Elite Escort Services, Sensual Massage, and Strippers in Delhi, India

I wasn’t going to write.
Not tonight.
But your name’s been pacing the edge of my thoughts — not loudly, just… steady.

So, here.

I’m not “ideal.”
My breasts are uneven. The left sits lower.
My thighs touch. I like that.
My ass turns heads in the right jeans, but I prefer you see it when I’m climbing into bed — not walking away.
My stomach folds when I sit. I never try to hide it anymore.

And my hair?
Wavy when it wants. Messy most mornings.
Smells like clove and something I don’t tell anyone the name of.

If we were in Delhi, and you didn’t want a show,
I’d meet you somewhere no map recommends.
There’s this place behind Khan Market — up three cracked stairs, no sign.
They serve whiskey that tastes like the wood it sat in.
And no music, just fans and people pretending not to look at each other.

I wouldn’t flirt. I don’t know how to do that with my mouth.
But I’d ask you something small, like
“Do you always look this tired when you’re thinking?”

And if you laughed — just once —
I’d stop talking.

Later. Behind my door.
Shoes kicked off.
City still buzzing outside.

I’d let the silence fall first.
Then move. Slowly.
Unhook one thing. Then another.
Not a striptease show.
More like molting.
Not for you — for me.

My hands?
They don’t rush. They feel.
And when they slide down your back and pause —
that pause isn’t hesitation.
It’s listening.

An erotic massage with me is like forgetting your name and not needing it back.
No oil tricks. Just pressure, heat, breath.
Sometimes I talk. Sometimes I hum.
Sometimes I stop and press my forehead into your shoulder.
Because I want to.

They’d call it escort Delhi.
You can too.
But it won’t feel like a service.
It’ll feel like something you weren’t sure you deserved — but didn’t run from.

So.
If you’re tired of pretending you don’t want to be touched the way your mind won’t admit —
write.

Don’t ask what I’ll do.
Ask if I’ll stay.