My man has been encouraging me to go solo for a while now and I finally did it. I went away for a work do and slept with a stranger.
It’s really important for me to explain how it came about that I welcomed him into my hostel room, so you understand why the encounter – which I will publish in Part 2 – happened, and what it was about it that made it so very hot for me.
Going Solo with a Stranger: Part 1.
On Social Anxiety and Eye-Contact
I was at a work function on Friday, in a city a couple of hundred miles away. I spent the night in a hostel, which happened to be in the red-light district of this particular city, although that’s not relevant to this story, just amused me.
I received a message from my German guy that evening:
“Enjoy your time. Really proud of you for going.
And use protection… ;-)”
I want to explain why he was proud of me. It may not always come across in my writing, but I have social anxiety. It’s compounded when I have to socialise with colleagues, because I have no idea how to slot myself into the social hierarchy. I struggle socially with groups of friends too, I’m really best on a one-to-one basis, unless I know the friend group really well.
You, dear reader, know already from my writing, that when I get nervous, I need instructions, I need to be told what to do, I need commands to calm me down. Concentrating on breathing helps too.
You also know that I very much enjoy being told what to do, how to behave, or to just be tied up and used. In fact it goes way beyond enjoyment, it turns me on, makes me hot and wet, and, this is the really important bit, it soothes me. If you want me at my very best, my most sluttish and completely in my element, give me instructions, take choice away from me, or indicate what you want from me. Then I know what I should be doing and I can just relax and be content in the moment. Then I can do group business.
I need to feel, really feel submissive to feel my hottest.
I see you. I know what you need.
Friday night, I was sitting in a crowded room. The company I work for had hired the venue exclusively. There were just eighteen of us, all in one room.
This particular venue is run by two very good chefs. The group cooks a meal together with them. Some worked on the starter, others the main and others including me, the dessert. So yeah, that part was fine. I was given instructions, a plan to follow, and when I had nothing else to do, I did a bit of washing up.
The trouble started when I had to sit down with a glass of wine and actually talk to my colleagues. I’d already laid claim to a corner at the back of the room. It was right at that point that I got his text, couldn’t help grinning. And of course it kicked me up into state of horniness, which I wasn’t wholly comfortable with, but at the same time, loved.
There was the awkwardness of having to make conversation with people I don’t think of as friends. I have no idea how to make small-talk. Just remembering how it was that evening tires me out.
I think I must have looked pretty uncomfortable, because one of the two chefs came up to me, said:
“You look like you need something, tell me what it is you need.”
I told him I was fine, really.
We ate, we drank, we ate some more and drank even more. And I attempted small-talk.
It came time to serve the dessert and I got up to help plate it together with my co-creaters under that chef who had spoken to me. He helped each person in turn with their part of the plating, first the sauce, then the fruity stuff, and finally the part I had worked on. He stood next to me, showed me what to do, then watched with hawk-eyes until I was done. Offered me a nod of approval. I handed out the plates, breathed a sigh of relief and sat down again in my corner.
A bit later, looking around I caught his eye. He was smiling at me from across the room, an open, friendly smile. My eyes slid over him, did one of those double-takes you see in the movies. The wine inside me curved my lips into a smile back at him. The sub inside me, who was very much awake after receiving his text, broke contact in the classic way. I looked down into my lap. I ate a bit more, risked a glance up at him, he was still staring at me, a fist before his chin (yeah I know that sounds funny, but he did have a fist before his chin), looking at me like I was a problem that needed solving. (And yeah, and I know that sounds funny too, but I can’t think of a better way to describe how he was looking at me.)
Eye-contact is a really powerful thing for me. You probably realised, it comes up in my blogs again and again. I understand it best when I’m in sub-mode.
We continued to make eye-contact, sometimes we even exchanged a smile, until it was time to go. I wondered about this, wondered if he was flirting with me, or just concerned about me. I found that I was seeking out these meetings with his eyes and his smile. The encounters were grounding me, and I needed them. And yeah, I enjoyed them too, they made me feel noticed, real.
I put my coat on, moved over to him to say good-bye. Looking me in the eye, he very quietly said:
“I see you. I know what you need.”
This statement completely threw me, destroyed the equilibrium that our eye-contact had imparted to me.
He slipped a piece of paper into my hand, smiled down at me again.
“Thank you,” I said, a stupid thing to say all things considered, but that’s what came out of my mouth.
I walked back to the hostel with the others.
In my room, I slipped out of my wet winter coat and hung it, took the paper out of the coat pocket. Unfolded it carefully and spread it out on the bedside table. His full name, a telephone number. I smoothed it out, stared at it, my heart in my mouth.
I got my phone out of the pocket of my coat, called him, my German. Told him about the chef, the eye-contact, how it made me feel.
“Trust your instinct, love,” he said.
So I did. I texted him, told him which hostel, which room and how to find it, my first name. It was just before midnight, and I settled down to wait, but I couldn’t calm myself. There was music blaring in a nightclub nearby, the base disturbing my equilibrium, reverberating in my chest. I texted with a friend.
Just after midnight I got a reply. “Be there in 30 minutes.”
This was my first time since meeting my German lover that I was going solo. My excitement levels shot off like a rocket and I got that nervous butterfly feeling in my stomach; full on fight-or-flight mode. I paced around the room. Went into the bathroom; cleaned my teeth, washed my hands. My phone pinged again, my friend texting. I grabbed this chance to normalise with both hands and tapped back a message, my fingers shaking. Became aware my nerves were alight in every part of my body.
Have you ever waited for something in a state of high, nervous, disbelieving excitement? It was a relief when I finally heard the quiet knock at my hostel room door, though I jumped. I opened it, let him in.
“What’s your safe-word?” was the first thing he said to me, looking down at me while shrugging off his coat, and it was exactly the right thing to say. I don’t think he could have greeted me in any way that would have put me more at ease. I told him.
The next thing he said was:
“You can trust me, I see you.”
He also said my name.
Using a person’s name like that is incredibly powerful. Like a drug, it mesmerised me into a state of sublime … well what? The closest description I can give you is a mixture of gratitude and relief.
We were still looking each other in the eye; I felt as though I’d overstepped a mark, as though I was rudely staring at him. I cast my gaze down to his feet.
“Look at me,” he said. “Keep your eyes on mine until I tell you otherwise.”
I looked up into his eyes again. He unbuttoned his shirt, slipped it down his arms.
“You may address me as Sir if you want to, but it’s not necessary. What shall I call you?”
I hadn’t negotiated for myself before, this was new. I also hadn’t used honorifics before. It always struck me as strange. But hell, I’ll try almost anything.
“Good girl, or slut, Sir.” It felt strange rolling off my tongue. But it suited the whole oddness of this encounter, I decided to embrace it.
His shirt was off now. His body skinny, muscles svelte, yet wiry.
He opened his belt, pulled his trousers off.
“I have condoms.”
I watched him take his shorts off, his cock a hard statement, stealing my gaze.
“Eyes up, Slut.”
Blushing, thrilling, I looked into his eyes again. He stood fully naked before me, solid and powerful. I had a side thought how strange it was. It’s normally me who has a clothing disadvantage.
He looked at me a long moment, considering me, and then…
Then he took a step closer to me, put the fingers of his right hand against my jaw, his thumb stroked a delicate line over my cheek.
“You don’t need to talk,” used my name again here. “If you need a break, tap me twice. Do you understand?”
Involuntarily my eyes moved away from his accurate perception of me, from the rush of my emotion, the moment of shared intimacy. Breathing to calm. In that moment, I committed myself to his dominance.
“Eyes,” a gentle reminder. I looked up at him again.
“Yes, Sir. I understand.”
“Eyes down, undress.”
I did so, pulled my dress over my head, took off my jumper, tights and my underwear. I stood naked before him, eyes down-cast.
To be continued …