u/BrendaEvaMartin

After 45 minutes of getting wet and hard as a group everyone was starting to get a bit more comfortable and his friend asked, shall we try some Cock Hero to finish.  

“Cock Hero? What’s that?” she asked. 

It turned out to be an almost a karaoke version of guided masturbation.  A sort of rhythm game crossed with guided masturbation. Music videos, flashing prompts, edited clips and a visual pulse on-screen telling everyone when to speed up, slow down, stop, or edge. 

It sounded strange. 

And, once it started, it somehow became even more surreal. 

Within minutes she realised she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to be doing. The screen flashed instructions at an alarming pace while aggressively upbeat songs blasted through the laptop speakers.  

Somewhere in the chaos of flashing colours and video compilations, she lost track of whether she was supposed to be paying attention to the rhythm, the porn, or the increasingly competitive concentration on the faces of the two men beside her. 

It was oddly intense. 

Maybe it was beginner overload, but it was harder than intended to stroke in time with the instructions.  

Was she supposed to rub her clit each time?  

Plunge her fingers in and out of her wet pussy?  

Slap her pussy?  

Pinch her clit?  

In fairness, she did try all of them.  

But after several increasingly confused attempts to keep time with the prompts, she found herself becoming more turned on by watching them than following the video. 

So eventually she gave up trying to follow along and settled back into the chair instead to watch them instead. 

The two men sat side by side on the bed, focused intently on the screen, moving almost unconsciously in rhythm with the flashing prompts and music. 

Stroking in tandem.  

In time with the music and instruction.  

Up and down.  

Up and down. 

Cock in hand.  

They watched the screen intently.  

It was delicious to watch.  They were both naked now and to see their cocks in their hands, hard and being wanked was going to be the highlight of her week.  

The nervousness from earlier had mostly disappeared now.  

And she was enjoying herself enormously. 

She could see the guy closest to her best.  His balls were starting to tighten and she could tell he was close.  All she could think about was reaching over and cupping his balls in one hand.  Stroking them while he stroked his cock.  

But they had all promised not to touched each other.  

So, she sat back in her chair.  

And watched them both.  

She watched as he got closer and closer and before he came, he looked at her.  Watched her stroking her pussy in the same rhythm as he was stroking his cock.   

Angled in her chair towards him there was nothing hidden. She knew he could see how wet she was, dripping with excitement and arousal as she watched them.  

Running her fingers through her pussy she couldn’t help but tease him. Spreading her lips apart. Showing him where he could imagine putting his cock, or maybe his fingers.  

He came hard.   

Pulsing white arcs of cum over his hairy chest.  

It might have been one of the most erotic things she’d ever seen.  

His own cum matting the thick hair on his chest, he still had his cock in his hand, squeezing the last drops from it.  She wanted so much to reach over and run her tongue across his sensitive head.  

But she didn’t.  

A promise is a promise.  

Instead, she tried to cum.  To bring her orgasm back to the surface and let him see how much she enjoyed watching him.   

But chasing it is sometimes a fickle game and tonight it was just out of reach. 

   

  

  

  

  

  

 

 

 

 

After 45 minutes of getting wet and hard as a group everyone was starting to get a bit more comfortable and his friend asked, shall we try some Cock Hero to finish.  

“Cock Hero? What’s that?” she asked. 

It turned out to be an almost a karaoke version of guided masturbation.  A sort of rhythm game crossed with guided masturbation. Music videos, flashing prompts, edited clips and a visual pulse on-screen telling everyone when to speed up, slow down, stop, or edge. 

It sounded strange. 

And, once it started, it somehow became even more surreal. 

Within minutes she realised she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to be doing. The screen flashed instructions at an alarming pace while aggressively upbeat songs blasted through the laptop speakers.  

Somewhere in the chaos of flashing colours and video compilations, she lost track of whether she was supposed to be paying attention to the rhythm, the porn, or the increasingly competitive concentration on the faces of the two men beside her. 

It was oddly intense. 

Maybe it was beginner overload, but it was harder than intended to stroke in time with the instructions.  

Was she supposed to rub her clit each time?  

Plunge her fingers in and out of her wet pussy?  

Slap her pussy?  

Pinch her clit?  

In fairness, she did try all of them.  

But after several increasingly confused attempts to keep time with the prompts, she found herself becoming more turned on by watching them than following the video. 

So eventually she gave up trying to follow along and settled back into the chair instead to watch them instead. 

The two men sat side by side on the bed, focused intently on the screen, moving almost unconsciously in rhythm with the flashing prompts and music. 

Stroking in tandem.  

In time with the music and instruction.  

Up and down.  

Up and down. 

Cock in hand.  

They watched the screen intently.  

It was delicious to watch.  They were both naked now and to see their cocks in their hands, hard and being wanked was going to be the highlight of her week.  

The nervousness from earlier had mostly disappeared now.  

And she was enjoying herself enormously. 

She could see the guy closest to her best.  His balls were starting to tighten and she could tell he was close.  All she could think about was reaching over and cupping his balls in one hand.  Stroking them while he stroked his cock.  

But they had all promised not to touched each other.  

So, she sat back in her chair.  

And watched them both.  

She watched as he got closer and closer and before he came, he looked at her.  Watched her stroking her pussy in the same rhythm as he was stroking his cock.   

Angled in her chair towards him there was nothing hidden. She knew he could see how wet she was, dripping with excitement and arousal as she watched them.  

Running her fingers through her pussy she couldn’t help but tease him. Spreading her lips apart. Showing him where he could imagine putting his cock, or maybe his fingers.  

He came hard.   

Pulsing white arcs of cum over his hairy chest.  

It might have been one of the most erotic things she’d ever seen.  

His own cum matting the thick hair on his chest, he still had his cock in his hand, squeezing the last drops from it.  She wanted so much to reach over and run her tongue across his sensitive head.  

But she didn’t.  

A promise is a promise.  

Instead, she tried to cum.  To bring her orgasm back to the surface and let him see how much she enjoyed watching him.   

But chasing it is sometimes a fickle game and tonight it was just out of reach. 

   

  

  

  

  

  

 

 

 

 

After 45 minutes of getting wet and hard as a group everyone was starting to get a bit more comfortable and his friend asked, shall we try some Cock Hero to finish.  

“Cock Hero? What’s that?” she asked. 

It turned out to be an almost a karaoke version of guided masturbation.  A sort of rhythm game crossed with guided masturbation. Music videos, flashing prompts, edited clips and a visual pulse on-screen telling everyone when to speed up, slow down, stop, or edge. 

It sounded strange. 

And, once it started, it somehow became even more surreal. 

Within minutes she realised she had absolutely no idea what she was supposed to be doing. The screen flashed instructions at an alarming pace while aggressively upbeat songs blasted through the laptop speakers.  

Somewhere in the chaos of flashing colours and video compilations, she lost track of whether she was supposed to be paying attention to the rhythm, the porn, or the increasingly competitive concentration on the faces of the two men beside her. 

It was oddly intense. 

Maybe it was beginner overload, but it was harder than intended to stroke in time with the instructions.  

Was she supposed to rub her clit each time?  

Plunge her fingers in and out of her wet pussy?  

Slap her pussy?  

Pinch her clit?  

In fairness, she did try all of them.  

But after several increasingly confused attempts to keep time with the prompts, she found herself becoming more turned on by watching them than following the video. 

So eventually she gave up trying to follow along and settled back into the chair instead to watch them instead. 

The two men sat side by side on the bed, focused intently on the screen, moving almost unconsciously in rhythm with the flashing prompts and music. 

Stroking in tandem.  

In time with the music and instruction.  

Up and down.  

Up and down. 

Cock in hand.  

They watched the screen intently.  

It was delicious to watch.  They were both naked now and to see their cocks in their hands, hard and being wanked was going to be the highlight of her week.  

The nervousness from earlier had mostly disappeared now.  

And she was enjoying herself enormously. 

She could see the guy closest to her best.  His balls were starting to tighten and she could tell he was close.  All she could think about was reaching over and cupping his balls in one hand.  Stroking them while he stroked his cock.  

But they had all promised not to touched each other.  

So, she sat back in her chair.  

And watched them both.  

She watched as he got closer and closer and before he came, he looked at her.  Watched her stroking her pussy in the same rhythm as he was stroking his cock.   

Angled in her chair towards him there was nothing hidden. She knew he could see how wet she was, dripping with excitement and arousal as she watched them.  

Running her fingers through her pussy she couldn’t help but tease him. Spreading her lips apart. Showing him where he could imagine putting his cock, or maybe his fingers.  

He came hard.   

Pulsing white arcs of cum over his hairy chest.  

It might have been one of the most erotic things she’d ever seen.  

His own cum matting the thick hair on his chest, he still had his cock in his hand, squeezing the last drops from it.  She wanted so much to reach over and run her tongue across his sensitive head.  

But she didn’t.  

A promise is a promise.  

Instead, she tried to cum.  To bring her orgasm back to the surface and let him see how much she enjoyed watching him.   

But chasing it is sometimes a fickle game and tonight it was just out of reach. 

   

  

  

  

  

  

 

 

 

 

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

  

  

 

 

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

They had been supposed to meet tonight.   

That was the problem. 

Not the only problem, obviously. Life had many problems. There were bills, endless work emails, short deadlines, that strange ache in her hip.  But today’s problem was that he couldn’t make it to see her tonight after all.  

She had been looking forward to tonight all week.  It was the reward for her patient, deliberate edging.  The release of the anticipation and flirtation they had been building to over text messages for days.  

It was the entry on the calendar that she had planned the week around.   

All week, she had been looking forward to their time together and he was never far from her thoughts. While she answered boring emails. While she stood making coffee (and practicing her kegels).  While she stood in the supermarket choosing snacks and dinner for them to enjoy after they had exhausted themselves.  

Tonight, had lurked in the background of it all, a naughty naked treat to enjoy together.  

She had not realised how much she had organised herself around it until the message came through saying he needed to cancel. 

She stared at the screen for a moment. 

Then put the phone face down on the desk. 

She read the message again. 

Sat back in her chair and let out a long breath. 

It wasn’t devastation. That would have been ridiculous. She was forty-eight, not seventeen. She had survived far worse than a postponed evening with a man she fancied. 

Still. 

Her body had not received the update. 

Her body had been building a rather large reserve of sexual energy for tonight.  

And now, the evening stretched ahead of her, suddenly empty. 

Which raised an immediate and surprisingly practical question. 

What exactly was she supposed to do with all this anticipation now? 

She picked up her phone. 

Opened the thread. 

Typed. 

Deleted. 

Typed again. 

Then, because subtlety had apparently left the building along with her modesty, she sent: 

So, where do we stand on my orgasm if we don’t meet tonight.  

She stared at the message after she sent it. 

Nothing said “emotionally regulated adult woman” quite like orgasm demands. 

His reply came a minute later. 

You can have one, but I want to see it. 

Permission granted. 

I'm going to cum now. Thank you. 

Before him, her arousal had often felt like an interruption. Something unruly. Something that kept appearing in the middle of the day like an inconvenient water leak.  It just kept drip, drip, dripping and nothing could stop it.  

But with him, it became something different, something with structure and intent.  

Good girl. I want you to make it a strong one, edge three times before you release it. 

She looked at the message again. 

There was a pulse of nervousness now alongside the desire. 

The request didn’t shock her exactly. They had talked about things before. Sent things before. Played with distance and anticipation and the strange intimacy of being seen through a screen. 

But there was something about the ease with which he seemed to understand her, her need for his permission, approval and instruction that made her want to please him. 

There were moments when the sensible part of her brain stood on the sidelines wearing a cardigan and asking whether everyone involved had perhaps lost perspective. 

But the rest of her loved it. 

Loved the certainty. 

Loved being told. 

Loved the feeling of handing over the responsibility, just for a while. 

She lay back against the pillows, breathing slowly, one hand still wrapped loosely around her phone. 

It was a full-body orgasm that rolled on and on. It was delicious and very strong. I’ve not had one of those on my own before. 

She reread the message after sending it and felt an unexpected flicker of shyness.  She had never been this explicit with someone in writing before and not with this much honesty. 

His reply arrived. 

This is why you must always edge. I want you to enjoy the anticipation, the ebb and flow of the orgasm as it comes almost within reach and then pull back.  The climax is always more satisfying when you’ve waited for it. 

She snorted softly. 

Of course he would turn it into a principle. 

There was something almost irritatingly calm about the way he spoke about pleasure. As if it were not the chaotic, inconvenient, life-disrupting thing she had been wrestling with for months, but a process.  

Something that could be learned, studies and practiced. 

She supposed he was probably right.  

She looked at the phone again, then sent: 

Post-orgasm me can’t believe I filmed it. A first! 

This time she blushed properly. 

Not because she regretted it. 

That was the startling thing. 

She didn’t regret it. 

During the moment itself, it had felt natural. Intense, yes. Vulnerable. But natural. As though recording herself had been a way of saying, Here. This is what you do to me, even when you aren’t here. 

But beneath the embarrassment there was also pride. 

Just a small, private sense of surprise at herself. 

She had done something new. 

And she had wanted to. 

His response softened something in her chest. 

I’m proud of you. I LOVE that you recorded yourself for me. I can’t wait to watch you later. 

She stared at the words longer than she needed to. 

Proud of you. 

It should not have landed as deeply as it did. 

She found herself staring at the message for far longer than was probably reasonable, rereading those three simple words and feeling something unexpectedly tender shift inside her. It was such an ordinary phrase when she really thought about it.  

Yet somehow, coming from him, it caught her completely off guard. 

Perhaps it was because there had been something unexpectedly vulnerable about what she had done. 

During the moment itself, filming had felt strangely natural, caught up in the heat of wanting him and wanting him to see her, wanting him to understand what he did to her even when he wasn’t physically there.  

But afterwards, with post-orgasm clarity and common sense returned wearing sensible shoes and mild concern, she had briefly wondered whether she had started to lose all perspective and modesty. 

Forty-eight years old and filming herself having an orgasm for a man she hadn’t known all that long. 

It sounded faintly ridiculous when she thought about it. 

Except he hadn’t made her feel ridiculous. 

Instead, there had simply been warmth in his response. Appreciation. A kind of quiet approval that somehow made her feel safer rather than exposed. 

He seemed to understand, instinctively, that she was still finding her feet inside all of this. Still surprising herself. Still trying to understand what it meant that desire had returned to her life with such startling force after so many quieter years. 

There were parts of herself she still felt awkward admitting out loud, wants that still made her blush, vulnerabilities she had not entirely worked out how to carry gracefully. 

Yet somehow, instead of making her feel self-conscious, he made her feel seen. 

Can I take a pass on edging the rest of this week please? pretty please.  Today was a little out of character and it was the anticipation of seeing you tonight that sent me over the edge today.  

I've kinda enjoyed a couple of horny free days.   

I've been really productive this week, the first time in ages.  And this is going to sound like such a weak excuse, but I wondered if it was partly because I've sort of parked all my horny waiting to see you. 

She reread the message and winced slightly. 

“Parked all my horny.” 

Not the sexiest sentence anyone has ever sent, she thought.  

Yet somehow, embarrassingly, also completely true. Because somewhere along the way, wanting him had become less frantic and more… seen.  

  

  

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, nevermind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

 

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, never mind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

 

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, never mind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, never mind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

 

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, never mind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

 

Rose woke the next morning feeling more refreshed than she had in weeks. 

She had slept properly. Deeply. 

There was no lingering heaviness when the alarm went off, no temptation to roll over and snooze the alarm for “just another ten minutes”. She got up, showered, dressed and left for work with an unfamiliar spring in her step. 

She felt good.  More than good, actually. 

She felt content. 

Walking towards the station, she smiled at people she usually barely noticed. The same woman walking her terrier. The man she regularly passed outside the newsagent. The familiar commuters appearing from side streets and converging on the station. 

Today, Rose had smiles and little waves for all of them. 

Even the crush and jostling of people on the platform failed to irritate her. 

There was the usual low-level angst surrounding her. Seasoned commuters manoeuvred themselves into exactly the right position on the platform, calculating where the doors would open and how quickly they could get aboard to give themselves the best chance of a seat. 

Usually, Rose was one of them. 

Today, she simply found a space and waited. 

The morning passed just as easily.     

Nearly. 

It wasn’t until nearly 11am that she started to feel the familiar restlessness returning.   

Her temper started to fray when a colleague asked her to explain a process Rose that was certain she had already explained twice.  Her patience disappeared. Did these people never make notes?  Was she expected to spend the rest of her professional life acting as a walking tutorial for everyone else? 

By lunchtime, three emails, two interruptions and another supposedly quick question had left her wanting to shut her laptop and walk away from everyone. 

So she did. 

It wasn’t her colleagues’ fault. 

Rose knew that.  

They were the same as they always were.  But also, this bubbling frustration and annoyance wasn’t normal for her.  

Sitting back, she closed her eyes and let the sun warm her face. 

What had changed? 

She had felt fantastic this morning. Better than she had in ages. 

She had slept well. 

Very well. 

And as she sat looking out over the park, enjoying the sunshine on her face, Rose wondered when she had last touched herself the way she had last night. It wasn't exactly the sort of thing she kept track of, but nonetheless, she couldn't remember. 

Did it really matter? 

Well, maybe. 

And that thought led inevitably to another. 

When was the last time she'd kissed someone? 

Rose frowned, she couldn’t remember.     

Why not she wondered to herself.  Why could she not remember the last person she kissed. It couldn’t be her ex-boyfriend from three years ago, could it?     

That would be a rather sad and sorry situation if it was.     

Trying to shake that thought off, she told herself it didn’t matter. She was professionally successful, had great friends, life was busy, she didn’t have time for a boyfriend. More importantly, she didn’t need one, she was doing just fine by herself.     

Pushing all thoughts of love and romance to the back of her mind she stood up, determined and strode back to the office.  Her best kick ass attitude firmly in place.     

The rest of the workday passed uneventfully. Stuffed full of meetings, Rose kept her frustration firmly pushed down under her determination to get the project they were working on under control.  Four hours of meetings later she was confident everyone was briefed, engaged and set on the path they needed to be on to get the project moving forward.     

At home that night Rose stood over a pot of risotto slowly adding stock, stirring and hoping it was all going to come together her mind drifted back to lunchtime.     

Had it really been three years since she’d kissed anyone?    

Where had the time gone?     

And, why had it not occurred to her until now?  She hadn’t even thought about finding a light, casual relationship, never mind something more serious and committed.  

Was her life really that full and satisfying that she wasn't looking for anything else? Rose wondered as she stirred the risotto for one. 

Did she want to keep adjusting recipes for one? Two, if she wanted leftovers? 

Rose wasn't sure. 

She liked her life. She wasn't even sure she wanted to make room in it for a partner. 

But what did that leave? 

After clearing away her dinner dishes and cleaning the kitchen Rose sat down on the sofa and started to scroll on her phone.     

As her fingers paged through reels and video shorts, her mind wandered.  The restless energy was back and again she found that she couldn’t relax into the evening.     

She found herself wondering if another orgasm before bedtime would help release the fidget energy.     

Opening a porn site she started to scroll through the list of videos. 

She was  

The homepage presented its usual jumble of possibilities: enormous cocks, public sex, threesomes, amateur couples, older women, younger men, massages, gangbangs and things Rose wasn't entirely certain she wanted explained to her. 

She scrolled without much interest. 

Then one title stopped her. 

Czech Glory Holes. 

What on earth was a Czech glory hole? 

Curiosity won. 

She opened the video. 

It took her several seconds to understand what she was looking at. 

Women were positioned behind a wall, their bodies presented through openings at different heights and in different configurations. Their faces were hidden. On the other side, men queued for access to them. 

Rose stopped scrolling. 

Men approached the women anonymously, touching them, licking them, fucking them, while the women remained concealed behind the wall. 

Then the camera cut to a robust older woman sitting behind what appeared to be a reception desk, calmly taking payments from the men entering the venue. 

For some reason, that made the whole thing even more fascinating. 

Men were having anonymous sex with women who looked to be having a great time.     

As Rose sat on the sofa watching the video she imagined what it would be like to lay on the massage table configuration and have her legs through the hole in the wall. What would it be like to have her legs spread and pussy exposed and just waiting.     

Waiting to see if anyone would choose her, over all the other options available.     

Without warning, feeling someone’s fingers or cock touch her pussy.     

And to do nothing but lay back and enjoy the feeling of them playing with her pussy.       

She wondered if she would feel used?  

The women were almost at the disposal for men to use.  

Plunging their cocks, tongues, fingers inside the women.  Some women were facing upwards their legs shackled to the walls, some were facing down and stood legs spread with their butt in the air waiting for someone to grab their hips.     

The camera switched angles between the men and the women and Rose found both equally enthralling. She loved watching as the men slid their fingers and cocks inside the open pussy. And loved watching as the women came, writhing in pleasure.      

Laying on the sofa, watching woman after woman orgasm she felt her nipples hardening and her own pussy getting wet.  As she continued to watch the videos as the men plunged their hard cocks into the women she reached down into her trousers and started to touch herself.     

Pulling her fingers through her pussy, gathering the wetness there she brought them up and round her clit before going back to slide her fingers inside herself again.     

Repeating the same motion, feeling the hint of penetration at her opening, just enough to gather the wet lubrication from her pussy and use it to circle her clit and make it wet.     

As she continued this rhythm, stroking up between her legs she could feel her clit getting harder on each pass with her fingers until it was rock hard and engorged, so sensitive even the absence of touch was building her arousal even further.     

Each pass made her clit harder and more sensitive until even the tiny pauses between touches seemed to intensify her arousal. 

On the screen, a man knelt in front of one of the openings. 

Rose watched as he buried his face between the woman's legs. 

His tongue pushed between her folds. 

Rose's fingers moved faster. 

What would that feel like? 

Not being able to see him. 

Not knowing anything about him. 

Feeling only his mouth. 

His tongue. 

Someone completely anonymous tasting her while she lay there spread open and exposed to him. 

The thought tipped her over the edge.  Her orgasm crashed through her with such force that Rose's whole body tightened.  Pleasure rolled outwards from her centre, down her legs to her toes and upwards through her stomach and chest until even her fingertips seemed to tingle with it. 

Her body twitched in the aftermath. 

Another smaller wave followed. 

Then another. 

Gradually, they weakened. 

Ebbing away until Rose was left sprawled across the sofa, breathing heavily, her phone still playing beside her. 

For several moments she simply lay there. 

Then she looked back at the screen. 

The video was still going. 

The queue of men was still moving. 

And Rose realised she wasn't thinking about kissing anymore. 

 

It was just another Wednesday night and Rose was sat on the sofa as she did most evenings.  Except tonight she was filled with a restless energy that she couldn’t seem to shake.   

It had become increasingly difficult over the last few weeks to relax in the evenings and Rose had tried everything. She’d cleaned everything in sight, reorganised her wardrobe, bleached the kitchen inside and out, and when she sat down to relax, she was exhausted, but her brain was still churning.   

In the last few weeks, she’d taken to cooking from scratch, following recipes that were becoming increasingly complex.  Recipes that called for rice wines, herbs and ingredients that were not usually found in her cupboards.  She washed, chopped, sauteed, blanched and her dinners were delicious. A taste sensation that tickled her taste buds.   

But that satisfaction was short lived. Once she’d tidied everything away the restlessness returned.   

Lying on the sofa, she put a film on the TV without really paying attention to what it was.  She couldn’t get into the story and soon found herself with her phone in her hand scrolling through various reels.    

Down the rabbit hole of doom-scrolling, Rose wasn’t sure what the algorithm spotted but it led her to it 3-minute clips of the best kisses in TV series, then movie kisses, and following the passionate highlights from some of her favourite love-romance movies.

Her pulse began to race.   

Rose was aware of a different energy beginning to bubble beneath her restlessness.   

Settling back into the sofa cushions, she tuned out the movie and started to enjoy the movie clips.  As she watched, she let her hands wander over her body.  She stroked her own face as she watched the romantic lead cup the woman's cheek before drawing her into a deep kiss.

Watching the clip-on repeat Rose was captivated by the music, the lighting and the intoxicating romance of it all. 

She couldn’t help but imagine herself in their place.  Imagining what it would be like to be wrapped in the arms of a new lover.  How it would feel if they were running their hand up through the back of her hair.

The more she scrolled the more aroused she found herself. 

The restless energy that had made it hard to follow the TV film was captivated by the idea of a sensual, romantic adventure.  

Putting her phone down Rose let her head tip back over the arm of the sofa, her neck exposed and she slid her hand down the front of her trousers.

Her fingers found the waistband of her knickers and traced the elasticated edges, tickling the sensitive skin before sliding beneath the cotton.

Reaching further down between her legs she found she was already wet.  Letting her legs fall open on the sofa she pressed two fingers into her pussy and dragged them up through her and over her clit.  With her own moisture she began circling her clit, making it hard and swollen.

Enjoying the energy running through her body Rose wanted more, she imagined herself in a passionate embrace with a new lover, someone who wanted to devour her.  Someone who set every nerve ending in her body alight.

Her other hand tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up until she could reach her breasts. She pinched one nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger while her fingers worked faster, alternating between dipping low between her legs and dragging her wetness over her sensitive pussy.

A movie clip still played on the phone beside her and she could hear the wet mouths meeting each other in deep kisses.  She imagined their tongues sliding into each other’s mouths as they clung on to each other.  

Except Rose was imagining herself in their place and it was anything but a PG scene.

She imagined hands gripping her hair, pulling her head back to give more access to her mouth and it was his fingers she imagined were inside her trousers now.

Rose matched the rhythm of the soundtrack, pressing two fingers inside herself, then three as her palm ground against her clit with every push inside.

She spread her thighs wider, the wet sound of her fingers driving in and out filled the room. Her breath came in short gasps until her thighs started to shake. The hand on her breast squeezed her nipple hard.

When she came, it hit hard, her back arching, pussy clenching around her fingers, a sharp cry breaking from her throat. Her hips jerked once, twice, then stilled as the aftershocks rolled through her. She left her fingers inside until the pulsing faded, then slowly withdrew them, slick and shining.

In the warm afterglow her body flinched and twitched as she felt a sense of relief wash over her. 

For the first time in weeks, she felt calm. It was like a fog had cleared and she could see clearly.  And with that relief, there was a confidence that she would sleep well tonight.   

And she did. 

It was just another Wednesday night and Rose was sat on the sofa as she did most evenings.  Except tonight she was filled with a restless energy that she couldn’t seem to shake.   

It had become increasingly difficult over the last few weeks to relax in the evenings and Rose had tried everything. She’d cleaned everything in sight, reorganised her wardrobe, bleached the kitchen inside and out, and when she sat down to relax, she was exhausted, but her brain was still churning.   

In the last few weeks, she’d taken to cooking from scratch, following recipes that were becoming increasingly complex.  Recipes that called for rice wines, herbs and ingredients that were not usually found in her cupboards.  She washed, chopped, sauteed, blanched and her dinners were delicious. A taste sensation that tickled her taste buds.   

But that satisfaction was short lived. Once she’d tidied everything away the restlessness returned.   

Lying on the sofa, she put a film on the TV without really paying attention to what it was.  She couldn’t get into the story and soon found herself with her phone in her hand scrolling through various reels.    

Down the rabbit hole of doom-scrolling, Rose wasn’t sure what the algorithm spotted but it led her to it 3-minute clips of the best kisses in TV series, then movie kisses, and following the passionate highlights from some of her favourite love-romance movies.

Her pulse began to race.   

Rose was aware of a different energy beginning to bubble beneath her restlessness.   

Settling back into the sofa cushions, she tuned out the movie and started to enjoy the movie clips.  As she watched, she let her hands wander over her body.  She stroked her own face as she watched the romantic lead cup the woman's cheek before drawing her into a deep kiss.

Watching the clip-on repeat Rose was captivated by the music, the lighting and the intoxicating romance of it all. 

She couldn’t help but imagine herself in their place.  Imagining what it would be like to be wrapped in the arms of a new lover.  How it would feel if they were running their hand up through the back of her hair.

The more she scrolled the more aroused she found herself. 

The restless energy that had made it hard to follow the TV film was captivated by the idea of a sensual, romantic adventure.  

Putting her phone down Rose let her head tip back over the arm of the sofa, her neck exposed and she slid her hand down the front of her trousers.

Her fingers found the waistband of her knickers and traced the elasticated edges, tickling the sensitive skin before sliding beneath the cotton.

Reaching further down between her legs she found she was already wet.  Letting her legs fall open on the sofa she pressed two fingers into her pussy and dragged them up through her and over her clit.  With her own moisture she began circling her clit, making it hard and swollen.

Enjoying the energy running through her body Rose wanted more, she imagined herself in a passionate embrace with a new lover, someone who wanted to devour her.  Someone who set every nerve ending in her body alight.

Her other hand tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up until she could reach her breasts. She pinched one nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger while her fingers worked faster, alternating between dipping low between her legs and dragging her wetness over her sensitive pussy.

A movie clip still played on the phone beside her and she could hear the wet mouths meeting each other in deep kisses.  She imagined their tongues sliding into each other’s mouths as they clung on to each other.  

Except Rose was imagining herself in their place and it was anything but a PG scene.

She imagined hands gripping her hair, pulling her head back to give more access to her mouth and it was his fingers she imagined were inside her trousers now.

Rose matched the rhythm of the soundtrack, pressing two fingers inside herself, then three as her palm ground against her clit with every push inside.

She spread her thighs wider, the wet sound of her fingers driving in and out filled the room. Her breath came in short gasps until her thighs started to shake. The hand on her breast squeezed her nipple hard.

When she came, it hit hard, her back arching, pussy clenching around her fingers, a sharp cry breaking from her throat. Her hips jerked once, twice, then stilled as the aftershocks rolled through her. She left her fingers inside until the pulsing faded, then slowly withdrew them, slick and shining.

In the warm afterglow her body flinched and twitched as she felt a sense of relief wash over her. 

For the first time in weeks, she felt calm. It was like a fog had cleared and she could see clearly.  And with that relief, there was a confidence that she would sleep well tonight.   

And she did. 

It was just another Wednesday night and Rose was sat on the sofa as she did most evenings.  Except tonight she was filled with a restless energy that she couldn’t seem to shake.   

It had become increasingly difficult over the last few weeks to relax in the evenings and Rose had tried everything. She’d cleaned everything in sight, reorganised her wardrobe, bleached the kitchen inside and out, and when she sat down to relax, she was exhausted, but her brain was still churning.   

In the last few weeks, she’d taken to cooking from scratch, following recipes that were becoming increasingly complex.  Recipes that called for rice wines, herbs and ingredients that were not usually found in her cupboards.  She washed, chopped, sauteed, blanched and her dinners were delicious. A taste sensation that tickled her taste buds.   

But that satisfaction was short lived. Once she’d tidied everything away the restlessness returned.   

Lying on the sofa, she put a film on the TV without really paying attention to what it was.  She couldn’t get into the story and soon found herself with her phone in her hand scrolling through various reels.    

Down the rabbit hole of doom-scrolling, Rose wasn’t sure what the algorithm spotted but it led her to it 3-minute clips of the best kisses in TV series, then movie kisses, and following the passionate highlights from some of her favourite love-romance movies.

Her pulse began to race.   

Rose was aware of a different energy beginning to bubble beneath her restlessness.   

Settling back into the sofa cushions, she tuned out the movie and started to enjoy the movie clips.  As she watched, she let her hands wander over her body.  She stroked her own face as she watched the romantic lead cup the woman's cheek before drawing her into a deep kiss.

Watching the clip-on repeat Rose was captivated by the music, the lighting and the intoxicating romance of it all. 

She couldn’t help but imagine herself in their place.  Imagining what it would be like to be wrapped in the arms of a new lover.  How it would feel if they were running their hand up through the back of her hair.

The more she scrolled the more aroused she found herself. 

The restless energy that had made it hard to follow the TV film was captivated by the idea of a sensual, romantic adventure.  

Putting her phone down Rose let her head tip back over the arm of the sofa, her neck exposed and she slid her hand down the front of her trousers.

Her fingers found the waistband of her knickers and traced the elasticated edges, tickling the sensitive skin before sliding beneath the cotton.

Reaching further down between her legs she found she was already wet.  Letting her legs fall open on the sofa she pressed two fingers into her pussy and dragged them up through her and over her clit.  With her own moisture she began circling her clit, making it hard and swollen.

Enjoying the energy running through her body Rose wanted more, she imagined herself in a passionate embrace with a new lover, someone who wanted to devour her.  Someone who set every nerve ending in her body alight.

Her other hand tugged at the hem of her shirt, pulling it up until she could reach her breasts. She pinched one nipple, rolling it between thumb and forefinger while her fingers worked faster, alternating between dipping low between her legs and dragging her wetness over her sensitive pussy.

A movie clip still played on the phone beside her and she could hear the wet mouths meeting each other in deep kisses.  She imagined their tongues sliding into each other’s mouths as they clung on to each other.  

Except Rose was imagining herself in their place and it was anything but a PG scene.

She imagined hands gripping her hair, pulling her head back to give more access to her mouth and it was his fingers she imagined were inside her trousers now.

Rose matched the rhythm of the soundtrack, pressing two fingers inside herself, then three as her palm ground against her clit with every push inside.

She spread her thighs wider, the wet sound of her fingers driving in and out filled the room. Her breath came in short gasps until her thighs started to shake. The hand on her breast squeezed her nipple hard.

When she came, it hit hard, her back arching, pussy clenching around her fingers, a sharp cry breaking from her throat. Her hips jerked once, twice, then stilled as the aftershocks rolled through her. She left her fingers inside until the pulsing faded, then slowly withdrew them, slick and shining.

In the warm afterglow her body flinched and twitched as she felt a sense of relief wash over her. 

For the first time in weeks, she felt calm. It was like a fog had cleared and she could see clearly.  And with that relief, there was a confidence that she would sleep well tonight.   

And she did.