Emma's Yoni Massage Journey - “It Wasn’t Sex. But It Was the Most Intimate Thing I’ve Ever Done.”

Emma's Yoni Massage Journey - “It Wasn’t Sex. But It Was the Most Intimate Thing I’ve Ever Done.”

1. I Was Curious — But Not That Kind of Curious (Or So I Thought)

I’ve always liked being single.

Not in the fake, “girlboss” kind of way where you pretend you’re too busy to date — I actually enjoy my space. I love my job, I’ve got amazing girlfriends, and when I want sex… well, I used to just find someone pretty on an app and let things happen.

But lately, that formula’s stopped working.

The dates started feeling more like interviews. The hookups were either too rough or too robotic. And don’t even get me started on the ones who think foreplay is just sticking two fingers in and hoping for the best.

So I stopped. Cold turkey. No dates. No randoms.

But the desire didn’t go away.

If anything, it got louder.

And then, over wine one night, my friend blurted out:

“You ever tried a yoni massage?”

I laughed. “A what?”

She looked me dead in the eye. “Trust me. It’s not woo-woo shit. It’s like… body worship. Done right, it can wreck you in the best way.”

I went home that night and Googled yoni massage Sydney.

That’s when I found him.

2. I Booked the Session Without Telling Anyone — Not Even My Therapist

His name was Kenneth.

I found him through a blog, actually. Not an ad, not some shady DM. Just… a quiet little corner of the internet where he wrote about touch. Not in a creepy way — more like someone who really gets women, without trying too hard to say he does. The tone was warm, calm. Honest.

There weren’t any photos of him, which honestly made it feel less performative. No shirtless poses. No spiritual buzzwords. Just stories. Client reflections. Things that made me stop scrolling and… feel something.

I read way more than I meant to — even the comments. Women talking about their sessions, some shy, some wild, all sounding kind of… grateful. Not just “wow I came hard” (though, yeah, that too), but grateful for feeling seen. Heard. Held.

I kept the tab open for weeks.

Then one night — after a glass of red and a completely unsatisfying solo session — I booked.

Didn’t tell anyone. Not my best friend. Not even my therapist. And she knows everything, including the time I got caught making out with a barista in the walk-in fridge.

This felt different. Intimate. Not because it was sexual, but because it felt like saying: Yes, I want to be touched. Properly.

And that’s still not something we’re taught to admit without shame.

3. Meeting Kenneth Was Weirdly… Normal

He messaged me the hotel room number a couple of hours before the session.

I arrived early, too early, and ended up standing outside the room for a good five minutes, just… fidgeting with my phone and overthinking my outfit.

Then I knocked.

The door opened. He smiled.

“Hey. You must be Emma?”

I nodded. “Hi. Yep. That’s me.”

“Come on in,” he said gently, stepping aside. “Make yourself comfortable.”

He wasn’t what I expected — not that I had a clear picture in mind. Just… calm. Grounded. There was nothing performative about him. He didn’t flirt. He didn’t scan me.

It already felt like I could breathe.

The room was warm. Cozy. Dim lights, soft instrumental music — not spa flutes, thank god — just something ambient and low. The table was set up with fresh towels. There was a faint scent of something herbal in the air.

“Want some water?” he offered, motioning to a small table.

“Yes, please. I’m kind of vibrating,” I said, trying to laugh it off.

He grinned. “Totally normal. Nerves are part of the process.”

We sat and talked — small things at first. He asked how I found his blog. What made me reach out. His voice was calm, unrushed. Every word had space in it. No pushing. No hurry.

At one point I asked, “Do people ever… change their mind halfway?”

“All the time,” he said. “We move at your pace. You guide this.”

That helped.

Then he stood and gestured toward the bathroom. “You can undress behind there — leave on whatever feels good to you. We’ll start with a full-body massage, and if at any point you want to stop or shift, just say so.”

As he turned to give me privacy, I caught myself smiling.

Something in me had already unclenched — not because I knew what would happen, but because, for the first time in ages, I trusted someone to hold me without taking.

And that was sexy as hell.

4. The First Thing I Felt Was… Kind of Sad

When I lay down on the table, he started slow. Neck. Shoulders. Lower back. The pressure was firm, but never too much — just enough to make me realise how tightly I’d been holding everything together lately.

No one touches you like this in real life. Not unless they want something. And even then, it’s usually rushed. Focused on the goal.

But here… there was no rush. Just attention. Like my body actually mattered.

Somewhere between my hips and the backs of my thighs, he paused.

“Okay if I go a bit closer in?” he asked quietly.

I nodded, but said, “Yeah… just — um, don’t be surprised if I get awkward and start talking about childhood trauma or my last bad date.”

He chuckled. “You’d be surprised how many people do.”

That made me feel less weird. I turned my head slightly and said, “Do people ever cry during this?”

“All the time,” he said, still working down my legs. “Sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes it’s memory. Sometimes it’s just the first time they’ve been touched with intention in years.”

I swallowed. Something heavy sat in my chest.

“I think I’ve had a lot of sex where I wasn’t really… there,” I said quietly.

He didn’t rush to reply. He just nodded, still focused on his hands, and said:

“I hear that a lot.”

And that’s when something shifted. I didn’t cry — not full tears — but something melted. Something old and tired I didn’t even know I’d been holding.

And as his hands moved slowly, carefully, closer to my center, I realised:

I was about to be turned on.

5. I Let Go Without Realising I Had Been Holding On

By the time his hands moved between my thighs, I wasn’t thinking anymore. Not about the hotel room, not about what this was or wasn’t. My body had gone warm and melty and wide open, like every nerve ending had woken up from a two-year nap.

“Okay to keep going?” he asked, fingertips hovering at the edge of me.

I nodded, cheeks flushed. “Please,” I said, and it surprised even me how much I meant it.

He cupped me, warm palm pressing down gently over my mound. Not rubbing. Just… holding. Grounding. The heat of his skin soaked into mine like it belonged there.

And then, his fingers began tracing slow, deliberate circles around my lips. Outer first. Barely-there contact, just enough to tease a reaction out of my breath. He took his time — deliciously so — like he was reading a map no one else had ever bothered to look at properly.

When he finally spread me open with two fingers, I shivered.

I was already soaked, embarrassingly so, but he didn’t react with some cocky smirk or snide little joke. He just exhaled — a soft sound, like appreciation — and kept going, reverent and focused.

He rubbed my clit in small, lazy circles. Two fingers. Consistent pressure. It wasn’t too fast, it wasn’t too light — it was perfect. Like he was listening to something I couldn’t even hear myself.

My legs started to shake, and my voice came out high and helpless.

“Oh my god… don’t stop.”

“I won’t,” he said, low and calm. “You’re doing so well. Just let it happen.”

I bit my lip. My hips started to rock without me thinking about it. I felt wide open — like I was being played like an instrument I didn’t know I could be.

When he slid a finger inside me, my walls clenched hard.

I gasped, and he didn’t stop — just added a second finger, slow and steady, curling just right. That spot inside me lit up instantly. My thighs tried to close around his hand, but he held them apart, gently but firmly.

“Let me in,” he whispered. “Don’t fight it. Just feel.”

And I did.

It built up so fast I almost didn’t recognise it as an orgasm at first. It wasn’t a sharp peak — it was thick and heavy and rolling. I moaned out loud, louder than I expected, and my body jerked — hips bucking up hard against his hand.

But he held steady.

His fingers worked me through it, and before the first wave even fully passed, another crashed straight into it. My whole lower half went hot and tight. I was gushing, legs trembling, moaning into the pillow, my voice raw and desperate.

“Fuck—oh god—I can’t—”

“Yes, you can,” he said, voice firm now, in control. “You’re doing so fucking well. Let it out.”

I came again. Harder. It hit me like a freight train — full-body. My belly clenched, thighs locked, my breath caught in my throat. I screamed into the pillow — didn’t care. It felt that good.

And even then, he didn’t rush. He slowed his rhythm, just enough to let me ride it out, easing me down like he knew exactly how to land me without snapping the spell.

I was soaked. Sprawled. Utterly undone.

And somehow, still whole.

6. After, I Just Lay There… Smiling Like an Idiot

There was this long silence afterward — not awkward, just… full. Like the air itself had thickened. I could hear my own breathing, the hum of the air con, the soft rustle as he pulled the towel over me.

I think I was still vibrating.

“You okay?” he asked quietly, sitting beside the bed, not touching me this time.

I nodded, face half-buried in the pillow. “Yeah. I think I’m high on orgasms.”

He chuckled — the soft kind, not smug. “That’s a real thing.”

I rolled onto my side, hair a mess, body boneless. “How many times did I…?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Want a number or a vibe?”

“Vibe,” I said, laughing.

“Then you melted. Fully.”

“Cool,” I grinned. “I felt that.”

We didn’t rush. He gave me space to come back slowly — brought me water, stayed close but didn’t smother. It felt weirdly tender. Almost domestic. Like we’d just had sex, except we hadn’t, not technically — and yet it was more intimate than most sex I’ve ever had.

I got dressed slowly, still a little floaty. My thighs were shaking when I stood up, which made us both laugh again.

“Is this what yoga teachers mean when they say ‘open your hips’?” I joked.

He smiled. “That, but wetter.”

I rolled my eyes. “Gross.”

“True,” he said.

As I stepped into my shoes, I paused by the door. I looked back at the bed, the room, him. Something had shifted in me. I didn’t need to name it, but I knew it was there.

“Thanks,” I said. “For not making it weird.”

He shrugged gently. “Thanks for trusting me.”

And that was it.

I walked out into the Sydney sunlight feeling like someone had just turned the dial back up on the colour of the world. My body felt softer, heavier. But somehow, I felt more me.

And on the way home — still warm between the legs, still a little stunned — I opened my phone, found his site again, and booked my next session.

Because once your body remembers what it’s capable of…

there’s no going back.

And if you’re reading this — curious, nervous, maybe a little turned on but not sure what you’re looking for — I get it. I was there. But if something in you is whispering yes… maybe it’s time to listen. Kenneth doesn’t promise magic. But he offers something real. Gentle. Safe. Deep. If your body’s been waiting to feel that again — or for the first time — you can book your session on his website. Quietly. Just for you.

Book a session today and find out for yourself.

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