Michelle booked the appointment for a Wednesday evening two weeks later, still carrying the quiet afterglow of her first visit. The Reset Massage had left her body soft and her mind clearer than it had been in months, but a new curiosity had settled in its place. She had read about yoni massage—slow, intentional work that treated the whole pelvic landscape as something sacred and responsive—and Fantasy Massages listed Michael as their specialist. Reviews spoke of patience, skill, and a presence that never rushed. She selected the ninety-minute session and, after a moment’s hesitation, added the note that she was open to the experience unfolding naturally.
The same discreet black door. The same warm, sandalwood-scented air. Aria was at the desk again and greeted her with a knowing smile.
“Michael’s ready for you. Suite three.”
The room was quieter than last time—lower light, a single wide table draped in dark linen, a small altar-like shelf holding oils, a bowl of warm water, and clean towels. Michael stood near the far wall. Tall, mid-thirties, dark hair cropped close, calm brown eyes. He wore simple black trousers and a fitted shirt with the sleeves rolled. His voice was low and unhurried when he introduced himself.
“Michelle. Welcome back. We’ll go at your pace the whole way. You can stop or change anything at any moment.”
She nodded, already feeling the familiar softening in her shoulders. He stepped out while she undressed. Tonight she had chosen deep burgundy lace—thin straps, a soft unlined bra that let her nipples show clearly, and matching briefs that sat high on her hips. She left them on beneath the robe, the same small private signal she had given last time.
When Michael returned he guided her onto the table face-up, then removed the robe with careful hands. He didn’t rush the lingerie either. He simply looked for a moment, appreciative without being greedy, before unhooking the bra and sliding the briefs down her legs. Oil warmed between his palms. He began at her feet, long strokes up the calves, the thighs, the soft outer hips. Only when her breathing had slowed did his hands settle over her lower belly, resting there, waiting for her body to answer.
The yoni work itself was slower than anything she had experienced. He oiled the outer lips first, tracing their shape with the pads of his fingers, never pressing inside yet. Circular motions around the pubic bone, gentle stretches of the inner thighs, thumbs gliding along the sensitive folds until she was already wet and open. When he finally parted her and began to explore the entrance, it was with one finger only—slow circles, light pressure, learning the places that made her breath catch. He found the swollen bud of her clit and circled it with the lightest touch, never rubbing hard, just coaxing blood and sensation upward until her hips began to roll of their own accord.
Time stretched. He added a second finger, curling gently, massaging the front wall in long, deliberate strokes while his thumb kept a steady, maddening rhythm on her clit. Michelle’s eyes closed. Soft sounds left her throat. The dual attention built heat low in her belly until she was trembling, thighs open, completely given over to the slow, skilled pressure. When the first orgasm rose it was deep and rolling rather than sharp—waves that started in her pelvis and travelled outward until her whole body arched and then melted back into the table.
Michael stayed with her through it, gentling but not withdrawing. Only when her breathing had evened did he speak again, voice quiet near her ear.
“Would you like more?”
She opened her eyes. His hand still rested lightly between her legs, warm and present. She could see the outline of his cock through his trousers—thick, half-hard from the intimacy of the work. The bi-curious part of her that had enjoyed Aria and Lena’s mouths last time now wanted something different. Something heavier.
“Yes,” she said. “I want to taste you.”
He stood, unfastened his trousers, and freed himself. Thick, already fully hard, the head flushed and glistening. Michelle shifted onto her side, propped on one elbow, and took him into her mouth without hesitation. She licked the underside first, slow and thorough, then sank down, letting saliva wet the shaft as she worked him deeper. His hand rested lightly in her hair—not guiding, just present. She took her time, sucking firmly on the head, sliding her tongue along the vein, occasionally looking up to watch his face as she hollowed her cheeks and drew him in as far as she comfortably could. His breathing grew heavier. A low sound escaped him when she used her hand to stroke what her mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently on the upstroke.
When she finally pulled off, lips shiny, he guided her onto her back again. He oiled himself quickly, then settled between her open thighs. The first slow push inside was deliberate—inch by inch, letting her body stretch and accept him. Michelle’s head tipped back. He was thicker than the fingers that had prepared her, and the deep, steady slide made her gasp. Once fully seated he stayed still for a long moment, simply resting inside her, letting her feel every pulse and throb.
Then he began to move.
Slow. Deep. Almost meditative. Each withdrawal dragged along her inner walls; each return pressed against the sensitive front until her breath stuttered. He kept one hand on her hip, the other braced beside her shoulder, watching her face the entire time. When she lifted her legs higher he hooked them over his arms, changing the angle so every thrust stroked that same swollen place inside. The pleasure built differently this time—heavier, fuller, rising in long waves rather than sharp peaks. Michelle’s hands gripped his forearms. Soft, broken sounds left her with every deep stroke.
He never sped up. Even when her second orgasm gathered and broke, flooding around him in rhythmic pulses, he kept the same measured rhythm, fucking her through it until the aftershocks softened. Only then did he allow himself to go a fraction deeper, a fraction harder, still controlled, still watching her. When he finally came it was with a low groan, buried to the hilt, hips pressed tight against hers as he emptied himself in slow, pulsing waves.
They stayed joined for a long while afterward. His forehead rested against hers. Her legs remained loosely wrapped around him. The room was quiet except for their breathing and the faint ambient track.
Eventually he withdrew with care, cleaned them both with warm towels, and helped her sit up. The burgundy lingerie was folded neatly on the side table. Michelle slipped the robe back on, body heavy and thoroughly used in the best way.
Michael’s hand rested briefly on her shoulder, the same calm presence as at the beginning.
“You’re welcome whenever you want to return.”
She smiled, still a little dazed, already knowing she would. The week’s residual tension was gone again—replaced by the deep, satisfied ache of having been opened slowly and fucked with deliberate, unhurried attention. Outside, the Brisbane night felt softer than before. She walked to the waiting car with the easy, loose-hipped stride of a woman who had been thoroughly reset once more.