Meeting a Vietnamese Traveler for the Third Time in Tokyo
“I just arrived at the station. What time will you get here?”
“Almost there,” I replied.
Tokyo in June was thick with humid air that clung to the skin. That night, I was on a train heading toward Nishi-Nippori—a neighborhood I wasn’t familiar with. She had chosen a hotel there for its easy access to Narita Airport, where she’d be flying out the next morning. As someone who provides sensual massage services for women, I was on my way to meet her.
Outside the window, the night had fully fallen, and rows of quiet houses drifted past under the streetlights.
She was a Vietnamese woman in her late twenties, visiting Tokyo for a short trip.
I had seen her the past two nights already—both times she had booked me for a massage. Repeat requests weren’t uncommon, but this was the first time someone had asked for three consecutive days.
Usually, I tell them to leave a few days between sessions for both physical and scheduling reasons. But this time felt different. Partly because I happened to have availability. But more than that, because she was returning to Vietnam tomorrow.
She had told me she had a stable career and considered herself “serious, maybe even a little conservative about intimacy.” And yet, she was the one who said, “I want to see you again before I leave.” I was honestly touched.
We’d only met two days ago, but it felt like we had known each other longer. I found myself wanting to see her again, too.
When I got off the train and stepped through the ticket gate, I saw her right away.
By our third meeting, the nervousness had faded, replaced by something warmer—like the excitement of meeting someone you’ve missed. She waved to me with a smile, her long brown hair swaying. Petite, with a sweet and slightly innocent face.
Today she wore an oversized T-shirt and loose pants—casual, comfortable, and completely her.
“Thanks for coming again today,” she said.
She had taken the time to meet me at the station, not just wait at the hotel. She said it was because she wanted to spend as much time with me as she could.
We walked toward her hotel, chatting about how she spent her day.
“I went to Shibuya today. It was so much fun.”
Our conversation was light, flowing between simple English and Japanese. We didn’t always understand each other perfectly, but even those small gaps felt endearing.
Slow, Real Intimacy: Sharing a Quiet Night Together
Her hotel room was a standard Japanese business hotel—two beds, and a quiet suitcase by the wall, a silent reminder that her trip was almost over.
“I’ll take a shower first,” I said.
“Can I join you…?”
She looked up at me, a hint of shyness in her voice, but her eyes were steady and sincere.
I nodded quietly.
I stepped into the bathroom first and undressed.
Feeling a little self-conscious, I wrapped a towel around my waist and turned off the light, letting the small space fall into darkness. Then, I let the warm water run over me.
After a few moments, I heard the soft click of the door and felt her quiet presence entering the room.
Her small body brushed gently against my chest.
In the darkness, I couldn’t see her clearly, but I could feel the warmth of her skin, the rhythm of her breath, and the faint scent of her hair—so close, so real.
We stood facing each other, our bare bodies touching in the narrow space.
The bathroom was no more than a square meter, just enough for a shower—no toilet, no room to move, just the two of us, pressed together by the walls and the moment.
Without a word, our lips found each other.
A slow, lingering kiss—one that needed no explanation, no language.
Her breathing grew heavier, and I could sense the emotions she had been holding back slowly beginning to overflow.
As we kissed, I traced a gentle line down her back with my fingertips.
She shivered, just slightly, at the soft, feather-light touch.
Each time our lips met, a quiet breath escaped her into my mouth—sweet and warm.
It felt like a signal, a soft invitation, and we drew closer still, heat rising between us with every heartbeat.
I hadn’t even noticed when the towel around my waist had slipped to the floor.
Her body, small and warm against mine, responded in a way that didn’t require words.
In the quiet darkness, she reached out—her hand wrapping gently my penis—not as an invitation, but as a connection. Intimate, slow, and unspoken.
A soft sigh escaped my lips, not from desire alone, but from the feeling of being seen, felt, and accepted.
She wasn’t someone who simply received affection. She wanted to share it—to explore it together. It wasn’t about performance or expectation, but about something mutual. Real.
In return, I let my hand slide gently between her legs, as if guided not by impulse, but by the rhythm of trust building between us.
The moment was tender. Honest.
Our breaths grew heavier, not rushed, but deliberate—like we were discovering one another for the first time, all over again.
We stayed like that for several minutes, simply exploring each other through touch and silence.
No urgency. No need for more.
Just the comfort of two people holding space for one another, both physically and emotionally.
Eventually, without a word, we moved together to the bed—guided not by lust, but by the simple desire to remain close.
An Intimate Night Wrapped in Warmth and Connection
After gently patting each other dry with a towel, I lifted her small frame into my arms and laid her softly onto the bed—our hearts still racing, the intimacy still lingering thick in the air.
Naked beneath the cool hum of the air-conditioned room, we slipped under the covers, seeking warmth not just from the sheets, but from each other.
And then, as if drawn by gravity, our lips met again. Slow. Deep. Familiar.
I had lost count of how many kisses we had shared over these three days.
Each one had been slightly different, yet all of them had carried the same quiet intensity.
I enjoy kissing—but rarely do I do it so often during a session.
With her, though, it was different. She often reached for my lips, almost instinctively, as if trying to anchor herself in the connection we had created.
My hands moved slowly across her body, not to possess, but to explore—to appreciate.
My lips traced a tender path, leaving the warmth of her mouth to gently wander along her jaw, her ear, her neck… and lower still, following the rhythm of her breath and the soft tremble beneath my touch.As I touched her warm, tender body, I felt a quiet sense of fulfillment deep within my heart.
When our hands gently intertwined, it was as if our hearts overlapped, wrapping us in a shared warmth.
Though we had only a little over two hours together, I truly wished that time could stop in that moment.
When I buried my face in her chest, her soft and gentle curves embraced me with calm affection.
Her nipples, slightly hardened with warmth, seemed to whisper softly, “Touch me more.”
As I gently caressed her breasts and areolas with my fingers and tongue—slowly, with reverence—her voice began to tremble with a rich, sweet sensuality.
Guided by instinct, I took her nipple into my mouth, and softly traced my fingers along her delicate folds.
She quietly wrapped her arms around my head, her fingertips tightening with emotion.
From the touch of her palms, I felt something beyond words being silently conveyed.
I listened closely to her body—where and how to touch her so that her heart and senses would tremble.
Tuning in to her subtle reactions, I poured my affection into every touch, one by one, with care.
With my fingertips and lips, I reached deep into her—
and again and again, her body trembled as if swept away by waves.
Her heated skin glistened with sweat, her breathing rising gradually, then settling softly once more.
Within the bounds of our limited time, our bodies reached for each other, responded to one another, and shared a quiet intimacy .
Until the very last moment of strength, we simply shared that time—quietly, deeply, completely.
And at the end, as I gently brushed her tousled hair, I pulled her into a soft embrace.
Even without words, something passed between us—something more powerful than language could ever express.
A Warm Goodbye on a Tokyo Night
She offered to walk me to the station, and we stepped out of the room together.
It was close to 11 p.m., and the night air had turned cool—as if the thick humidity of the day had been just a dream. A soft breeze brushed gently against my cheeks.
As we made our way through the narrow residential streets, our hands naturally found each other.
We were about to say goodbye. There was a real chance we might never meet again.
And yet, for some reason, I felt a quiet happiness.
She glanced at me now and then with a faint smile on her lips.
My mind wandered back over the past three days.
The hugs, the kisses, the massages…
So many moments—intense, intimate, unforgettable.
Soon, the station came into view, and after about ten minutes of walking, we arrived at the ticket gates where we had first met.
There were a few people passing by, but we didn’t say a word.
We simply embraced—gently, warmly.
Just before parting, she handed me a small paper bag.
“A little gift,” she said with a smile.
I thanked her, then turned toward the platform.
As I walked away, I looked back one last time.
She was still standing there, waving, waiting until I disappeared from view.
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A Goodbye Letter That Touched My Heart
As I sat down on the train, I peeked into the paper bag she had given me.
Inside was a neatly folded brown shirt and a handwritten letter.
Lifting the shirt gently, a soft, familiar scent rose into the air.
Beneath it was the letter—folded with care.
I unfolded it slowly.
The words were written in romaji, Japanese letters spelled out with the alphabet—her effort shining through each stroke.
“When you wear this shirt, please think of me.
I hope you stay healthy and happy.”
The moment I read those words, something tightened deep in my chest.
Her kindness, her sincerity—everything poured out from the page.
And suddenly, the reality that we may never meet again weighed heavily on me.
Even if we did want to see each other again, it wouldn’t be easy. Not with the distance between us.
And I couldn’t help but wonder: did I make things harder for her?
She told me she missed me already, that she wished we had more time.
Was she hurting now because of me?
In a perfect world, people meet, fall in love, spend time together, and only then share their bodies.
That’s the natural flow of things.
But in my line of work, that process doesn’t exist.
Within less than an hour of meeting, a woman places her trust in me, undresses, and lets herself be vulnerable.
I give her pleasure—intensely, unconditionally.
And sometimes, that extraordinary experience lingers in her memory like a drug—pulling her back, making her want it again.
It’s not uncommon for women visiting Japan to send me messages more than once during their short stay.
One night isn’t enough. They want to feel that closeness again.
She was like that too.
But she went even further.
“I miss you. I won’t forget you,” she said.
And that, honestly, made me happy.
But I don’t want her to suffer because we can’t meet again.
Just thinking about that brought both a sense of sadness and a gentle ache in my heart.
I tell myself I don’t fall in love with the women I meet through my sessions.
It’s a line I draw to keep going in this work—to keep emotions separate.
Or at least, that’s what I try to believe.
Still… I’m only human.
There are times when I feel my heart being drawn toward someone—especially when she’s kind, warm, and genuine.
And especially after seeing her three times in such a short span.
I stared at my own reflection in the train window, then read the letter once more.
Slowly, I folded it and tucked it back into my bag.
Life is a constant cycle of meetings and goodbyes.
Especially in my case.
I may never feel her warmth, her touch, or see her smile again.
But these past three days… they’ve become something truly irreplaceable for me.
Thank you.
I hope that somewhere far away, in Vietnam, she lives a life full of happiness.
And I hope to keep doing this work—not just for pleasure, but to bring smiles to women like her.
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