The four-hand add-on applies to any of our massage services (sensual, classic and tantrix) and provided by two masseuses

It starts slow, like any decent descent should. Two pairs of hands—no names, just movement—slide across your flesh like river water over rocks worn smooth by time and need. There’s no script, just rhythm. You lie there, half-drunk on incense and your own anticipation, while they move in tandem, not speaking, not needing to.

One starts at the nape, the other traces circles lower down, and suddenly you’re not a man or a woman anymore—you’re a topography being mapped by blind cartographers who’ve touched hundreds before you but make you believe you’re the first. It’s chaos disguised as ceremony, the kind the ancients knew—the kind that spilled wine down naked torsos in flickering torchlight while Bacchus laughed himself sick in the corner. This isn’t wellness. This is the body remembering it’s been hungry for centuries.

The four hands don’t always feel like four. Sometimes it’s one being with four limbs, like some forgotten tantric deity they chiseled into stone in Khajuraho, worshipped before shame was a currency. The movements aren’t symmetrical—they’re choreographed disobedience. One hand punishes, one soothes. One insists, the other delays. You lose track of where you end and they begin. This is what they tried to reclaim at the Haight-Ashbury communes, on rugs in basements in Paris, on beaches in Mykonos where the sun and salt licked skin bare. At Tantric Affairs, we don’t pretend it’s all spiritual. Sometimes the spirit is the animal, and the ritual is the surrender. We just give it a stage, a scent, a soundtrack.