My name is Lily. I’m 22, a barista in a city café, and sometimes I wonder if I’m broken. I’m not just horny; I’m consumed by a constant, burning need that takes over my every thought and feeling. It’s like my body is a live wire, always buzzing, always ready to short-circuit at the slightest spark. Sometimes it feels like I’m made of nothing but nerves and want; every brush of fabric, every stray thought, every accidental glance can set me off. I can’t predict it or control it.

My body doesn’t betray me; it drives me. Like I’m strapped to a runaway train, I can’t slow down. But I’m not just a body. I love horror movies and midnight walks by the sea. I’m obsessed with old vinyl records and the feeling of rain on bare skin. I dream of travelling, of falling in love, of maybe one day feeling normal. But normal doesn’t fit me. Not with this hunger.

Most days, I manage. I smile, I pour coffee, and I chat with regulars. The café is a swirl of noise and colour, the hiss of the old La Marzocco espresso machine, the clink of mugs stacked on the counter, the faded chalkboard menu with half the letters rubbed away. My favourite mug is a chipped turquoise one with a faded flamingo, always warm in my hands, always grounding. The air is thick with the scent of ground beans and caramel syrup, and the floor is always just a bit sticky from the morning rush.

But even here, I’m never safe from myself. The vibration of the espresso machine against my hip, the warmth of a mug in my palm, the brush of a customer’s fingers as I hand over change, any of it can send a pulse of heat through me, sudden and fierce. Sometimes, I’ll be in the middle of a conversation and feel my nipples tighten, my breath catch, and my thighs clench. I have to fight to keep my voice steady, to pretend nothing is happening. But inside, I’m already searching for the nearest door I can lock behind me.

Sarah approaches as I wipe down the counter, the café humming with the late-morning rush and the low hum of the music; today it’s Florence & The Machine, her voice echoing off the tiled walls.

“You all right, Lily? You seem a bit… distracted today.”

I force a smile. “Just didn’t sleep much. Too many thoughts, I guess.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Anything I should know about? You know, if you ever need to talk, I’m not just your boss.”

“Thanks. It’s nothing serious, just… life.”

Sarah lingers a moment, searching my face for something more, then nods. “Well, if you change your mind, I’m here. And try not to burn yourself out, okay?”

Today, my manager, Sarah, is watching me more closely than usual. She’s sharp; she never misses a thing. When I drop a spoon and bend to pick it up, I catch her eyes flick to the outline of my ass in tight jeans. Later, as I’m wiping down tables, she leans in close, her voice low.

“You know, Lily, you’re not as subtle as you think.”

My heart stutters. “What do you mean?”

Sarah’s lips curl in a half-smile, but her eyes flick down for a heartbeat, just long enough to catch Lily’s pulse quicken.

“You disappear a lot. Come back looking... flushed. Just be careful, yeah? Sometimes, I wonder if you’re running from more than just your thoughts.”

I stare at her, heat rising to my cheeks. For a second, I think she’s going to call me out, but she just winks and walks away. I’m left breathless, nerves jangling, the risk and thrill mixing into something electric.

Sometimes, the risk is what I crave most. On my lunch break, I slip into the toilet cubicle, the door heavy and echoing shut. The harsh fluorescent light hums above me. I lean back against the cool tiles, heart pounding, the scent of disinfectant sharp in my nose. I press my palm between my legs, feeling the heat and slickness through my knickers. Every sound outside, footsteps, the rattle of cups, makes my pulse race. I rub harder, my breath coming in ragged gasps, the taste of adrenaline thick on my tongue. The fear of being caught makes the pleasure sharper, every nerve ending lit up and screaming.

It happens so often that it’s become routine, almost automatic. The moment I feel the ache start, sometimes from nothing more than the way the sunlight hits the countertop or the memory of a stranger’s cologne, I’m already planning my escape. Sometimes it’s twice before noon, sometimes more. I vanish, lock the door, and let the need take over. I always return flushed, shaky, and desperate to look normal.

Sometimes, in those stolen moments, pressed against the cold tiles of the café’s bathroom or hidden in a gym stall, my pulse hammers so loudly it fills my ears, drowning out every other sound. My breath comes in shallow, desperate bursts, chest rising and falling as if I’ve just run a race. Heat blooms under my skin, a flush spreading from my cheeks down my neck, prickling across my chest.

My fingers tremble as I slide them beneath my waistband, feeling the slick, feverish ache that demands attention. Every nerve is alive, hypersensitive; the brush of fabric, the faint scent of sweat and soap, the taste of adrenaline on my tongue, all of it amplifies the urgency. My heart feels like it might burst, echoing in my throat, in my wrists, between my thighs, until the only thing I know is the raw, pulsing need that takes over everything else.

After work, I hit the gym. The place reeks of sweat and rubber mats, the air thick with testosterone and the metallic tang of old dumbbells. The walls are plastered with peeling motivational posters. I catch men staring as I squat, their eyes glued to my ass. I pretend not to notice, but inside I’m throbbing. Sometimes it’s the sight of a flexed forearm, or the slap of trainers on the treadmill, or just the way the air vibrates with music and motion; anything can set me off. I push myself harder, legs shaking, sweat trickling down my back, pooling between my breasts. The thud of bass-heavy dance tracks. Today, it’s Calvin Harris pulsing through the speakers, blending with the clank of weights and the buzz of treadmills.

In the locker room, I’m tying my shoes when Maya, a familiar gym-goer, sits beside me.

“You always go so hard on the treadmill. What’s your secret?”

I smirk. “Just trying to outrun my own brain, I guess.”

Maya grins. “Aren’t we all? If you ever feel like punching the air to loud music with a bunch of sweaty strangers, come along and join my high-intensity interval training class. It’s brutal, but it’s amazing for blowing off steam.”

“Maybe I will. Thanks, Maya.”

She lowers her voice. “And if you ever want to grab a drink after, you know, to talk or whatever… I’m around.”

I hesitate, surprised by the offer, then nod. “Yeah. I might take you up on that.”

On the other side of the locker room, I hear two women whispering nearby…

“She’s always so intense,” one says.

“Probably needs to get laid,” the other laughs.

If only they knew how tangled everything really is beneath the surface.

I lock myself in a stall, the plastic seat cold against my thighs, the smell of deodorant and shampoo mixing with the musk of my own arousal. My fingers are slick as I slide them inside, the sound of my breath echoing off the tiles. I cum hard, my vision swimming, but it’s never enough. The ache returns before I’ve even caught my breath.

Sometimes, when I’m alone, memories crash in, like the first time I realised how different I was. I was sixteen, lying in my childhood bed, the house silent except for the distant rumble of trains. I remember the shock of pleasure, the way my body arched, and the shame and thrill tangled together. After, I’d stare at the ceiling, listening to the rain tapping the window, wondering if anyone else felt this way, if anyone else was this greedy for touch.

At home, I try to distract myself with music, movies, anything. My flat smells of lavender from the cheap diffuser by my bed, and the city outside is a constant hum of sirens and seagulls. But even curled up on the sofa, the smallest thing, a line in a song, the brush of my own hair against my neck, can make my body light up, hungry and restless. I text my friend Jess, desperate for a connection.

LILY: Ever feel like you just want more out of life? Like you’re always wanting but never really satisfied?

JESS: Lol, deep question. Sometimes, I guess. Why, what’s up?

LILY: I dunno. I just feel… restless. Like I’m always chasing something I can’t have.

JESS: I think everyone feels that way sometimes. Would you like to discuss it in person? Or is this a “just venting” thing?

LILY: Maybe. I’ll let you know. Thanks, Jess.

JESS: Anytime. You know I’m here, right?

I stare at the screen, feeling both comforted and more alone than ever.

Sometimes I try to date, hoping sex with someone else will quiet the noise. But it’s always awkward. I want too much, too fast. Guys get overwhelmed, or worse, they think I’m easy and treat me like shit. Last week, I met a guy at the bar. We made out in the alley, his hands rough on my waist. I wanted him to take me right there, pressed against the damp bricks, the smell of beer and city air thick around us. But he pulled away, muttering, “You’re a bit much, aren’t you?”

I laughed it off, but inside I felt hollow.

Nights are the worst. I wake up tangled in damp sheets, my body on fire. My skin is slick, my thighs sticky, the air thick with the scent of my own need. Sometimes the urge drags me from bed to the kitchen, where I press my palms to the cold countertop, shivering as I grind against the edge, desperate for friction. Other nights, I stand under the pounding shower, water scalding my skin, fingers moving in frantic circles as the steam fogs the glass and the city’s neon seeps through the window.

There are times I sprawl across the living room floor, my phone glowing with porn, the sounds in my ears as I chase release again and again, the carpet rough beneath my back. I can’t stop. I don’t want to. Sometimes I cry afterwards, wishing I could just be normal, wishing I could talk to someone without feeling ashamed.

But the next day, the risk I’ve always flirted with finally catches up to me. I slip into the toilet, desperate and reckless, not bothering to check if anyone’s nearby. I’m lost in the rhythm of my own hand, the slap of skin on skin, muffled moans slipping past my lips, when I suddenly freeze. There’s a sound, footsteps just outside the door, then a pause. My heart slams against my ribs. I hold my breath, hoping whoever it is will just walk away.

Instead, I hear Sarah’s voice, quiet but unmistakable. “Lily? Are you all right in there?”

I can’t answer. I’m caught between panic and the lingering aftershocks of pleasure. I scramble to pull myself together, wiping my hand on my skirt, trying to steady my voice.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just needed a minute.”

There’s a long silence. I can almost feel her on the other side of the door, weighing her words. “You sounded… upset,” she says finally, her tone gentle but edged with something else, concern, maybe, or suspicion.

I mumble something about not feeling well and rush out as soon as I can, avoiding her eyes. The rest of the day, I can feel her watching me, her gaze lingering a little too long, as if she’s trying to piece something together.

At home, I collapse on my bed, nerves jangling, shame and relief tangled together. The secret is out, at least in part. I’m exposed, raw, but still here. Still alive.

The next morning, I walk into the café, head high, heart pounding. The city outside is waking up, buses groaning past, gulls shrieking over the rooftops, the air sharp with salt and diesel. Sarah pulls me aside, her expression unreadable.

“We all have our secrets, Lily,” she says quietly. “Yours sometimes gets a little louder than most. But you’re not the only one. Lily, if you ever want to talk about anything… or anything at all, I’m here.”

She lowers her voice, almost a whisper.

“Funny, isn’t it? How the people we’re meant to protect sometimes stir things in us we didn’t expect.” 

The weight behind her words hangs between us.

I hesitate, nerves fluttering in my stomach, but then I nod. “Actually… I think I do want to talk. Maybe after my shift?”

Sarah’s face softens, and she gives me a real smile. “Of course. Let’s grab a coffee when you’re done.”

The rest of the day, I work with a strange sense of lightness. I still feel the ache, the hunger, but it doesn’t feel like a secret poison anymore. It’s just a part of me, loud, messy, and real.

When my shift ends, I find Sarah waiting at a corner table, two mugs of coffee steaming between us. She gestures for me to sit. For a moment, neither of us speaks. I stare at the swirling patterns in my drink, searching for words.

Sarah breaks the silence first. “You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to, Lily. But I meant what I said; I’m here.”

I take a shaky breath. “I… I don’t even know where to start. It’s like…” I look up, meeting her eyes. “I feel like I’m always wired, every nerve humming with heat. It’s not just a flicker when I’m with someone. It’s the background noise to everything. I can’t switch it off. Sometimes it’s the strain of a song, a scent from the subway, a memory, and suddenly I’m burning, desperate, aching to find the nearest locked door before I combust.”

She nods, her expression open, not judging. “That sounds exhausting.”

“It is.” I let out a bitter laugh. “It’s like my body’s stuck in overdrive. The smallest thing sets me off, a look, a touch, or even just a thought. I can’t focus, can’t relax. I’ve tried everything, exercise, distractions, even talking to friends, but no one gets it. I feel like a freak. Like I’m broken.”

Sarah leans forward, her voice gentle. “You’re not broken. You’re just… wired differently. Some people feel things more intensely. It doesn’t make you bad or wrong.”

“But it’s not normal,” I say, voice trembling. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. At work, at the gym. I can’t stop. Sometimes I’m scared someone will find out, and I’ll lose everything.”

She’s quiet for a moment, then says, “You’re not alone, Lily. More people struggle with this than you think. The difference is, you’re honest about it, even if it scares you. That takes guts.”

I swallow, feeling tears prick my eyes. “What do I do? How do I live with this? I’m scared I’ll never find a real connection, that my intensity will always push people away, like they’re drowning and I’m the tidal wave, that I’ll always be too much for someone. Or that I’ll just keep pushing the limits until I actually get caught and lose everything.”

Sarah gives a small, understanding smile. “First, you stop punishing yourself. You don’t have to be ashamed of wanting what you want. But you do have to be careful about where, about whom you trust. Find safe ways to let it out. Maybe talk to someone, a professional, if you need to. Or someone who really listens. Like me.”

I nod, a weight lifted from my chest. “Thank you. I just… needed to say it out loud, I think. I’m tired of hiding, of feeling like I’m the only one in the world who’s like this.”

Sarah squeezes my hand. “You’re not alone. And you’re not too much. You’re honest, and that’s rare. If you ever need to talk or just need someone to remind you you’re not crazy, I’m here. And if you want, I can help you find someone to talk to, someone who gets it.”

I manage a shaky smile. “I’d like that. Really.”

Sarah grins. “Good. And Lily, don’t ever let anyone make you feel less for wanting more out of life. Or out of yourself.”

Walking home that evening, the city is alive with neon and the distant crash of waves. I’m still hungry, still restless, but I’m not hiding anymore. I took a risk, and I survived. Maybe I’ll start a journal, write it all down, every messy, honest detail. Maybe I’ll reach out to Jess again or someone new. Maybe I’ll just keep moving forward, one raw, unashamed day at a time.

Maybe I’m still restless, still hungry, but I’m no longer hiding, and maybe, just maybe, that makes me unstoppable.