My mom turned to me, her eyes full of disbelief as she held the phone to her ear. I quickly forced a tight smile and mouthed, “Everything’s fine.”
She was immediately distracted by a voice on the other end of the line and turned away. I thought my stepdad would stop, but he didn’t.
“Are you okay?” he asked, locking his eyes onto mine. I couldn’t quite read the dark emotion swirling in his gaze. “Looks like my massage is making you feel really good," he murmured, his voice dropping to a husky drawl. "I’ll take that as your body's way of encouraging me.”
I met his darkened gaze, allowing the heavy tension to hang in the air between us. My voice dropped into a breathless, honeyed purr that had absolutely nothing to do with sore muscles.
"Please don't stop," I whispered, shifting my hips just a fraction closer to his hand. "Just keep going."
Without waiting for his response, I let my head fall back against the sofa and closed my eyes as my pussy clenched with pleasure. I bit my lip, fighting as hard as I could to keep from moaning again. Feigning innocence, I shifted my legs, letting my skirt ride up even higher, pretending I didn't know exactly what I was doing.
I didn't know how high it had crept, but I was certain it was high enough for him to see my soaked panties. I wanted him to see how wet he made me.
When I lifted my head and opened my eyes, his gaze was locked dead on my crotch. He quickly darted his eyes away, but he wasn't fast enough. I saw the raw hunger and desire flashing in them. I didn't make a single move to cover myself up.
My eyes drifted down, and I noticed his thick, rigid dick straining against the fabric of his shorts. I could clearly see the heavy outline of his length; he was impressively well-endowed. The way the material stretched so tightly over his erection made my heart race even faster. He was hard for me, right there in the living room, while my mom was just a few steps away.
Instead of feeling guilty, my core clenched even harder at the realization that he was hard because of me. A part of me wished I wasn't wearing anything at all, just so he could clearly see the effect his magic hands were having on me.
"I’ve called a massage therapist. She said she'll be here in five minutes," my mom announced from across the room, completely oblivious to what was happening.
My stepdad’s hand immediately slowed. His fingers didn't stop all at once; instead, they dragged over my inner thigh, as if he were trying to savor the feverish heat of my skin one last time. It was as if he physically couldn't bear to let go. I watched his expression darken with frustration before he finally pulled his hand away.
A cold rush swept over the spot where his warm hands had just been, and I couldn't hide the profound disappointment that crossed my face. The sudden loss of his touch was almost painful, leaving my skin tingling and my core desperately aching for more.
"You should go to your room and get ready," my stepdad said, his voice tight. "You heard your mom. The therapist is coming soon."
"Are you sure you want a therapist to massage me instead of you?" I challenged softly. I wanted him to say he didn't want anyone else touching me. I wanted him to say he would finish the job himself.
"They're professionals," he replied instead, avoiding my gaze. "They can do a better job than I can."
"Alright." I nodded slowly and forced myself up, leaving the living room. Even though the interruption deeply annoyed me, I couldn’t deny that letting a professional massage my battered muscles might actually be the only way I'd survive the rest of this trip.
My body was still incredibly sore from that bumpy road, but the deep, throbbing ache between my legs was something no professional therapist could ever fix.
I got to my room, stripped off my T-shirt, and wrapped myself in a towel, leaving only my panties on underneath. The house felt quiet, yet my skin still felt like it was on fire.
Soon, I heard the front door open and the murmur of polite greetings in the living room. The therapist had arrived. My mom led her into my bedroom a moment later. She was a woman in her mid-thirties, dressed in a crisp, traditional uniform. She carried a heavy-looking bag filled with wooden massage tools and various bottles of oil.
"Please get onto the massage table. Let's get started," she said with a polite smile. I looked at my mom one last time, hoping she’d see the hesitation in my eyes before I climbed onto the padded surface.
“Enjoy your authentic Thai massage, sweetie. I'm looking forward to hearing how much better you feel,” my mom said. She nodded politely to the therapist with a smile before stepping out and closing the door behind her, leaving us alone.
The woman unpacked her tools, laying them out in a neat row on a small cloth. She opened a bottle of oil and instructed me to unwrap my towel. I reached back and untucked the knot. She draped the towel over my lower half but pulled it up high on my thighs to expose my legs. My skin still felt overly sensitive; every slight breeze in the room made me shiver.
She poured a pool of oil into her palm. I listened to the slick sound of her rubbing her hands together to warm the liquid before she took my feet in her firm grasp and began to massage. She was highly methodical. She took her time on my feet and ankles, gently working the stiff joints before moving up to my calves.
At this point, she began to integrate the smooth wooden tools along with her hands. It felt nice and cool against my flushed skin, but as she worked, I remained completely unsatisfied. It just couldn't compare to my stepdad. Her technique was flawless, but the vital spark was missing. Every time she pressed deeply into a muscle, I found myself closing my eyes, desperately trying to imagine it was my stepdad's large, calloused hands touching me instead of hers.
When she finally moved up to my knees and thighs—the exact spots where his hands had been just moments ago—I held my breath in anticipation. But the electric thrill just wasn't there. She used the wooden tools to roll out the tight knots in my upper thighs. While it certainly helped alleviate the physical pain of the long trip, it did absolutely nothing to quench the fire he had started between my legs.
It was blindingly clear that my body didn’t want her soft hands or her wooden massage tools. All my body craved was my stepdad’s strong grip—the hands that knew me, the hands that knew exactly what I wanted. I lay there with my face pressed into the massage cradle, staring blankly at the floor, practically praying he would walk through that door and take over.
My mind was completely consumed by thoughts of him. I watched the gap beneath the door, hoping to see his familiar shadow block out the light.
Instead, without warning, the quiet was violently shattered by a harsh, ringing clash of metal from the hallway. It sounded like something heavy had slipped right at the top of the stairs, followed by a terrifying, chaotic clatter bouncing down the wooden steps. I heard the distinct sound of liquid splashing heavily against the floorboards and smaller objects rolling frantically in all directions.
Before my brain could even process the commotion, my mom let out a sharp, piercing gasp.
"Mom!" I yelled toward the closed door, half-ready to scramble off the table naked. "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine, sweetie!" her voice called back, sounding breathless and more than a little shaky. "I was bringing up the fruit and lime juice the host prepared for us... but I missed a step! Thank God Eric caught me before I went tumbling down!"
Hearing my stepdad’s low, steady voice murmuring reassurances in the hallway instantly unknotted the tension in my shoulders.
"Alright," I muttered, slowly lowering my head back down. I listened to their muffled voices, completely relaxed now that I knew he was handling the situation.
A few minutes later, the bedroom door clicked open. My stepdad walked in. He looked effortlessly calm, as if a near-disaster hadn't just unfolded right outside my room.
He looked directly at the therapist. "My wife needs your attention," he instructed, his deep voice smooth but leaving absolutely no room for argument. "She sprained her ankle and needs you to tend to it. You can take your tools with you. I'll take over from here."
The therapist nodded briskly, gathered her things, and hurried out. As the door clicked shut behind her, my heart did a violent, treacherous flip. Even though I knew my mom was sitting out there with a hurt ankle, I couldn't stop the wicked thrill that shot straight through my core. A heavy rush of heat flooded my chest, pooling deep in my stomach and traveling southward.
We were finally going to be completely alone.