Nuru Massage

by Fiona, 08.05.2025

I had heard of Nuru before.
Whispers of silk-like skin. Of bodies gliding. Of oil, warm and infinite.
But nothing prepared me for the moment my skin met another—not as a surface, but as a sense.
Not as contact, but as a current.

That first moment—
when the warm gel touched my chest, my thighs, my belly—
I stopped thinking.
And started feeling.

Held without hands
There were no hands in the usual sense.
There was presence.
A body, warm and alert, moving like water across mine.
Not heavy. Not dominant.
Just... near.
So near that my nervous system began to soften,
and every breath became a shoreline.

Oil as mirror
The Nuru gel was unlike anything I had ever felt.
Not slippery, but infinite.
It carried weight and lightness, closeness and space.
And suddenly, I wasn’t just being touched—I was feeling myself through another.

With each movement, my skin spoke:
Yes. There.
Softer.
Wait.
More.

And the body responded—without words.
Just presence.
Just yes.

The alchemy of closeness
At first, I thought I would want to hide.
But something else happened.
In that much skin. In that much contact.
I didn’t disappear.
I emerged.

It wasn’t erotic in the way I’d feared.
It was sacred in the way I’d forgotten.

Because nothing was asked of me.
No performance.
No pleasing.
Only the invitation:
to let go.
To trust.
To rest.

When presence becomes power
I felt myself become vast—
not in size, but in awareness.
I could feel each pore.
Each ripple of breath.
Each pulse of aliveness moving under the surface.

And I knew:
This isn’t indulgence.
This is remembrance.
This is the return to the body as temple.
To sensation as soul-language.
To closeness without fear.

Afterglow
I left glowing. Not oily—glowing.
My body soft. My mind clear.
My heart—quiet.
There was nothing to prove, and yet something had shifted.

I walked differently.
Straighter. Slower. More whole.
I touched my own skin that night with a new kind of reverence.

Nuru taught me that closeness doesn’t have to consume.
It can restore.
And that my sensuality, when held in presence,
isn’t dangerous.
It’s divine.