A female intellectual’s encounter with Kaishun Tantric Massage in Hong Kong

Preparing to wrap up her pseudo-business trip to China, Willa packed methodically. She pondered her goings-on of the last couple of weeks: flying out to Hong Kong on her video gaming company’s dollar and presenting new ideas while gauging the atmosphere. The trip had been wrought with the stress of the culture’s tense atmosphere, but Willa enjoyed the chaos. Nothing had prepared her for the pollution of California out in the East, however. The smog was tangible, oily, sooty.

Willa browsed some of the tourist-y brochures she’d picked up while doing business while having a late breakfast and coffee. An ad caught her eye for “Hong Kong massage outcall services” and “kaishun tantric massage Hong Kong“. She read further into the details, discovered they accepted walk-ins, and called for an appointment. Most of the businesses that she’d paid a visit to had someone that could speak passable English, and she could speak a novice Chinese. She made her appointment prior to dinner, and from there she’d turn in early, and fly out in the morning. Willa located her driver for the trip and headed to the massage parlor. Upon arrival, it looked inviting. She entered the lobby, and met with a tiny receptionist, who explained Kaishun Tantric massage to her, but most of what she could make out was “outcall massage Hong Kong” repeated a few times. The slight figure outlined her massage experience in rough English, explaining that she would be naked and would not be allowed to view the face of the masseuse. She was led to a room where she disrobed and wrapped a terry cloth towel underneath her armpits, around her mocha skin. Willa felt like a giant among Lilliputians standing 5″10.” She was a college basketball star who opted to major in digital design which wound her up in an awesome opportunity with a large video game company. She stretched her lithe, athletic body onto the table and heard a brief knock, the door open, and her masseuse entered.

 

The therapist lowered the lights and drew the towel down to Willa’s waist to expose her back. Willa sighed, closed her eyes, and lost herself to the talented hands working her flesh. She hadn’t an inkling of what her masseuse looked like, male or female, but she knew the hands were very powerful and educated. Between working the deep tissue, the therapist would draw little lines of lingering sensuality as the next spot was addressed. The sides of her breasts were exposed and fingertips lightly traced the skin, sending shivers down her spine. Then the outcall massage therapist worked her gluts, parting her legs slightly to work the inner thigh. A wave of heat flushed Willa from head to toe, and suddenly she felt on the edge of a precipice, teetering dangerously. The therapist worked her magic, and therapeutically worked the stress from her client’s form. Never directly touching her erogenous zones, the masseuse turned all of her skin into the sensual equivalent of a taut nipple. The tension was sweet, frustrating, and building. Willa’s mind was far from anywhere except reaching release from the burning between her legs, and the masseuse teased her along merrily. Her full body was incorporated now, all humming like a high tension wire. The tantric massage therapist merely brushed her nether regions, all but a whisper of the hands, and she toppled end over end of beautiful white pleasure from the release. Tears stood in her eyes, and she slowed her breathing to normal, wondering if she had embarrassed herself or the masseuse. A few more quick, sensual strokes to her skin and she heard her benefactor leave.

 

As she flew back home she pondered her experience, and enjoyed the little itch it sparked downstairs. She never knew if the masseuse was male or female, ugly or pretty, fat or thin. She found she didn’t want to. She treasured the mystery of the unknown to compliment the fairy tale ending to a whirlwind trip.