u/DaMightyHAKUNAMATATA

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

M | 30 | Mumbai — Apparently I give “dangerously addictive” back massages…

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.

You know how some people have party tricks? I don’t. I’ve got something better.

I’m stupidly good at massaging. Back, neck, lower back, right where stress turns into something a lot more fun. It’s one of those things I never bragged about, mostly because it always ended up speaking for itself… usually when someone was trying not to moan into a pillow.

My favorite… “test case,” let’s call her S, used to pretend she only wanted a normal back rub. She’d lie down all innocent, hair tied up, acting like she was just there for “relaxation.” The second my thumbs dug into that tight spot right under her shoulder blades, it was game over. Her breath would hitch, her whole body would arch just a little, and she’d whisper these half-broken “right there, don’t stop”s that made it VERY obvious what state she was in.

And the funniest part? She’d always swear it was “just the massage.”
Sure. And I’m the Dalai Lama.

She’d show up late at night, claiming her back hurt. It always ended the same: her trembling under my hands, face buried in a pillow, letting out these soft little sounds she could never hide. Her entire body would relax in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with spa therapy.

I don’t rush. I don’t go straight for the obvious. I start slow, find the tension, work into the spots that make you breathe deeper, heavier, until your hips start shifting on their own and you’re trying to hold yourself together. A good massage should leave you a mess — the delicious kind.

If you like that slow burn… the kind of touch that gets filthier the more relaxed you get… well, I’ve got time, hands, and very good aim.

DM if you’re curious. Worst case, you get a conversation. Best case, you discover why S never missed a session.