My wife insisted I get a massage even though I hate them. I didn't realize she’d given the therapist 'special instructions'..."

We were celebrating our anniversary at a high-end luxury spa-hotel. My wife, stunning as always, had spent the morning being pampered. I’m not a massage person—I find the forced relaxation awkward—so I hit the gym instead.

When we reunited, she had a predatory little smirk on her face. "I booked a session for you at 5:00," she said, stretching out on the king-sized bed.

"Honey, you know I hate those," I protested. "It’s a waste of money."

She just put a finger to her lips, shushing me with a wink. "Trust me on this one. It’s my gift to you. Go."

I walked into the spa room at 5:00 PM to find Alina waiting. She was a striking woman, but her most "impressive" feature was impossible to miss: a massive pair of breasts that seemed to strain against the buttons of her professional tunic.

"Your wife is delightful," Alina purred. "We had such a... deep conversation about you."

I lay on my stomach, and she began. She was strong, her hands slick with warm oil. But as she leaned over to work my lats, I felt them—the heavy, unmistakable weight of her breasts pressing firmly against my back. It wasn't a graze; it was a deliberate, rhythmic pressure. My pulse started to hammer.

"You're so fit," she whispered, her chest sliding across my skin. "I can tell you take care of yourself."

When she told me to flip over, I was already struggling. As I settled onto my back, I saw she had popped two buttons on her shirt. I had a front-row seat to a lacy bra overflowing with soft, pale skin. I tried to think about anything else, but then she leaned down. Her breasts brushed against my chin, the scent of her perfume filling my head.

She began to massage my inner thighs, her thumbs grazing the edge of the towel. I was rock hard, the towel tented and mocking me. She didn't look away; she smiled. Then, she leaned into my ear, her tits literally resting on my face.

"Your wife told me you’d like this," she whispered breathily. "Now, get to your room. She’s waiting."

Before I could leave, Alina stopped me. "Don't you want to feel how soft they are first?" She slid her straps down, and for a heart-stopping minute, I had both hands full of her delicious, heavy warmth. It was the most electric foreplay of my life.

The plush carpet of the hotel hallway felt unstable beneath my feet. Every step back to our suite was a drumbeat of pure adrenaline. My skin still hummed from Alina’s touch, every nerve ending screaming for a release that had been expertly withheld.

I fumbled the keycard. The door clicked open into silent, perfumed darkness. The scent of rich vanilla and her signature perfume hit me first.

“Surprise.”

Her voice was a velvet purr. She was silhouetted against the window, a vision crafted from shadow and lace. She stepped into a sliver of light—a black lace corset cinched her waist, pushing her breasts up into breathtaking swells. Sheer black stockings and lethally high heels were all she wore.

“So,” she began, her finger tracing a slow line down my chest. “Did she take good care of you?”

The question hung in the air, laden with meaning. I found my voice, rough and unused. **“**I didn’t know you had that vixen side in you.”

She laughed, a low, thrilling sound. “There are a lot of things you don’t know about me yet, darling.” She stepped closer, her touch searing through my shirt. “I picked the room, I picked the therapist, and I specifically requested Alina. I told her to be very thorough. To use her hands. Her… *assets*. To get you ready for me. Did it work?”

“God, yes. I’m out of my mind.”

“Good.” Her mouth found mine then—hungry and deep. My hands gripped her corseted waist, pulling her hard against me. She reached for my belt, fingers making quick work of the buckle. “I’ve been thinking about this all day. Knowing where you were. Knowing what she was doing to you. Knowing you were coming back to me like this.”

She led me toward the massive bed. Standing before me, she slowly unfastened the front clasps of the corset. It fell away, revealing her completely. She climbed over me, straddling my hips, the silken heat of her inner thighs cradling me.

“Tell me what you want,” she whispered.

“I want to be inside you. Now.”

She lifted herself up and then sank down, taking me in one slow, devastating inch at a time. A sharp, shared gasp tore through the room. She was so wet, so tight. She set a relentless, riding pace, rising and falling. I could only watch, mesmerized, as her breasts moved with her rhythm, her eyes locked on mine, dark with pleasure and power.

The tension from the massage, the anticipation of the walk back—it all concentrated here. I felt the coil in my gut tightening. Her movements became frantic.

“There!” she cried out, her internal muscles fluttering around me in a sudden, rhythmic pulse. Her climax triggered mine. With a guttural roar, I thrust up into her one last time as my own release tore through me in blinding, shuddering waves.

We lay there, slick and tangled, the only sound our gradually steadying breath. After a long moment, she lifted her head, her smile soft and sated now. She brushed the damp hair from my forehead.

“So,” she murmured, her voice husky. “Best anniversary ever?”

“Unbeatable,” I breathed.