The Waiting Room

The massage studio smelled like sandalwood and clean linen, but all I could smell was Lena. She lay face-down on the table, a white towel draped over her ass, and I stood there with my heart hammering against my ribs. We'd been married for six years, but we'd never done anything like this.

"You nervous?" she murmured into the face cradle, her voice muffled.

"Terrified," I admitted, squeezing more coconut oil into my palm. "What if I mess this up?"

She laughed, that low, teasing sound that still made my cock twitch after all these years. "Mark, you've been inside me a thousand times. Just... pretend I'm a stranger. A client who's been a very, very bad girl."

I ran my hands up her calves, over the backs of her thighs, pushing the towel higher. Her skin was warm, soft, and she shivered when I reached the curve of her ass. "And what does this bad girl need?"

"A lesson," she breathed. "Something she won't forget."

I spread her cheeks with both thumbs, exposing her. The sight of her like that—open, waiting, glistening with the oil I'd already worked into her lower back—made my mouth go dry. "You want me to fuck you right here on this table?"

"God, yes." She pushed her hips up, arching her back. "Hard. Like you mean it."

I pulled my jeans down just enough to free my cock, already aching and slick with pre-cum. I lined myself up at her entrance, teasing her wet slit with the head, watching her asshole clench and release. "You sure?"

"Mark, I swear to God, if you don't—"

I pushed in. All the way, in one long, slow thrust. She gasped, her fingers curling against the vinyl of the table, and I held still, letting her adjust to the fullness of it. "Fuck," she whispered. "That's... that's good."

I started moving. Slow at first, deep strokes that made the table creak beneath us. Her pussy was tight and hot, gripping me with every withdrawal, pulling me back in. I leaned over her, my chest against her back, my mouth at her ear. "You like being fucked like a whore on a massage table?"

"Yes," she hissed. "Don't stop."

I didn't. I grabbed her hips and fucked her harder, the sound of our bodies slapping together filling the small room. She moaned, loud and unashamed, her face pressed into the cushion. "That's it," she gasped. "Right there. Don't stop."

I reached under her, found her clit with my thumb, and pressed. She cried out, her whole body shuddering, and I felt her come—a long, pulsing wave that squeezed me tight and sent me over the edge with her. I buried myself deep and came inside her, hot and thick, my breath ragged against her shoulder.

For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of our breathing. Then she laughed again, soft and satisfied. "Well," she said. "I think that client learned her lesson."

I stayed inside her, not ready to pull out yet. "Yeah? What's the tuition?"

She twisted her head to look at me, a grin on her flushed face. "Dinner. And then round two."

I kissed the back of her neck, tasting salt and oil. "Deal."

We lay there, tangled in towels and the last light of the afternoon, listening to each other breathe.