In Good Hands

Part 1: The Day Out

It was one of those stupidly hot afternoons where the sun felt like it had something personal against us. We'd meant to get out early to run errands, but of course it was already past noon by the time we pulled into the grocery store parking lot.

I was wearing my new yoga shorts - the blue ones. Short, snug, a little high-waisted with that ribbed waistband that hugged just right. I'd tried them on the day they arrived, standing in front of the mirror with a shrug, pretending not to notice the way his eyes lingered when I bent to grab something from the laundry basket.

We walked side by side through Target, then the grocery store, then the pharmacy. I had on a loose tank top and those shorts - nothing fancy, no makeup, hair in a clip - and still, I could feel it. A few looks. A few seconds too long.

I didn't say anything. Neither did he. But I felt his eyes on me more than once. Especially in the car, when I leaned over to grab something from the floorboard. The silence made it obvious.

That night, after the kids were down and the dishwasher was running, we were curled up on the couch. My feet were in his lap, phone in hand, hair tied up, a throw blanket draped over my legs.

"Hey," he said, casually. "Those shorts you wore today. The new ones. I liked them."

I looked up, smiling faintly. "Yeah? They're comfy."

He hesitated a second. Then, in a light tone, said, "Yeah, they looked really good on you. Like... really good."

I raised an eyebrow. "I feel like there's a 'but' coming."

"Not a but. Just... a thought. I don't know. I liked seeing you in them. Out and about."

I tilted my head, half smiling, half still distracted by my phone. "You mean like... you liked that I looked hot?"

"Yeah. That. But also... I noticed a few guys checking you out today. And weirdly, I didn't mind."

That made me pause. I looked up from my screen and gave him my full attention. "Really? That used to drive you crazy."

He nodded. "I know. I don't know what changed. Maybe it's just age or perspective or something. But today, I was kinda into it. Watching other guys notice you."

I didn't know what to say at first. It wasn't weird. Just surprising. Unexpectedly open.

"Huh," I said finally, dragging the word out as I tried to make sense of the shift. "That's new."

"Yeah," he said. "Not trying to be weird. Just felt like saying it."

I nodded slowly and looked back at my phone. But my fingers didn't move. The screen blurred a little in my vision. Not because I was upset. Just... thoughtful.

I was still thinking about it.

Part 2: Lingering

It wasn't like I'd never been checked out before. I mean, I notice it sometimes - when a guy holds eye contact too long or glances at my chest mid-conversation. But it had been a while since I felt noticed. Not like that. Not in yoga shorts at Target with a grocery list in one hand and my phone in the other.

I wasn't trying to be sexy. I just wanted to wear something light because it was miserable outside and those shorts were... easy. Comfortable. And yeah, when I bought them, I had a tiny thought in the back of my mind about whether my husband would like them. But I wasn't expecting the way he looked at me.

And then there was what he said. That night on the couch. About liking when other guys looked at me.

I didn't know what to say at the time. It threw me a little - not in a bad way. Just unexpected. The old version of him would've been weirdly possessive about something like that. I've had friends with jealous husbands, and I always appreciated that he wasn't like that. But this was new. Not just not jealous - into it?

It stuck with me.

The next morning, I was folding laundry before work, and I pulled those same shorts from the basket. I held them up for a second longer than I needed to. Thought about the way they fit. The way he looked at me in them. The way I kind of liked being looked at by someone else, too, even if I'd never admit it out loud.

Later that week, we were getting ready to go to a friend's barbecue. It was supposed to be hot again. I stood in front of the mirror a little longer than usual, trying to decide what to wear. I held the shorts in one hand, denim cutoffs in the other. And just for a moment, I wondered.

Would he look at me like that again?

I went with the cutoffs. Safe choice. But the thought didn't leave.

Something had shifted. Not big. Not dramatic. But enough to make me wonder what else he might say, if I asked.

Part 3: The Look

The Fourth of July thing was pretty standard - folding chairs on patchy grass, kids covered in popsicle juice, cheap beer in red solo cups. Half the neighborhood showed up. Same people, same conversations. But it was hot again, and I wore the cutoffs.

The ones that hit just high enough on my thighs to make me feel... noticed. Paired with a loose white tank and sunglasses. Casual, but cute. I felt good. And I knew I looked good, too.

We were walking back from the snack table when I saw it - Greg, one of the other dads, tall and lean with that just-turned-40 kind of effortless fit. He was talking to someone but paused just enough to give me a look. Not creepy. Just... deliberate. Appreciative.

And I noticed.

It wasn't the first time I'd seen that kind of glance from him. I'd noticed Greg before - he was attractive, no denying it. One of those guys who ran every morning and somehow made parenting look low-effort. But I'd never said anything about it. Not to my husband. Not to anyone. It didn't feel like something that belonged in the open.

But that look lingered.

Later, when we were sitting side by side in the shade, I brought it up, pretending to sound casual.

"Greg definitely checked me out earlier."

He let out a low laugh. "By the drinks table, right?"

I looked over at him, surprised. "You saw that?"

He nodded. "He didn't exactly hide it. Kind of lingered."

I grinned. "You didn't look annoyed."

"Because I wasn't."

That made me pause. I studied his face. "Interesting."

He shrugged. "Just something about it. I don't know. I kind of liked it."

I looked away, smiling just slightly.

I didn't say it out loud, but I kind of liked it too.

If I'm being honest, I've noticed Greg before. He's attractive. In good shape. One of those guys who always seems put together but low-key about it. I'd never say that out loud - not because I was hiding anything, but because... why would I? It's not the kind of thing that usually comes up between us. And I definitely wouldn't want it to seem like I was fishing for anything.

What surprised me more was that he noticed too. And when he brought it up, he wasn't jealous. He wasn't sarcastic. He was... interested. Curious. Like he was still processing it himself.

When he said he liked it, something in me fluttered.

Not because Greg looked.

But because he saw it, and didn't turn away.

It felt like a door opened just a crack. And I wasn't sure what was on the other side. But for the first time, I didn't feel like closing it.

Part 4: Echoes

It didn't come up again for a few days. Life moved on - bedtimes, dishes, emails, laundry. But something lingered in the background. That look at the barbecue. The way my husband reacted to it. Not dismissive. Not defensive. Curious, even.

And it stuck with me.

A few nights later, we were out on the patio after the kids were in bed. The air was warm, the sky still faintly glowing. He poured us both a drink. I sat cross-legged in one of the chairs, wearing an old t-shirt and a pair of sleep shorts, legs pulled up to my chest.

He looked over at me, quiet for a while. Then he said, "I keep thinking about the other night."

I smiled. "The cookout?"

"Yeah. That whole Greg thing."

I tilted my head slightly. "Still thinking about that?"

He gave a soft laugh. "A little. It was just... kind of hot."

I took a slow sip of my wine, watching him. "What was?"

He shrugged. "Watching someone look at you like that. Seeing how you carried it. It didn't feel threatening. Just... something about it."

I looked down at my glass, then back at him. "I kind of liked it too."

That surprised him a little. I could see it.

"Yeah?" he said.

I nodded. "It felt good. Not because it was Greg. Just... being seen. Being wanted. I didn't expect to feel that. But I did."

I'm not the kind of woman who chases that sort of attention. I'm a mom. I'm a partner. I'm building a career I'm proud of. Most days I'm juggling meetings and lunches and school pickups - not the kind of woman who seeks attention from guys. That's never been who I am. Or at least... not who I thought I was. But lately, something's been shifting. A part of me waking up. And it's not about being reckless or wild - it's about feeling alive. Remembering that I can be all those things - smart, grounded, maternal - and still want to be wanted.

He was quiet for a beat. Then: "I liked watching it. I liked you in that moment."

There was something tender in the way he said it. Not performative. Just true.

The space between us felt warmer.

We didn't say anything for a while after that. Just sat in the soft dark, the quiet stretch of night pressing in gently.

But something had shifted.

Not a leap.

Just a slow lean forward, into something neither of us had language for yet.

Part 5: The Clip

Date night had been simple - dinner, drinks, a walk through town. Nothing over the top. But something had been simmering between us all evening. That same warm thread from the patio conversation still lingered.

Back home, once the kids were down and the lights were low, we ended up in bed. We were both a little buzzed, loose. Sometimes, we'll pull something up before things get going - a clip, a scene, just part of the foreplay. Usually, I'm the one who finds something. But this time, I handed him the phone.

"You pick."

He gave me a look. Half-surprised, half turned on. "You sure?"

I nodded. "I want to see what you like."

He scrolled for a bit. I watched his face, his breathing change just slightly. Then he turned the screen toward me. A paused video. The image was clear enough: a woman on all fours. One man in front of her, the other behind.

My eyebrows lifted. "Wow. Okay."

He laughed nervously. "Too much?"

"No ha, let's see it."

He hit play.

It started slow. The woman was confident. Comfortable. She wasn't being forced or degraded - she looked like she wanted it. That surprised me more than the act itself. She was on her knees, giving head to one guy while the other eased into her from behind. Her moans weren't just for show. You could tell she meant them.

And as I watched, something flickered in me.

It felt wild. Way beyond anything I'd ever imagined for myself. And yet...

I kept watching.

His hand slid along my thigh as the scene played. My breath hitched. I could feel my body reacting, even though part of my brain was still trying to act surprised.

The woman looked so open. So claimed. But also... powerful. Desired from both sides.

And I let my mind wander.

What would that feel like?

Me in that position. Him behind me. Someone else in front of me. Both of them wanting me. Watching me.

It was insane.

It could never happen.

But I couldn't stop thinking about it.

Not even when the clip ended, and his mouth was already on my neck, and I was arching into his touch like I needed it more than I'd realized.

I didn't say anything about the video afterward.

But I fell asleep wondering what it meant that I liked it.

And what else I might like, if I let myself imagine it.

Part 6: The Massage

It wasn't planned.

I'd had a massage booked for over a week - just a quick afternoon session at the same place I always go. My regular therapist, Lisa, has great hands and never talks too much. It's one of the few times I get an hour completely to myself. The house was busy anyway - he had the kids, and I had a small window between meetings - so I didn't think twice about keeping the appointment.

But when I checked in at the front desk, the girl looked up apologetically.

"Hey, just a heads up - Lisa called out sick this morning. We have someone covering your slot if you still want to keep it. Totally understand if you'd rather reschedule."

I almost said yes. Almost turned around and headed out. But then she added, "He's great. One of our senior therapists - David. Certified, super professional. Doesn't normally work Thursdays but came in to help out."

I hesitated.

A guy. Not what I expected. Not what I would have ever chosen. But I was already there. Already stripped mentally down to that place where I needed the tension gone from my neck, shoulders, and back.

And I didn't want to waste the time. So I nodded. "That's fine. I'll keep it."

David was older than me, probably early 40s. Fit. Calm. That quiet confidence that's both disarming and impossible to ignore. He had broad shoulders, short sleeves revealing strong arms, and a voice that was steady and low without being flirtatious.

He led me to the room, asked the usual questions - any injuries, any areas to focus on - and then stepped out while I undressed. I laid down on the table, face in the cradle, towel draped over me, trying to focus on my breathing.

But the moment his hands touched my shoulders, I felt it.

Pressure. Heat. Presence.

It wasn't sexual. Not really. But it was something. There was a strength in the way he moved, the way he handled my body with care but also firmness. Not clinical. Not flirty. Just... deeply aware.

When he moved to my lower back, his thumbs pressing along the edges of my spine, I found myself exhaling in this shaky, involuntary way. Like something deep inside me had been waiting to be touched.

My mind wandered.

To that video. The one he'd picked. The way the woman had looked - undone and bold at the same time.

And then I thought about him. My husband. What he'd said. What he liked.

And just for a second, I imagined: what if he was here, in the corner, watching this? Watching David's hands on me. Seeing the way I melted under another man's touch.

It startled me.

But it didn't go away.

By the time the massage was over, I was quiet. Grateful. A little dazed.

He asked if everything felt okay. I nodded quickly, thanked him, paid at the front desk, and got in my car with my heart still thudding.

I didn't tell my husband everything that night.

But as I undressed for bed, I kept thinking about those hands.

And how good it felt to be seen like that - even if no one else was in the room.

Even if someone had been.

Part 7: The Conversation

It took me a few days to bring it up. Not because I was hiding anything - just because I didn't know how to say it without making it sound like something it wasn't.

We were doing dishes one night, music playing low in the background, kids finally in bed. He handed me a towel, and I dried the pan in my hands a little slower than necessary.

"Hey," I said, without looking at him. "That massage I had the other day... it wasn't Lisa."

He glanced over. "Oh? Who'd you end up with?"

I hesitated. "A guy. David. He was filling in."

He raised an eyebrow, curious. "How was it?"

I shrugged, trying to keep it casual. "Really good, actually. Better than I expected. I almost canceled when they told me Lisa was out, but I stayed. I'm glad I did. He was... really good."

He didn't flinch. Didn't tease. Just nodded slowly.

"Nice," he said. "Was it weird?"

I thought about it. "A little, at first. Just because I wasn't expecting it. But once it started, it was just... different. His hands were strong. Confident. It wasn't anything inappropriate, but... I don't know. It stayed with me longer than massages usually do."

He looked at me, really looked. His voice dropped a bit. "Stayed with you how?"

I felt a tiny flush rise in my cheeks. "I guess I kept thinking about how it felt. Being touched like that. Like my whole body was being listened to. It surprised me."

He dried his hands on a dish towel, then leaned against the counter. "You know... you could go back. If it helped. If you liked it."

I blinked. "Really?"

He smiled. "Yeah. I mean, it's not like you're running off with him. But if someone makes you feel good - even in a professional way - I want you to have that."

I didn't know what to say at first. Just nodded slowly. Something warm settled in my chest.

"Okay," I said. "Maybe I will."

But in the back of my mind, I knew the next time would feel different.

Because now he knew.

And something about that made me want it more.

Part 8: The Second Session

I booked it without overthinking - same place, same time slot, same name on the calendar.

David.

The front desk girl recognized me and smiled. "You're with David again, right?"

I just nodded. "Yep."

He greeted me with the same calm, professional ease. Black polo, sleeves snug against his arms, warm smile that didn't overstay its welcome. But this time, when our eyes met, there was a flicker of something more - recognition, maybe. Familiarity.

"Any changes since last time?" he asked as we walked back to the room.

I shook my head. "Still tight in my shoulders. Maybe a little lower back today, too."

"Got it. We'll focus there. You know the drill - undress to your comfort level and I'll be back in a minute."

When he stepped out, I stood there for a second, heart thudding a little harder than I expected. I undressed slower this time. Folded my clothes neatly on the chair. Slid under the sheet.

Face-down, I listened to the quiet tick of the wall clock until I heard the soft knock.

"Ready?"

"Yeah."

He started at my neck. Warm oil. Firm pressure. The same smooth, sure rhythm as before.

But today, my body felt different. More aware. More responsive.

As he moved to my lower back, his thumbs pressing in slow, perfect circles, I let out a soft breath I didn't mean to.

"All good?"

"Yeah," I said. "Feels really good."

There was a long stretch of silence after that - peaceful, focused. Until he reached the edge of the towel and paused, hands hovering at the small of my back.

"Would you like me to go a bit further up into the glutes today? Totally optional. Just let me know."

I hesitated.

"That would be okay," I said, voice soft. "And... if it's alright, I can adjust the towel a bit? So you can get in there better."

His pause was respectful. "Whatever you're comfortable with."

I reached back and folded the edge down slightly - just enough to give him room to work, but still modest.

But when he started working deeper into the muscle, his hands strong and deliberate, I let out another breath - longer this time, shakier. His fingers slid just inside the curve of my hip, and I could feel the towel shift a little more. I didn't fix it.

His touch was still clinical, still professional, but there was heat in it. Heat I couldn't ignore.

And then I said it, almost without meaning to.

"This feels... really good," I whispered.

He paused for just a breath, then continued, slower now. "Good. Just let me know if you ever want to adjust anything."

My voice felt barely there. "Would it be okay if I just... took the towel off? I think it might help."

Another pause. Careful. "If you're comfortable, absolutely."

I reached back and slid it off, folding it down beside me. My back, hips, and thighs fully exposed now. I closed my eyes and let the air touch my skin.

His hands returned - slick with oil, warm, confident. He started again at the top of my glutes, and this time, he didn't stop at the edge. His palms pressed fully over the curves of my ass, kneading in deep, slow circles. He spread the pressure wide, then narrow, his thumbs dipping toward the center, then back out along the muscles. He worked each cheek like any other part of my body - focused, deliberate - but it didn't feel like any other part.

It felt like being touched.

Every drag of his fingers sent heat shooting through me. The way his hands gripped, squeezed, slid - it was intimate. Intense. And I didn't want him to stop. I let my legs part just slightly, just enough to give him more room. I could feel him adjust his stance, one hand pressing into the small of my back as the other worked lower, slower, into the heart of that tension.

I bit my lip. Didn't speak. Just breathed.

And let him keep going.

I risked a glance down, toward the floor where he was stepping between my legs, and I saw it - barely concealed by his shorts. A clear bulge. Hard. Thick. He didn't show it to me on purpose. He didn't say anything. But it was there. And he was big.

I wasn't supposed to see that.

But I liked that I did.

He worked up my back again, and I exhaled into the table, heat rolling through me in waves. The room felt heavier now, the quiet not so quiet.

When he finished, he stepped out as usual to let me dress. My hands shook a little as I pulled my clothes back on. My body was loose, soft, alive.

When I came out front, he gave me the same polite, professional smile. "Same time next week?"

I hesitated, then he added, "Just a heads up, I won't be on the Thursday schedule for a while. But I do in-home sessions too, if that's something you'd ever want to schedule."

He handed me a small card with his name and number. Nothing pushy. Just an option.

I slid it into my purse without a word.

But my pulse was pounding.

And I already knew what I was going to do with it.

Part 9: The Share

It was a couple nights later. We were getting ready for bed, brushing teeth in parallel silence, when I looked at him in the mirror and said, "So... I went back to David."

He raised an eyebrow. "Yeah? How was it?"

I leaned against the counter, drying my face with the towel. "It was... a little different this time."

He turned toward me. "Different how?"

I hesitated. My voice dropped a little. "I let him go a bit further. Into my glutes. I asked if it was okay to take the towel off so he could work more deeply."

He didn't react with shock or discomfort. Just gave a small nod. "And how did it feel?"

I paused. Then said the truth. "It felt amazing. I didn't expect to react the way I did, but... I don't know. It felt really good."

His eyes didn't leave mine. "I'm glad you told me. And I'm glad you let yourself enjoy it."

I smiled a little. Nervous. But warm. "He gave me his number in case I ever wanted to book an in-home session."

He tilted his head. "Would you?"

"I think so," I said. "If that's okay."

"It's more than okay," he said. "Do it."

The next afternoon, I opened my messages and typed slowly.

Hey David, this is [her name] from the studio. I was wondering if you're still doing in-home sessions. I'm free next Friday afternoon if you're available.

He replied ten minutes later.

Hi! Yes, I can do Friday. What time works for you?

Around 1pm would be perfect. My husband works from home, so he might be in and out a couple times - just FYI. Hope that's okay.

Totally fine. Happens sometimes. As long as you're both comfortable, that's what matters. I've had a few clients whose husbands like to be present or nearby - sometimes even just out of curiosity.

Haha, good to know. I don't think he'd be in the room or anything, but... I think he's a little curious. We've talked about it a bit.

I stared at the screen a few seconds after hitting send, my pulse a little quicker than before. I hadn't meant to admit that - at least not so directly. But now that it was out there, I felt a strange mix of nerves and excitement.

Because it was true. He was curious. And the fact that David didn't flinch at the idea made something in me light up.

Like maybe this wasn't just a private indulgence anymore.

Maybe it was becoming... something else.

Part 10: Arrival

Friday came fast.

I cleaned more than I needed to that morning - wiped counters that weren't dirty, fluffed pillows that didn't matter. My nerves felt like electricity just beneath the skin. It wasn't just about the massage this time. It was the space. The fact that he would be here. In our home.

At 12:58, the doorbell rang.

David stood there in his usual black polo, carrying the folded massage table in one hand, a small duffel slung over his shoulder. Calm. Collected. Like this was just another appointment. But when our eyes met, something passed between us. Recognition. Memory. Anticipation.

"Hey," I said, stepping aside. "Come on in."

"Thanks," he said with a smile. "Nice place."

I led him upstairs to the guest bedroom, which I'd set up earlier - dim light, soft playlist on the Bluetooth speaker, clean sheets on the bed. It was quieter up here. More private.

He looked around, approving. "This works perfectly."

"Glad it's okay," I said. "Same focus as last time?"

I nodded. "Yeah. Maybe even a bit deeper."

His eyes flicked up briefly, and he gave a small nod. "Got it. You can undress to your comfort level - I'll step into the hallway while you get situated."

Once he stepped out, I undressed slowly. I laid on the table, towel folded loosely over my hips, heart beating harder than it should've.

When he returned, he knocked softly before stepping in. The door clicked closed behind him.

The moment his hands touched my shoulders, I felt everything drop away - the tension, the noise, the waiting. Just his hands, strong and certain, warming the oil between strokes.

His palms moved down my back, thumbs pressing into my lower spine. He worked slowly, purposefully, like he had all the time in the world.

And then his hands moved lower.

To my hips.

To the curves of my ass.

He worked deeper than last time. No hesitation. No apology. Just broad, open-palmed strokes, gripping and kneading my glutes as though they were no different than my shoulders or calves. But they were. And I felt it in every breath.

At one point, I shifted slightly - just enough to let my legs part a little more. Not dramatically. Just enough.

He adjusted his stance.

And I could feel it again - his body close, the quiet catch in his breath, the brush of his thigh.

I tilted my head slightly, eyes closed, and whispered, "It's okay if you keep going."

His hands slowed for just a second, then resumed, deeper this time. Slipping inward. Up. Exploring the full shape of me.

I didn't stop him.

A few minutes later, the door creaked open behind us. David paused, lifting his hands off me.

"Hey, sorry to interrupt," my husband said casually. "Just grabbing the spare laptop charger - left it in the nightstand."

David nodded, stepping back as my husband crossed the room. I didn't lift my head, but I could feel his eyes linger. Not invasive. Just... watching.

"Looks like you're in good hands," he said with a soft smile, bending near the drawer.

I let out a breathy laugh. "Very good."

He paused at the door. "Mind if I hang out for a minute? Always wondered if I could pick up a few tricks."

David glanced at me, professional but calm. I nodded.

"Sure," David said. "No problem at all."

My husband pulled the desk chair into the corner and sat, quiet. Watching. Curious.

David resumed the massage, and this time, I could feel everything more. The oil-slick grip of his palms as they pressed deeply into the flesh of my ass. The slow drag of his thumbs as they parted and kneaded me open, working all the way into the crease where thigh met glute.

I moaned softly, my breath catching as David's hands continued to work across the full curve of my ass, spreading and kneading me with focused precision. His thumbs pressed into the deepest line where muscle met muscle, just skimming the top of my inner thigh. I didn't say a word, but I tilted my hips slightly, giving him more access. He responded without hesitation.

My husband's presence was a hum in the background - still, quiet, fully present. I peeked over my shoulder just enough to catch the expression on his face: entranced, aroused, completely dialed in.

"You good?" David asked, low and steady.

"Mmhmm," I breathed. "Keep going. Please."

And he did. Every pass of his hands more deliberate, more intimate. The tension in the room had changed - sharpened. Not inappropriate. Not overt. Just dense with possibility.

David slowed after a few more minutes, transitioning back to the safer terrain of my lower back, then shoulders. Gradually easing the intensity down, like a plane descending.

When he stepped away, I stayed there a moment, letting the air cool against my skin.

My husband stood, gave me a glance that said more than words could carry, and murmured, "I'll let you finish up."

David handed me a towel and turned to his bag as I slid off the table, robe waiting on the chair. Once I was dressed, he was standing at the door, bag packed, his tone casual.

"Let me know if you'd like to book again," he said. "I'm around next week, or... we can figure out something a little more custom. If that's something you're open to."

I nodded, a small smile forming. "Yeah. I think I'd like that."

He glanced at me once more, then at my husband, and left with the same composed grace he'd arrived with.

The door clicked shut. And I knew we had only just begun.

Part 11: Afterward

We didn't say anything for a while after David left. The house felt still, like the walls were holding their breath. I sat at the edge of the guest bed in my robe, still flushed, still buzzing. My husband stood in the doorway, arms crossed, just watching me for a second before stepping in and closing the door behind him.

"You okay?" he asked.

I nodded slowly. "Yeah. More than okay."

He walked over and sat next to me on the bed. Neither of us touched the other right away.

"That was... something," he said, his voice low.

"You being there," I said quietly. "Watching... it changed something. In a good way."

He nodded. "I didn't want to interrupt. But when I walked in, and saw how relaxed you looked... how into it you were - it was kind of beautiful."

That word surprised me. Beautiful.

I looked down at my hands. "It felt intimate. Not just what he was doing, but... knowing you were there. Seeing it."

He leaned in a little closer. "Were you nervous? When I walked in?"

I shook my head. "No. I think part of me hoped you would."

He let out a breath through his nose, then looked at me sideways. "So... what happens next?"

I smiled. "I was going to ask you that."

We sat there quietly for a moment, both of us playing back what just happened.

"You know," he said, brushing his hand lightly over my knee, "I don't think I've ever seen you look that free. Not in a long time."

That made something shift in me. Something soft. Open.

"I felt free," I said. "And not because of him. Because you let it happen. Because you were with me in it."

He nodded. "So... maybe we do it again. See where it goes. Take it slow. If you're comfortable."

"I want that," I said, then paused. "I don't know exactly what I want to do next time. But I want to find out."

He kissed my temple and stood up. "Then we'll figure it out together. No pressure. Just whatever feels right."

I leaned back on my hands, still in the afterglow of the moment, and watched him leave the room.

My phone buzzed with a new message on the nightstand.

It was from David.

Thanks again for today. Hope you're feeling good. Let me know if you'd like to schedule again - whatever you're comfortable with.

I stared at it for a moment, then smiled.

I didn't reply right away.

But I would.

Part 12: The Agreement

I waited until the next morning to respond. Something about texting him in the heat of the moment felt too eager, too impulsive. But once the house was quiet and my coffee was warm in my hands, I opened the message again and started typing.

I'd like to schedule again. This time, I think we might want to explore a little more. My husband would like to be there again, if that's okay.

The three dots appeared almost immediately.

That's completely fine. I trust you both to set the pace. I'm here for whatever you're ready for.

I stared at that for a long moment. Calm. Professional. Open. But still charged with the memory of his hands. His voice. My husband's eyes on me while I came apart.

That night, I brought it up again in bed.

"I texted him," I said, voice low, tucked into his side.

He turned slightly, brushing a hand up my arm. "Yeah?"

"I asked if he'd be open to going further. With you there."

A beat passed. His voice came back steady. "And he said yes?"

"He said he'd follow our lead. That it's whatever we're ready for."

He exhaled slowly, fingers tightening slightly around my shoulder. "What are you ready for?"

I hesitated. But only for a second. "I think... I want to see where it could go."

He didn't speak at first. Just looked at me, something serious and warm in his eyes. Then he leaned in and kissed me, slow and thoughtful, his hand settling on my waist.

"Then we'll take it one step at a time. Whatever feels right."

After we talked it through - honestly, quietly - I picked up my phone and opened our thread with David again.

Do you ever do evening appointments?

He replied almost instantly.

I can, yes. What do you have in mind?

Maybe something later in the week. Evening feels a little... easier. The house is quieter. We can both relax a little beforehand.

That works for me. You set the time, and I'll be there.

I looked over at my husband and smiled. "He's in. Evening session. Just us, at home."

We agreed not to rush. To take our time. A drink or two first. Soft music. No script. No performance. Just the three of us, and whatever happened next.

Part 13: The Night In

We didn't call it a date night, but it felt like one.

We ate dinner late - takeout, easy. No cleanup. We both had a drink. Then another. He queued up a playlist while I disappeared upstairs, took a long shower, shaved everything, moisturized slowly. By the time I slipped into my robe, my skin was already buzzing.

Downstairs, he was pouring a second glass of wine when I walked in. His eyes swept over me like he hadn't already seen me a hundred times in that robe. "You look... ready."

I gave a small smile and sat on the couch beside him. We didn't talk much. Just sipped, listened to the music, let the anticipation stretch.

At 8:01, the doorbell rang.

He opened it. David stood there, calm as ever. Black duffel in one hand, table in the other. "Evening."

"Come on in," my husband said, stepping aside.

David glanced at me, gave a soft nod. "Good to see you again."

"You too," I said, and meant it.

They moved together upstairs to the guest room, setting up quietly while I stayed back. I took one more sip of wine before following.

The lights were low. Just the small lamp near the bed and a faint golden glow from the hallway. Music playing softly. The room didn't feel like part of the house anymore.

David turned to me. "Ready when you are."

I dropped the robe slowly, deliberately, and climbed onto the table.

Naked.

He covered me loosely with a sheet, then stepped to the side. "We'll start like before. Just breathe."

My husband pulled the chair into the corner and sat, quiet but present.

David began. Warm oil. Long, smooth strokes down my back. Familiar. But different.

His hands moved lower, slower. To my hips. Then the full swell of my ass. There was no hesitation this time. He touched me like he had every right to be there. And I gave it to him.

"You okay?" he asked, voice low.

"Mmhmm."

"You want me to go further?"

I nodded.

The sheet was gone by then, pushed aside without fanfare. His hands gripped me openly now, palms sliding between my thighs, working deeper. Every stroke closer to the center. My body responded before I could think. Hips tilting. Breath catching.

I lifted my hips slightly, breath shaky. "Touch me," I whispered. "There. Please."

His fingers slipped between my lips. Warm. Wet. Slow.

And I moaned.

I turned my head and looked at my husband. He was watching, eyes dark, jaw tight. But not angry. Not jealous. Just... there. Wanting me.

David worked me open with steady care. His fingers circled, pressed, dipped - each motion deliberate and slow, coaxing pleasure out of me like he was reading my body in real time. His hands were big, warm, steady, and impossibly sure of where to go and how to move. The way he spread me, the way his fingertips glided and lingered, it felt like he wasn't just touching me - he was learning me.

I was soaked, the slick sound of his fingers moving between my lips making it impossible to pretend this was anything but what it was. I arched into his hand, gasping, thighs tensing, hips rolling in a rhythm I couldn't hold back. Every nerve felt raw and alive. The table creaked beneath me, barely keeping up with the tension building in my body.

Then I heard my husband's voice.

"Turn over."

I did.

The air in the room felt different. Heavier. Closer. Like we'd all crossed into something we couldn't take back - and none of us wanted to.

Part 14: Turning Up

I turned over slowly, the cool air brushing over my skin as I moved. David stood beside the table, his hands still glistening with oil, his expression unreadable - but his eyes stayed on me. I felt the weight of both their gazes. And I wanted it.

My husband remained seated in the corner, but he leaned forward now, elbows on his knees, completely focused.

David moved closer, his hands returning to my body - this time to my front. He started at my collarbone, working down in slow, fluid motions, palms gliding over my breasts without hesitation. He cupped and kneaded them with the same calm confidence he brought to every part of my body, and I arched into his touch, breath catching. His thumbs brushed across my nipples, slick and warm, and I gasped, thighs shifting beneath the towel.

When he moved lower, I sat up slightly. My eyes dropped to his shorts, and I saw it - clearly outlined against the fabric. Hard. Heavy. Unmistakably ready.

I reached for the waistband, fingers brushing deliberately over the front. He didn't move, didn't rush. I undid the button, pulled the zipper down, and eased the fabric open. No performance. Just quiet permission.

I freed him from his briefs, and my breath caught. He was big - long and thick, but not in a way that felt overwhelming. Beautiful, really. Heavy in my hand, flushed and already glistening at the tip.

I slid off the table and onto my knees between his legs.

But after a few strokes, I looked up and murmured, "Sit down."

He backed up and lowered into the couch across the room - wide-seated, armless, and low. Perfect. I crawled after him, slow and steady, then took him back into my mouth.

Behind me, I heard my husband rise. I turned slightly, meeting his eyes.

"Come here," I said.

He came to sit beside David, and I reached for his waistband next. I pulled his shorts and boxers down just far enough to free him. He was hard - thick, familiar, and just as breathtaking in a different way. I loved the contrast. Both of them were big. Both of them mine.

Then I turned between them, one hand on each of them, stroking in rhythm.

I started again on David, slow and wet, while my other hand worked my husband's length.

After a minute, I switched. My mouth wrapped around my husband, tongue flicking and swirling as I moaned, tasting him, loving how hard he already was.

I looked up between them. Both watching. Both breathing hard. Both in my hands.

Then I whispered it:

"Behind me."

My husband stood and moved into position while I turned, lowering my chest to the cushion, presenting myself.

David stayed in front, already thick and glistening with spit. My husband's hands gripped my hips.

And then - finally - they both had me.

Part 15: The Finish

The moment I felt him slide inside me from behind, I gasped. My fingers gripped the edge of the couch cushion, legs trembling from the intensity already swirling through my body. My husband filled me perfectly - deep and familiar - but somehow different now. There was more heat, more urgency, more... electricity in the way his hips met mine.

And then I felt David's hand slide along my cheek. I opened my mouth, and he slipped back inside, slow and steady. My lips stretched around him, my tongue swirling as I tried to take as much of him as I could.

The rhythm came slowly at first. My husband's hips rolled behind me, deep and controlled, while I worked David with my mouth and hand, switching pace, moaning around him as pressure built from every direction.

I was sandwiched - claimed - and I loved it.

My mind was gone. Body trembling. Every nerve lit up. Every breath hitched.

The sound of skin on skin, of soft groans, of my own wet, needy moans filled the room. David's hand moved to the back of my head, not pushing, just holding. My husband's fingers dug into my hips, pulling me back into him with each thrust.

It was more than pleasure. It was surrender. It was freedom.

I felt it coil inside me. A wave building, cresting, ready to crash.

"God, yes," I gasped, pulling off David just long enough to speak. "I'm gonna come. Don't stop - don't stop."

My husband groaned behind me, and David whispered, "Good girl," just before I took him back into my mouth.

And then it hit.

My whole body tightened - every muscle, every thought, every breath locked up and exploded in waves of white-hot pleasure. I moaned around David's cock, louder than I expected, muffled but raw. My husband kept fucking me through it, the rhythm breaking slightly as my body shook.

I was moaning, until the room blurred around me.

My release went on and on, every pulse dragging another wave of pleasure behind it. My thighs trembled, arms shaking, spit dripping from my chin as I clung to the edge of the couch and gave myself over to both of them - completely, willingly, lost in the pleasure they were giving me.

I could feel them getting close. My husband's breath was ragged, broken. David's cock throbbed in my mouth, swollen and tense.

Then I pulled back again, eyes wild, hair stuck to my cheeks.

"You're both so close," I whispered. "I want to feel it. Let go for me."

My husband groaned loudly, hands tightening around my waist as he thrust one last time and spilled deep inside me, warmth spreading through me as he shuddered.

David followed seconds later. I sucked him hard and fast, then pulled back just in time for him to release across my tongue and lips, thick and hot, spilling down my chin.

I stayed there between them, panting, wet, raw, and undone.

Overwhelmed. Filled. Deeply, utterly satisfied.

I looked up at David, then back at my husband, who reached out and touched my face, brushing a lock of hair behind my ear.

And I smiled.

Because I'd never felt more alive.