Sex 2.0
The story of how I leveled up from ‘vanilla monogamy’ and entered ‘next stage’
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This, the first-ever sexy story I wrote, I also performed on stage in January 2018 for the storytelling competition Smut Slam. To my bemusement, my story won first-prize and was awarded a shiny stainless steel butt plug to boot. Walking home that night, elated, despite the heavy chunk of metal in my pocket, I felt like I was ‘onto something’.
Discovering the event a month earlier, the prompt ‘Next Stage’ had called out to me: My year had been one big ‘upgrade’, especially sexually. I proceeded to recollect and assemble my story over the Christmas holidays; when my family had gone to sleep, I took long walks in the snow under the stars, thinking and taking notes.
A year before, I would’ve never gotten up on that stage, not because I’d be too scared, but simply because I didn’t have any stories worth telling. It’s incredible though, what leaving your dysfunctional marriage — after having an affair with a woman, and then attempting to make up for seventeen years of vanilla-monogamy in a matter of months — does to your repertoire.
I started my newfound single-journey sleeping with a woman.
Quickly I found that once the dick is out of the equation, you’re basically left with endless foreplay and multiple orgasms. I certainly wasn’t complaining!
Still, the day came when I realized that, while I’m sexually fluid, I’m not a lesbian. And, though my female lover fancied the strap-on far superior to its flesh-and-blood equivalent, I was of a different opinion.
Besides, while she was all set to order me a U-haul, I was in no way ready to settle; my journey had barely begun.
I decided it was time to give ‘the dick’ another chance.
So, I did what any other sensible adult would do; I joined Tinder.
On a balmy evening, on the patio of some neighborhood bar, I met the first date that I ended up hooking up with. After a few drinks, it got hot and heavy, and he started saying things like:
—You have no idea what I wanna do to you… I wanna do all these bad things to you!
Basically ravenous at that point, I whispered back:
—Oh yes, please, do ALL the bad things!
When we got to his place, I was bursting with excitement.
What followed was a mere ten-minute quickie before my bad-boy yawned and passed out. Grudgingly, I accepted that there was no more bursting in the cards for me that night.
Hot, bothered and somewhat befuddled, I rolled over:
—After all of that build-up, that was it?
So, when he said he wanted to do all these bad things to me, he simply meant bad, as in totally lame.
While discouraged, I didn’t give up.
Deep inside I was convinced there were better and bigger (…) things out there. I’d had hints of it — I knew it existed. I just had to figure out how and where to find it.
Fast forward a few months, and a handful of more-or-less mediocre experiences later, I found myself signed up to the kinky social network, FetLife.
Meet Mr. Domly Dom.
Almost immediately I started talking with a seemingly empathetic and charming gentleman, who happened to be a Dominant — and a seasoned one at that. Playing submissive felt like the natural choice to me, for several reasons, but one being that my lack of experience made me cringe at the thought of making decisions in bed. Literally handing the lead over to someone else sounded more liberating than anything.
When after about a week of chatting, we decided it was time to meet in person, he sent me his instructions:
We’ll meet at a bar close to your place. If you decide that you want to ‘play’, you’ll hand me a sign (TBA). From that moment, we’ll stop talking and you’ll start walking towards your apartment, with me following behind you like a stranger.
Entering your building, you’ll make sure that all gates and doors stay open for me. Once inside, you’ll strip down to your lingerie, place yourself, legs spread, standing against the wall with your arms above your head. Then, I’ll enter, get up behind you and blindfold you…
—Say whaaaaaat?!?
Close-to-choking on my morning coffee, I shut my laptop and bolted out of the café, gasping for air.
This guy was not fucking around!
(Well, I found out later he most certainly was, but that’s for another story…)
I was speechless—and wildly turned on.
After staring blankly at his message for several minutes, while playing every potential dangerous scenario through my head, I had my answer: I wanted this!
I’d been searching for the next level, and here I was eyeing it. It was time to step it up. I wrote back:
—We’re on!
The sign
Later that night, while texting, he asked me if masturbating would make me less horny the next night. I assured him that at that point nothing could.
What unfolded was an experience far from any sexting I’d attempted in the past, but a close-to-impossible challenge of pleasuring myself according to his demands, all while looking sexy for his requested photo and video documentation.
Up until that moment, I’d never seriously considered owning a selfie-stick.
The seance ended in him instructing me to stuff my panties, bring myself to orgasm, with them inside of me. Then, I had to pull them out, very slowly — all while filming.
Being the good girl that I am (or at least was), I complied and pressed ‘send’. Seconds after, he replied, rather prophetic-sounding:
This is your sign! Bring the panties to the bar, and if you decide that you want to ‘play’, you’ll place them in my hand.
I texted back, part giggling, part peeing myself with excitement:
—Yes, Sir!
—Very good girl.
The following night we met.
We drank, talked and kissed, before I pulled a rolled-up piece of lace from my pocket and placed it in his palm.
I started walking.
I still struggle to find words to describe how I felt on my way home: My black-clad new acquaintance ‘stalking’ me, his ankle-length coat swooshing around city-block corners. Me, prancing, as confidently as I could in a long dress, hiding stay-ups and strappy underthings; my high heeled boots click-clacking on the cobblestone. Nothing about it felt real. It was more like a movie or a strange dream.
On the outside I looked calm. On the inside, I was rapturous:
—holy-fucking-shit-balls! Is-this-really-happening? Who-am-I?!
I followed his instructions to a tee; I undressed, placed myself against the wall, and waited…
His heavy boots approached.
I struggled to swallow. His footsteps got closer, and closer, until I felt his breath on my neck. I quivered as he slid his fingers, slowly, along my spine and up to my mouth.
And that — as a balled-up piece of lacy fabric got pressed against my lips and forced into my mouth — was the moment I knew that I’d reached next stage…
I keep getting questions about what happens next, so here you go…
First this:
then this:
this:
and this:
and then a whole bunch of this:
