My First Male Massage Experience

"P-please... Don't you care that I'm married?"

I lay motionless on the massage table, my voice quivering like a leaf in the wind as I pleaded with the man behind me.

His lips grazed my ear, his tone dripping with dark amusement—playful, persuasive. "Vanessa, you're ovulating, aren't you?"

"D-don't..."

My name is Vanessa Laurent, a woman who just said "I do."

A few days ago, my little sister Fiona showed up at my door, her face streaked with tears. She told me a masseur at some shady spa had assaulted her during an oil massage.

She called the cops right away.

But the bastard—Brandon Evans—claimed it was all consensual. Even had the nerve to pull out a video of Fiona crawling onto him like she wanted it.

With no other proof, the case crumbled.

After hearing her story, I didn't hesitate.

If we didn't have evidence, we'd make some.

What kind of man could turn down a gorgeous, married woman who wasn't asking for strings?

A place like this? It was only a matter of time before Brandon slipped up again. All I needed was footage of him crossing the line—enough to bury him.

Didn't matter whose evidence did it.

So after Fiona left, I walked into that spa and booked a session—specifically requesting a male masseur.

"Here's our service menu, ma'am." The receptionist didn't even blink, leading me to a dimly lit room before handing me an iPad. "Each masseur's profile includes photos and specialties. Take your pick."

It felt like scrolling through a catalog of escorts. I swiped until a photo of a guy with a gym-built body, clad in nothing but tight boxer briefs, filled the screen.

"Him."

I casually selected waxing, full-body brightening, and an oil massage before sliding the iPad back.

"Relax for now. Your masseur will be right in."