We’d been together for six months, but lately I was considering ending things. His clinginess had grown unbearable—what started as adorable PDA had turned into constant attempts to hold my hand or steal kisses in front of my friends, despite my subtle and not-so-subtle refusals. He never seemed to take the hint, and when I pushed him away, he’d just blush and retreat.
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Curiously, once we got home and privacy returned, he’d make passionate efforts to connect intimately—eagerly pleasuring me, including exploring my ass, sometimes even masturbating while doing so, promising that he wanted to “make it” to me. It was sweet but almost like stalling the inevitable.
For our six-month anniversary, he planned something special: massages for both of us. The setting, however, was far from glamorous—a modest old building nestled on a crowded street in a less-than-desirable neighborhood. We arrived at 7 PM, the last clients of the night.
The masseuses greeted us. His was an older woman, while mine, a man, stood glaringly obvious in his scrub pants with an unmistakable bulge—something I caught myself stealing glances at despite the professional setting.
We parted to our rooms. As I undressed and settled beneath the sheet, he stepped behind a screen. The massage began gently on my scalp and neck—soothing, but my mind was drawn repeatedly to his concealed arousal just feet away. I found myself tilting my head, trying to sneak a peek beneath the sheet.
He continued, softly commenting on what a nice anniversary gift it was from my boyfriend. His touch moved downward, brushing my arms and pressing close, his scrubs barely grazing my hair. I pressed back into him, and he apologized for standing too close. Smiling, I confided some of my frustrations about my boyfriend’s clinginess.
He murmured something surprising: I think your boyfriend might appreciate me being with you instead.
With the massage becoming increasingly flirtatious, I lay on my stomach as his hands explored higher—tracing the backs of my thighs and pressing firmly into my ass. I lifted my hips, offering myself willingly.
He spread me apart, his thumbs teasing my lips and cheeks. Checking the clock, he asked if I wanted to extend for an extra 30 minutes.
I pulled out my phone and texted my boyfriend: “Adding more time, hold on to pay the extra.” Before sending, I snapped a cheeky selfie—my face in view, ass raised behind me, with my masseuse’s gaze locked on my curves. Then I sent it off.
“This better be worth it,” I joked, as he promptly sank to his knees behind me, eagerly devouring me. My moans filled the room and, moments later, my boyfriend knocked at the locked door, rattling the handle.
With two fingers inside me, the masseuse skillfully massaged my asshole with his thumb as I fumbled with his pants. The wetness pooling between my legs mirrored the excitement racing through me. The door knocks ceased as I took him into my mouth, gagging softly, then invited him to fuck me hard, feeling the pounding intensity grow.
The sounds we made were loud and desperate—moans and gasps echoing, likely carrying to the lobby. As he neared climax, I instructed him to pull out and spill his release onto my hair. Catching my breath, still glistening with sweat and oil, I dressed slowly and stepped toward the door.
My boyfriend lingered outside, face flushed and eyes wide, his masseuse already gone. I turned, kissing the man who had just ignited me and thanking him deeply, then turned back to my boyfriend. “That’s going to be an extra $50 for the extra time, and you better tip him well,” I teased.
He trembled as he paid, then I leaned in, leaving a kiss on his cheek that dragged the cum through my hair over his skin. He paled, stammering, while I basked in the renewed heat coursing through me.
Outside in the dark parking lot, I pressed him against the car door. “Thank you for a memorable anniversary,” I whispered. “That was the best sex in six months. Did you know your masseuse was so well endowed? Such a beautiful cock.”
Without hesitation, I unzipped his pants and slid them down, freeing his confused but eager erection. I took him in my hand, stroking as I described the size of my masseuse’s cock and his teasing tongue, stirring my own desire.
His hardness blossomed fully, and with a spit-lubed hand, I guided him to climax on the pavement, then wiped my hand discreetly on his shirt. He murmured, “I love you so much. I can’t believe you really… was he bigger than me?”
“Yes, he was. Maybe next time, you can see for yourself—if you stop touching me in front of my friends,” I quipped, planning to give our relationship another chance after all.
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