I knocked on the door again. “Steven?” I called out to an apparently empty apartment. I couldn’t help but pout. Here I was with surprise churros and my boyfriend was nowhere to be found. I tapped my foot and huffed. I didn’t want to just leave them on the doorknob for him. What if someone took my delicious gift? I grasped the knob, turned it, and, surprisingly, it yielded. How irresponsible of him, I chided as I closed the door behind me, just leaving his door unlocked for any maniac to enter.

I entered his well-lit apartment. I placed the bag of churros on his kitchen table and wandered through his inner sanctum alone, quite enjoying my minor act of voyeurism. There was the couch on which we cuddled to watch movies together, my head resting on his shoulder, his arm holding me closely against him. Here was his bathroom, where he showered and presumably furiously masturbated to memories of me every morning. And here was his bedroom ... I took a flying leap onto his covers and inhaled deeply, breathing in Steven’s aroma.

A book I didn’t recognize sat on his nightstand. I picked it up. Consider the Fork, its title proclaimed it to be. I glanced through a bit of it: a history of cooking. How like him, history and cooking together in one book. I felt a tinge of disappointment at not having found it for him myself. At least that strawberry slicer I had gotten for him had already been a success. My mouth watered at the thought of the icebox cake we had made together, clad only in aprons, and then eaten together wearing even less, using our bodies as plates, using our hands to feed each other and our tongues to clean each other...

Voices. I started out of my reverie. Steven was home! I decided to surprise him. I placed the book where I had found it and crept towards his bedroom door.

But there was more than one voice outside the apartment. A woman’s, too. My eyes narrowed. Who was this bitch? As the door swung open I pulled back to avoid detection.

“-again for coming over on such short notice, Rose,” Steven said.

“No problem,” replied the mysterious Rose, with a slight Chinese accent. “Thank you for carrying the table. I could have gotten that.”

“No, no, I insist.” Their voices were drawing closer to the bedroom. Where could I hide? Under the bed? No, I wanted to be able to see them. His closet? The louvered doors were perfect: I could peer through the slats. I snuck in and closed the door behind me, standing between a pair of cargo pants and a Majora’s Mask t-shirt. With my face against the door, I had an excellent view of the room.

A moment later, the two of them walked in, Steven carrying a bulky item while Rose had only a large, cloth bag. He set it down on the carpet and as the two of them got it upright, I realized it was a massage table. I smiled. That’s right, he had mentioned getting massages before. I was surprised she did house calls. I was surprised anyone did house calls. Hadn’t people stopped doing that forever ago? She must be a pretty good masseuse.

Once the table was upright and made, Rose told Steven, “I’ll let you get undressed. Just call for me when you’re ready.”

“Sure thing.” She left the room. Steven began undressing as I bit my lip. Part of me knew that I should just come out now before my situation got any more precarious, reveal myself, explain what had happened, and continue with my day. But another part of me, the part of me between my thighs that currently had its arm wrapped around my brain, cajoling it into agreement, wondered just how often I would get a chance to watch my boyfriend get a massage, to enjoy this sort of intimate scenario as a secret witness. Could I really just toss aside this serendipitous situation over a puny moral scruple or two? Wouldn’t it be ungrateful to deny what the universe had so graciously granted me? And if I ever changed my mind, I could just turn away. There really wasn’t any downside to continuing to watch.

My teeth tingled as I watched Steven undress, the casual way he pulled up his shirt over his broad, hairy chest. How he lowered his pants and boxers to the ground, unaware he was being watched, his cock still flaccid, a tiny thing almost hidden by his pubes, his balls hanging beneath. I had to wonder: had I ever seen it like that before? Not satiated and exhausted after emptying itself into me, but simply and innocently flaccid? No, I didn’t think I had. By the time I got to it, it was already hard and erect, irresistible and impossible to deny. Seeing it like this, as something as natural and normal as his hand or ear ... I bit my lip. I already felt my cunt warming, aroused by the excitement of spying on his casual nudity. I kept my eyes on that adorable member until he had laid face-down on the table and covered himself with a thin, white sheet that did nothing to hide the wonderful curve of his ass.

“I’m ready,” he announced. I mentally agreed.

Rose entered shortly after. The table was angled so that I had an excellent side-on view of Steven. She adjusted the sheet before rubbing his body through it, her hands moving smoothly and with purpose. From their earlier conversation, they seemed familiar with each other. How many times had this other woman seen my boyfriend naked? Touched his body? Just where had her hands wandered? I took the chance to observe her.

She looked about forty, but it was clear she kept herself in good shape. Even from the closet, I could tell her arms were well-toned and muscular. She was Chinese, as I expected, which wasn’t hugely surprising. Steven definitely had a type ... Short, black hair, red lipstick, and her face had a warm plumpness to it without being fat. But what stood out most was her chest.

All I could do was look down at my own barely-there breasts in envy at the sight of her knockers. As she leaned down to massage his lower back, her full, heavy breasts rested comfortably on Steven’s back. It would be impossible for him not to feel their soft pressure against him. I knew Steven said he preferred a petite chest, but I hadn’t yet met the man who would turn down an enormous rack. Did he secretly wish I had tits like that? I felt an odd rush of exhilaration rush through me the thought of Steven looking at my chest and imagining hers instead.

Rose pulled back the sheet down to his ass, pumped some oil into her hands from a bottle at her waist, and continued, standing near his head as she massaged his shoulders and back. Her hand gripped his neck and rhythmically squeezed it, working away his stress and knots. From time to time he moaned, unable to keep quiet. She climbed onto the table and straddled his head, her crotch just inches above him. I reached a hand under my bra and started to touch myself, my nipples already hard. This other woman kept caressing his naked body, his skin shimmering with oil.

Once she had finished with his back, she moved to the side of the table and pulled the sheet off of him entirely. I had to suppress a gasp. My boyfriend lay there totally naked in front of her. And yet she seemed completely and professionally uninterested in my hunk’s body. Or was she just good at hiding her lewd desires? She squirted more oil into her hands and began to massage his legs, wrapping her hands around his thighs, stroking his calves and buttocks. Her hands moved farther and farther up his thighs each time. There was no way she wasn’t brushing up against his balls. “Is this okay?” she asked.

“Yes,” Steven lazily sighed. “That feels amazing.” He was enjoying it ... I swallowed deeply. Maybe she was just thorough ... After all, I couldn’t actually see what was happening. Maybe she was avoiding his balls entirely and I was just being paranoid. But I knew she had to have a good view of them. What was she thinking? Was she desensitized? Was he just an asexual slab of meat to her? Or was she filled with lust, trying to resist the temptation to just reach between his legs and squeeze?

I watched as she repeated the same motions on his other leg. “Turn over, please,” she instructed. Without a word, he did so. The sheet stayed where it was, which is to say, nowhere near his nude body. Steven remained naked and exposed, his cock completely on display and, I couldn’t help but notice, comfortably tumescent. I focused hard on controlling my breathing, keeping myself from panting and exposing myself, forcing myself to breathe in long, slow breaths as I caressed my breasts, rubbing my nipples.

Just how far was this masseuse going to go with my boyfriend? Was that a lascivious glance at his cock? Or just a coincidental look? I could feel the warm moistness of my panties as she stood over his head and massaged his scalp and face, such an intimate act from a professional, her fingers tracing his nose and cheeks and eyebrows. Her hands lingered on his Guevara-esque beard. “I like your beard,” she commented, echoing my own feelings. “Very manly.”

“Thank you,” he replied, smiling. Her hands rested on his cheeks for an extra moment or two before she pulled them away. Another serving of oil, and her hands were on his chest, thick with hair. She started with his pecs, her fingers on his nipples, making slow circles. Then she moved to his abdomen. She made long, patient strokes all the way down his stomach, her fingertips stopping right as they reached his dark pubic hair. I inhaled deeply, watching just how close she was coming, how his cock twitched each time she almost touched his awakening cock. Would she grasp it, stroke it, bring him to orgasm while I watched?