It starts with the feet because that’s where the day ends. Crushed in loafers, strangled in heels, dragged through meetings and rain and the thousand indignities of polite society. At Tantric Affairs, we kneel before those battered gods like supplicants, not out of submission, but reverence.

A foot, when properly revealed—arched, vulnerable, decadent—isn’t just a limb, it’s a liturgy. The first touch isn’t a stroke, it’s an invocation. There’s incense in the air, yes, but more importantly, there’s tension, and not the kind you release with chatter and chamomile. No. This is the kind you mine like coal—dark, buried, combustible. Clients come in tired of pretending they’re machines. They leave breathing like animals who just remembered they’re divine.

The work is slow, ritualistic, almost filmic—like a lost reel from Belle de Jour mixed with something raw from a Moscow basement club. We don’t talk unless we have to. We listen—to breath, to nerve endings, to that flicker in the eye that says yes, there. We begin with cleansing, anointing, then kneading—the balls of the feet, the pads, the arches, all tuned like strings on an ancient, erotic instrument. Pressure builds. The energy isn’t just erotic—it’s tectonic. The foot is a trigger, a memory bank, a tantric map etched in skin and sinew. And by the time we’re done, you’re not sure if you’ve just had a massage, a revelation, or a very polite exorcism.