I want excitement

I slip out in the night to find anything.

By the time the train slows into the station, I already know I won’t arrive unchanged.

The journey should have dulled everything — the movement, the time, the ordinary passing of fields and towns — but instead it’s sharpened me. I step down onto the platform with my bag over my shoulder and a strange restlessness humming just under the surface. Not anxiety. Not excitement exactly. Something unresolved.

My friend is waiting outside, smiling, pulling me into conversation the moment she sees me. I answer automatically, laughing in the right places, nodding as we walk. From the outside, I look exactly where I’m meant to be.

Inside, I feel slightly ahead of myself.

At her flat, I drop my things in the spare room and sit on the edge of the bed longer than necessary. The room is unfamiliar — different light, different quiet. The kind of space where thoughts don’t have anywhere to hide. I scroll on my phone without really seeing anything, aware of my own breathing, the way the day has left a charge in me that hasn’t gone anywhere.

I tell myself I’m just tired.
That I should unpack. Wash my face. Rejoin the evening like nothing’s different.

Instead, I undress and get into bed — and immediately know it’s too much. Lying there only makes everything louder, sharper. The stillness presses in. On impulse, I sit up again and swing my legs back over the side. I pull on just my leggings and my T-shirt, the simplest things I can reach, like I’m trying to keep myself grounded while still listening to what I feel.

I don’t overthink it after that.

I slip out of the flat unseen and walk into the night.

The air is cold and sharp, waking me fully. I feel vulnerable and alone, but at the same time reckless. I don’t know where I’m going. I just head down the road without thinking, letting my feet decide for me.

Before I realise it, I find myself standing outside a pub.

It doesn’t look rough, but it doesn’t look welcoming either. Still, I walk in. The low murmur of the place settles around me — glasses clinking softly, a television murmuring somewhere behind the bar, the dull thud of footsteps on worn floorboards. I walk straight up to the bar and order a glass of wine.

It’s pretty empty. A balding old man sits next to me, maybe fifty-ish. In the corner, a family eats quietly, cutlery scraping against plates, the occasional laugh breaking through the background noise.

I drink my first wine in silence. Then I order another. Then another. I’m not drunk, but I can feel it — a warmth spreading, the edges of the room softening slightly.

The old man keeps looking at me, not even bothering to look away when I glance up.

After a while, he gets up to go to the toilet. When he comes back, he asks me to join him. I hesitate for a moment, listening to the hum of the pub, the clink of glasses, my own breath in my ears.

Then I agree.

I follow him to the corner on the opposite side of the room, away from the family. It’s quieter there. A radiator clicks faintly. Somewhere behind us, a glass is rinsed and set down with a dull clink.

He makes small talk for a while. His voice is calm, almost careful. He tells me about his wife and family, the ordinary shape of his life. When he asks about me, I find myself telling him nearly everything. I’m not sure why. The words come easily, spilling into the space between us.

There’s a small silence after that — not awkward, just heavy.

Then he says he’s getting another drink.

When he comes back, he sets a small shot glass down in front of me and waits. I bring it to my lips. I don’t ever do things like this, but I know what I’m doing. And I know what he’s doing too.

It hits me hard, but I still feel okay. Warmer. Looser. He starts asking more personal questions, his voice low, almost casual. And I answer them. All of them.

I tell him nearly everything. Even about the train ride here. Even about what I did afterward. I don’t know why I say it out loud. The words feel unreal once they leave my mouth.

He smiles as I speak. Almost laughs — not unkindly, but like he’s heard something that confirms what he already suspected.

When I finish, there’s a pause.

Then he tells me to come closer.

I hesitate for just a second, then shuffle along the bench toward him. The wood creaks softly under my weight. My heart is pounding hard enough that I can hear it in my ears.

He says I’m desperate to be sitting there with him.

I nod, my throat suddenly dry.

He shakes his head slightly.

“Say it, Amelia.”

“I’m desperate,” I say quietly.

The words land heavier than I expect. He doesn’t touch me. He doesn’t move closer.

He just watches me.

Then he adjusts himself deliberately, making his intent unmistakable, and looks at me with a question he doesn’t fully need to ask.

The noise of the pub fades and swells around us, but in that corner, everything feels suspended — balanced on what I choose to do next.

He undid his jeans and slipped himself out as calmly as anything. His cock stood hard.
“Ask me to touch it, Amelia,” he said.

“Please let me touch it,” I said.

He nodded. I slowly reached out, liking the shift. It was warm and soft, and it sent excitement through me like nothing before. I could feel my own arousal through my leggings as I stroked him up and down.

“Suck it,” he said.

I hesitated and looked around. He just said, “Now.”

I leaned down and parted my lips, slipping him into my mouth. I started sucking slowly. He told me to look at him, and when I did, his phone was pointing at me.

“Smile, Amelia,” he said.

I continued to suck him.

I could feel him pulsing in my mouth. He pulled my ponytail up so I rose from his lap.

“That’s a married cock you had in your mouth,” he said. “Slut.”

It rushed through me instantly. I nearly came then — but I didn’t want to yet.

“How long have you been a slut like this, Amelia?” he asked.

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t talk.

He smiled at me. “Give me your phone number.”

I hesitated.

“Good girl,” he said.

“Are you wet?”

“Yes,” I answered.

“Show me.”

“How?” I asked.

“Slide your leggings down. I could already see at the bar you have no knickers on.”

I looked around before sliding my leggings down to my knees. He slid his hand straight up my thigh.

“Shh,” he said. “Pull them up and follow me.”

My hands are still shaking as I pull my leggings back into place. The pub feels too loud now, too close. I’m suddenly aware of my breathing, the heat in my face, the way my heart won’t slow down.

He stands first, calm again, like nothing unusual has happened. He doesn’t rush me or look back straight away. That somehow makes it harder — like the choice is entirely mine.

I follow him.

Crossing the pub feels exposed. Every sound seems sharper — laughter near the bar, the scrape of a chair, glasses touching wood. I keep my eyes forward, aware that anyone could look at me and see nothing at all.

Outside, the night air hits me hard. Cold. Sobering. The pub door closes behind us with a dull thud that feels final.

He doesn’t touch me. He just starts walking.

We leave the lights behind quickly. The streets thin out, the sound of traffic fading until it’s just our footsteps and the quiet between them. I stay half a step behind him, my thoughts racing — part of me wanting to turn back, part of me afraid he might stop and look at me again.

The pavement gives way to a narrow path, then open ground. The grass is dark and slightly damp under my feet. Ahead, a small clearing opens up, bordered on one side by a low line of trees. Beyond that, a small wood presses in quietly, branches tangled together, black against the sky.

He slows as we reach it.

The air feels different here — cooler, still. I can hear my own breathing now, loud in my ears, and the faint rustle of leaves shifting somewhere in the trees. I’m aware of how open the clearing is, and at the same time how hidden it feels, tucked away from the road and the lights we’ve left behind.

He stops a few steps into the grass.

I stop too.

The silence stretches. No voices. No instructions. Just the space between us and the awareness of how far I’ve come without being asked twice.

I don’t know what will happen next.

He walks toward me as I hesitate, then leads me into the wooded area. He lights up his phone and shines it at me. I’m shaking from the cold and from being so nervous. I can’t see him anymore — just the light from the phone.

“Undress.”

I pause before pulling my T-shirt over my head. I hug myself, suddenly aware of how exposed I feel.

“The rest,” he says.

I remove my bra, then bend down and slip off my trainers. The ground is cold and wet beneath my feet. Then I pull down my leggings and step out of them.

“Such a nice, slim body.”

“Pass me all your clothes.”

I don’t know why I’m so willing to do whatever he says. I bunch everything together and hand it to him.

“You’ll do anything, won’t you?”

I nod.

He closes the gap and starts sliding his finger up and down my pussy.

“Fuck my fingers, slut.”

I push my hips forward and tilt my head back, losing myself in the bizarre surroundings.

“Knees,” he orders.

I almost fall trying to obey him. Before I can even compose myself, his hand is at the back of my head, a fistful of hair pulling me onto him. He starts moving slowly at first, then quickens the pace. I’m gasping and spluttering for breath when he suddenly stops, liquid running down my chin as he pulls away.

I gasp for air.

He looks down at me — it’s hard to tell with the light.

“Lick my balls.”

I do as he says. It’s something I’ve never done before.

“Lower,” he demands.

I lower myself slightly, still licking.

“Lower.”

Now I’m just under the base of him.

“You’re filthy, Amelia.”

“Go lower.”

I don’t understand at first.

Then he pulls me in further. His weight rests against my face.

I stop.

I understand now.

“Lick, Amelia.”

I still don’t, but slowly I start. I can hear him laughing, and the thrill of it is unbearable. I feel so dirty.

I only do it for a few seconds. Then he pulls my head away.

“Turn around and touch your toes.”

I do as he says, knowing how vulnerable I feel, but I can’t bear not knowing what he’s about to do. I feel his closeness behind me, then feel him slowly pushing into me. I feel myself melt around him and push back. He grunts his approval.

Then he starts moving, not for my enjoyment but his own, and it drives me wild. He doesn’t last long. I can feel when he’s ready. I should have pushed away, but I don’t. I let him empty himself into me.

“Stay like that,” he says. “Stay perfectly still.”

He grabs my arm and pulls it up until he reaches my hand, then cups it over my pussy.

“Hold my cum inside you.”

I nod. Then he pulls out. I do as he says, feeling everything trying to push past my fingers.

“Hold it in. Get to your knees.”

I do, and he brings himself next to my face.

“Clean me up, Amelia.”

I just do it. I start by putting him in my mouth. I can taste myself, then I lick all around.

He steps back. “Stay there.”

I stay kneeling, one hand covering myself. He shines the light on me and tells me to say it.

“I let a stranger breed me.”

I hesitate, then do it.

“I let a stranger breed me.”

“Now show me, Amelia.”

I remove my hand and everything starts flowing out of me.

He grabs my hand and brings it to my face, the light still shining on me. I wipe it over my face.

“Now play with yourself.”

This time I don’t pause. I drop my hand and touch myself, rubbing hard until I lose control.

When I’m done, the light is still shining. He hands me my shoes and my T-shirt, then throws my leggings into the trees.

“Off you go, girl.”

I stare at him, bewildered.

“Go on,” he says. “I’ll have fun watching you.”

The moment I step away from the clearing, the reality of it hits me all at once.

The air feels too cold. Too open. Every step sends a sharp awareness through me, the night brushing against skin that suddenly feels unprotected. I keep my arms tight to my body, not just from the chill but from the instinct to cover myself, to make myself smaller.

I walk quickly at first. Then faster.

The path feels longer on the way back, darker, less certain. The grass clings to my feet, damp and unforgiving, and I have to watch every step to keep from slipping. My breathing turns shallow, uneven, my heart racing now not with thrill but with fear — the sudden, awful clarity of how far from safety I really am.

Every sound makes me flinch.

A branch snapping somewhere behind me.
The distant rush of a car.
A burst of laughter far off that feels impossibly loud.

I duck into the shadow of a hedge when headlights sweep across the road ahead, pressing myself still, barely breathing until they pass. My skin prickles, my pulse thudding so hard I’m sure it must be audible.

What was I thinking?

The question circles my mind, relentless, but it doesn’t come with answers — only urgency. I need to get back. I need walls. Doors. Light. Familiar space.

The pavement finally appears under my feet, rough and cold, grounding me even as it scrapes and reminds me how exposed I still am. Streetlights feel too bright now, unforgiving in their clarity. I keep my head down, moving fast, praying no one looks too closely.

My hands shake as I reach the flat.

The door feels too loud when it opens. Too final when it closes behind me.

Inside, the silence is overwhelming.

I lean back against the door for a moment, chest heaving, legs weak, letting the safety of four walls wash over me. Only then do I realise how tightly I’ve been holding myself together — how close I was to breaking apart somewhere out there in the dark.

The spare room feels like a refuge.

I sit on the edge of the bed, arms wrapped around myself, skin still buzzing with cold and adrenaline. My thoughts come in waves now — flashes of the night, of the choices I made, of how easily everything could have gone wrong.

I don’t cry.

But I come close.

When I finally lie down, pulling the covers tight around me, it’s not sleep I want — it’s distance. From the night. From the clearing. From the version of myself who walked into the dark without looking back.

Morning will come. It always does.

But right now, all I can do is breathe — and feel the echo of how exposed I was, and how badly I needed to get home.