The Ache Before

I didn’t go looking for this.

Not consciously.

Not until I was already there, standing in the doorway of it.

Breathless. Wet. Shaking. Desperate.

Not for sex.

But for someone to take me out of my fucking head for once.

I’ve always been in charge. Class president. Single mom. High-level tech exec. The breadwinner, the planner, the handyman, the healer. Always carrying the weight. Always in control.

And yet, in the fifteen years I was married, right up until the start of this story, I had never had an orgasm with my husband. Maybe I didn’t know how to ask. Maybe he didn’t know how to listen. He was a lazy lover, threatened by anything new I tried to bring into the bedroom - toys, fantasies, or just a different kind of touch. Sex stopped being about connection. Or pleasure. It became about protecting his ego. So I mastered faking it. For him, for peace, for expediency. The last six years of my marriage we had separate bedrooms. Sex was reduced to obligations: birthdays, anniversaries, vacations. Mechanical. Empty. Quick. Fake. 

I could barely remember what it felt like to be held. To be desired, and not just as a hole he could use. To be seen as small and soft, not strong. Not for what I could give, fix, or manage, but for who I was and what I needed. 

I learned to touch myself instead. I mastered self-pleasure to soothe the ache. I’d curl up with a toy or just my fingers in my pussy, lying on my tummy, grinding my clit against my palm. Anything to feel alive, to remind myself that I could still feel. Those daily releases were my survival. I used porn, erotic audios and stories, and smutty books that turned into porn in my head. 

One book in particular split me wide open. (Not just my legs, my mind, too.) Maybe it was timing. Perhaps it was fate. Doesn’t matter. Once I read it, I couldn’t un-feel it. And I didn’t want to. 

It was about a high-powered exec mom in her late 40s, newly divorced, who hires a professional Dom to help her reclaim what she’d lost, or likely never even felt. The chapter where the Dom gave her an erotic massage -teasing, exploring and lighting up every inch of her fully naked, imperfect mom-bod for the first time? It absolutely ruined me.

Blindfolded, she gave her power to someone else for the first time in her life…and he touched her like she was both precious and filthy, and she fucking unraveled under his skilled hands. Crying, cumming, begging, squirting… my gods.  

I remember dropping the book and lying there, feral with need. 

I felt it.

In my chest.

In my cunt.

In my soul.

I was aching for what he offered.

“That. I want that.” I whispered into my sheets. 

Not just an orgasm. 

Surrender. Complete, powerless, surrender. 

The luxury of letting go.

That scene lit a fuse I couldn’t put out. My fantasy became an obsession: I needed a massage like hers - not the kind I book as an athlete. I wanted a man to control my body and my pleasure. A bold, skilled, sexy stranger who would touch me in ways and in places no man ever had.

Men could always buy “happy endings,” surely someone out there did it for women, too. I hadn’t had an orgasm with or from a man in 16 years. It was probably too late for me, but I needed to know for sure. I was scared, but not knowing scared me more. 

I started searching online, night after night. I travel for work, so no city was off limits - I knew it would be a one-time thing. Eventually…sweet mercy, I found him. 

A man who offered safe, healing, erotic touch.

Who seemed to know there was something entirely sacred in the ache itself.

Who understood that a woman’s longing and asking for what she needs isn’t dirty.  

Or pitiful. 

Or shameful.

It’s brave. 

Even then, it took me another eight months to find the courage to message him. 

Because I was a good girl. 

And good girls don’t go seeking surrender and orgasms from strangers.

…Or do they?

Intake and Obedience

I followed him online for eight months before I found the courage to message him.

His posts weren’t just erotic, they were tender and filthy. Descriptions of bodywork that didn’t just leave women massaged, but trembling, soaked, sometimes healed. Not because he fucked them - he doesn’t fuck his clients - but because of how he made them feel. Like their surrender was sacred. Like their pleasure wasn’t a side effect - it was the whole goddamn point.

I told myself reading all his posts was just curiosity. Research for a massage. Maybe a happy ending if the vibe was right. Men do it all the time.

Lies.

I didn’t just want a massage. I wanted to be taken. Not just touched, but held. Not just stroked, but opened. I wanted to hand myself over. Completely. Just once. One single two-hour session.

When I finally messaged him, he replied the same day, and it hit like warm breath on my neck. Calm. Confident. Direct.

He asked for a photo. I sent it. He called me gorgeous. He sent one back - so handsome, so certain.

Then came the intake form. A dozen explicit questions that made my pussy throb, like: Do you cum from internal or external stimulation? G-spot? A-spot? Anywhere you don’t want to be touched?

But what I felt like he was really asking was: Where does your mind go in the dark? Who are you when you touch yourself? What do you really, really want?

I answered everything. Then confessed more.

I told him I hadn’t cum with a man in sixteen years. That I usually faked it. That my husband hadn’t known, or hadn’t cared.

“If I don’t cum with you, I’m just broken - it’s not your fault. No pressure.” (Yes, I actually said that. To the man who would ruin me days later.)

We messaged a lot. He didn’t rush me. He didn’t push. He wanted to know me - not just my body, but my fears, my edges, my hunger. And the more honest I was, the wetter my pussy got while typing.

I admitted I’d never tried anal, not even on myself, but I thought about it a lot. About surrendering my ‘anal virginity.’ I knew I liked my clit rubbed, my nipples pinched and pulled. I said I thought I might like foot play.

I didn’t tell him the rest - not yet. That I craved strong, decisive hands. That I wanted to be blindfolded, restrained and spanked. Hard. That I wanted to be used, praised, wrecked, filled, licked clean, and filled again.

His reply came fast: “Does Saturday evening work for you?”

Jesus fuck.

He booked me that weekend. “Yes. Yes, that would be perfect,” I blurted back.

He lives in another state, so I rented a cabin nearby for three days. I knew I’d need time - to get brave, to fall apart under his hands, and then a day to… what? What the hell would the day after even feel like? My body still trembling? Touching myself over and over? Would I even recognize myself?

But deep down, down in my cunt, I knew this wasn’t just a massage. This was the beginning of something within me I didn’t even have language for yet.

---

The next night, he sent me links. Stories he’d written and posted elsewhere.

“Just a little assignment before our session. Read the stories while playing with your pussy. But no cumming. Then listen to my audio. You may cum toward the end. You’ll know when.”

You’ll know when.

My hand flew to my mouth. My cunt clenched.

I scrambled into bed, juices smearing against my thighs before I even clicked the first link. And as soon as I started reading, I knew I was fucked. Delicious torture.

Two fingers, no toys. Cunt swollen, clit throbbing. I tried to stay obedient, a good girl. Had to reread entire paragraphs because my gasps drowned out the words in my own damn head. At some point, I realized I was rubbing my pussy slick over my tight little asshole like a feral thing.

This wasn’t masturbation. The masturbation I'd survived on was merely friction to patch a hole. This was complete surrender - to a sexy, commanding stranger.

And I hadn’t even started the audio yet. When I did, his voice filled my headphones for the first time. Gravelly, smooth, confident. The second it hit me, my nipples tightened, my cunt clenched, my whole body responded like it already belonged to him.

And the moment his voice said I could cum? I fucking broke.

I came so hard - back arched, toes curled, feet pressed together, panting like a porn star. I don’t even remember how the audio ended. Just that I was whimpering, lying in a wet spot, two fingers pruned, my pinky one knuckle deep in my tight asshole.

I sent him a message. Confessed everything. Every filthy, needy second of following his first assignment. I felt embarrassed, like I’d broken a rule, even though he’d told me I could cum.

He wasn’t testing me. He was guiding me. And then he praised me: “That was perfect. You did very well for me tonight.”

My heart exploded. My cunt clenched.

I liked being told what to do. I liked being praised. I liked being a good girl.

For the first time, I gave a man control over my body, my pleasure. And it felt like… relief. Like I’d been waiting my whole life to surrender like this. Obey like this. Be claimed like this.

The next night: another assignment. Worse. Better. Filthier.

Three new stories. No cumming while reading. I obeyed. Then straight into the audio.

Fuck me - the audio was a JOI.

His voice wrapped around me like a leash. Calm. Confident. Cruel. Telling me exactly when to stroke, when to stop, when to press my toy to my clit, when to slide a finger into my asshole, when to grind, when to hold still. And finally - when to cum.

“Cum, baby. Now. Cum for me.”

I did - I came on command. I howled. Shaking. Thighs quivering. Pussy drenched. Slick dripping onto the sheets. I messaged him and told him. He praised me. I could hardly breathe.

And that’s when I knew something had shifted. He saw me. Heard me. He didn’t just read my words, he read me - my ache, my hunger. This wasn’t random homework. And Saturday wasn’t just going to be a massage with a happy ending.

This was obedience. This was surrender.
This was the first step toward being his good girl.

Next comes Chapter Two - the night he first asked me to call him Daddy, and I became his baby girl. My first ritual, my first surrender. If you’re newer to a D/s dynamic too, feel free to ask me anything…