Careful, He Might Hear Us

Julie takes a last hit off the joint. She holds the sweet smoke in her lungs and lets it do its work. Luxuriating in her buzz and her bath, she lays the roach in the soap dish and slides down through the bubbles. She's inwardly floating now, her mind rising as her body sinks. The scalding water tantalizes and tortures her sensitive flesh, a blend of pleasure and pain, leaving her simultaneously blissful and horny. She almost knocks over the champagne flute sitting on the rim of the tub but reflexively grabs it by the stem. She'd intended to indulge in weed OR wine, but fuck it, today is about pleasure. And John's been so nice, helping to plan everything. She swallows a mouthful of bubbly and relishes how sensuously the golden liquid slides down her throat.

The Spotify app on her phone pumps her secret playlist through the wireless speakers mounted on the walls. Nobody but her knows the common denominator: the songs she made out and made love to in high school and college. She can still remember how each one made the list, from the Foo Fighters playing while she and Kyle took each other's virginity to achieving her first truly extraordinary orgasm with Jose to AC/DC. The songs may be oldies now, but they still get her going like no other music can.

Lying in the bath, she feels the tension in her muscles start to dissolve under the influence of hot water, cannabis, and alcohol. She slowly raises her right foot, then her left, out of the foam and admires the bright red polish on her nails. She pokes one of those scarlet toes under the surface to push the button on the tub wall that starts the jacuzzi jets. They roar to life, pelting her with bubbles until she tingles all over.

Time vanishes in a blissful haze. Until she hears a ping on her phone. She grabs for it. Fuck. She's missed three texts in the last fifteen minutes.

>I'm at your door.

>Still here.

>???

Shit. She hopes he hasn't given up and left. It's cold AF outside. Her thumbs fly across the screen.

>B rt dn 2 let u in

Her phone pings immediately.

>I'm okay. Your hubby gave me front door code. Sitting outside your bedroom door.

Julie smiles. She takes her time writing back.

>Come on in, then. Get comfortable. I'll be there in a minute.

She finishes the champagne and refills the flute from the bottle by the tub. Rising out of the bubbles, she steps onto the soft rug. She takes stock of her candlelit reflection in the bathroom mirror and sees a sex goddess. Dark areolas and pert nipples crown full breasts that taper down to fertile hips. A neatly trimmed patch of hair covers the secrets between her legs and promises wonders within. She eyes her robe hanging on the wall hook but decides to wrap herself in the big towel instead. Then she slides open the door to the bedroom and pads in, barefoot and dripping.

He's standing by her bed. Holy shit, he's as handsome as she'd hoped he'd be.

"I'm Julie," she says, introducing herself and smiling the way she used to when she met men in bars. (She never smiles at John that way anymore; why would she?)

"The agency sent me," he says. Okay. No name. That's fine. It's a service. "Your husband has covered all the fees, including a generous tip. So you can relax and I'll do my best to earn it."

His smile is the kind she thinks she would have responded to in the bar years. She feels something dangerous stir inside her, but with the weed and the wine it's easy to just go with it.

"Your husband said not to bother bringing the table, you enjoy massages on the bed. Is that okay with you?"

"He knows what I like," she says, smiling to herself. She sips more champagne and sets the flute onto the bedside table. Should she offer him a glass? Hey, he's just the guy from the agency. It's not a social visit.

"Why don't you lie down on your stomach, then?"

She does. It's easy to take orders from this guy. He's confident. Seems to know what he's doing.

"I'll arrange the towel to keep the places I'm not working on warm," he says. He folds the terry cloth sheet down to expose her back but keep her moist skin covered from her butt to her feet.

"Any places need special attention?"

"My neck's hella tense," she says. "I hope you can loosen it up. And my feet get sore," she replies. "My husband tries, but he doesn't really know what he's doing. That's why we booked you. The agency says you have skills."

He nods without comment. Then he squirts warm oil onto her back from the bottle that hangs from his belt. It feels nice. First with palms and then with fingers, he spreads the oil across her flesh. He traces the muscles on either side of her spine and presses into the soft spots under her shoulder blades.

The moan she lets out takes her by surprise. His touch feels wonderful, but he hasn't done that much. Must be the weed, making her hypersensitive.

His strong hands work her back before they glide up to her shoulders. When she's warmed up, he presses more deeply into her neck muscles. She groans with pleasure. Only after the fact does it occur to her that she sounds like she's doing voice overs for a porn film. She wonders whether she comes across that way to him. She lifts her head to peek at his reaction. He's lost in concentration, focused on his work, which is to say, on her.

He notices that she's looking at him. "Too much pressure?" he asks.

"No. It's perfect," she says.

After working his magic on her upper body, he draws the towel up to cover her back and butt. Positioning himself at the end of the bed, he applies the oil to her right foot and begins slowly massaging her pads and toes and sole.

"That feels good," she says.

He repeats the treatment on her left foot. Then he spreads oil onto her calves and begins rubbing up and down. When he dwells on a spot on her left ankle, she realizes he's found her tattoo.

"It's nice," he says. "Working oil into it from time to time is a good thing."

"Mmmmm... Thank you," she purrs.

"Does the bird have a meaning?"

"Yeah. It means I was nineteen, shitfaced, and hadn't spent all the money I'd saved up for spring break." He laughs. "My mom freaked," she goes on. "Now she likes it."

He murmurs something she can't quite make out and then slides his firm hands up her calves to her thighs. The release of tension sends shivers through her body.

"Oh my god," she says. "I didn't even know that was sore."

"Do you do a lot of walking?" he asks. She doesn't answer. He works the muscles up to the point where the towel covers her butt.

His firm touch on her thighs feels distinctly sensual to her. She smiles to think how easily she can keep her arousal her little secret. How many times has she seen guys at the pool embarrassed by obvious boners while surrounded by women in bikinis? Or in offices when a female colleague wears a short skirt? She knows that, if her husband had a hot chick rubbing his thighs the way this guy's doing hers, his cock would be hard as a rock. She, on the other hand, can revel in the delicious wetness between her legs, but the masseur is as clueless as he is sexy. Thank god for the scented oil, or her pheromones would give her away. Eucalyptus, she thinks. Very thoughtful.

Because she's beyond aroused. She's wildly horny. She loves his touch and aches to be fucked. But nothing is going to happen. Not with this guy. She can bang the hell out of her husband later.

The masseur's talented fingers work the flesh at the top of her thighs. She notices that he's stopping at the edge of the towel, like it's a border he won't cross. "You know, my glutes feel really sore," she says. Where did that come from? she wonders. She just asked him to rub her ass. Maybe she's not as in control of her desires as she'd like to think.

He lifts the towel off her body, exposing her butt. "Do you mind?" he asks.

She takes a moment to process the fact that she's now laying naked in front of this man who's not her husband. "Do what you need to do," she says quietly.

He moves his hands across her ass cheeks, pressing into the muscles, going deeper with each pass. His fingertips brush her asshole as his hands circle around. Each time, his light touch sends a shiver of pleasure through her loins. He taps the inside of her thighs. Without giving it a thought, she moves them further apart. He works the muscles of her upper thighs and lower butt. Jesus, it feels good.

Now his fingers trace the edges of her labia. She draws in a breath. Weighs how amazing it feels against the fact they're moving into dicey territory. He lingers on her most sensitive places and shows no inclination to move on.

If she doesn't stop him now, she never will.

"Um... we need to keep in mind that my husband's the guy who hired you," she says, trying to sound neither harsh nor frightened. Concerned. Responsible. That's the tone she's going for.

"Your husband told me to give you the massage of your life," he says, moving his hands back to the slightly safer territory of her glutes. "We're trained on where to find the nerve endings that'll release the tension on a deep level. I should've explained."

"Well, if you put it that way..." she says, relieved to have an excuse to let him continue.

"Take deep breaths," he says. "From your center."

His fingers explore, caress, and stimulate areas no one but her husband has touched for years. The deep breathing is helping to distribute the good feelings throughout her body. But there's no denying that all those wonderful sensations are entering through her clitoris. Whatever he says about nerve endings and tension, the thing that's building up is a good old fashioned orgasm.

"Keep breathing," he whispers as his fingers swirl over her sex in ever more strategic fashion. So much for her secret arousal. Her liberally flowing juices give away as much as the biggest boner ever could. When he presses down with his thumb, she realizes that her clit is swollen as large and hard as she's ever felt it.

"We can't do this," she says. "My husband's gonna be waiting outside the door for us to finish. He might be there already."

"Doesn't what I'm doing feel good?"

"It feels too good. He knows what I sound like when I'm... you know."

One of his fingers penetrates deeper into her pussy. Several others join it. They slide around her vaginal walls, slick with her juices, stimulating hidden pockets of erotic pleasure. "Jesus Christ," she says. But not in a bad way. A sigh.

"I'll stop anytime you ask," he says. She says nothing. His fingers keep moving in the wonderful way he has. "Should I keep going?"

Of course not. She's married. Why can't she say it?

"Just let me know," he says in a voice as steady as the motion of his fingers circling her clit. When she doesn't speak, he pauses.

"Don't stop," she whispers.

"What?"

"I said please don't stop." She pleading now, trying like hell to keep her voice down. "You can't tell my husband. You gotta promise." He doesn't answer. His fingers probe her pleasure centers with ever-increasing accuracy.

"The particulars of any session are between the therapist and the client."

She's beyond talking now. Her approaching orgasm takes over every muscle, nerve, and brain cell.

Her breath comes as a series of pants.

"Ho...

Ly...

Shit...

I'm...

Cum-

Ming...!"

She announces it as if otherwise he wouldn't notice.

Her whole body trembles. Now her pussy's massaging her masseur's fingers with powerful, rhythmic contractions. When her body stops quivering, she lifts her head and shakes it to clear her sex-fogged brain.

"Oh my god. How loud was I?" she asks.

"Not bad," he says, sounding aloof and amused.

"Cause if my husband heard that, you better climb out the fucking window right now, dude." She usually gets annoyed at friends who call everybody "dude," but since this guy won't tell her his name, that's what she's going with.

"I think we're okay," he says. He pats her ass. "You wanna turn over, let me do the front?"

Wow, there's more? She rolls over, giving this man she's just met a full view of her breasts and pussy for the first time. But why worry about that, now he's already gotten her off?

She lets out a long exhale as her body melts into the bed. Okay, so that happened. But really, is it any different from when she uses her vibrator to get herself off when her husband's not around? This guy's like a machine with body parts. She's glad she doesn't know his name.

"Gotta hand it to ya. The tension's gone," she says with giggle. (When was the last time she actually giggled?) She closes her eyes while the masseur spreads the warm oil over this side of her languid body.

"Just a second," he says. "Getting a text." He steps away. Then, in a voice showing utter disinterest, he announces, "Your husband's outside the door. He says we should take our time. He'll see you when you're done. Then there's a couple of eggplant emojis. Clever." No effort to hide the sarcasm.

She's not ready to say goodbye to the man who just lit her up like a Fourth of July skyrocket. Still, she thinks it's only fair for her husband, who set up this encounter after all, to benefit from the fact that, even after that toe-curling orgasm, she's hornier than she's felt in years.

She opens her eyes to take a last look at her masterful masseur before he leaves. She still loves his smile, admires his handsome face, enjoys surveying his body as her eyes track downwards. But then...

"Jesus Christ!" This time she says it in a way that means there's a problem.

"What?" he asks. For once he sounds concerned.

"Your cock!" she says, pointing to the bulge in his tight, stretchy pants. "It's the size of a fucking kayak!"

He looks confused. "Um, thank you?"

"No - I mean, yes, it's impressive, congratulations - but my point is that if you open the door now, my husband will see it. He'll know something's going on."

"All I've done is what he's asked me to. Relieve your tension. That's what you just said."

"Trust me, John won't see it that way." She can't take her eyes off the enormous tent under his pants. "Can you make that thing go down?"

He thinks about it, his face set and serious. "I don't know. I'll try. But you're a sexy woman."

"Don't say that!" she pleads, desperation creeping into her voice. Then she has an idea. Desperate times call for desperate measures. "Okay, drop your pants."

"What?"

"Whip it out, dude. I know how to take care of a boner. I was a teenager once."

He looks uncertain but obediently pulls down his trousers. His cock springs out, right into Julie's face. Wrapping her hand around the base, she slips the tip between her lips and goes to work.

"Oh, my," he says. "Oh, my God. Holy shit. Fuck. You're good at that."

Julie can't help but smile. She takes him out long enough to say, "Don't cum in my mouth. He'll kiss me and taste it. Tell me when you're about to blow. You can cum on my tits. We'll rub it in like lotion and my husband doesn't have to know anything." She sounds calculating, even to herself, but sometimes you just have to do what's necessary.

She slurps his whole cock into her mouth. The faces he makes and the creativity of his swearing attest to what a good job she's doing. But he doesn't cum.

"Duuuude," she says, taking a break. "Stop being such a gentleman."

"Sorry," he says, not sounding sorry. "You're one hell of a cocksucker. I love a good blowjob, but I almost never cum in a mouth. Nothing personal. Just a thing with me."

Damn. He's like her husband. John begs her to use her mouth on him but saves his cum for her pussy. "So I just made it worse," she says. "Thank you so much. That's something you coulda mentioned earlier, y' know."

"What? And miss all that?" he asks, smiling that shit-eating grin.

She glares at him. Asshole. Sexy asshole.

"I know what'll do it," he says. He climbs onto the bed between her legs and places the tip of his penis against her wet pussy. He starts rubbing it up and down.

Julie's eyes get wide. "You can't FUCK me." She realizes she's talking too loud. Lowers her voice to say, "My husband's right outside the goddamn door."

"It's cool. I'm just gonna rub it. This always works. Almost always."

"Okay," she says, sounding dubious. "Be careful. No penetration. And cum on my stomach." She lays back as he rubs up and down. Tries not to focus on how good it feels. Then a thought occurs to her. She looks him in the eyes. "If this doesn't work, what's the alternative?"

He shrugs. "Balls deep."

She rolls her eyes and lays back. Jesus. If this little trick is having half the effect on him it's having on her, he ought to be able to blow his load and shrink his junk pretty quickly. "You getting close?" she asks, biting her tongue to keep from adding, "Because I am."

"Trying..." he says.

For Julie, the whole situation has turned into a cocktail of lust, fear, and exasperation. "Jesus!" she spits out in a sharp whisper. "Just. Do. It."

"Oh, okay." With that, he slides his entire cock into her pussy, bottoming out in one thrust.

"What?!?! What did you do?!" But she knows. She feels him deep inside her pussy. "Asshole!" She's beside herself.

"I thought that's what you meant when you said 'just do it.'" His strokes are coming long and hard now. Insistent. He's a man possessed. When he talks, his words come in bursts, like a runner pushing his limits. "Don't worry," he says. "You're so wet. Your pussy feels so good. I'm gonna cum in no time. It's what you want."

She groans. "Dude, you can't fuck me with my husband right outside the door."

But he's not listening. He's shoving deep, pulling out, and plunging back in. Julie's mind is screaming but her body's loving it. She wraps her legs around his butt, pulling him deeper.

"I can't believe my husband's ten feet away and you're fucking my brains out." She whispers it into his ear, her voice hoarse. If she meant it as a complaint, it doesn't come out that way.

"You want me to stop? Do you?"

But what was that thing Robert Frost said? The best way out is through.

Julie knows what she has to do. "Fuck me," she says. "Fuck me hard. Just don't cum in me. Pull out. Cum on my stomach."

"Oh, yeah," he says, shoving so hard now his cock head kisses her cervix. "I like that. Talk dirty to me. I'll cum faster."

What? That wasn't dirty talk. It was practical instruction. But at this point she'll do anything to get him to finish. Keeping her voice low, she growls like a porn star, "Your cock feels so good. So hard. So deep. I want you to shoot your big wad all over my belly. Cover me with your hot jizz. Spray your spunk all over my creamy tits."

He grunts in response. "Oh, god," he says. "I love it. Your pussy's like a jacuzzi." His hips slam against hers with renewed energy. She throws her legs wider so he can plunge even deeper.

She can tell he's getting close. Now she just needs to make sure he remembers to pull out, and they'll be home free.

That's when she feels it. Surprised and excited, she gasps. "Oh, shit."

"What?" he asks, panting.

"I'm gonna cum on your cock." As the inevitability of her orgasm overcomes her, she thinks of the man on the other side of the thin door. "My husband's gonna hear me. Put your hand on my mouth. Do it now."

He clamps his hand down so hard she can't breathe. Some people say asphyxiation intensifies orgasms. But isn't that dangerous? Right then she explodes in a series of contractions like she hasn't felt since...well...ever. Thank god his hand covers her howls, or her husband would be through the door in an instant.

Her pussy walls clench tight around the masseur's cock, as if they want to squeeze him out of her juicy cunt. He clings to her to stay inside. Then his body shudders. He sighs in her ear, "Oh, Christ." He goes limp on top of her.

"Oh my fucking god," she says, her head buzzing. "Oh my god, oh my god." The words tumble out in a rush. She feels her heart pounding. When she can finally put together a coherent sentence, she puts her lips to his ear and whispers, "That was an out of body experience."