Creator's Note
“I won’t make a habit of leaving notes, but since this is the very first story on Thresholds, I thought it deserved one.
When I first thought about writing erotica, I didn’t know where to begin. So I started at the beginning—my own. This story is based on one of my earliest sexual awakenings. Not just an encounter, but the first time I felt what it meant to take control, to be wanted, to leave a mark.
Thresholds will be a collection of stories like this. Some fictional, some drawn from memory. All shaped by the same thing: the power of desire—and who we become when we embrace it.
I didn’t think much of it when I asked Daphne out for drinks. She’d moved in six months ago, and like me, was new to the city—two foreigners trying to find our footing.
I was still adjusting. College, house-sharing with strangers, figuring out who I was in a city that didn’t know me. Friends were scarce.
Daphne was… different. Slightly older. Confident. Effortlessly put-together in a way that made heads turn. But underneath that poise was the same rootlessness I felt in myself.
I knew fragments of her story from group chats, passing comments. She was married, but when her husband moved abroad for work, she didn’t go with him. Instead, she came here. Still together, technically. But no one really understood why she’d ended up in this city, alone.
She never talked about it, and I never asked.
So when I said, hey, wanna grab dinner sometime? I meant it casually. Genuinely. A way to connect and maybe make a friend.
But she blinked at me like I’d just confessed something scandalous.
“Are you asking me out?”
There was something about the way she said it—half amused, half testing. Like she was handing me the moment to do something with.
My first instinct? Laugh it off. Say no, of course not. But the way she was studying me—eyes steady, lips parted just slightly—froze the instinct in my throat.
I could have corrected her.
But, I didn’t.
“Yeah,” I said, surprised by my own voice. “Why not?”
Her smirk was small but sure. Her eyes dipped, just briefly, scanning me top to bottom like she was seeing something new.
“Alright then. What do you have in mind?”
Dinner blurred by in the best way.
We shared dishes we never tried before, fancy wines we couldn’t pronounce. The laughter felt easy. And beneath it all, a low thrum of something more.
Daphne was everything I expected—elegant, composed, magnetic. But tonight, she was letting the curtain slip.
She was flirting.
At first, it was subtle. Safe. Travel stories. House-sharing gripes. But then—
She asked about my type, my dating history, teasing me when I stumbled, pointing out when I blushed. Her smile lingered. Her gaze held. And every time I tried to shift the conversation, she let it hover just long enough to feel dangerous.
Everything about her felt open that night—unfiltered. There was no effort to impress, no performance. I found myself talking more than I expected. About home. About dreams and desire. And so did she.
As the night wore on, the sharp, unreadable power of her gaze softened, turned kinder. And for the first time, I really noticed the colour of her eyes—bright, striking.
When we stepped outside, into the cold, her arm looped through mine like it belonged there.
“I’m having a really good time,” she said. Her voice was low. Smooth. Sincere.
Her hand squeezed my arm, and I felt it everywhere. A flicker of confidence. I stopped wondering.
She wasn’t just humouring me.
She wanted this.
We crept into the house like teens with a secret.
The lights were off, the house silent. No creaks, no whispers—just our breaths and the hush of socks on hardwood.
She led the way, her steps slow and measured, beckoning me to follow. It felt reckless. Exciting.
Something about sneaking upstairs, hiding, turned everything sharper. More charged.
At her door, she turned. I couldn’t read her expression. But I didn’t need to.
“Come in,” she said, low and sure.
Her lips were on mine before I could second-guess the moment.
She tasted like citrus and something richer. Something warm and distinctly her.
At first, I panicked. But I followed instinct—my hands finding her waist, her back, heat blooming through fabric. Her nails scraped through my hair—the sensation new and electrifying, punching straight through my spine.
We tumbled back onto her bed, mouths locked, fingers eager, hips grinding in the most satisfying way. Every breath felt loaded. Every touch, an escalation. We made out like that for what felt like forever, tangled, bodies pressing, pulling, teasing.
Her warmth. Her lips. The wine. The lust. It all blended together—burning, consuming.
I could feel her breath hitch every time I did something right. She moaned when I kissed her neck. Arched when I pressed against her. Whispered my name in a voice I didn’t know she had.
But, underneath all that heat—I was aware. Too aware. Of the others sleeping down the hall, of her marriage, of how new all this was.
My body burned, but my mind started catching up. The rhythm slowed down, and I hesitated—just enough for her to notice.
She pulled back and studied me. Her breathing still shaky from where we’d left off.
“What’s wrong?”
I couldn’t answer. Not really. Not without sounding naive or ruining the mood.
She tilted her head, gaze softening. “Have you had sex before?”
The words hit like cold water. My mouth went dry.
“No.”
She didn’t blink. Didn’t flinch. If anything, she seemed thoughtful.
A smile. Not mocking, but warm, playful. Devious.
“We don’t have to have sex,” she said while reaching for her trousers, unfastening them without breaking eye contact. “Not tonight, at least.”
She pushed her trousers down, her skin catching the light of the bedside lamp, glowing. My eyes locked on her thighs—smooth, golden—then on her black underwear, subtle and bold all at once. It framed everything—her shape, her confidence, her intent. She was so unbelievably hot I almost couldn’t believe I was there—with her, wanted by her. It didn’t feel real.
Her hand reached for mine, guiding it over her underwear. “But I’ll show you,” she murmured. “If you want.”
I nodded. Eager. Breathless. Unsure of what I was agreeing to.
I looked as she intertwined our fingers, sliding them beneath her underwear.
Her grip was firm, her fingers cool, but her skin was radiating.
The sensation shocked me: wet, soft and impossibly inviting, my fingertips slipping through it as she guided the motion. She moved our fingers together—teaching me, coaxing, drawing circles, spreading slickness.
“You’re doing well,” she whispered, voice thicker now.
My chest swelled. I felt seen, wanted.
I followed her lead completely, responding to her body—how she sighed, how she pressed our hands, how her grip tightened when we hit the right spot. Everything in me was locked on her: her sounds, her movement, her pleasure.
Just as we settled in a steady rhythm, she shifted, easing the motion—our fingers slowing.
I looked up at her, unsure, worried I had done something wrong.
“You okay?”
She met my eyes. Took a moment to control her breathing. And then—there it was. That same devilish grin from earlier, soft and wild all at once.
“Yes,” she reassured me.
Her hand adjusted, guiding my middle finger with hers, pressing it down—holding it there long enough for the tension to build. And as it did, I felt her open, her body pulsing in welcome.
We pushed inside as one, our fingers sliding in slowly. Her heat, the give, the wetness wrapping around us. It was intense. A moan broke free—unfiltered, louder than the ones before.
We moved together, her finger steady over mine, showing me how to please her.
“Don’t stop,” she breathed, her voice suddenly thinner. “You’ve got it.”
Gently, she let go, leaving me to continue on my own.
Her hands drifted upward, lifting her shirt—pulling it off entirely, letting it fall beside the bed.
Her body was stretched out in front of me, bare now, not just in skin but in intent. She cupped her breasts, pinched and rolled her nipples between her fingers.
I stared. Stunned. My mind reeled. This woman—untouchable just days ago—had invited me into her bed, peeled herself open. For me. She was so beautiful, so confident, it felt impossible. And yet here she was, using my hand, showing me how she wanted to be touched, letting me explore her.
I couldn’t take my eyes off her—the way her hands moved, the way her nipples rolled under her touch. Suddenly, she reached for me. She grabbed the back of my head, and pulled me in.
“Lick.”
I did—eager, careful—my tongue flicking over the sensitive peak before sucking lightly.
“Yes,” she gasped, pressing me closer. “More.”
I bit down gently, and she rolled her hips against my hand, driving my finger deeper. Her rhythm turned erratic, her breath stuttering.
I was so hard it hurt. My head was buzzing, my body burning, and I just knew—one stroke would have been enough to finish me. I could picture it. But I stayed focused on her. I wanted to do this right.
She seized my wrist. Her voice breaking. “Don’t… stop. Don’t change it. Just… just… like that.”
Something shifted, and in a moment that felt raw and genuine, her confidence slipped. “Please,” she whispered, “Please, finish me.”
I did just as she said. I kept fingering her exactly the way she showed me—steady rhythm, firm pressure—giving her what she needed.
She broke. Shuddering. Gasping.
I felt it in waves—her body jerking against mine, stretching, tensing. She arched high, then collapsed halfway, then surged again.
My fingers stayed inside her, moving with her as she rode every aftershock—like she needed to wring out every last drop.
I was mesmerised—by her body, her sounds, the sheer reality of what we were doing.
Her hand clutched mine tight, stopping me, pulling me back into the moment.
She moaned again, quieter this time, but deeper—spent, trembling, her head moving from side to side. I just held on, watching her unravel.
For a long moment, she lay there. Chest rising and falling. Eyes closed, lips parted. Then she exhaled, a slow, lazy smile curving her mouth.
“Fuck. Fuck. I needed that. It’s been so long.”
I sat there, dazed. My cock straining, aching, but I didn’t say a word.
She stretched, glancing at me like nothing about this needed explaining.
“You learn fast.”
We stayed there a while longer. Talking quietly. Smiling like we’d just shared a secret. Half in a dream, heart racing, fingers still slick.
For a moment, she just looked at me. Then she said, soft, sincere, “Thank you. For that. Tomorrow I’ll take care of you too.”
I smiled.
I wanted her, still. Desperately. But I didn’t try anything. Not because I was scared, but because I was full. Full of something quieter. Something tender. I didn’t want to break the spell.
But eventually, I had to. I sat up slowly, taking in the sight of her one last time—her naked body sprawled across the bed, her hair tousled, eyes meeting mine with a calm. I thanked her softly. For showing me. For trusting me. For letting me learn.
Leaving felt heavier than I expected. But I did.
And even as I slipped back to my room, quietly shutting the door behind me, her warmth was still clinging to my skin.
I was hooked—already looking forward to the next time.