Sydney Tantric Masseur Story Time - Birthday Girl
- Kenneth
- Feb 2
- 3 min read
Updated: Feb 6
The message popped up while I was scrolling through reels of dubious cat videos:“Hi, saw your page. You do house calls? Name’s Satomi. I’m at Manly, here till Friday.”
I clicked her profile—oof. Sun-kissed skin, a cleavage-defying black crop top, and a grin that could outshine the Harbour Bridge. Bio: “Fashion designer. Makes clothes for people who hate pants. Lover of tequila and terrible puns.”
I replied: “Depends. What are you looking for?”
Satomi: “Okay, full truth? I’m turning 30 next week. Flew here solo ’cause my ex said ‘adventures are for influencers.’ Screw that. Googled ‘Sydney tantric massage’ and found you. What’s a tantric massage ACTUALLY like? No guru jargon pls.”
We hopped on a call. Her voice was warm, laughter bubbling after every sentence. “Look, I design lingerie that moves with you. But my brain’s fried from Instagram and Mood boards. Need to... I dunno, feel something real?”
Me: “Ever had a massage where the therapist talks less than a monk?”
Her: “Nope. My Bali masseuse gossiped about her boyfriend’s toe fungus.”
Me: “No fungus stories here. Just you, breathwork, and maybe a few ‘holy crap’ moments.”
Her: “Sold. Let’s art the heck outta this. Come to my place tomorrow morning.”
Satomi’s suite was still buzzing with the adrenaline of her chaotic morning—half-packed luggage, fabric scraps everywhere, and an open laptop screaming with Whatsapp notifications. She flopped onto the massage bed with a dramatic sigh. “Think you can fix this mess?” she joked, gesturing at her stiff shoulders.
I started with the basics—because trust isn’t built in shortcuts.
Minute 0-10: Grounding. Palms resting lightly on her lower back, syncing my breath to hers. The lo-fi beats faded into murmured rain sounds. “Let your jaw drop,” I reminded her. “Your shoulders aren’t earrings.”
Minute 10-25: Feathering. Using just fingertips, I traced her trapezius down to her hips, warming the skin like charcoal under tracing paper. She giggled when I hit a knot. “That jerk’s been there since my Paris show. Mean little sucker.”
Minute 25-40: Kneading. Slow, deep circles into her glutes. Her breath hitched. “Wait—is that normal? Feels like... a raw nerve?” I adjusted pressure. “Trapped emotions love to squat in the hips. Breathe into it.”
By minute 45, her breathing had shifted—shallow, anticipatory. Time to pivot.
Sacral Surprise: My thumbs pressed into the dimples above her buttocks. She gasped, back arching. “What IS that spot?! Feels like electricity.” “Your body’s ‘reset button,’” I said. “Most people ignore it.”
Thigh Whisper: Hands gliding up her inner thighs, avoiding direct contact until she murmured “Lower...” A strategic pause. “Here?” My palm hovered. “God yes. But... slow. Let me process.”
The Crescendo: Inch by inch, I mapped her erogenous zones like a designer draping silk—responsive, fluid. When she finally climaxed, it wasn’t explosive. It rippled through her in waves, fingers clawing the sheets. “Sht. Sht. I didn’t think... males could get it like this.”
By the time I called the massage done, Satomi lay still on the bed, her breath steady as the tide. Sheets tangled around her waist, she mumbled into the pillow,
“Dude. You’ve ruined massages for me forever. How do I even go back to basic spa days after that?*”
I chuckled, rolling up the flannel-covered massage bed. Her lazy grin said it all—shoulders relaxed, knuckles unclenched, and that birthday-treat glow radiating off her.
“You’re a menace,” she yawned, wrapping herself in a silky throw blanket.
“My legs feel like jelly. Good jelly, though. Like... mango pudding.”
I packed my oils and fairy lights, leaving the scent of sandalwood lingering in the air.
Satomi’s Telegram notification lit up my phone as I boarded the bus back to Chatswood. Her review was pure gold:
SATOMI_DESIGNS: “LEGEND. HOLY SHIT. Legit the best 30th gift EVER. Came 3× (still not sorry). Also, my new ‘Sydney Unraveled’ line? You’re getting a “Tantric Muse” credit. Stay awesome. 💋”
I typed back:
“Happy birthday, Satomi 🎉 Trust me—30’s where the magic starts. (How do you say ‘holy shit’ in Japanese again? Asking for a friend.)”
Her reply was instant:
“It’s ‘holy shi-TSU!’ 😂 And FYI, my CEO just approved the line. Turns out ‘post-orgasm creativity’ sells. DM me your address—I owe you lingerie.”
It’s moments like these that remind me why I do this. Not the money, not the adrenaline, but the shift—the way a single session can unstick someone’s life like a rusty bolt. I leaned against the bus window, watching outside, and grinned. Another soul reignited. Another ripple in Sydney’s endless craving for connection.
“Want to feel what Satomi felt? 🌟 Birthdays, burnouts, or just because—leave your contact at my website. I'll craft your own ‘holy shi-TSU’ moment.
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