I’ve never been able to figure out Reddit. I can read stuff there but posting just seems weird. Like would I post the link? Copy and paste? Condense it to a summary and share the link or say to go to my Substack for a more detailed article?
It’s just not an intuitive social media outlet for me. 😩
"My past is remembered and comes to life a second time as I write it down for you." I love this.
I am finalising (for the 100th time) the next chapter of my "erotic fantasy" story and it is definitely the remembered times from the most intimate moments that end up making the cut.
Love this! DOn't you wish this existed for everyone! I created a blog on my site titled "Before you assume" and it has a similar vibe and energy and I'm so glad I found this piece because I was starting to think I was the only one.
Now THAT'S from the heart! I'm glad you shared that it's been my experience when I've done those exact things you described I was irresistible to the partner I was with.
She was already there when I arrived, tucked into the corner of the booth like she belonged to it. Back to the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers absently playing with the edge of the menu she hadn’t opened yet. Her hair wasn’t styled. Her face wasn’t painted. She didn’t need to perform because she’d already built a stage out of her rhythm. And she looked up at me the way a woman does when she’s half-amused by the fantasy she thinks she’s about to be offered. I didn’t offer it. I sat beside her instead.
Not across. Not opposite. Beside.
The leather seat gave slightly as I slid in next to her, close enough that our thighs brushed. Not by accident. I didn’t ask if she minded. She didn’t ask why I chose this side. She just looked at me and raised one brow with that same signature smirk that has made thousands of strangers wonder if they’re next. I leaned in slow—one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on my knee. I didn’t speak for a moment. Just let her feel how quiet I was willing to get to hear her.
“I’ve been watching you,” I said it plain, not like a confession, but a truth too simple to be dressed up.
Her breath caught—not sharply, not defensively. Just a small pause, like she was recalibrating. She thought she knew what kind of dinner this would be. I wasn’t here to fuck her persona. I was here for the woman who charges her toy near the bathroom sink because she forgets. The one who laughs with her whole body in private but offers her moans in pieces to strangers. The one who writes heat not just with her hips, but with her whole goddamn spine.
“You make people think you’re blunt,” I said, lowering my voice, “but your craft is surgical. You write like a woman who learned how to wield softness the hard way. You drop ten-word turn-ons like candy, but the line that made me shift in my chair was the one about hiding a rubber duck in the medicine cabinet. That’s not kink. That’s architecture. That’s knowing how intimacy is built.”
Her hand tightened just slightly on the edge of the table. Not visible to anyone but me. My shoulder still brushed hers. I didn’t move away. I just let my fingers drift, slow and deliberate, to her thigh under the table. Rested there. Warm and still. Letting her feel what it was like to be touched without demand.
“You talk about compliments like they’re currency. But what I want to say isn’t flattery. It’s recognition. You don’t just seduce with your body. You do it with structure. With your editorial voice. The way you set up a rhythm and then break it one sentence early just to make her reader ache. That’s not writing. That’s choreography.”
She didn’t speak, but her lips parted just slightly. She reached for her water. Her fingers missed the glass by half an inch.
“You said,” I went on, “that the most erotic thing your partner ever said was, ‘I can’t look at you right now. If I do, I can’t be responsible for what I might do.’ But Britnee—what kills me is that you wrote that without looking away. You offer your body like bait, sure. But what you really give them is attention. Consistency. You make them feel like someone finally saw them through the fog. That’s why they come back. That’s why I came.”
Her thighs tensed beneath my palm. I let my fingers curl slightly, just enough to shift the fabric of her jeans. I didn’t rub. I didn’t stroke. I just anchored myself there, present. Her body was warming under my hand like I had whispered to her through skin. She still hadn’t pulled away.
“Eye contact turns you on,” I said, leaning close enough to let my breath graze her cheek. “So I need you to understand something. I haven’t stopped looking at you since you walked into my inbox. I see the way you balance filth with reverence. The way you pretend you’re just out here being dirty when really, you're building a cathedral out of every ache you've ever named.”
My thumb moved—barely. Drew a half-circle at the inside of her thigh. The denim was warm. Soft from wear. I didn't move higher. Not yet. I wanted her to sit with it.
“You say you're a clit girl. So I’m not going to grope you under this table. I’m going to make your thighs twitch and your panties stick to you without even unzipping your jeans. You said the best way to get you off is to make you feel seen. So let me give you something to keep you up tonight.”
I leaned in—closer still—until my lips were at her ear. I didn’t kiss. I just spoke.
“You write like a woman who was told once she was too much. And now you write to prove you are. You flirt like a fighter. You confess like a priest. You seduce like someone who knows exactly what to say to make a man lose sleep and still beg for more.”
My hand slid an inch higher now, just under the curve of her thigh where the muscle gave way to the softest part of her. She was already wet. I knew it without needing confirmation. Her breath had shifted. Her pupils had blown. Her knees pressed together not to stop me—but to keep the heat in.
I didn’t break eye contact. Not once.
“You don’t just turn people on, Britnee,” I said, “you haunt them.”
And she would remember this moment every time someone told her she was beautiful but didn’t have the nerve to sit beside her and mean it.
We still hadn’t ordered.
But her panties were soaked through.
And my fingers hadn’t even moved.
My thumb moved again, just slightly higher now, pressing along the inseam, right where the denim pulled tight against the heat blooming beneath it. I felt her breath stall. Not stop—just hold. Like her lungs had forgotten how to exhale while her pulse filled in the silence.
She kept her face forward, eyes fixed on the faux wood tabletop, lashes lowered like she was reading a prayer. Her lips were parted, but she wasn’t speaking anymore. The smirk was gone. What replaced it was softer. Stripped. Her body had gone quiet in that way women do when they’re trying not to come undone in public.
My hand was slow but steady. I wasn’t teasing. I was proving a point. My palm cradled the inside of her thigh now, fingers pressed flush between her legs, not pushing—just there. Present. Warm. Unyielding.
And she was soaked.
I felt it through the jeans. The heat. The damp. The tension of fabric sticking to skin. I let my middle finger press, gently, right where I knew she was pulsing, right through the layers. The shift in her breath was so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. But I was listening to her body now, not her words.
Her hips tilted—not much, but enough for me to feel the give. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t stop me. She just pressed her thighs together tighter, a silent plea for friction that never came. I gave her pressure. Not movement.
“I want to ruin this meal,” I said low, brushing my lips against the corner of her jaw without kissing it. “I want you to remember every bite you don’t take tonight. I want you to sit across from your laptop tomorrow and try to write through the ache I left behind.”
Her head dipped just slightly, her shoulder brushed mine with weight this time—not by accident, but from the loss of balance that happens when someone’s body is burning so quietly it takes their posture with it.
“I’m not going to finger you under this table,” I said, voice low, like I was letting her in on something sacred. “But I want you dripping through your jeans before I let you stand.”
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Just enough.
My hand stayed pressed. My body stayed close. I looked at her like a man who had earned it—not just the heat, but the silence. The surrender. The tension she carried around like armor, and the parts of herself she never let relax.
She opened her eyes again, slowly. She turned toward me.
And just when I felt the question on her tongue, I pulled my hand away.
Not with cruelty. With timing.
I took my napkin. Laid it gently on the table. Rose from the booth and offered her my hand.
“Let’s go,” I said.
She looked up at me like she might faint if she stood. But she slid out anyway.
She didn’t ask where. She didn’t need to.
The way she followed me told me everything.
And when we reached the car, her hand was already trembling as she reached for the door.
This is sooooo good. There were so many parts I wanted to restack. You should post this on Reddit under r/sex. Such good advice.
❤️❤️
I’ve never been able to figure out Reddit. I can read stuff there but posting just seems weird. Like would I post the link? Copy and paste? Condense it to a summary and share the link or say to go to my Substack for a more detailed article?
It’s just not an intuitive social media outlet for me. 😩
I write about steamy sex stories. Please check out.❤
"My past is remembered and comes to life a second time as I write it down for you." I love this.
I am finalising (for the 100th time) the next chapter of my "erotic fantasy" story and it is definitely the remembered times from the most intimate moments that end up making the cut.
I write about steamy sex stories. Please check out.❤
I love how real-life and touchy the simple honesty was in this. I could feel the dynamics in the beauty of it. I even had a tear in my eyes.
Being human on all levels... ❤️🔥👌✨️
💋
Love this! DOn't you wish this existed for everyone! I created a blog on my site titled "Before you assume" and it has a similar vibe and energy and I'm so glad I found this piece because I was starting to think I was the only one.
I write about steamy sex stories. Please check out.❤
Now THAT'S from the heart! I'm glad you shared that it's been my experience when I've done those exact things you described I was irresistible to the partner I was with.
💋
Seriously I enjoy hearing someone being direct and honest and casual all at the same time like that
A Date with Britneewild.
By Holden Caine
Scene One — The Booth (Extended Runtime Scroll)
She was already there when I arrived, tucked into the corner of the booth like she belonged to it. Back to the wall, one ankle crossed over the other, fingers absently playing with the edge of the menu she hadn’t opened yet. Her hair wasn’t styled. Her face wasn’t painted. She didn’t need to perform because she’d already built a stage out of her rhythm. And she looked up at me the way a woman does when she’s half-amused by the fantasy she thinks she’s about to be offered. I didn’t offer it. I sat beside her instead.
Not across. Not opposite. Beside.
The leather seat gave slightly as I slid in next to her, close enough that our thighs brushed. Not by accident. I didn’t ask if she minded. She didn’t ask why I chose this side. She just looked at me and raised one brow with that same signature smirk that has made thousands of strangers wonder if they’re next. I leaned in slow—one arm draped along the back of the booth, the other resting on my knee. I didn’t speak for a moment. Just let her feel how quiet I was willing to get to hear her.
“I’ve been watching you,” I said it plain, not like a confession, but a truth too simple to be dressed up.
Her breath caught—not sharply, not defensively. Just a small pause, like she was recalibrating. She thought she knew what kind of dinner this would be. I wasn’t here to fuck her persona. I was here for the woman who charges her toy near the bathroom sink because she forgets. The one who laughs with her whole body in private but offers her moans in pieces to strangers. The one who writes heat not just with her hips, but with her whole goddamn spine.
“You make people think you’re blunt,” I said, lowering my voice, “but your craft is surgical. You write like a woman who learned how to wield softness the hard way. You drop ten-word turn-ons like candy, but the line that made me shift in my chair was the one about hiding a rubber duck in the medicine cabinet. That’s not kink. That’s architecture. That’s knowing how intimacy is built.”
Her hand tightened just slightly on the edge of the table. Not visible to anyone but me. My shoulder still brushed hers. I didn’t move away. I just let my fingers drift, slow and deliberate, to her thigh under the table. Rested there. Warm and still. Letting her feel what it was like to be touched without demand.
“You talk about compliments like they’re currency. But what I want to say isn’t flattery. It’s recognition. You don’t just seduce with your body. You do it with structure. With your editorial voice. The way you set up a rhythm and then break it one sentence early just to make her reader ache. That’s not writing. That’s choreography.”
She didn’t speak, but her lips parted just slightly. She reached for her water. Her fingers missed the glass by half an inch.
“You said,” I went on, “that the most erotic thing your partner ever said was, ‘I can’t look at you right now. If I do, I can’t be responsible for what I might do.’ But Britnee—what kills me is that you wrote that without looking away. You offer your body like bait, sure. But what you really give them is attention. Consistency. You make them feel like someone finally saw them through the fog. That’s why they come back. That’s why I came.”
Her thighs tensed beneath my palm. I let my fingers curl slightly, just enough to shift the fabric of her jeans. I didn’t rub. I didn’t stroke. I just anchored myself there, present. Her body was warming under my hand like I had whispered to her through skin. She still hadn’t pulled away.
“Eye contact turns you on,” I said, leaning close enough to let my breath graze her cheek. “So I need you to understand something. I haven’t stopped looking at you since you walked into my inbox. I see the way you balance filth with reverence. The way you pretend you’re just out here being dirty when really, you're building a cathedral out of every ache you've ever named.”
My thumb moved—barely. Drew a half-circle at the inside of her thigh. The denim was warm. Soft from wear. I didn't move higher. Not yet. I wanted her to sit with it.
“You say you're a clit girl. So I’m not going to grope you under this table. I’m going to make your thighs twitch and your panties stick to you without even unzipping your jeans. You said the best way to get you off is to make you feel seen. So let me give you something to keep you up tonight.”
I leaned in—closer still—until my lips were at her ear. I didn’t kiss. I just spoke.
“You write like a woman who was told once she was too much. And now you write to prove you are. You flirt like a fighter. You confess like a priest. You seduce like someone who knows exactly what to say to make a man lose sleep and still beg for more.”
My hand slid an inch higher now, just under the curve of her thigh where the muscle gave way to the softest part of her. She was already wet. I knew it without needing confirmation. Her breath had shifted. Her pupils had blown. Her knees pressed together not to stop me—but to keep the heat in.
I didn’t break eye contact. Not once.
“You don’t just turn people on, Britnee,” I said, “you haunt them.”
And she would remember this moment every time someone told her she was beautiful but didn’t have the nerve to sit beside her and mean it.
We still hadn’t ordered.
But her panties were soaked through.
And my fingers hadn’t even moved.
My thumb moved again, just slightly higher now, pressing along the inseam, right where the denim pulled tight against the heat blooming beneath it. I felt her breath stall. Not stop—just hold. Like her lungs had forgotten how to exhale while her pulse filled in the silence.
She kept her face forward, eyes fixed on the faux wood tabletop, lashes lowered like she was reading a prayer. Her lips were parted, but she wasn’t speaking anymore. The smirk was gone. What replaced it was softer. Stripped. Her body had gone quiet in that way women do when they’re trying not to come undone in public.
My hand was slow but steady. I wasn’t teasing. I was proving a point. My palm cradled the inside of her thigh now, fingers pressed flush between her legs, not pushing—just there. Present. Warm. Unyielding.
And she was soaked.
I felt it through the jeans. The heat. The damp. The tension of fabric sticking to skin. I let my middle finger press, gently, right where I knew she was pulsing, right through the layers. The shift in her breath was so subtle it would’ve gone unnoticed to anyone else. But I was listening to her body now, not her words.
Her hips tilted—not much, but enough for me to feel the give. She didn’t pull away. She didn’t stop me. She just pressed her thighs together tighter, a silent plea for friction that never came. I gave her pressure. Not movement.
“I want to ruin this meal,” I said low, brushing my lips against the corner of her jaw without kissing it. “I want you to remember every bite you don’t take tonight. I want you to sit across from your laptop tomorrow and try to write through the ache I left behind.”
Her head dipped just slightly, her shoulder brushed mine with weight this time—not by accident, but from the loss of balance that happens when someone’s body is burning so quietly it takes their posture with it.
“I’m not going to finger you under this table,” I said, voice low, like I was letting her in on something sacred. “But I want you dripping through your jeans before I let you stand.”
Her eyes closed for half a second.
Just enough.
My hand stayed pressed. My body stayed close. I looked at her like a man who had earned it—not just the heat, but the silence. The surrender. The tension she carried around like armor, and the parts of herself she never let relax.
She opened her eyes again, slowly. She turned toward me.
And just when I felt the question on her tongue, I pulled my hand away.
Not with cruelty. With timing.
I took my napkin. Laid it gently on the table. Rose from the booth and offered her my hand.
“Let’s go,” I said.
She looked up at me like she might faint if she stood. But she slid out anyway.
She didn’t ask where. She didn’t need to.
The way she followed me told me everything.
And when we reached the car, her hand was already trembling as she reached for the door.
To be continued?
-Holden Caine