Cheating Husband | Neglectful Wife | AMP

Touch Starvation — 1

Famine

“Come on, baby,” I pleaded, “just let me give you a gentle massage.” I reached over to touch her, but she squirmed further across our bed to escape. She had become an expert at that over the years.

“No! You’ll just want sex,” my wife replied.

“No, really,” I told her. “I just need some human contact. I promise I won’t try anything. There is a condition called ‘touch starvation’, you know. It’s not healthy.”

“A likely story, Todd,” Margo scoffed. “Touch starvation indeed, how silly! Sounds like another way you disgusting men try to trick us into sex.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to massage me?” I asked, grasping at straws.

“Hahaha,” she laughed as she jammed several pillows between us. “Get some sleep, old man. You don’t know what you need.” She rolled onto her side to face away from me. “Touch starvation,” I heard her chuckle.

Defeated once again, I gave up. I supposed I was alone once more. I lay back and tried to sleep. If I couldn’t, I would masturbate after she falls asleep. Again.

Quietly, I heard her say from the other side of The Great Wall of Pillows, “Maybe you should go to one of those places and get a massage, if you’re so touch hungry.”

Now that was a thought.

I tried a place in a local strip mall, and spent an hour being poked and prodded by a bored woman with a box of hot rocks. I suppose it counted as a massage, but it did nothing for my growing hunger. I had never felt this kind of burning need before. It was like my skin wanted to crawl off my body. I was permanently semi-aroused, and I knew my blood pressure was getting higher by the day. I had to find some kind of solution before it drove me mad.

According to the internet, I needed an AMP, an Asian massage parlor. Starlight Spa in the city came highly recommended. Apparently, the table shower was to die for, whatever the heck a ‘table shower’ might be. A phone call later and I had a morning appointment with Yoko.

I nervously pressed the bell on the nondescript door, not even sure I was in the right place. A buzzer sounded and I heard the lock open. I cautiously opened the door and went inside to find a nicely appointed foyer with a reception desk.

Behind the desk hunched an ancient woman wearing a kimono. “You call?” she asked.

“Yes, I have an appointment with Yoko.”

Flashing a smile that might have once been beautiful, she doddered out to take my hand and led me to the hallway behind the desk.

“Take care of you,” she said as she guided me to an open doorway and showed me inside. The small room contained a low massage table and a cabinet holding what looked like towels, lotions, and other sundries. The wall beside the table was covered with a mirror, large enough to reflect whatever would be on the table. Me, presumably.

“You get ready,” the ancient crone said.

I stepped inside, not particularly excited about my upcoming massage from Granny Yoko. But I was here, so I might as well give her a shot. I was surprised when she left the room and closed the door. I stripped to my boxers and sat on the edge of the table to wait for her return.

A few minutes later, I heard a gentle knock.

“Hello?” I offered.

The door opened and in walked an angel.

The tight white tank top and micro miniskirt did little to conceal the perfect curves of the young Asian beauty. Her long, straight hair was black with auburn highlights and hung to her mid back. Her face was gorgeous, wearing only subtle makeup that accentuated her eyes and a sexy red lipstick that encouraged my semi-aroused state to enflame. I couldn’t believe my luck to have even the chance to meet a lady this sexy, this beautiful.

She walked right up to me, positioning herself between my thighs, forcing me to spread my legs a little wider. She put her arms around my neck and said, “Hello, I’m Yoko.”

Gazing deeply into those erotic eyes, I knew my famine was over.

To be continued —

Here’s a whore story with a twist —

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