythm, hands gripping her hips, each thrust bottoming out. Her breasts swayed. Oil slid down her spine. He reached under her and found her clit, rubbing in time with his hips, and she came again almost immediately, a helpless, shaking orgasm that made her knees buckle. He held her up and kept fucking her, deep and steady, grunting when she clenched.

"One more," he said against her shoulder. "I want one more out of you."

Cody had moved to see her face. She met his eyes, wrecked and open, and nodded. Sergio's thrusts turned shorter, harder, his fingers relentless on her clit. The orgasm that broke over her was the biggest yet—her whole body locking, a raw sob of pleasure, pussy milking his cock in hard pulses while she shook and shook. He followed her over with a groan, burying himself deep, spilling inside her in thick pulses she felt as heat. They stayed like that, both panting, until his cock softened enough to slip free.

He cleaned them both with a warm towel from his case, gentle now, professional again in the small ways that mattered. Gwen couldn't lift her head. Sergio dressed, folded the used sheet aside, and left a fresh one under her. At the door he shook Cody's hand. "She did beautifully," he said. "Call if you want another session." Then he was gone, table and case with him, the apartment suddenly quiet except for Gwen's uneven breathing.

She lay sprawled on the table, thighs still parted, body limp and trembling, skin glistening with oil and sweat. Every muscle felt used. Aftershocks flickered through her pussy, little echoes of the climaxes that had wrung her out until she couldn't tell where one had ended and the next began. Her eyes were half-closed. She couldn't have stood if the building had caught fire.

Cody leaned over her. His lips touched her forehead, soft, lingering. "You were so beautiful," he whispered. "Coming like that. Over and over. I've never seen anything like it."

Gwen managed a weak, shattered smile, still shaking under his mouth, too spent to answer.