Under His Hands

My name is Evelyn Harper. Lately, company projects have been piling up, and I've been hunched over my desk for over ten hours a day, my shoulders, neck, and lower back aching like they're about to snap.

The doctor said I should find a professional therapist.

Arthur said his college buddy Victor is a senior private rehab therapist. Best of all, Victor said he'd do it for free, out of friendship.

"Great, just go," Arthur said as he pulled a tight lace miniskirt from the closet.

It was a gift from him for my birthday last year. The skirt clung to my curves, accentuating my full hips and 36F bust. As I walked, my breasts swayed like ripe peaches.

I looked at myself in the mirror, my face flushing a bit. "Arthur, this skirt is too revealing. It's just therapy—shouldn't I dress more decently?"

He came over, wrapped his arms around me from behind, and groped my breasts without hesitation, practically glued to me, whispering, "Perfect, baby. Wear this, and Victor's eyes will pop. He's been single for years—seeing your figure will make him jealous to death."

I angrily shoved his hands away and turned to glare at him. "Victor's your buddy. Won't he get the wrong idea if I dress like this?"

Arthur licked his lips. "What are you worried about? He's a professional therapist."

A wave of humiliation washed over me.

Five years of marriage, and Arthur had gotten worse and worse. Every time in bed, his thing was soft and limp like a dead fish, lasting less than two minutes.

I felt like I wasn't a wife—I was just a decoration. And now, not only was he not jealous, he was pushing me toward another man.

I gritted my teeth, grabbed my bag, and stormed out.

Victor texted that the studio was closed today, so I should come straight to his place.

I knocked on the door, and a burly man appeared—broad shoulders, narrow waist, arms like forged iron, his T-shirt stretched tight over his pecs, radiating thick masculine pheromones.

That was Victor, even buffer than in the photos.

"Evelyn? Come in," he said, but his gaze lingered on my chest. "Arthur said your back's killing you. Let me take a look."

I followed him into the living room. In the center was a professional therapy table, flanked by oils and massage tools. He had me lie face down on the table, my skirt riding up, exposing most of my pale thighs.

I awkwardly tried to tug it down, but Victor was already at work. His palms were broad and rough, starting with gentle kneads on my shoulders, then moving down to my lumbar.

"Relax." His palm presses against my lumbar spine, applying downward pressure. "Feel this. You’ve been holding tension here."

Warmth radiates from the point of contact in all directions, and I involuntarily take a deep breath.

"Exactly. That's it."

He continues downward, moving to my hips, his large hands grasping the muscles, kneading deeply.

My breathing becomes erratic.

This is therapy. It is merely therapy.

Yet, when he pressed near my earlobe, my whole body shuddered.

A jolt shot from my neck straight to my core, and I couldn't help letting out a low moan. This isn't right.

I cleared my throat. "Victor... maybe you shouldn't touch there. It's not really... appropriate. I'm Arthur's wife."

He didn't stop. "Standard stimulation. Hold on—Arthur told me to fix you good, guarantee you'll feel better."

His body heat seeped through the thin skirt. My heart raced, a faint wetness building between my legs.

"Flip over," he ordered. I obediently lay on my back, skirt completely askew, breasts nearly spilling out. He poured oil, hands sliding from my collarbone to my lower belly.

"Victor..." I gasped, face burning to my ears.

His fingers "accidentally" brushed my areola, and my nipple hardened instantly, like it was on fire.

This isn't right. He's Arthur's friend.

But my body was betraying me. I tensed up like I'd been shocked, arching my back involuntarily.

"Arthur said you're sensitive—gotta take it slow," he chuckled lowly, eyes darkening as his middle finger slipped under my skirt, circling my inner thigh, an inch from my slit.

I bit my lip to stifle a moan, trembling with forbidden excitement.

Just then, my phone rang—Arthur's video call. I fumbled to answer, his face appearing. "Baby, how's it going? Victor's skills good?"

I forced a smile. "Fine."

Victor leaned into frame with a smirk. "Arthur, she's really tense. Gotta amp it up—maybe I should straddle her so I can get better leverage. You cool?"

Arthur didn't hesitate. "Go for it! As long as it fixes her. I trust you."

The call ended, and a fire ignited in my chest.

Arthur, that bastard! So careless? Didn't care if his buddy straddled his wife?

Since he is utterly indifferent, what reason do I have to care?

Rage boiled over, shattering my restraint.

"Keep going," I said, deliberately thrusting out my chest, voice quivering.

Victor's breathing grew heavy.

He shifted his weight, positioning himself over me as I lay flat on the table.

He swung one leg over my hips, straddling me, his thighs caging my body beneath him.

His hands gripped my hips, lifting slightly.

He thrust forward deliberately. I felt it clearly—that hard rod pressing against my pussy through our clothes, scorching hot like steel. Arthur had never been this hard.

"Victor... this is too close. If Arthur finds out..." I protested, but my hips bucked upward on their own, grinding against the heat.

His big hands clamped my waist, forcing me to rock back and forth. "Arthur just approved. Relax—this is hip control training. Don't panic."

A gush of heat flooded my core. His hardness slammed up with every grind, hitting my clit dead-on.

The fabric of his pants wedged into my slit, rotating and grinding like it wanted to burrow in. Juices gushed, soaking my panties completely, my pubic bone throbbing hot.

I couldn't hold back a stifled moan. "Mmm... ah..."