The Curtain's Secret

The strip mall hummed with the distant sizzle of falafel frying next door, the air thick with cumin and garlic that seeped through the thin walls of the massage parlor. Titi stepped inside, her hand resting instinctively on the swell of her belly, five months along and already pulling at her lower back like a persistent ache. She hadn't planned on coming back here—not like this, not with her husband in tow—but the pregnancy pains had won out, and now they were booking a couples session for some relief. The receptionist, a wiry woman with a name tag reading "Lena," glanced up and nodded, her eyes flicking to Titi's modest tunic and the way it draped over her changing shape. "Room three," Lena said in her clipped accent, handing over a key. "Curtain in the middle for privacy."

Titi's husband, Ahmed, followed her down the narrow hallway, his steps measured, chatting about how this place was a steal compared to the fancy spas back home. He assumed they'd get female therapists— it was what Titi's family always insisted on, a quiet nod to their Islamic customs that kept things proper. Titi didn't correct him. She hadn't told him about the last time, months ago, when the deep tissue work from Tomohiro had blurred lines she swore she'd never cross. The guilt still lingered, sharp as the memory of his hands digging into her shoulders, the way the room had heated up until her hijab lay discarded on the floor. But her back screamed for that pressure now, the kind only he could deliver.

They entered the couples room, a space divided by a flimsy blue curtain that hung from ceiling hooks, swaying slightly in the draft from the AC unit rattling in the corner. Two padded tables faced each other across the divide, the air already laced with the parlor's signature spice scent—probably from the herbal oils Tomohiro favored. Ahmed stripped down to his boxers on his side, folding his clothes neatly on a side chair, while Titi did the same behind the curtain, slipping out of her tunic and pants, leaving her in a simple bra and underwear. She lay face down on the table, pulling a thin sheet up to her waist, her dark skin prickling in the cool air. Her belly pressed awkwardly against the padding, but she adjusted, breathing deep.

Lena poked her head through the curtain first. "I'll take you, sir," she said to Ahmed, her voice professional, almost bored. He smiled, relieved—it was a woman, just as he'd hoped. "Great, thanks." Titi heard the rustle of Lena's hands warming oil, the soft slap of palms on skin as she started on Ahmed's shoulders. Titi exhaled, staring at the worn linoleum floor, avoiding the curtain like it might betray her thoughts.

Then the door clicked open again, heavier footsteps this time. Tomohiro. She knew it was him without looking—the way his bulk filled the space, his breathing steady and unhurried. He was a hefty guy from Osaka, bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights, his white uniform shirt straining against his gut. No English, just that confident nod he'd given her before, the one that said he knew exactly what she needed. Titi kept her eyes down, her cheeks warming as memories flickered: the back room last time, his fingers pressing too deep, turning relief into something forbidden. She was pregnant now, with Ahmed's child, and this was supposed to be innocent. But when Tomohiro's hands landed on her calves, firm and callused, she bit her lip.

He worked methodically, kneading up her legs, the oil slick and warm, spiced with something earthy that made her nostrils flare. Titi's body relaxed despite herself, the deep tissue pressure hitting that sore spot in her lower back she'd been craving. Ahmed's voice murmured from the other side, chatting with Lena about soccer scores, oblivious. Tomohiro's thumbs dug into her hamstrings, pulling a soft groan from her throat. He paused, his hands stilling, and she felt his gaze on the curve of her ass under the sheet. The curtain rustled faintly as Lena shifted, but no one noticed.

Titi's mind raced. She shouldn't enjoy this—guilt twisted in her gut, the same shame from before when his massage had led to more, ripping away her hijab in a haze of sweat and need. But her body betrayed her, hips shifting slightly under his touch. Tomohiro's hands climbed higher, brushing the edge of the sheet, and she didn't stop him. He peeled it down inch by inch, exposing her thighs, the swell of her ass in her underwear. The air cooled her skin, and she felt the first bead of sweat trickle down her spine.

On the other side, Ahmed sighed contentedly. "This is perfect. Feels like she's got a female therapist too, right? Keeps it all modest." Lena chuckled, her hands working his traps. Titi's heart pounded— he had no idea.

Tomohiro's fingers slipped under the waistband of her panties, tugging them down just enough to bare her fully. She tensed, whispering a half-hearted "wait," but it came out breathy, not convincing. He ignored it, his palms spreading oil over her ass cheeks, kneading deep, the pressure bordering on rough. Titi's breath hitched, her pussy clenching involuntarily as his thumbs grazed her inner thighs, inches from her folds. The room smelled stronger now, spices mixing with the musk of her arousal.

He moved up to her back, his weight pressing the table as he leaned in, elbows driving into the knots along her spine. Sweat beaded on Titi's forehead, dripping onto the sheet. Tomohiro's own shirt darkened under his arms, his bald head shining with effort. He knew this might be the last time—her belly told him that much, the way she avoided his eyes, the ring on her finger glinting. So he pushed harder, his hands possessive, claiming every inch like it was his to remember.

Titi's resolve cracked. She arched slightly, pushing back against him, and felt his hard dick press through his pants against her thigh. Fuck, she thought, the guilt flooding back even as heat pooled between her legs. Ahmed laughed at something Lena said— a joke about the weather— and the normalcy of it made Titi bolder. She spread her legs a fraction, inviting.

Tomohiro took the cue. He unzipped quietly, his thick cock springing free, heavy and veined, already leaking at the tip. No words needed; he spat into his palm, slicking himself up with a wet smack that blended into the ambient hum of the AC. Titi glanced at the curtain, heart racing, then buried her face in the table's cushion. He positioned himself behind her, rubbing the head of his dick along her slit, teasing her clit until she whimpered.

The first thrust was slow, deliberate, stretching her pussy around his girth. Titi gasped, muffling it into her arm. Tomohiro gripped her hips, his fat fingers digging in, and pulled her back onto him, burying himself to the hilt. She was soaked, the oil and her own wetness making obscene squelching sounds as he started to move. Sweat poured off her now, dark skin glistening, pooling in the dimples of her lower back. He fucked her steadily at first, the table creaking under them, but the curtain held, swaying just enough to brush her side.

Ahmed shifted on his table. "You okay over there, Titi? Sounded like you hit a sore spot." She froze, Tomohiro's cock throbbing inside her. "Y-yeah," she managed, voice strained. "Just... deep pressure." Lena hummed agreement, her hands slapping rhythmically against Ahmed's skin— it masked the growing slaps from Titi's side, skin on skin as Tomohiro picked up speed.

He went rougher, knowing time was short, knowing this pregnant swell might keep her away forever. His belly slapped against her ass with each thrust, doggy style on the table, her knees digging into the padding. Titi's tits swung free from her bra, nipples hard and scraping the sheet. Sweat flew off them, dripping onto the floor. "Fuck," she whispered, too low for Ahmed to hear, but Tomohiro grunted in response, slamming harder. Her pussy clenched around him, the friction building, every vein on his dick dragging against her walls.

The sounds escalated— wet slaps like water hitting tile, her ass clapping back against his thighs. Ahmed paused mid-conversation with Lena. "What's that noise? Like... splashing?" Lena covered smoothly. "Just the oil, sir. Sometimes it drips." He bought it, relaxing again, but Titi's mind spun. The risk made it hotter, her clit throbbing as Tomohiro reached around, rubbing it roughly with his thumb.

She came first, hard and sudden, her walls pulsing around his cock, a gush of wetness squirting out to soak his balls. Titi bit the sheet to stifle her moan, body shaking, sweat stinging her eyes. Tomohiro didn't stop, pounding through it, his own sweat dripping onto her back, mixing with hers. He pulled out briefly, spitting a thick glob onto his dick for more lube, then shoved back in, the spit adding a filthy slickness.

But he wasn't done. With a firm hand on her shoulder, he flipped her over onto her back— careful of her belly, but urgent. Titi's legs dangled off the table's edge, her pussy exposed and glistening. Tomohiro stepped between them, but instead of diving back in, he grabbed her hair, guiding her down to her knees on the floor. The curtain loomed close, inches from Ahmed's side. She knelt there, heart hammering, sweat trickling between her breasts, and opened her mouth.

He face-fucked her without mercy, his fat cock stretching her lips, the head hitting the back of her throat. Titi gagged softly, saliva dripping down her chin, mixing with the sweat on her neck. Tomohiro's balls slapped her chin, heavy and musky, as he thrust deep, holding her head steady. "Good," he muttered in broken English, the only word she ever heard from him. She sucked harder, tongue swirling, tasting the salt of his spit and her own pussy on him. Her hands gripped his thick thighs, nails digging in as he used her mouth, rough and possessive.

From the other side, Ahmed groaned in relaxation. "This is the best. Lena's got magic hands." Titi nearly choked on a laugh, the irony twisting her gut even as arousal surged. Tomohiro's pace quickened, his belly heaving, sweat pouring off his bald head onto her face. He pulled out at the last second, stroking himself furiously, and came with a low grunt— ropes of hot cum splattering her tits, her neck, dripping down to her belly. Titi gasped, rubbing it into her skin, the warmth seeping into her like a secret.

He wasn't finished. As she caught her breath, kneeling there slick and spent, something shifted in her. The guilt, the risk— it all boiled over into need. She stood, pushing him back onto the table with surprising force, her pregnant belly brushing his gut. Tomohiro lay back, cock still semi-hard, watching her with that confident gleam. Titi climbed on top, straddling him reverse, her ass facing the curtain. But before sinking down, she turned toward Mecca— the room's layout had her facing roughly east— and dropped her head in a quick prayer, hands pressed together. "Forgive me," she murmured, eyes closed, the words a mix of piety and plea.

Tomohiro waited patiently, his hands resting on her hips, dick twitching back to life. The curtain fluttered as Lena adjusted Ahmed's sheet, but no one intruded. Titi finished her prayer, a small smile breaking through the guilt, and positioned herself. She lowered onto him slowly, her pussy swallowing his length inch by inch, the stretch delicious after the oral. Riding him rough, she bounced, her ass cheeks clapping against his thighs again, sweat flying. Her belly swayed with the motion, but she didn't care— this was hers, a final indulgence.

Tomohiro thrust up to meet her, hands gripping her waist, pulling her down harder. The water-like sounds returned, her wetness coating them both, clapping echoing softly. Titi reached back, fondling his balls, urging him deeper. She came again, grinding her clit against his base, squirting a little this time, the fluid trickling down his shaft. He followed soon after, flooding her pussy with a cream-pie that leaked out as she slowed, filling her completely.

They stilled, breathing ragged, sweat cooling on their skin. Titi dismounted carefully, wiping herself with the sheet, the evidence hidden in the folds. Tomohiro tucked himself away, zipping up with a nod— their silent goodbye.

As the session wrapped, Lena announced time was up. Ahmed stretched, feeling refreshed, and thanked her profusely. "Tell the other therapist she did great too," he said, assuming it was a woman with Titi. Titi dressed quickly, avoiding Tomohiro's eyes one last time, the warmth still pulsing inside her.

They left the parlor hand in hand, the falafel scent welcoming them back to the strip mall bustle. Titi felt lighter, her back pain gone, the guilt softened by satisfaction. Months later, when the baby arrived healthy and squalling, she booked one more solo session— just for "maintenance," she told Ahmed. Tomohiro was there, waiting, and the curtain in room three swayed like an old friend. This time, no prayers needed; just the spice-scented air and the promise of more.

(Word count: 2487)