Julian Roscente's movements were methodical and exact—nothing out of place, no wasted motion. His hands knew exactly what they were doing, and his technique was undeniably masterful.
After his massage, the swelling went down almost immediately.
But it didn't last. A few days later, the blockage was back, worse than before.
My husband had just left town on business. I'd meant to wait until he got home to book another appointment with Julian, but the pain was too much—sharp, deep, and constant.
I called my best friend, my voice shaky. I needed her here, someone to sit with me, tell me it was gonna be okay.
She said yes right away—but then bailed the moment Julian showed up at my door.
"Girl, just lie back and enjoy it," she giggled over the phone. "Seriously, Dr. Roscente's hands are magic. He'll make you feel things you haven't felt in—"
I hung up before she could finish.
Julian was standing a few feet away, giving me space. He caught my flustered look and offered a calm, professional smile. "Please don't be uneasy, Madam. In my line of work, gender doesn't matter. I am here only as a clinician."
I remembered how good his hands felt last time—how much better he was than anyone else I'd seen.
Plus, the living room had security cameras everywhere. There was no way he'd try anything stupid.
Blushing, I finally nodded. "Alright… thank you, Doctor."
He prepped the couch just like before. Even though we'd done this once already, my nerves were still humming.
Once the blindfold was on, every other sense sharpened. All I could feel was his touch.
The massage started, slow and rhythmic, pulling me into a warm, drowsy fog.
Then—a sudden coolness spread across my chest.
I jolted, my hand flying up to pull off the blindfold.
"It's alright," Julian said smoothly. "It's a special massage oil. Helps with the inflammation."
I forced myself to relax, embarrassed by my own jumpiness.
The oil was cool at first, but as his hands worked it in, a deep warmth bloomed under my skin.
Combined with the steady pressure of his palms, the sensation was stronger than last time—much stronger.
He began with light strokes along the outer curves, slowly working his way inward. The oil made everything glide easier, sink deeper.
Lying there, my body went soft and heavy. My thoughts drifted.
Every so often, I felt the solid weight of his forearm brush against me.
Heat gathered low in my belly. I pressed my thighs together.
My chest was on fire—swollen, tender, aching. My whole body was flushed.
"What's in this oil?" I gasped. "It feels… ah—!"
His hand pressed down firmly, and my words broke off into a sharp breath.
Then his voice was close, his warm breath grazing my ear.
"It's an old formula, Madam. From my mentor's family. The warmth promotes circulation."
The closeness startled me. My ears are sensitive—the whisper of his breath sent a tremor straight through me, leaving me loose and receptive.
The feeling was overwhelming.
"You seem to be making your own lubrication now," he murmured—right before he slid his hand into my underwear.
I burned everywhere. My husband hadn't touched me since before the baby came. The sudden shock of pleasure was almost painful.
I squirmed, biting my lip to keep a moan from slipping out.
"It must be difficult," he whispered, "going so long without release. Let me help you."