Sweet Soumise is an adventurous young woman living in Paris. She wrote in asking for a monthly dare, and here’s her response to her most recent experiment from Mr. X.
Dear Mr. X,
Your latest dare has proven to be quite the challenge! Throughout the holidays I’ve been constantly surrounded by people, none of whom I was about to get naughty in front of. And of course, I had to be careful about how public the place was: while I enjoy your dares very much, I don’t want to get arrested over them! But after a recent stroll in the Jardin du Luxembourg, I was walking through the 6th arrondissement when a slow, sultry feeling washed over me. I’ve noticed since taking up your dares that I am generally more open, both physically and otherwise. Others have picked up on this, too. There are more held glances, as well as more salacious thoughts, and more experiences I never thought I’d have. But I’m getting ahead of myself…
During my walk, I decided to stop for a coffee so I could consider my options. The name of the café, interestingly, was Babylone, a name that in my mind immediately conjures up sexuality: Ancient Babylonian art is all graphic depictions of sex, with lots of images of men entering women from behind. (This makes me wonder, Mr. X, are you an aficionado of Babylonian art?) I sat down, ordered an espresso, and let my mind wander.
My husband and I have had talks over the years about opening up our relationship, but until my experience with the photographer (as I wrote about in my response to the first dare), things had never progressed beyond talking. Now, a few months later, I have experimented with more than just the photographer. I am currently seeing someone, and thank goodness for that, as I don’t think one person alone could keep up with my level of sexuality these days! What have you done to me, Mr. X? And what a shame I can’t meet you so you could dare me in person…
In the café, I began thinking of the man I’m seeing and the words he writes to me. We message back and forth, and I like to see how he phrases things in English. I took out my phone and scrolled through our texts. “I love touching you…with my words, my hand, my lips.…” My back to the rest of the café, I tilted my flushed face towards the window as my breath quickened. “I want you to feel loved and desired….” I uncrossed my legs, then crossed them again, shifting in my seat. “I want to be inside you, to feel you from the inside, I want you to feel my desire….” I finished my coffee and took a last sip of water, then slipped my phone back in my bag. I stood up to pay, stealing a quick glance down at the chair. No sign of my own desire, which felt like an intense heat emanating from my body.
“Les toilettes sont où?” I asked the man behind the counter.
“En bas, la première à gauche,” he said, giving me my change.
“Merci,” I smiled, and walked to the stairs behind him. I wasn’t going to touch myself in the middle of the café, but I surprised myself: Apparently venturing downstairs to do it wasn’t a problem.
Once all the way down, I was surrounded by orange and brown graphics, and I laughed to myself at my sudden time travel to the 1970s. I didn’t mind, though—what mattered was that no one else was down there. I entered a stall and shut the door. I decided not to lock it, instead leaning against it to hold it closed. I could feel how wet I was, and I focused on my lover’s words. I closed my eyes and imagined his hands on me, his large hands sliding all the way from my hair to my hips as he held me close. He’s tall and I’m quite short, and I love the feeling of his large body enveloping my small one. Those moments make up for a lifetime of not being able to reach anything above my 5-foot-tall grasp.
I let my mind go over our past conversations… “Next time I’ll be naked in your arms, kissing and touching you everywhere…feeling your lips, your body under my hands…I want you to feel beautiful, desired….” No one else speaks to me like this. No one else writes to me like this. In the privacy of the stall, I ran my hand down the length of my body, pretending it was his. I hesitated at the top of my underwear, then slipped my hand inside. I walked my fingers slowly down and already I was writhing in anticipation. My breath came in jagged bursts as I began to pulse in the direction of my fingertips as they pressed down. I kept them just at the top, as this is where I have the most sensation. When he touches me here, I jump.
I pressed down harder, rubbing myself more and more vigorously. The sound of my gasp made me open my eyes, afraid that someone might come down the stairs and hear me. However, I was still alone. I could hear the distant sound of coffee cups clinking against each other upstairs. I closed my eyes quickly, not wanting to distract myself from my mission. I gently massaged my outer lips, and I felt a new surge of wetness seep out of me, soaking my underwear. I went back to my clit, and felt the familiar internal rhythm begin to rise within me.
As I gasped again, desperately trying not to moan audibly, my mind raced for a new memory to latch onto, and of course, considering my soaring libido lately, I immediately found one: earlier that morning I’d been lying in bed, being lazy and, of course, texting. I started teasing him, telling him what I felt like doing without really saying it. Then he started to encourage me:
Do it sweetheart, think of me…
Think of my fingers, my tongue and my sex in you…
I want to feel you, to be inside you…
I had watched each message appear on my phone as it lay on the bed beside me. One hand was rubbing furiously, the other tapping my phone every so often so the screen wouldn’t dim. As each sentence came through, I pushed against my hand harder and harder, tensing every muscle in my body. I only paused long enough to hastily type out one word: “…almost….” I needed one more push. And then he sent it:
Come for us.
The idea that this was something I was doing not just for me, but for both of us, was touching. And exciting. And it made me come. A hard, thrusting, violent come, one that had me clenching my ass and arching my back. And in the bathroom stall at the bottom of the café Babylone, I relived all of this. I remembered the excitement of reading each new text as my fingers stroked, teased, and rubbed. And then I came. Quietly this time, not like before when he was sending me messages of encouragement. But enjoyable, in its own secretive little way.
I breathed out, and a small, soft sound escaped with the sigh. I withdrew my hand from where it had been hidden. My fingertips were wet, and I caught the scent of myself. As my eyes focused on where I was, I let out a small laugh: Such a bizarre thing to do on a late Thursday afternoon at the end of the year. I could hear the coffee cups clinking above me, women’s voices rising and falling as the men’s voices kept up a low, staccato pace. I paused for another second, maybe two, and then pushed open the door. Empty. No one had come downstairs the entire time.
I washed my hands, looking in the mirror at my own bemused expression. I don’t even recognize myself anymore; who does these things? Am I polyamorous? Non-monogamous? A late bloomer making up for lost time? I didn’t have answers to these questions then, and I don’t have them now. I do know that going out on my little missions is its own thrill, and then coming home to write you all about them is another. You’ve helped me be more daring, Mr. X, and for that I send you a sincere and seductive thank you. And, dare I say it, possibly a few other people in this city thank you as well.
Need to catch up? Read the Sex Experiment from the beginning: Table of Contents