My Male Masseur

Four months before my due date, I marched into a spa, still fuming from my fight with my husband.

Just as I was about to lose my composure, teetering on the edge of frustration, my husband called...

My name is Vanessa Roland, and I'm seven months pregnant.

The doctor had assured us that after the first trimester, intimacy was safe again. But ever since the pregnancy test turned positive, my husband had barely looked at me—let alone touched me. Back when we were dating, he couldn't keep his hands to himself. Now? He wouldn't even glance up from his phone when I stood in front of him in a sheer lace nightgown, striking my best pose.

Instead, he scrolled through videos of curvy streamers, tipping women with long legs and plunging necklines, then dismissed me with a bored, "Stop it."

"Think of the baby. We'll talk after you give birth."

That was his response—before rolling over, turning his back to me.

I was drenched in perfume, a scent that used to drive him wild. Now? Nothing. Not even a second glance.

Doubt gnawed at me. I snatched my phone and checked my reflection.

Had I become unattractive? Impossible. My skin was smoother than ever, glowing like fresh cream. Online, men raved about pregnant women—fuller curves, that radiant pregnancy glow. So why was my husband acting like I was invisible?

Resentment burned inside me.

"Honey, will you be home tonight?"

I slipped out of my clothes, angled the camera at my swollen breasts, and sent him the photo.

His reply was instant and ice-cold: Working late. Won't be back.

Fury coiled in my stomach. Desperate for some kind of release, I scrolled through forums until I found whispers of a certain kind of massage parlor—one with discreet services, handsome male therapists, and dimly lit rooms heavy with the scent of sandalwood and temptation.