Tantric Touch Therapy

Madeline hadn’t meant to book anything weird.

She just wanted to relax. One of those long days—Zoom fatigue, a boardroom full of passive-aggressive backbiting, and that smug little intern who kept calling her “ma’am.” Her temples were throbbing, her back tight from hours hunched in her chair. She deserved a massage. Something decadent.

So she scrolled.

Yelp. Too boring.

Wellness apps. Overpriced.

Then a little black and gold app blinked onto her screen. “Nuru Massage: Tantric Touch Therapy.” No reviews. No clear pricing. Just a logo: a pair of slick, golden lips whispering into an ear.

Normally she’d have laughed it off. But something about it… the way her thumb hovered over the “Book Now” button like it wasn’t hers. Her hand moved without thinking.

Click.

The confirmation came instantly: Your transformation is scheduled.

Wait—transformation?

She blinked. Gone. It now said appointment. Probably a glitch.

Whatever

The building was easy to miss. Tucked between a used bookstore and a dry cleaner, it looked like an old salon, the windows blacked out and the door marked only by a faint spiral etched into the glass

Inside: silence. No music. No chatter. Just warm, golden light and a woman behind a counter with glowing amber eyes and a smile like honey laced with venom.

“Name?” the woman asked, though her fingers were already reaching for a silk robe folded nearby.

“Madeline,” she said, suddenly unsure.

“No,” the woman corrected, draping the robe over her shoulders. “Not anymore."

 The massage room didn’t smell like lavender or eucalyptus. It smelled like desire. A thick, perfumed fog that clung to her skin, seeped into her pores, made her thighs press together.

The table was warm. Padded. Inviting.

She stripped without thinking.

She never stripped for strangers.

 

Robe off, naked, her body kissed by the dim amber light, Madeline lay face-down on the mattress, her cheek against the cushioned cradle, breathing slow.

The masseuse entered without a sound.

No hello. No warning.

Just the soft sound of oil dripping—warm, thick—and fingers pressing into her skin with impossible precision. Like the woman knew her body already. Every knot. Every tension point. Every secret place she liked to be touched.

Madeline bit her lip, arched. The fingers traced down her spine… over her hips… just to the cusp of her ass.

“Relax,” the masseuse whispered. Her voice was deep, musical. “Let go.”

The oil tingled.

No—buzzed.

A low vibration that seeped under her skin and set every nerve humming. She gasped.

The hands pushed deeper, firmer. Rolling her muscles. Rolling her thoughts.

“I… I think I’m—" she mumbled, but couldn’t finish. The words fell apart like wet tissue in her throat.

Then: heat.

Wet heat.

A tongue.

Between her thighs.

 

She jerked—but the hands pinned her, massaging her shoulders in slow, hypnotic circles.

The tongue dragged upward, slowly, deliciously, and something inside her popped. A tiny spark—gone. Like a snapped thread in her brain.

Then another lick.

Another snap.

Every time the tongue danced across her swollen, oil-slick folds, something vanished—her email password, her ex’s birthday, her job title. Her thighs thickened, hips flaring wider with each moan, each surrender.

“Good girl,” the masseuse whispered. “Just let it all drain out.”

She tried to protest. Tried to say, “What’s in the oil?”

But all that came out was, “D-daddy…”

She blinked.

Wait. Who said that?

She couldn’t have said that.

Except… her mouth was wet. Her lip bitten. Her hips lifting off the table, presenting.

The masseuse laughed softly. “Oh, sweetheart. You’re already changing beautifully.”

And then the masseuse flipped her.

Madeline’s back arched as her slick tits bounced free, rounder than they’d been an hour ago. Her nipples ached, stiff, leaking something clear and sweet.

Her legs were up now, spread high. The masseuse’s head dipped again, tongue lapping at her new clit like a sacred ritual. Madeline’s eyes rolled back.

Every moan warped her.

Her lips puffed. Her mind blurred. Her voice climbed an octave, becoming breathier, ditzier, more eager.

She was cumming again—and again—and again.

And with every wave of bliss, another part of her past dissolved.

Bank account? Gone.

LinkedIn? What’s that?

Pronouns? Whatever Daddy likes.

Time passed. Or maybe it stopped.

She didn’t care.

She was on all fours now, mewling, licking back. Her tongue dragged across the masseuse’s slick folds, eager to taste the same power that had remade her.

“Good girl,” the masseuse whispered, stroking her hair.

“You’re ready.”

“Ready…?” Madeline—no, she didn’t have a name anymore—giggled. “Ready for what?”

The massage table retracted into the floor. A panel opened in the wall.

A long row of glowing booths, each with a bed and a screen.

Faces stared in from the other side—clients. Dozens of them. Maybe hundreds.

“Ready for your new job.”