The Masseuse Taught My Wife How to Pleasure Me

For months, Camila and I had been talking about bringing something new into our sex life. We had shared two threesomes with a mutual friend, and although the experience was intense, she felt the balance had tilted too far toward her own enjoyment. She wanted to give me something back. She wanted to see my face when another woman touched me, wanted to watch my cock harden in another woman’s hand, wanted to confront head-on what until then she had only imagined.

That’s how we ended up last Wednesday in an old building downtown, in Renata’s apartment. We had reached out to her through a recommendation: a professional specializing in erotic massage who also taught the technique to couples. Camila had insisted we would learn together, but the two of us knew what the real purpose of the visit was.

Renata opened the door wearing a short kimono tied at the waist, with nothing underneath that showed. Her hair was pulled up in a makeshift bun, and she had slim glasses that slipped a little down her nose and a smile that made it clear this was not her first time. She ushered us into a living room lit with warm light and a candle burning on a low table.

—Let’s sit for a bit before we start —she said, offering us ginger tea that smelled sweet and spicy at the same time.

The preliminaries lasted almost forty minutes. Renata explained the difference between therapeutic massage and what we were going to do. She talked to us about reflex zones, breathing, rhythm. Camila listened with her legs crossed on the sofa, nodding, making notes on her phone. I tried to keep up, but every so often Renata’s gaze would drop to the bulge in my pants and then rise again as if nothing had happened.

—There’s only one rule —she said at the end, looking only at me—. You can’t come. Not today. Today is about holding out.

Camila laughed. Renata didn’t.

We moved to the next room, where there was a professional massage table, a table with oils, and indirect lighting that left everything else in shadow. Renata asked my wife whether she preferred to practice the movements on the bed or on the table. Camila chose the table. It was higher. Easier to see.

—Take off your clothes and lie down on your stomach —Renata told me.

I undressed without thinking. I felt both of their eyes on me as I took off my shirt, my pants, my underwear. When my briefs came down and my cock sprang free, already half hard, I heard Camila let out a short breath. Renata made no effort to hide it: she looked straight at it, without smiling, appraising me. My wife gave me a side smile, with a mix of pride and something new, something I had never seen in her before: a desire to look, a desire to share me.

I lay down. Renata covered the lower half of my body with a thin towel, more for appearance than modesty. I smelled the oil as she warmed it between her hands. Warm, with a faint almond scent.

—Camila, stand here —she said, pointing to a spot on the other side of the table—. You’re going to do everything I do. Same pressure, same speed. If you fall behind, I’ll help you.

They started with my back. Renata’s two hands slid from the base of my neck to my waist, one on each side of my spine. A second later Camila’s hands copied the movement. It was strange and familiar at the same time: I knew my wife’s hands better than my own, but now they were synced with other hands, unfamiliar ones, more skilled.

Renata kept moving lower. Waist, buttocks, upper thighs. Her fingers brushed the edge of the towel, playing with the line that separates massage from something else. Camila imitated her with a second’s delay, but her touch was more timid, more cautious. Renata noticed immediately.

—Firmer —she told her—. He’s not made of glass. Touch him like you’re claiming him.

My wife squeezed. I felt her nails for an instant in the curve of my ass cheek, and that small shift in her confidence made me harder than I already was. My cock, pressed against the table, throbbed with every beat, already leaking a thick drop that clung to the sheet.

Renata went down to the spot where the leg meets the hip. Her finger traced a path to the edge of my balls and stayed there, suspended, not touching what I wanted her to touch. Then she slid four fingers between my thighs, spread them firmly, and stroked my perineum with the pad of her thumb, pressing a precise point that made me groan into the cushion. My wife copied the move. Four hands playing around the only part of my body that was begging for attention, two thumbs moving up toward my balls, barely grazing them underneath, leaving them swollen and sensitive.

—Roll over —Renata said.

I turned. The towel fell off. They didn’t pick it up. My cock stood up against my belly, thick, shiny at the tip, throbbing on its own. Camila’s pupils were huge and her lips slightly parted. Her gaze dropped to my crotch and stayed there far longer than she would have needed to see me. She wasn’t looking at me the way she always looks at me. She was looking at me the way you look at something that belongs to someone else.

***

Renata walked around the table. She ran a hand over my chest, my stomach, and kept going downward without urgency. I wasn’t breathing. When her fingers wrapped around my dick, they did it with a technique I recognized at once: it wasn’t the grip of someone who wants to finish quickly. It was the grip of someone who wants to test my stamina. She closed her fist around the base, squeezed until the thick vein underneath bulged out, and started moving upward millimeter by millimeter, twisting her wrist when she reached the top, pausing at the glans to play with the foreskin, pulling it all the way back, exposing the reddened tip.

—Look at this, Camila. This is what you have to learn —she said without looking at her, without stopping her hand—. Slow. Go up, twist your wrist at the top, come back down. Never neglect the tip. See how it shines here? That’s what’ll tell you how close he is. When it starts leaking like that, you already have him where you want him.

A thick thread hung from my tip. Renata caught it with her index finger, spread it over the whole glans, and the wet sound she made when she closed her fist again was the most obscene thing I had ever heard in my life. Camila leaned over the table, braced on her elbows, her breasts almost brushing my arm. She was watching. Watching with a level of detail she had never used to look at anything before. Every centimeter of Renata’s hand, every one of my reactions, every time my hips lifted on their own, traitorous, looking for more friction.

—You’re going to lose it if you keep this up —Camila murmured, hypnotized.

—He’s not going to lose it —Renata said, and loosened her fist just in time, leaving me on the edge, my cock bouncing alone in the air—. Learn to read him. When his balls pull up like that against his body, that’s when you stop.

—Your turn —she said, and handed her the oil.

My wife’s hand took hold of me. I knew it, but now it was different. Camila was imitating a new technique, focused, her brow slightly furrowed. She poured oil into her palm, wrapped my shaft with all five fingers, and began stroking me with a slowness that made her unrecognizable. When she made a mistake, Renata corrected the angle with two fingers, guiding her wrist. When she got it right, they both smiled as if I were an instrument they were tuning.

—Now the balls with the other hand —Renata told her, and placed her free palm beneath them, over my testicles—. Roll them just a little. Don’t squeeze. Feel how they tense up.

Camila obeyed. The double sensation, my cock wrapped and my balls kneaded with that softness, tore a long groan from me that I couldn’t hold back. My wife bit her lip at the sound.

They went on like that for several minutes. One touched me, the other watched. Then they switched. Sometimes they did it at the same time, one at the base, the other at the tip, two foreign fists moving in opposite directions over my oil-soaked cock, and I had to clench my teeth to avoid breaking the one rule. Renata once lowered her head to lick the drop that had formed again at the tip, without warning, a short brush of hot tongue that made my whole hips jerk.

—That’s how sensitive he needs to be when the time comes —she said, wiping the corner of her mouth with the back of her hand—. Not before, not after.

—Are you enjoying this? —Camila asked, ducking down until her mouth was next to my ear.

—Don’t make me talk —I told her.

She laughed softly. Her left hand rose to my chest and stayed there, feeling me breathe. Her right hand kept moving below, now with a new ease, as if Renata’s permission had stripped away her last filter. She whispered in my ear, very quietly, so Renata couldn’t hear:

—Look at her. Look how she works it. I want to see you come in her hand.

At one point I lifted my hand and touched one of Camila’s breasts over her dress. Camila let me. Renata did too. When I brought my other hand down and brushed one of Renata’s breasts over the kimono, she parted the fabric a little and let me touch skin to skin. Her nipple hardened against my palm. I was touching both of them at the same time, one in each hand, squeezing their tits, and they were both jerking me off without haste, four slender fingers circling me, another four moving from my balls to the tip. My head was spinning. My cock was dripping all over.

***

—Stop —I said, almost voiceless—. Stop for a second or I won’t make it.

Renata pulled her hand away at once. Camila took a second longer, looking at me as if she were measuring how much was left, how far she could push me before the game broke. She squeezed me hard one more time, felt the cock snap in her fingers, and only then let go and squeezed my thigh.

—That’s the most important part —Renata told my wife—. Knowing when to let go. That’s the difference between making him feel good and making him finish.

Camila nodded, serious, learning. I was breathing through my open mouth, my cock beating against my stomach with every pulse.

—I want to try something —Renata said.

She stepped out of the room for a moment. When she came back, she had a peeled piece of ginger, shiny, with a few fine cuts on the surface. My wife’s eyes went wide.

—Isn’t that for…?

—For several things —Renata said, and gestured for Camila to come closer—. Watch. You rub the tip gently, like this. The heat rises in waves. It doesn’t burn. But it makes him feel every millimeter of his own skin.

When that piece of ginger touched my glans, it was as if they had turned me on. Not pain. An alarm. Every nerve ending went on high alert. Renata ran it along my entire length, under the foreskin, over the sensitive underside of the frenulum, and then down to my balls, rubbing with the cuts facing downward. I clenched my fists against the table, my cock harder than it had ever been in my life, swollen to twice its normal size, red as if it were about to burst. My wife was leaning over me, lips parted, fascinated by what was happening to my body, fascinated to see me reacting to something she had never done to me before.

This is what people come here looking for, I thought. This, being laid bare, with nothing to hide.

—Now your mouth —Renata told Camila.

My wife didn’t ask if she could. She lowered her head and took me into her mouth slowly, carefully, as if she had been waiting for me all this time. First I felt the coolness of her saliva against the burning ginger and let out a groan that wasn’t mine. Camila worked her way down until she swallowed me nearly whole, pressing her lips tight around the shaft, letting me touch the back of her throat before rising again with a wet sound. Renata stood beside her, one hand on Camila’s thigh, guiding the rhythm with a light pressure, and the other stroking my testicles, rolling them in her palm, squeezing them slightly whenever my wife reached the base.

—Slower up top —Renata instructed her, still sounding like a teacher—. Suck the tip. Take it in and out with just the glans. Let everything gather there.

Camila obeyed. Her lips sealed just under the corona, her tongue circling the head, sucking with a steady pull that made my heels lift against the table. Renata ran two fingers, slick with oil, behind my balls, pressing that same spot from before, the perineum, in a slow rhythm that drove all the pleasure forward. The combination of my wife’s hot tongue sucking my tip, Renata’s precise fingers massaging me from the outside from within, and the background burn of ginger left me defenseless.

—I can’t —I warned, gripping the edges of the table.

—Now you can —Renata said, lowering her voice to a whisper—. Let her finish you. All in her mouth. Don’t lose a drop.

Camila buried her head just as I exploded. I felt the first spurt shoot out with a force that arched my back, and then another, and another, thick and hot, firing into my wife’s palate, and she didn’t move, she stayed there swallowing everything while Renata squeezed my balls to empty me completely. I came with my eyes closed, feeling both of them at once. My wife’s tight mouth sucking me to the last drop. Renata’s firm hand at the base of my cock, milking me upward. The warm light over my eyelids. When I opened them again, Camila lifted her face toward me with a thread of semen at the corner of her mouth, wiped it away with her thumb, licked it, and smiled at me like never before, with a new intimacy, unfiltered. Renata, beside her, passed a warm towel over my skin without saying anything, still with her kimono half-open and one nipple peeking through the silk.

***

We stayed for a while chatting, the three of us seated in the living room, dressed again. Renata served us water. She asked Camila what she had felt. My wife stayed quiet for a moment before answering.

—I was surprised by how much I enjoyed watching him —she said—. I didn’t think I’d be able to handle that much. I wanted the rule to last longer.

—Next time it’ll last longer —Renata replied, with a smile that was an invitation.

We went out into the street already at night. We walked the first two blocks in silence, holding hands. Then Camila squeezed my fingers and said what we both knew.

—I want to go back. But I want to be the one who decides when it’s someone else’s turn with you. I want to be the one who watches.

We got home with desire still on our skin. As soon as I closed the door, I pushed her against the hallway wall, lifted her dress, and tore her panties off in one pull. She was soaking wet, her thighs shining all the way down to her knees. I slid two fingers deep inside her and felt her clamp down at once, tight, already nearly finishing just from remembering. I lifted her against the wall, spread her legs around my waist and shoved my cock into her in one thrust, all the way in, tearing a cry from her.

—Tell me —she whispered in my ear, moving against me—. Tell me everything she did to you.

That night I fucked her for a long time, without stopping, without rules. I turned her against the wall and took her from behind, holding her by the hair while I told her how Renata had squeezed my balls. Then I threw her on the bed on her back, lifted her legs over my shoulders and fucked her to the hilt while describing the other woman’s tongue on my glans. Camila came three times, one right after another, drenching my thighs, biting my shoulder, begging me for more between broken moans, while I told her in her ear what the other woman had done to me and how she had looked at me. The fourth time we came together, me emptying myself inside her to the last drop, her claws digging into my back. The part that turned her on most wasn’t remembering how they touched me. It was remembering that she had been the one who saw the most.