It didn’t start with fireworks, more with me staring at my phone and wondering if I’d lost my mind. He’d asked before, casually, if I’d ever thought about being more Adventurous. I’d laughed, brushed it off. But the thought stuck. Like a splinter.
By the time we met at the Notting Hill hotel bar, I’d convinced myself I wasn’t going through with it. Just another drink, another night. He smiled, that patient sort of smile that makes you feel both safe and exposed. “What’s on your mind?” he asked, and I nearly lied. Nearly. Instead, I whispered it, eyes on the glass in my hand.
He didn’t flinch. No jokes, no pressure. Just a nod, slow, steady. Strange how much braver that made me feel.
Upstairs, the silence felt different. Not heavy exactly, but charged. I noticed things I usually ignore—the way his shirt hung awkwardly from one arm, the faint taste of wine still clinging to his lips, the way my own pulse was too loud in my ears. I kept thinking, stop overthinking, but I couldn’t.
And yet, when I leaned into him, the panic softened. His patience was a kind of anchor. I realised then that a fulfilling sex life isn’t built on what you’ve ticked off, or how bold you look on paper. It’s built on those moments where someone waits for you, lets you choose the pace.
I won’t dress it up—there were clumsy parts, flashes of doubt. But afterwards, lying there, I felt lighter. Like I’d finally stepped across a line I’d been circling for too long. Not conquered, not transformed… just a little freer.
If you want to see the other side of me, the part that craved not gentleness but power, have a look at The Independent Escort Who Craved Power.