No studio. No address. Forty-five therapists across the centre and out to the Schiphol hotels, every hour of the week.
Body to body is a question of surface. Hands are the smallest part of it. The rest is forearm, shoulder, torso, and weight moved slowly from one point of contact to several.
We run it as outcall and nothing else. No studio, no address, no waiting room, no one at a desk. The room is yours — a hotel room, an apartment, whatever door you name — and a therapist arrives at it in uniform, twenty to thirty minutes after a booking is confirmed in the centre.
Forty-five therapists hold the roster. Each profile carries her age, nationality, hair, height, languages and home district, because those are the things worth knowing before someone stands in your doorway. You choose. Nobody is assigned to you.
The hours are the whole week. Two in the afternoon and four in the morning are booked the same way and cost the same. No night rate, no weekend rate, no travel charge inside the ring. The centre is the ground we cover; Schiphol airport hotels are arranged on enquiry, and nothing lies beyond that.
No history is told here and no credentials are claimed. Forty-five names, a closed set of techniques — nuru, soapy, tantra, four-hand, erotic oil, lingam, yoni, naked, couples — a ladder of hours that runs from one to eight, and the companion formats standing beside them: dinner, an evening out, a night. That is the practice, entire.