Hi, I'm Dan, 41.
I often come to Geneva for work, but for the past few months, my Thursday evenings haven't been quite the same.
It all started at the XoXo salon, on a rainy evening, in a hushed atmosphere that blends the scent of white flowers with amber light.
"Good evening... Are you booked with Sonja?"
The voice came from behind the counter.
I turned around and discovered Sonja, black dress, clear eyes, precise smile.
A photographer by trade, I immediately noticed the way she moved. Every gesture seemed thought out, measured, almost choreographed.
She led me into the back room.
The velvet curtains filtered the light, the music was soft.
She offered me to lie down, then brushed her fingertips over my shoulders - as if she were framing a shot before releasing the shutter.
- Are you a photographer?
- Yes," I replied.
- Then let me show you what you can't capture with a camera.
She smiled.
Her hands slid slowly down my back, describing precise circles, like brushstrokes on a canvas.
I could feel every movement echoing in my breathing.
She came up to my ear and breathed:
- You like to watch, don't you?
I nodded, unable to speak.
Then, without another word, she slid back the sheet, revealing her silhouette in the soft light.
Nothing brutal. Just this quiet beauty, the kind that doesn't seek to seduce - it is seduction.
The massage became slower, more intimate.
I was no longer a spectator, but a model.
Each gesture seemed to redraw me.
When she touched my lips with her fingertips, time stood still.
Then, in a calm voice, she whispered to me:
- Close your eyes... and imagine you're taking the photo.
I did.
And in my mind, the scene was perfect: the light, the shadows, her skin, her breath.
A moment frozen in my memory.
Since that evening, I've come back almost every week.
Always on a Thursday.
Sometimes for Sonja. Sometimes for someone else.
But always for that moment suspended between reality and fantasy.
