Kim Joon-ho wiped down the last of the oil bottles with the corner of his microfiber towel, making sure not a single fingerprint dared remain. The sun filtered gently through the blinds of his new space, casting golden stripes across the pale oak floors. Minimalist, elegant—walls painted a soft ivory, lined with scentless diffusers, adjustable dimmers, warm indirect lighting, and soundproofing so thick the world outside didn't exist.
His name was printed in bold silver along the frosted glass door:Kim Joon-ho | Clinical Therapy & Rehabilitative Massage
Clinical, sure. But every woman he touched left soaked in something much less professional.
He didn't smile. Not yet. It wasn't time for the show.
The clock struck 8:15 AM. First day. First shift. No clients.
No assistant either. Just him, the smell of eucalyptus and sandalwood, and a space polished so clean you could eat off the folding massage table.
He ran his fingers along the edge of the cabinet. Checked his oils: unscented, almond, hot stones warming. Everything was in place. Still no buzz on the appointment app. No texts. No random walk-ins.
He shrugged off the quiet. It was always like this the first week.
Word-of-mouth would come. It always did.Especially when the word was "god's hands" and the mouth was moaning.
He leaned against the reception desk—just a clean slab of white marble, a single tablet resting on top—and took a sip of his black coffee.
Then—
Ding.The bell over the door rang.
His eyes flicked up—and then narrowed.
A woman stepped in, sunglasses pushed up into her hair, red lips already curled in mild irritation. Her heels clicked once on the tile before she stepped onto the soft wooden floor like she owned it.
Madam Seo.
She didn't need to introduce herself.Every inch of her screamed expensive problems.
Slim waist wrapped in a fitted silk blouse, black pencil skirt hugging her hips like a second skin. Pearl earrings. No smile.
Joon-ho straightened, coffee forgotten.
"Madam Seo," he said with a grin sliding into place. "You found me."
She looked around, lips twitching in disapproval. "So this is where you ran off to."
"I left a forwarding number," he said easily. "And an invitation."
"I don't check those. Men who disappear without a word don't get courtesy."
"Disappeared?" he echoed, cocking a brow. "I moved three subway stops. Hardly the Bermuda Triangle."
She sniffed. Walked a slow, sensual lap around the room, fingers trailing along the counter, pausing by the towel shelf. Her nails were perfect. Her perfume was faint but lethal.
"This is… cleaner," she said at last. "Smaller. No assistant?"
"Not yet," he said, watching her every move. "Just me, Madam."
She turned to face him, arms folded beneath her chest. Her eyes were sharp, but there was a flicker of something else beneath the surface. Tension. Heat.
"You think women will feel safe here alone?"
"I don't think," he said, voice low. "I make them relax. There's a difference."
Her lip twitched again—closer to amusement now.
"My neck has been killing me since you stopped seeing clients at the Gangnam location," she muttered. "My shoulders feel like stone. My thighs have been tight since Pilates."
He didn't interrupt. Just let her talk herself into it.
"I should've gone somewhere else," she added, but didn't move toward the door.
"You should've," he said, stepping closer, lowering his voice. "But here you are."
She exhaled, a soft huff through her nose. "Can you take walk-ins?"
He nodded once. "Always."
Madam Seo didn't wait for further instruction. She stepped out of her heels, unfastened her blouse with practiced grace, and folded her skirt onto the side chair. Beneath, her lingerie was black silk—high-end, laced, and completely unnecessary for massage. She knew it. He knew it.
But she laid herself down on the table face-first, the towel already sliding slightly off one hip.
Joon-ho didn't speak as he adjusted the table height. Just rolled his sleeves up slowly, forearms tight with muscle, fingers flexing like they were remembering her already.
"I'm not here to flirt," she said into the headrest.
"Of course not," he said smoothly, drizzling warm oil between his palms. "This is therapy."
The first touch was his thumb pressing into her neck, slow and deliberate. She tensed—then exhaled.
"Still sleeping on your right side too much," he murmured.
"You remember that?"
"I remember everything about your body."
She didn't answer. But her breathing slowed.
He worked her shoulders with deep, practiced strokes, thumbs digging beneath her scapula, palms gliding down the curves of her back. His hands never rushed. Never trembled. He was gentle and cruel in the same breath—pressing deep, then letting the pressure melt.
Madam Seo shuddered when he reached her lower back.
"Too much?" he asked.
"No," she rasped. "Don't stop."
She was already slipping—her tone softening, words slower. The tension in her body fighting his hands at first, then losing.
"Do you remember," she said after a long silence, "how wet I got the last time you massaged me?"
His hands paused only for a second.
"I remember," he said. "I also remember how quiet you tried to be. That last moan barely made it past your teeth."
She gasped, sharply this time, as his thumb slid down the curve of her glute—still covered, technically. But just barely.
"Don't," she whispered. "Not this time."
"I'm not doing anything," he said, voice low. "I'm just helping your circulation."
"You're teasing me."
"I know."
He spread her legs slightly. Just enough to open space between her thighs.
"Tell me to stop," he said, fingers now pressing into the inside of her thighs, dangerously close to her heat.
She didn't.
Instead, she moaned.
Soft at first. Then louder when his palm flattened just above her pussy, pressing into the towel, nothing exposed—yet somehow, everything revealed.
"You missed this," he whispered into her ear, lips close enough to feel but not touch. "Your husband doesn't know how to touch you like this."
"Don't talk about him."
"I'd rather talk about you." He let his fingers circle the edge of her thigh, just tracing, never touching what she truly needed. "Tense. Dripping. Soaked through this towel."
She whined, hips twitching.
"Please," she whispered.
He chuckled darkly. "Please what?"
Her fingers gripped the edge of the table. She lifted her head slightly, shame burning in her cheeks.
"Touch me."
Joon-ho leaned down, lips brushing her ear.
"Not yet."
Then he stepped away.
Just like that.
She moaned when his thumbs pressed along the curve of her ass—long and unfiltered, head sinking deeper into the face cradle.
Her thighs were trembling. The towel was soaked. Her pussy was dripping and untouched.
"Your glutes are very tight, Madam," he murmured, deadpan, like they were still pretending. His fingers dug in deeper.
"I need more," she gasped. Her voice was wrecked. She wasn't Madam Seo now—she was just a desperate, panting mess.
"Need what?" he whispered.
"You know what—"
"No," he cut her off. "Say it."
She whimpered, twisted her hips up just enough to bare herself under the edge of the towel. He didn't move. Just watched. Palms gliding along the slick skin of her thighs, up her hips, back down.
"Touch my pussy," she finally breathed. "Please."
His cock surged in his pants, hard and twitching, already leaking.
"You've been so good, Madam," he said, unbuckling his belt slowly, letting the sound snap in the quiet room. "I think you deserve a reward."
She tried to look back—but he pressed her down gently.
"No peeking."
She gasped again as she felt his knees come up on the table, one on either side of her hips. He straddled her back, leaned forward, his breath hot against her ear.
Then—something warm, thick, and so hard pressed against her cheek.
She froze.
Joon-ho chuckled low, rolling his hips forward just enough to drag his cock along her flushed face.
"See what you did to me?" he whispered. "You moaned so sweet, so filthy, I couldn't help it."
She opened her mouth like instinct, breathless.
"Good girl," he growled. "Now keep still."