My body emptied of all substance, like a shell abandoned by energy, I decided it was time to give myself a real break. A day just for me, a moment of well-being where I could finally refocus. My choice naturally fell on the massage parlor I had recently discovered, a haven of peace with woody scents and subdued lighting, where each visit seemed to suspend the flow of time. It wasn't the idea of ​​finding my handsome Senegalese masseur that pushed me to return, although his expert hands and burning embraces had left disturbing memories on my skin and body. No, this time, it wasn't the thrill of temptation I was looking for, but total abandonment, a plunge into a bubble of softness where I would think only of myself, my tired body, and this urgent need to regenerate. The owner, a Byzantine-looking figure with a honeyed voice, recognized me immediately and hurried over to meet me. His face lit up with a broad smile, a little too earnest to be entirely sincere, as he opened his arms wide as if to embrace me in his feigned enthusiasm. "Ah! Dear Sir, what a pleasure to see you again in my modest establishment!" he exclaimed in an exaggeratedly warm tone. "Your return can only mean one thing: you were fully satisfied with our services!" As he spoke, he scrutinized me with a gaze heavy with inner thoughts, a knowing glint shining deep in his eyes. "Unfortunately, Moktar, our expert Senegalese masseur, has been ill for several days," he added, assuming a mock-apprehensive air. But rest assured, we have young Ibrahim... Imagine, he's only seventeen years old and yet, already, he has been able to meet many of the expectations of my most loyal customers. He paused, tilting his head slightly, and looked at me with a knowing air, insisting just enough to make me understand that young Ibrahim, despite his apparent inexperience, would be able to meet my desires just as well as the illustrious Moktar. He looked at me fixedly, his brows slightly furrowed, as if he were trying to sound me out, to guess the shadow of my desires, to measure how far my tastes could take me. His gaze slid over me, scrutinizing, almost insistent, in a silence that I deliberately allowed to thicken. I liked the idea of ​​seeing him stir beneath my silence, of feeling him lose himself in his own insinuations, searching for a clue, a sign from me. He held my gaze for a moment longer, then, in a falsely casual tone, he continued, as if dropping a sentence at random: "But we also have the very beautiful and very young Djamila... She bears her name wonderfully."He paused, scrutinizing my reaction before adding, with an enigmatic smile, "And... it fully satisfies many of my regulars." His voice trailed off slightly on the last few words, emphasizing the implication without ever quite formulating it. His smile, however, was that of a man convinced he had piqued his interlocutor's curiosity. I nodded in agreement, a slight sigh escaping my lips, as if this option hardly moved me. The owner's enthusiasm slid over me without finding a foothold, but it didn't seem to dampen his pleasure in the slightest. He rubbed his hands together with a satisfied air, then, without another word, invited me to follow him with a fluid and assured gesture. We crossed a corridor whose walls were weathered by humidity and time, where the sweet scents of musk and orange blossom mingled. The distant echo of a fountain rustled gently, blending with the hushed silence of the place. As we moved forward, the atmosphere took on an almost unreal mystery, as if we were sinking into a world suspended between dream and reality. The owner stopped in front of a dark, finely carved wooden door and opened it with a barely perceptible rustle. He stepped aside to let me in, his gaze expressing discreet satisfaction, then closed the door behind me with the delicacy of a man who knows when to withdraw. The room was bathed in a subdued, golden, and soothing light, filtered by light drapes that danced in an imperceptible current of air. The atmosphere was soft, intimate, a timeless cocoon where every detail seemed designed to flatter the senses. And there, at the center of this bubble of serenity, stood Djamila. With a natural bearing, imbued with instinctive grace, she seemed perfectly at ease in this setting that seemed to have sculpted her in its own image. Her amber complexion caught the light with exquisite softness, revealing smooth, silky skin. Her features, strikingly harmonious, blended the delicacy and strength of a beauty sculpted by the sun and desert wind. Her eyes, deep and shaded by long black lashes, shone with a peaceful, almost unfathomable intensity. She wore a wide sarong tied just above her chest, falling smoothly to her knees. The light fabric followed her movements with simple elegance, occasionally revealing the outline of her form in the subtle play of light and shadow. She stood straight, neither embarrassed nor defiant, simply present, with the silent assurance that comes from knowing you belong. For a moment our eyes met, and in that brief exchange there was neither question nor answer. In a soft, calm voice, she invited me to undress. There was neither embarrassment nor haste in her tone, just a benevolent neutrality, imbued with natural professionalism. With an almost ceremonial delicacy, she turned away, giving me the privacy I needed to prepare. This seemingly simple gesture denoted a discreet modesty, an elegant way of marking the boundary between ritual and intimacy. I removed my clothes with measured slowness, appreciating the cool touch of the air on my bare skin. The dim light accentuated the contrasts, playing on the curves and contours of the decor, while a subtle scent of jasmine still floated in the air. On the chair beside it, a large, immaculate towel was carefully folded, its soft texture already announcing a promise of comfort. I draped it around me, its fabric immediately absorbing my body heat. Then, with the nonchalance of a regular, I lay down on the massage table, feeling the softness of the slightly warm leather beneath me, marked by the scent of essential oils. Behind me, I heard the light rustle of the fabric as Djamila turned around. She waited a moment, perhaps making sure I was ready, before approaching with that silent grace that seemed natural to her. Lying on my stomach, I let my body surrender to the sweetness of the moment. The warm air carried the scent of essential oils, a soothing blend of orange blossom and cedar. Behind me, a soft clink of glass signaled the opening of a bottle, followed by the fluid glide of heated oil between her palms. The first pressures on my shoulders diffused an immediate warmth. Djamila massaged confidently, alternating light strokes with deep movements. Her thumbs lingered on the nape of my neck, methodically releasing tension, then slowly moved down my back. Her touch was precise, her movements fluid and controlled. Each stroke of her hands glided with the precision of a well-practiced choreography, enveloping my muscles in a gradual relaxation. The knots came undone under the calculated pressure of her palms, while my breathing unconsciously matched the slow, hypnotic rhythm of her handwork, which ran from the nape of my neck to the soles of my feet. Authoritatively, yet gracefully, she slightly parted my legs to massage the inside of my thighs. "Are you okay? " "Yes, it's delicious. " "Was Moktar the last session? ...

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