Tides and Routine

The waves always sounded different first thing in the morning.

Some days they whispered, others they roared. Today, they murmured—calm, even, like the world hadn’t quite woken up yet. The chill of the early air clung to my skin as I jogged along the edge of the esplanade, breath rising in soft white clouds. The path sloped gently down to the sand, and my pace shifted as my trainers met the firmer, wet stretch near the tide line.

This was my ritual. Just me, the sea, and a quiet stretch of coastline that never needed to be anything more than it was. I didn’t jog to prove anything. Not for a goal, not for weight or pace or numbers. It simply cleared my head. Grounded me. Most mornings, by the time the world stirred, I’d already taken it in—mile by mile.

Behind me, up beyond the dunes, stood my house.

I’d designed it myself—a low, modern build of pale stone and glass that wrapped around itself like a cocoon. It backed directly onto the beach, built into the landscape instead of on top of it. Every window framed something worth pausing for: the curve of the bay, the dance of sea grass in the wind, the late sun when it sank into the water like a promise. I never got tired of looking at it.

Just like I never got tired of being alone in it.

At 5’6”, I wasn’t tall, but I carried myself like I was. My posture did most of the talking—shoulders back, chin up, hips swaying when they felt like it. I knew the effect I had on people. Blonde hair, green eyes, a face that time had been generous to. And a body I’d made peace with a long time ago—slim and curvy, the kind that always seems to surprise people. I wasn’t gym-toned. I didn’t need to be.

The boob job had been my first big treat to myself after the divorce—eight years ago now. A 34EE silhouette that turned heads even in a plain T-shirt. Some women bought cars or diamonds. I wanted to see the reward in the mirror.

I slowed near the curve of the beach where the tide left smooth patterns in the sand. The local café owner waved from his doorway, but I only offered a small smile. Later, maybe. Not before the shower.

Back home, I let the warmth of the underfloor heating greet me as I kicked off my shoes in the hall. My top and sports bra came off next, peeled from my skin with satisfying ease, falling into the linen basket by the wall. I padded barefoot across the wide open-plan space—clean lines, polished oak, and soft textiles in muted tones. The house was quiet. Always quiet.

In the bathroom, the motion sensor triggered the rainfall shower, sending steam curling across the mirror. Floor-to-ceiling glass offered a view out across the dunes. I stepped under the water and tipped my face into the stream, hands smoothing over skin still cool from the run.

This was my favourite part of the morning. The world held just at bay. The heat, the pressure, the solitude. I moved slowly, water sliding down my breasts, over my hips, between my legs. No rush. No pressure. Just presence.

This life—this calm, curated, beautiful life—I’d built it on my own terms.

At least, that’s what I told myself.

The Article

I padded into my home office with damp hair and a fresh mug of coffee, the sleeves of my robe pushed up as I sank into the leather chair. The floor-to-ceiling windows spilled light across the desk, casting gentle reflections on the glass top. I always liked this time of morning—the afterglow of the run, the house quiet, inbox still manageable.

The emails were routine. A couple of updates from the lettings team. One maintenance issue—fixed already. A client asking about the progress on a new build that, frankly, didn’t need my attention anymore. The business mostly ran itself now. That had been the goal. And I’d reached it.

Still, I skimmed everything, replied where I needed to, and flagged a couple of bits to chase later. Thirty minutes, tops, and I was done.

With the admin cleared, I clicked across to the news—just a habit, really. I liked to stay vaguely informed. It helped me feel connected, grounded. Politics, economy, a few local headlines. Then, further down the page, a smaller article caught my eye.

“Britain’s Quietest Revolution: The Rise of Secret Lifestyles.”

It was tucked beneath the lifestyle section, barely a paragraph visible in the preview. I hesitated, fingers hovering over the trackpad, then clicked.

The piece was short—more commentary than journalism. It spoke about how people, especially women in their 40s and 50s, were increasingly embracing private, alternative lives that defied the roles they’d lived by for decades. Quiet experimentation. Hidden freedoms. It mentioned everything from open marriages to kink communities, from private apps to social networks built around desire.

No judgment. Just… curiosity.

I sat back slightly in my chair, letting the words settle.

Secret lifestyles.

The phrase felt indulgent. Intimate. Like something you whispered in bed after the lights were off.

I wasn’t prudish. I’d always enjoyed sex. Loved it, even—when it was good. And when it wasn’t, I could still take care of myself. That wasn’t the problem.

Lately, though… there had been this gnawing ache. Not physical. Not quite. Just something missing.

It wasn’t about orgasms. It wasn’t even about love.

It was about… control. Or maybe the lack of it. Or maybe the opposite—giving it up. I wasn’t sure. But it had crept in, slowly, like a thought I hadn’t wanted to think. I’d tried to ignore it. Told myself it was just a phase. A reaction to too much time alone, or too much ease.

But the more I ignored it, the louder it got.

I glanced down at the robe gaping open at my chest, the hint of my breasts catching the light, and then up again at the glowing screen. My heart ticked just a little faster.

My fingers moved almost without thinking.

“Where do women explore secret sexual desires safely?”

And just like that, a different side of the internet opened before me.

Behind the Curtain

I started with the obvious—searches like “exploring fantasies safely” and “how to try kink without shame.”

Most of the results led to glossy lifestyle blogs or thinly veiled dating apps. Articles littered with clickbait titles and recycled content. Words like “empowered,” “wild,” and “unleash your inner goddess” were plastered everywhere—promising a transformation I could buy in six instalments or unlock with a discount code.

It all felt… performative. Like something designed for women half my age, posing in neon lingerie for Instagram likes. I wasn’t looking for a makeover. I didn’t want approval. I wanted honesty. Depth. Maybe even danger.

I clicked through one more generic site, scrolled past a gallery of men with gym-slicked abs and pre-written messages, then closed the tab.

And then—almost hidden in a discussion thread about “real community-led alternatives”—a name came up, casually dropped like an inside joke:

FetLife.

I paused. The name made me smile. Simple. Direct. A little cheeky. I typed it into the search bar and hit enter.

The site was different straight away—darker, stripped back, a simple homepage with no flashy colours or half-naked promises. Just a place to sign in or sign up.

A line of text underneath the logo read:

“Like Facebook, but kinkier.”

I exhaled through my nose, amused. Then I clicked.

The sign-up was surprisingly straightforward. No credit card. No bait-and-switch. Just a few prompts: name (or nickname), orientation, role, age, location.

I hesitated at “role.” The options felt like a foreign language: Dominant, Submissive, Switch, Top, Bottom, Kinkster, Slave, Pet…

My mouth went dry. I didn’t know the rules yet. Didn’t even know the game. In the end, I chose Exploring. It felt honest.

I picked a name that felt playful but vague, uploaded a photo of the sea from my back garden—nothing identifiable—and clicked Create Account.

And just like that, I was in.

The dashboard was like a secret world. Groups, events, discussions, photos, blogs. Some posts were silly. Others deeply personal. I found myself reading confessions from women older than me, describing feelings I hadn’t been able to name. Others were younger—braver, maybe—talking about submission, restraint, obedience. And how freeing it felt to let someone else take the reins.

I leaned back in my chair, legs crossed under my robe, and let my mind wander.

There had been lovers. Of course there had.

The architect from London who lasted exactly two weekends before ghosting. The charming Frenchman who talked endlessly about wine and made me cum twice—decent, but forgettable. The younger guy from the gym, eager but clueless, who thought pulling my hair was enough to count as “rough.”

They’d all wanted me. But none of them had seen me. Not properly. Not the way I sometimes imagined—stripped down and exposed, not just naked but known. Pinned beneath a gaze that didn’t flinch. Touched with purpose, spoken to with precision. Like they knew what I needed before I did.

I snapped out of the thought when I realised how still I’d gone.

Back on the screen, a message notification blinked—someone had sent a friend request. No message. Just a username: BlackwellOrders.

I didn’t accept. Not yet.

Instead, I clicked on a group titled:

“Women 40+ Exploring Submission.”

And as I started to read, something stirred deep inside me.

Not fear. Not shame.

Permission

The Next Morning

The next morning, the waves sounded different again. Not calm. Not stormy. Just… expectant.

I felt it before I opened my eyes—the weight of the air, the pulse between my legs, the vague press of heat at the base of my spine. Sleep had been patchy. I’d stirred more than once, thighs rubbing together beneath the sheets, my body half-dreaming of things I hadn’t let myself want until now.

By the time I stood under the shower, the water didn’t soothe me. It teased. Each drop that rolled down my skin made me aware of how alive I felt. How sensitive. As if every inch of me was waiting to be touched.

The Return to the Site

After coffee and a slow stretch of yoga that did nothing to quiet my mind, I found myself back in the office. The FetLife tab was still open. I hadn’t accepted the friend request. I hadn’t messaged anyone. But I had joined a couple of groups. I told myself I was just reading. Just curious.

Today, one post caught my eye.

It was buried in the “Women 40+ Exploring Submission” group. The caption read:

“There’s a special kind of surrender in this. The kind that silences everything else.”

The photo wasn’t graphic—not by FetLife standards. It was black and white. Artistic. A woman on her knees, head tipped back, mouth stretched wide around the base of a man’s cock. Her eyes were closed, hands behind her back, her throat clearly opened as far as it could go.

But it wasn’t just the image. It was her expression.

There was no shame. No struggle. Just… devotion.

I stared at it far too long. My hand gripped the edge of the desk, and my legs crossed instinctively.

I’d given blowjobs, of course. Plenty. I’d even liked them. But I’d never done that. Not like that. Never with my hands bound. Never letting a man hold my head and use my mouth like it belonged to him.

The thought made my lips part slightly, breath hitching.

I let the fantasy play out for a moment. My knees pressing into the polished floor. My robe slipping down my shoulders. His hands in my hair, thick and commanding. My lips slick, stretched, my eyes fluttering as he whispered—“Good girl.”

Tracy’s Reaction

I pushed the chair back and stood abruptly, heart thudding.

What the hell was happening to me?

But I knew.

This wasn’t about rough sex. This wasn’t about pleasure, not exactly.

It was about the act. The control. The offering of something deeply, stupidly vulnerable.

I padded into the kitchen, poured another coffee with trembling fingers, then abandoned it half-drunk.

Later, back upstairs in my bedroom, I sat on the edge of the bed and closed my eyes.

I could feel the weight of a man’s cock in my mouth just from memory. But what I craved now wasn’t memory. It was role. Ritual. The idea of giving my mouth—not as a favour, not even as seduction—but as submission.

What would it be like to be trained? Corrected? Told exactly how to please, how deep to go, when to hold, when to breathe?

My fingers drifted down between my thighs, and this time, I didn’t stop them.

The Ache

By early afternoon, I couldn’t focus on anything.

Not work. Not reading. Not even the sea, which usually lulled my mind into something close to peace.

The ache was louder now. Not a pulse, but a pull. Not gentle. Not passing.

I’d tried to shop online—typed deep throat trainer and gag reflex dildo into the search bar, then froze. Pages and pages of options. Sizes that made no sense. Measurements in inches and girths that looked violent or laughable. None of it helped.

I needed to feel it. See it. Know.

So I’d showered again—something about being clean felt necessary—and dressed in low-key disguise: plain jeans, a fitted black top, hair tucked into a baseball cap, oversized sunglasses hiding the heat still lingering in my eyes.

I didn’t go to the local town. Too risky. Instead, I drove out along the coast, a little over an hour, to a larger town where no one would know my name, let alone my postcode. I parked in a side street. The shop wasn’t in some grimy alley—it was clean, discreet, set back from the main road with frosted glass windows and tasteful lettering: Velvet & Vice – Boutique for Desires.

I hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside.

Cool air kissed my skin the moment the door clicked shut behind me. Soft lighting. Gentle music. Not tacky or seedy—this was curated. Shelves of toys, leather, silicone, satin. Clean glass cases displaying restraints like jewellery. A small screen played a muted loop of bondage tutorials—slow, artistic, instructional.

I wandered slowly, avoiding eye contact with the woman behind the counter—mid 20s maybe, auburn hair in a braid, tattoos peeking out from her rolled sleeves. I felt like an imposter. Like a bored housewife who didn’t belong here.

But my feet carried me further in.

And then I saw them.

A whole wall of dildos. Rows and rows of them, arranged by size, shape, and material. Some realistic. Some absurd. Others sleek and simple. My eyes scanned the lengths—some barely the size of a finger, others thick as my wrist. I swallowed.

I picked one up—a medium-length silicone toy with a flared base and pronounced ridge around the tip. Firm, smooth, weighty. I turned it in my hands like an artefact. Then another—thicker, black, with a curved shape I imagined pressing against the back of my throat.

It was so different in person.

I was still holding both when a soft voice spoke beside me.

The Shop Assistant

“Looking for something specific?”

I turned, startled. It was the girl from the counter. Close now. Kind eyes. No judgment.

“I—um. Not exactly,” I said, setting the toys back like I’d been caught stealing. “I was… just comparing.”

She smiled, a dimple creasing her cheek. “Totally get it. Online sizing can be misleading as hell. You need to feel them. Get the weight. The texture. That’s what really matters.”

I gave a small nod, feeling my face flush despite the cool room.

She tilted her head. “Can I ask—are you looking for vaginal use or… oral training?”

My lips parted. I nearly lied. But something in her voice made me stop.

“Oral,” I said quietly. “I want… to learn how to take more.”

Her expression didn’t change. Not one flicker of surprise. Just calm, thoughtful professionalism.

“Okay,” she said. “So you’ll want something long enough to practice depth, but not so thick it’s overwhelming. If it’s too girthy, your jaw will tense before you even get close. You want to train the throat, not break it.”

I felt my knees soften slightly at the phrasing. Train the throat.

She guided me a few steps down and picked up a silicone toy—8.5 inches, slender but firm, with a flared base and no balls. “This one’s designed for depth practice. Nice and smooth. Not too flexible, so it holds shape. Easy to clean. You can mount it to a wall or mirror and control the depth.”

She handed it to me.

I turned it in my hand, imagining my lips closing around the tip, the slow press deeper, the stretch.

My breath quickened.

“If you want something thicker for jaw endurance,” she said, lifting another toy—shorter, wider, with a real-feel skin texture—“this one’s great for holding in your mouth for five, ten minutes at a time. Builds tolerance.”

I nodded. She knew exactly what she was doing.

“I’ll take both,” I said before I could overthink it.

At the till, she wrapped the toys in discreet matte packaging, then slipped in a sample of water-based lube and a small leaflet titled: Mouth Training 101: Tips from Real Submissives.

As she handed me the bag, she gave me a knowing smile—not sleazy. Not overfamiliar. Just… respectful.

“Take your time,” she said. “There’s no rush with this kind of thing. Trust your body. It’ll tell you when it’s ready to go deeper.”

I thanked her and stepped back out into the sunlight, sunglasses slipping back into place.

I didn’t drive off straight away.

I sat there for a long moment, bag on the passenger seat, fingers curled around the steering wheel. My heart was pounding. My thighs pressed tight. I could already feel my mouth anticipating the stretch.

Not for pleasure.

For surrender.

Mouth Practice

The house felt different that evening.

Same walls. Same silence. But everything hummed.

The bag from the shop sat unopened on the bed. I’d been circling it all evening—pouring a glass of wine, showering again, brushing my hair, tidying things that didn’t need tidying. As if the room needed to be ready. As if I did.

Eventually, I closed the bedroom door, drew the blinds low, and turned on the soft amber lamp in the corner. My phone went onto the tripod I usually used for Zoom calls, and I angled it slightly downward—just enough to catch my face and upper chest. Not artistic. Not performative. Just honest.

I untied the wrap around my body.

No bra. No knickers. Just bare skin, flushed already, breath light. My nipples were tight in the cool air, and my mouth… god, my mouth was dry and hot all at once. I licked my lips and looked into the lens.

“Just for me,” I whispered.

The First Toy

I knelt on the rug, placing the slimmer toy on the mirror I’d leaned against the wardrobe—angled slightly upward so I could see myself as I worked. I lubed it with trembling fingers, then pressed the base to the surface, checking the suction.

It held.

Good.

I leaned forward, still watching myself, and brought my mouth to the tip.

The first contact was electric. Soft silicone against my lips, familiar and alien all at once. I kissed it slowly, breath warm, then parted my lips and let the head slide in.

Half an inch.

Then another.

Then a long exhale as it pushed across my tongue.

I could hear myself—soft moans, gentle slurps, the wet sound of my mouth starting to accept the shape. I tilted my head, watching the angle. My lips stretched, jaw already tight. I pulled back, then eased forward again, deeper this time. My nose just above the base.

Not there yet.

I relaxed, adjusted my angle, and tried again—imagining a hand guiding me. Holding my hair. Whispering “deeper.”

When I glanced up and caught my reflection in the mirror, something inside me fluttered.

I looked wrecked already—eyes heavy, lips glossy, a string of saliva trailing from the tip of the toy to my mouth. I reached up, clicked the phone camera on, and hit record.

My own face stared back.

Not elegant. Not composed.

Hungry.

I wrapped one hand behind my back. Just to see. The posture changed everything—shoulders drawn, chest lifted, neck exposed.

I sank my mouth back down and held it.

One second.

Two.

Three.

The stretch burned, but the ache burned more.

When I pulled back, a strand of spit clung to the tip, and I saw myself flick my tongue out instinctively, cleaning it like a reward.

I’d never seen myself like this before. Wanting like this.

The thicker one came next—shorter, but broader, with a more lifelike texture. I licked it first, swirling my tongue around the head like I was being tested. My jaw ached already, but I wanted to feel it. To see the way my mouth opened for something bigger. To watch myself try.

It didn’t go deep—not yet. But I held it in my mouth, pressing it to the roof, letting the stretch settle. My breath came through my nose, shallow and fast. I bobbed slowly, lips tight around the shaft, cheeks hollowed.

The camera caught everything.

And when I reached down between my thighs and touched myself—just once, just lightly—I nearly came.

When I finally stopped recording, I didn’t watch it straight away. I lay back on the bed, heart hammering, throat sore, pussy drenched. The toys glistened beside me, wet and still warm from my mouth.

I’d crossed something tonight.

Not a line, but a threshold.

I didn’t just want to submit.

I wanted to be seen doing it.

And maybe… someday soon… not just by myself.

The Morning After

The waves whispered again.

Soft, gentle, like they knew what I’d done.

My body ached in new places. My throat was tender, and my jaw clicked faintly when I stretched it wide. But I liked it. The soreness made it real—proof of something claimed, even if only by myself.

The run that morning felt like routine, but my head wasn’t clear like usual. I kept drifting. Every stretch of sand reminded me of my knees on the rug. Every cool gust against my skin echoed the feel of silicone slipping past my lips.

By the time I got home, I was restless.

Wrapped in a fresh towel, I sat cross-legged on the bed and unlocked my phone.

There it was. Last night’s video.

I hesitated. Then tapped.

It started with a close-up of my face—nervous but determined. My mouth opening. The toy entering. The change in my eyes as I gave in.

I watched in silence, eyes locked on the woman in the screen.

She looked… undone. Powerful in her surrender. My lips glistened, cheeks flushed, strands of spit trailing from the base of the toy to my chin. When I pulled it from my throat, breath shuddering, I caught myself whispering something.

“Please.”

I didn’t even remember saying it.

I paused the video, thumb hovering over the share icon.

Was I really about to do this?

Post a video of me on my knees, face-fucking a toy like I was begging to be used?

I looked at it again.

It wasn’t porn. It wasn’t for shock value. It was a woman exploring something true. Something hungry.

And I wanted it seen.

I cropped the video slightly—cut before my face was fully clear, just enough to keep the mystery—but left the moans, the eye contact, the way my throat took it inch by inch. Captioned it simply:

“Training. No hands. No shame.”

Then hit Post.

Lunch with a Friend

I didn’t check FetLife again after that. Not straight away.

I got dressed. Light makeup. Casual linen trousers and a blouse that fell open just enough to feel like a secret. Hair loosely tied. The day was warm. I walked to the little café in town where I met Claire—someone I knew from the Pilates class, cheerful, sharp, suspicious that I never talked about dating.

We chatted about books, the news, a local couple divorcing. I nodded and sipped my drink, played normal.

But my body buzzed the whole time.

Under the table, my thighs clenched. My nipples pressed faintly against the fabric of my top. It wasn’t just what I’d done.

It was the knowing that someone might see it now.

Afterwards, I took the long way home—down the coastal path, past the dunes. Alone again.

I took out my phone.

FetLife had exploded.

18 friend requests. 12 private messages. 9 comments.

The video had views. Dozens already. More every minute.

One message was blunt:

“Get rid of the toy and let me train that throat properly.”

Another was playful:

“You’re a natural, sweetheart. Bet you’d drool beautifully on the real thing.”

Most were graphic. Some were repulsive. I ignored them.

But one made me stop.

His profile name was simple: Obsidian_Motion

The profile photo wasn’t of his face. It was his body—young, carved, sweat-slicked chest and shoulders like a sculpture. One hand wrapped around a thick, dark cock that curved up proudly from between muscled thighs. The caption read:

“Big enough to make you forget how to use your hands.”

I swallowed.

His message?

“You looked so desperate to please. I can help you get it all the way. No games. Just training. Properly. I’ll bring the real thing. You kneel.”

I read it twice.

Then typed back:

“Where are you based?”

And hit Send.

Arrangements

The reply came quickly.

Obsidian_Motion:

I’m in Worthmere. 30 mins from you if you’re coastal. I’ve got a flat. Private. My boy’s at work all day so we won’t be disturbed. You wanna come over?

I stared at the screen.

Worthmere.

Not far. But far enough that no one would know me. A fresh town. A clean line to cross.

My fingers hovered. I thought about my house, the sanctuary I’d built so carefully. About the weight of having him here. Too soon.

No.

If I was going to do this, it would be on neutral ground. Somewhere I could walk away from after.

Me:

I’ll come to you. But not today. I want to talk first.

And I don’t do surprises.

Obsidian_Motion:

No surprises. Just discipline.

You’ll come dressed to impress. Something tight. No bra.

I’ll take it slow. I want to train you properly.

And I’d like to film. Just for us. You okay with that?

A small shiver ran through me.

He hadn’t even asked for a blowjob. Not directly. Just the training. The framing. The discipline.

And he wanted to record it.

I glanced at myself in the mirror—towel still around me, hair damp, eyes wide. Curious. Ready.

Me:

Yes. I want to see myself.

Tight clothes. No bra. Filmed.

But nothing I haven’t agreed to in advance.

Obsidian_Motion:

Of course. I don’t play dumb.

Come Thursday, mid-morning.

Jeans, or leggings. Tank top or bodysuit. Something that shows off your body but still lets you kneel.

Hair down.

Light makeup.

Be ready to follow instructions. From the second you walk in the door.

The authority in the message made my thighs clench.

He wasn’t pushy. He wasn’t crude. He didn’t need to be.

He was already giving me rules—and I felt the strangest urge to obey them.

Thoughts That Evening

That night, I lay in bed and replayed every word.

No bra. Tight clothes. Hair down.

Be ready to kneel.

The idea of being filmed—of watching myself with him—felt terrifying and intoxicating. I thought of my throat. My lips. His cock in my mouth, not silicone this time but thick, hot, alive. My hands behind my back as he guided me.

Would he praise me?

Would he push me?

Would he make me hold eye contact as I struggled to take him?

I didn’t know.

But I wanted to find out.

His Instructions

I woke with the ache already pulsing between my legs.

Not the kind that begged for sleep, but the kind that kept my thoughts low and wicked. The kind that whispered today’s the day.

I stretched under the sheets, my nipples brushing fabric, already hard. I’d dreamt about him—I was sure of it. I didn’t remember specifics, only flashes: the weight of something pressing my tongue, the sound of my own breath through my nose, the shameful wet between my thighs as I woke.

Today, I was going to kneel. For him. Be filmed. Be trained.

I didn’t even know his real name.

The Shower

The steam curled around me as I stepped under the hot stream. I let the water hit my chest first—right between my breasts—then tilted my face up and exhaled slowly.

I wanted to be clean. Really clean. I lathered slowly, dragging my hands over every curve: breasts first, my thumbs teasing over nipples that didn’t need encouragement. Down across my belly, between my legs—though I didn’t let myself linger. Not yet.

This wasn’t about pleasure. Not today.

I rinsed off and stood for a moment longer, letting the water beat down my back while I imagined kneeling. On the floor of his flat. Shirt tight. Nipples hard. Looking up into a camera lens as I tried to take him to the back of my throat.

I had to lean on the wall when I stepped out.

Back in the bedroom, wrapped in a towel, I paused before pulling open the drawer. I knew exactly what I wanted. What he’d asked for.

Tight. No bra. Come ready to follow instructions.

I chose a pair of black lace knickers—barely there, high cut. As I stepped into them, the fabric slid over my thighs with a soft friction that made me shiver. Pulling them up was almost too much—my body so aware, so ready—I caught myself gasping as the lace pressed into place.

Next, the denim shorts. Faded, frayed, snug. It took a little hip wiggle to get them over my bum, and once they were up, they clung like they were painted on. The kind of shorts you feel when you move. The kind you know people stare at.

Then the top.

White. Ribbed. Thin.

I slipped it over my head, arms raised, and the moment it hit my chest, I could feel my breasts resisting the fit. No bra, as instructed. My 34EEs pushed against the fabric like they wanted to escape.

I had to bounce slightly, tug the hem down—and even then, it clung. My nipples were clearly visible, hard and dark, practically waving at the world. There was no hiding it. I was dressed to be seen.

Hair in a ponytail, makeup light—just gloss and a little warmth in my cheeks. I looked in the mirror and caught my breath.

I looked like someone asking to be ruined.

The Defender purred as I turned the key, a deep growl under the bonnet that suited my mood perfectly. The roads passed in a blur—coastal curves, open lanes, the kind of familiar stretch I normally drove with no thought at all.

But not today.

Today, I thought about my throat. My lips. His cock. My fingers twisted around the steering wheel, knuckles pale.

I was doing this. I’d agreed to everything. I wasn’t a girl being lured somewhere. I was a woman walking willingly into something dark, intimate, dangerous.

And I couldn’t wait.

The Walk

I parked on a side street just off the flats—nothing fancy, just a six-floor block tucked between a row of shops and a playground. I caught sight of the lift entrance and started toward it.

That’s when I noticed them.

A group of lads—five or six—leaning against the low wall outside the building. Young. Loud. In hi-vis jackets, finishing their lunch. All of them turned their heads as I approached.

I didn’t stop. I didn’t speak.

But I felt their eyes on me. Felt them drag over the round of my bum, the tight squeeze of the denim shorts, the way my tits bounced freely beneath the thin white fabric.

I gave them something extra—a little more sway in my hips, a little more spring in my step.

I didn’t even need to look back to know they were staring.

One of them let out a low whistle. Another muttered, “Fuck me…”

I smiled to myself as I reached the door.

Let them wonder.

They had no idea where I was going.

Or what I was about to do once I got there.

The Door

I stood outside apartment 6B, staring at the dark wood for just a moment longer than I should have.

My heart was hammering.

I could still feel the heat of those boys’ stares outside. The soft breeze that had teased my nipples through my top. The ache between my legs, still present, still growing.

I smoothed the white fabric over my chest—useless—and exhaled once through my nose.

Then I lifted my hand.

Knock knock.

The First Look

The door opened almost immediately.

He filled the frame.

Obsidian_Motion—him—shirtless, tall, wide, thick. His skin was a rich, deep brown, glistening slightly with sweat as though he’d just finished lifting something heavy. His chest was solid, broad and cut, abs stacked beneath a light trail of hair that led straight down into his grey jogging bottoms—hung low on his hips, loose, but already tenting slightly.

His shoulders looked like they could crush me. His arms were relaxed, but heavy. Carried the kind of strength that doesn’t need to show off.

He looked me over slowly. Head to toe. Lingering on my breasts—nipples boldly visible—then down to the shorts, the thighs, my bare legs.

He didn’t smile.

He just nodded once.

“Come in.”

The Flat

The flat was small, basic, and exactly what I expected from two young guys living together.

A cluttered kitchen counter. A stack of trainers by the door. Posters on the walls—basketball, boxing, a woman in a bikini. A faint smell of weed under the sharper tang of Lynx and washing powder.

But it wasn’t gross. Just… real. Unapologetically male.

He led me into the lounge, motioned toward the brown corduroy sofa.

I sat.

Perched on the edge, legs together, hands resting lightly on my thighs.

I was aware of everything—the cling of my shorts, the stretch of my top, the press of my nipples. I didn’t know where to look. I couldn’t read his expression.

He sat down next to me—close—and leaned back like he owned the whole room. One arm slung along the back of the sofa, the other resting on his thigh. His knee brushed mine.

That’s when he touched me.

His large palm found the middle of my back, fingers spreading slowly, massaging down to my lower spine with quiet confidence. Casual. Possessive.

“You’re tense,” he said.

His voice was deep, smooth, heavy with a thick Nigerian accent that caught me off guard. Rich and slow, like syrup.

“You nervous, pretty girl?”

I nodded—barely—and let my hand drift sideways, brushing against his thigh. I felt the heat of him through the joggers, the dense shape beneath.

I rubbed gently.

His cock stirred.

He didn’t flinch.

Just grabbed his phone from the table, unlocked it, and pointed the lens toward me.

The red light blinked.

Then came the first command.

“Kneel.”

The First Lesson

I hesitated for half a second.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because the word hit different when it came from him. Spoken aloud, not typed. That thick Nigerian accent gave it weight, command—like I was already supposed to be on my knees.

And I was.

I slid off the sofa slowly, eyes flicking to the phone in his hand as I lowered myself to the floor. The rug was rough beneath my knees. His joggers loomed in front of me, the soft fabric stretched where his cock pressed against it, heavy and hard.

He didn’t say anything else. Just kept the camera pointed down at me.

Waiting.

Watching.

I reached out, hands just barely shaking, and tugged the waistband of his joggers down.

Fuck.

It was bigger than I expected. Dark, thick, veined. The kind of cock that made your mouth water and your throat tighten just from the sight. It bobbed forward, proud and heavy, the tip already slick.

I didn’t mean to gasp. But I did.

He still hadn’t said a word.

He just stepped forward, kicked the joggers off, and stood with his feet slightly apart—fully exposed, cock inches from my lips, camera still steady in his hand.

“Let me see how much of me that pretty mouth can take,” he said, voice low.

My lips parted automatically.

He didn’t move.

He wanted me to begin.

So I did.

I leaned in, tongue flicking out to taste him first—just a tease against the tip. Salty. Hot. My lips closed around the head and I sucked gently, cheeks hollowing as I felt the weight of him press against my tongue.

Then I pulled back, eyes flicking up to him—then the camera.

His jaw flexed.

I went again. Deeper.

The stretch was real. My throat resisted.

But I wanted to learn.

Taken Slowly

I eased my mouth forward again, tongue flat, jaw wide. His cock pushed past my lips with a slow, deliberate weight. My cheeks stretched, lips straining around his thickness as I swallowed another inch.

My throat fluttered in protest, but I forced myself to breathe through my nose, steady, just like I’d practised. Except this wasn’t silicone. This was real. Hot and pulsing. I could feel the blood in it, the power behind it.

My hands rested on his thighs, fingers curling against his warm skin as I tried to keep control. I pulled back slightly, lips clinging to him, then sank forward again—deeper this time, almost too much. My eyes stung.

Above me, his voice was calm.

“Good. Slow. Don’t rush. Feel every inch.”

His hand rested lightly at the back of my head—not pushing, not forcing, just there. A presence. A warning.

I gagged softly and pulled back with a wet gasp, spit stringing from my lips to the tip of his cock. My chin was slick. My breathing shaky.

But my thighs were trembling, soaked.

He tilted the phone slightly, angling the camera. I knew what he was capturing—my flushed face, mouth stretched wide, lips pink and wet. My tongue, already aching, gliding along the underside of his shaft as I tried again.

“Use your eyes. Look at me.”

I glanced up.

And that changed everything.

His gaze locked with mine, steady and unreadable. I couldn’t look away. My mouth opened again without thinking, welcoming him back in, letting him sink deeper. The moment my lips passed the halfway point, he exhaled hard.

“There you go… greedy little mouth.”

The praise hit me harder than expected.

I moaned around him, the vibration making him twitch against my tongue. My hands slid behind my back instinctively. Offered. I held them there. I wanted to feel obedient. I wanted him to see it.

He stepped closer.

“Hands behind you. That’s better,” he murmured, the camera still rolling. “Now take more.”

He eased forward, his hand tightening slightly in my hair as he guided me—slowly—until I felt the tip brush the back of my throat.

My gag reflex fought.

Tears pricked.

But I held.

He didn’t force. He just waited.

“Breathe through your nose. Push past it. You’re doing fine.”

I obeyed.

I relaxed my jaw, pressed my tongue down, and leaned into it.

And for the first time in my life, I felt a cock begin to slide into my throat.

My eyes watered. My nose touched his stomach. My body shook. But I held.

He groaned above me.

“That’s it. You’re learning.”

And I was.

Not just how to take him.

But how to give myself.

All the Way

I blinked through tears, breath thin, nose pressed to his skin.

His cock filled my throat, thicker than I thought I could manage, but I held there—shaking, dripping, heart hammering. The stretch, the pressure, the fullness—it was overwhelming. But God, it was perfect.

He didn’t move.

He just stayed there, one hand in my hair, his other holding the phone, filming every second. The red light blinked steadily.

I pulled back with a wet gasp, a long, slick strand of spit and precum stretching from my lips to his cock. My jaw ached. My throat burned.

But I wanted more.

I dove back down.

This time I slid in easier, my body already learning the rhythm, the angle, the surrender. His cock nudged deeper with each stroke, slower, smoother, the tip pressing into my throat over and over again. My lips kissed the base. My chest shook with the effort.

He groaned.

“Look at you…”

I glanced up, tears sliding down my cheeks, spit running freely from the corners of my mouth. His voice was thick, low.

“Keep going. Don’t stop till I say.”

I didn’t.

I let him use my mouth—slow strokes at first, then faster, deeper. My body adjusted. I couldn’t breathe through my nose fast enough, but I didn’t care. I was lost in it. In him. In the act.

Then I felt him tense.

His abs clenched. His hand tightened in my hair. His breath caught.

“Swallow.”

And then he came.

Thick, hot ropes of it, pouring into my mouth, flooding my tongue and sliding down my throat. I tried—God, I tried—to swallow it all, but it was too much, too fast. It spilled out, leaking past my lips, down my chin, splashing onto my chest and soaking into the top of my shirt.

I stayed there, lips still wrapped around the head of his cock, my mouth full of him, breathing through my nose, the taste of him coating everything.

When I finally pulled back, a long string of cum stretched from my mouth to his tip.

I swallowed the last of it slowly. Deliberately. My chest heaving, my lips slick and shining.

He slumped onto the sofa, letting the phone drop to his side, still recording somewhere in the cushions. His legs spread, his body loose and satisfied, chest rising and falling. But his cock—still rock solid—rested against his thigh, wet and twitching slightly.

I couldn’t help myself.

I reached out and ran my fingertips over it gently. Just a stroke. A reverent touch. I traced the thickness, still in awe of what I’d just taken.

I smiled, licking my lips.

Infatuated was the only word for it.

And then, before I could second guess myself, I whispered:

“…You can post the video if you want.”

Posted

The drive home felt surreal.

I was still breathing through my mouth, like I hadn’t quite caught my breath from earlier. The taste of him clung to my tongue—salty, masculine, unforgettable. My throat ached, my jaw stiff, my chest sticky where his cum had soaked through my shirt. I didn’t wipe it away.

I didn’t want to.

I wanted to feel it all the way home.

The Defender purred beneath me, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. Back on that cheap rug. On my knees. Hands behind my back. My lips stretched wide, drool running down my chin as I took him again and again. That camera watching every second.

That was the moment I knew.

I’d broken something open.

And I wasn’t going to put it back.

Back Home

I peeled off my top as soon as I stepped inside. The front was stained, my nipples still visible through the soaked fabric. I tossed it on the floor, leaving a trail behind me as I headed to the shower.

The water burned this time. My skin was too raw, too alive.

As I washed his cum from my chest, I felt my pussy throb again—hungry, desperate. I resisted touching it. Barely. I wanted to hold that tension. Stretch it until it snapped.

Wrapped in a towel, still damp, I padded barefoot into my office.

The screen glowed to life as I clicked open the FetLife tab.

The Upload

Obsidian_Motion had posted it.

The caption was simple:

“First lesson. She asked for this.”

My breath caught.

The thumbnail was already familiar—me kneeling between his legs, face flushed, eyes glassy, mouth open. The view was angled just enough to hide my full identity but showed everything else. The size of him. The way my lips worked. The moment I looked up and drooled on his cock, desperate for more.

Views: 87.

I clicked it.

I watched.

And I ached.

I saw myself change in real time. From curious to devoted. From eager to obedient. From Tracy—property developer, divorced, independent—to someone willing to be owned, at least for a moment.

I didn’t look weak.

I looked powerful.

Because I’d chosen this.

The comments were already rolling in.

“That mouth was made for it.”

“She’s a natural.”

“Would love to see her gag on something thicker.”

“Where can I find one like her?”

I didn’t respond.

But my thighs pressed together.

And I kept watching.