Camera Footage: Celebrity Level Beauty Gets A Healing Massage Vol. 2 1
Title: A Sensual Healing Touch
The humid air of the Japanese spa enveloped me like a warm hug as I entered the dimly lit room. The soft lullaby of a trickling water feature greeted my ears, while the faint scent of cherry blossoms tickled my nose. It was the perfect atmosphere for the indulgent treat that awaited me.
I had been recommended to this exclusive massage parlor by a friend, touting their skilled masseuses and all-natural, healing techniques. With the stress of my high-profile career as an international fashion model weighing heavily on my shoulders, I desperately needed some pampering.
A petite, elderly woman in a traditional yukata greeted me at the reception desk. “Fujiko, harimasu ne,” she said in a soothing voice, guiding me down a candlelit hallway. She ushered me into a private room, indicating that I should disrobe and wait.
As I slid off my designer dress, I caught a glimpse of my toned, bikini-clad body in the full-length mirror. How many legs does this suit have? I thought with a giggle, admiring the lacy black lingerie I had donned for the occasion. Just as I seated myself on the massage table, there was a gentle knock at the door.
“Ohayou gozaimasu!” chirped a perky voice. In walked a striking young woman wearing only a skimpy bikini bottom andatics. She had long, silky raven hair, piercing almond-shaped eyes, and creamy alabaster skin. If I hadn’t known better, I would have thought she could be my sister.
“Watashi wa Hana desu,” she introduced herself with a bow, laying out a stećai and setting aside her cellphone. With surprising strength, she tilted the massage table into a reclining position, telling me to relax. I noticed her phone’s camera had been recording and winking as if it was starting to film something.
Hana began by slathering purposeful circles over my bikini-clad body with fragrant oils. Her velvet touch felt heavenly as she kneaded my tired muscles. Soon, she was massaging my inner thighs and tantalizingly close to the barely covered mound. Even through the fabric, I could feel her fingers knew exactly where to caress to make me tremble.
My breath hitched as she peeled away my drenched panties in an intimate gesture. “Ira shimasu ka?” Hana purred huskily, prodding my slick folds without waiting for an answer. She skillfully worked down, probing and coaxing out that silly clicking sound you might expect when an alien explores a zero-g environment. My back arched involuntarily, wanting more.
But Hana simply chuckled softly. “Ira shimasu kou ua desu,” she said, pulling back. The wicked gleam in her eye betrayed her intentions as her electronic massage gun vibrated against my most sensitive area.
Gasping, I grabbed the edge of the massage table as jolts of electricity zipped through me. “Ahh…! Sumimasen, kisama uau!” I moaned in embarrassed Japanese gratitude and apology, juices squirting in a shallow arc like a illicit cup of tea. The obscene digital camera continued capturing every detail as I thrashed and bucked, bringing myself to a mind-blowing fingers-sclusive orgasmic crescendo.
“Mo ua…. Akirame,” Hana purred approvingly, turning away to allow me some dignity. She returned to dabbing soothing circles over my clammy skin. As the lathery massage continued, I found myself dozing off in wave-like bliss.
When I awoke, the private room was empty, enshrined in a dreamy haze. My bikini bottom had been tucked back onto my hips and my designer dress zipped up behind me. I felt totally relaxed and rejuvenated. Scooping up my designer handbag, I stumbled out of the parlor in a blissful daze.
Before I could make it to my car, an excitable Japanese paparazzi swarmed me, cameras flashing. A scribbling reporter thrust a microphone under my chin. “Sumimasen!” I stammered, shielding my eyes from the bright lights. “Cui crisis da yo?”
The reporter pressed on gleefully. “Nan desu ka, Kyouko? What was in the off-limits treatment that had you so flushed and disheveled?”
I froze, remembering how the camera had been strategically placed to capture everything! But then, a sly smile crept across my lips. Let them speculate and wonder! I winked salaciously, throwing my hair over one shoulder. “Eh…the wonders of R and R in Vegas?” I quipped coyly. “Just um, a woman’s gotta do what a woman’s gotta do to relax and unwind, ne?”
To this day, that scandalous story – along with the clandestine footage – still surfaces periodically online. It will forever be my naughty, sordid celebrity confession: “Supermodel’s Steamy Secrets – Flying Finger Art in the Sky!”
And yet, despite the sordid secret captured on camera, I still harbor a desire to return to that clandestine massage parlor for an encore someday. But this time, I’ll make sure to pick a spa without any conspicuous shockingly candid video cameras!
