Sydney Tantric Massuer Story Time: Alice in the Sydneyland
- Kenneth
- Feb 13
- 4 min read
The message came through on a rainy Thursday night:
“Hi. I’ve been following your page for a while. I... don’t know how to say this, but sex hurts. A lot. And I don’t know why.”
No jokes. No deflections. Just quiet honesty.
Her profile, @AliceInWanderlust, was unassuming—photos of coffee cups balanced on textbooks, a sunset over Darling Harbour, and a highlight titled “Melbourne Exams” filled with sticky-note study reminders. Her bio read: “23 | Masters in Clinical Psych | Just trying to get through the week.”
Alice was like so many others who reach out—women who’ve learned to pathologize their pain. They come with quiet desperation tucked behind polite language. It’s my fault. Maybe I’m overreacting. He’s stressed at work. The scripts are always the same.
I wrote back: “Let’s talk. No judgment, no rush.”
She replied an hour later: “Okay. But I’m nervous.”
Alice arrived slightly out of breath, her cheeks flushed from hurrying. She carried a faded tote bag streaked with pen marks, its handles fraying. “Sorry,” she said, setting it down gently. “My train was delayed. Turns out ‘express’ is just a suggestion here.”
We sat at the small table by the window. She politely declined tea, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve had three coffees today already,” she admitted, glancing at her hands. “Adderall and anxiety aren’t a great mix.”
When the silence stretched, she spoke first, her voice quieter now: “I know how this works. You’re going to ask about my story driving me to try this. But I... God. I just want to stop lying every time my boyfriend thinks we’re connecting on sex.”
Her Story Without Armor:
On Studying Psych: “I intern at a women’s health clinic. We talk about consent, communication... Then I go home and let him rush through sex because fighting feels worse than the pain.”
On Being an “Expert”: “I diagnosed myself with vaginismus last year. Read every study. Tried dilators, breathing exercises...” She pressed her lips together. “Feels like failing an open-book exam.”
On Her Boyfriend: “He says he loves me. But when I try to explain, he says I’m ‘overcomplicating’ things. Last week, I cried afterward. He didn’t even notice.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. She wiped it quickly. “Sorry. I didn’t—”
“Don’t apologize,” I said. “It took courage to come here.”
In that moment, she mirrored every client who’s sat where she sat—women who negotiate their pain daily to avoid inconveniencing partners, bosses, the world. They’ve mastered textbooks on healing others but freeze when their own bodies whisper stop.
The room stayed quiet, the kind of silence that felt like permission to exhale. Alice lay on the table, her breath shallow but steady. “Remember,” I said, “this isn’t about ‘arming through.’ It’s about listening.”
I began with her back, hands gliding in rhythms softer than a lullaby. When her shoulders finally unclenched, I paused. “Ready to explore more?”
She nodded, voice small: “Yeah. Just... go slow.”
Slowly, my hands drifted to her sides, mapping the dip of her waist, the curve of her ribs—places most people treat as highways to “better” spots. But here, every inch mattered. When my fingertips brushed the outer swell of her breast, she stiffened. “Too much?”
“No,” she whispered. “Just... new.”
I kept my touch light, tracing patterns that zigzagged nowhere near “private” zones until she sighed, sinking deeper into the table. Eventually, my thumb grazed the edge of her nipples—a question, not a demand.
“Okay,” she breathed, more to herself than me.
As the fabric shifted, her skin prickled with goosebumps. I avoided her breasts entirely, focusing instead on the hollow above her collarbone, the space where fear and longing knot together. Her breath hitched. “That’s... weird. Not bad. Just...”
“Weird’s allowed,” I said.
When I finally cradled her ribcage, palms skimming the edge of her chest, her body did something surprising—it arched toward the touch, not away. A sound escaped her, half-laugh, half-sob.
“Why does this feel... loaded?” she asked, voice shaky.
“Because we’re rewiring,” I said. “Your brain’s used to skipping to the end. This time, you’re staying present.”
Her hands clutched the sheets, then relaxed. “Oh.”
By the time I gently brushed the inside of her thigh—nowhere near her most guarded areas—she didn’t flinch. Instead, she let out a sigh that seemed to carry years of held breath.
“I get it now,” she said later, sitting up wrapped in the sheet. “It was never about the... act. It was about trusting myself to feel good without guilt.”
She met my gaze, eyes glassy but steady. “Turns out, my body’s not broken. It was just waiting for me to care enough to listen.”
Three days later, her DM arrived:
“I told my boyfriend we need to talk. Not ‘the talk’—a real one. He listened. Actually listened.P.S. Last night didn’t hurt. Just... thought you’d want to know.”
Her Instagram Story showed a latte with a foam heart. The caption:“Melbourne PSA: It’s okay to ask for help. Even if you’re ‘supposed’ to know better.”
Alice’s victory wasn’t about the massage—it was claiming her voice. I see this shift often. Women leave remembering their bodies aren’t problems to solve but landscapes to explore. Couples forget intimacy isn’t a project to manage. It’s a language. And sometimes, you need someone to teach you the alphabet.
If Alice’s story resonates—if you’re tired of pretending—reach out. No performative self-care. Just a quiet room where you can truly enjoy.
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Yoni Massage Sydney
Linktree: https://linktr.ee/lady.massage.sydney
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