In the sun-dappled haven of her sunroom-turned-massage-studio—a cozy nook in her suburban home where sheer curtains filter the afternoon light into a golden haze, and the faint scent of lavender oil mingles with fresh-baked cookies from the kitchen—Cubbi Thompson embarks on her bold new venture. At 36, this hot housewife is a vision of domesticated allure reborn: a curvaceous redhead with freckles dusting her creamy cleavage like cinnamon on latte foam, her emerald eyes sparkling with a mix of entrepreneurial fire and long-suppressed mischief. She's traded PTA meetings for a sleek massage table draped in crisp white linens, her uniform a barely-there ensemble of a cropped tank that strains against her full, 34DD breasts—natural wonders that sway enticingly with every movement—and high-waisted shorts that hug her thick thighs and the generous peach of her ass, leaving little to the imagination. Working from home was meant to be practical, a way to blend homemaking with her hidden talent for kneading away tensions, but on day one, with her bumbling husband off at his desk job, Cubbi's about to discover just how therapeutic her own release can be.Enter Keiran Lee, her inaugural client—a chiseled 40-something business exec with salt-and-pepper hair, broad shoulders honed by gym sessions, and a reputation for closing deals that could melt steel. He's booked the hour-long session to unwind from a brutal merger, arriving in a fitted polo that clings to his pecs and khakis that do nothing to hide the formidable outline of his assets. Cubbi greets him with a professional smile, her soft Manchester accent lilting as she ushers him to the table: "Lie back, love—let me work out those knots." She starts innocently enough, her oiled palms gliding over his back in firm, circular strokes, thumbs digging into the taut muscles along his spine with expert precision. The room hums with the low thrum of ambient spa tunes, but as her hands venture lower—trailing the dip of his lower back, brushing the swell of his glutes—Keiran's breath hitches, a subtle shift in his hips betraying the stirrings beneath the towel draped across his waist.Cubbi feels it before she sees it: the unmistakable twitch, the towel tenting like a flag of surrender as her fingers splay across his thighs, inches from the heat radiating from his groin. She bites her lip, a flush creeping up her neck—professionalism screaming to redirect, but curiosity (and a flicker of resentment toward her husband's underwhelming endowments) whispering otherwise. Glancing down, her eyes widen at the sight: Keiran's cock, thick and veined like a sculpted masterpiece, strains against the fabric, easily dwarfing the modest five-incher she's known for years. It's not just bigger; it's a beast—pulsing with promise, the bulbous head peeking out like it's daring her to acknowledge it. "Oh... um, sorry about that," Keiran murmurs, half-apologetic, half-hopeful, his voice a gravelly rumble that sends a illicit shiver down her spine. But Cubbi's no prude; years of vanilla routines have left her parched, and this? This is an oasis.She doesn't need convincing—hell, she needs a fire hose to douse the spark igniting between her legs. "No worries, handsome," she replies, her voice dropping to a husky timbre as she tugs the towel away with a boldness that surprises even her, freeing his erection to bob free in all its glory—nine throbbing inches of girthy temptation, pre-cum beading at the slit like dew on a forbidden fruit. Her hands, still slick with oil, wrap around it instinctively, one palm barely encircling the base while the other strokes upward in a slow, exploratory glide that draws a guttural groan from deep in his chest. "Looks like this needs the full treatment," she teases, her wedding ring glinting mockingly as she pumps him with increasing fervor—twisting at the crown, thumbing the sensitive frenulum until his hips buck involuntarily, veins bulging under her touch. Keiran's eyes lock onto hers, dark with lust: "Fuck, Cubbi... your hands are magic."The massage evolves into something far more primal, boundaries dissolving like sugar in hot tea. She sheds her tank top with a shimmy, her heavy breasts spilling free—pale orbs capped with rosy nipples already pebbled into aching peaks, begging for attention. Keiran sits up, pulling her onto his lap in one fluid motion, his mouth latching onto one nipple with a suck that's equal parts worship and ravishment—teeth grazing, tongue swirling as she arches into him, grinding her soaked shorts against his shaft. Her shorts follow, peeled away to reveal a lacy thong that's more suggestion than barrier, the crotch darkened with her arousal. Straddling him on the table, she guides his cock to her entrance, sinking down inch by exquisite inch—her pussy stretching around his girth with a burn that borders on bliss, inner walls fluttering in greedy welcome as she bottoms out, a throaty moan escaping her lips. "God, you're huge," she gasps, rocking her hips in languid circles that let her feel every ridge, her clit grinding against his pubic bone with electric friction.They find a rhythm that's all fire and forgetfulness—Keiran's hands gripping her ass cheeks like handles, spreading them as he thrusts up to meet her, the slap of skin echoing through the sunroom like a dirty secret. Cubbi rides him like she's reclaiming lost years, tits bouncing wildly, red hair whipping as she tosses her head back, one hand braced on his shoulder while the other snakes between them to rub furious loops over her clit. He flips her onto her back mid-thrust, the table creaking under their weight, hooking her legs over his shoulders to plunge deeper—hitting that spongy spot inside her with piston-like precision that has her nails digging crescents into his biceps, cries of "Yes, fuck me like he never could!" spilling unchecked. Sweat slicks their bodies, the air thick with the musk of oil and sex, her climax building like a storm front: thighs quaking, pussy clenching in rhythmic spasms that milk him toward the edge.Keiran pulls out just in time, stroking his slick length with a final, frantic pump—unleashing thick ropes of cum that arc across her heaving breasts and quivering belly, a hot, sticky testament to her inaugural success. Cubbi lies there, glowing and spent, fingers tracing lazy patterns through the mess as aftershocks ripple through her, a satisfied smirk curving her lips. "Session's up," she purrs, already mentally rescheduling her husband's "back rubs" for the foreseeable future. Who knew working from home could turn a simple massage into the kind of release that redefines happy wife, happy life? For Cubbi Thompson, the real knots were never in her client's muscles—they were in the monotony she'd been kneading for far too long.
