When I Finally Let Myself Play Without Limits

This is not the kind of story one writes off the bat. It took me weeks to decide to tell it, and I’m still not entirely sure I’m doing it right. But there’s something freeing about putting into words what embarrasses and excites you at the same time, so here I am.

Before I go on, I want to be direct: what I’m going to describe is an scatological experience. If that’s not your thing, I don’t blame you. Close the page and find something you like better. But if there’s a part of you that’s curious, if you’ve ever wondered what lies on the other side of taboo, keep reading.

I’m thirty-three, I’ve lived alone for four years, and for almost a year now I’ve been exchanging messages with someone I met on an erotic reading forum. We’ve never met in person. I don’t know their real name. But that person has told me things no one else had ever dared to say to me, asked me questions no one had ever asked, and little by little pushed the boundary of what I thought I was capable of wanting.

—What if you really did it? —they wrote to me one night, after I told them a fantasy I’d kept to myself for years.

What if I really did it?

I didn’t answer that night. Nor the next. But the question settled somewhere between my stomach and my cunt, and it wouldn’t leave me alone. More than once that week I found myself with my hand between my legs while I reread the message, rubbing my clit until I came thinking about what he —or she, I never knew— would ask me to do next.

It was a Wednesday, a little over two weeks ago. I got home after work, ate very little and very light, and sat on the sofa pretending to watch television while in reality I was only thinking about that. About whether I’d dare. About what it would mean if I did it. About what it said about me that I wanted it so badly and had wanted it for so long.

And then I got tired of thinking.

I got up, turned off the living room lights, and went to the bedroom. I sat on the edge of the bed and breathed slowly. It was raining outside. The apartment was silent, apart from the sound of water against the window and the soft hum of the fridge from the kitchen.

I started to undress slowly. Not with the automatic haste of every night. I did it with intention, noticing every detail: the texture of the fabric sliding off my shoulders, the cold air on my naked back, the weight of the clothes falling to the floor. I stood for a moment in front of the mirror on the wardrobe door.

I looked at myself. Really looked at myself.

The broad hips, the belly that isn’t flat but that I no longer argue with, the dark mole above my navel. The heavy tits, with my nipples already hard and erect just from anticipating what was coming. The cunt with the hair trimmed short, shining a little from the wetness already gathered between my lips. My hands started moving on their own. Over my sides, over my belly, over my tits. I pinched my nipples until I felt them throbbing, pulled them until I let out a gasp. I lowered one hand to my cunt, spread my lips with two fingers, and stroked my slit from top to bottom, feeling how soaked I was. I slid my middle finger inside, up to the knuckle, and pulled it out shining with my own juices. I brought it to my mouth and sucked it slowly, staring into my own eyes in the mirror.

I closed my eyes and let the image take shape in my head: they weren’t my hands, they were the hands of someone who knew me by heart and knew exactly what to do with every inch of me. I imagined a hard cock pressed against my ass, a pair of big hands grabbing my tits from behind, a rough voice in my ear telling me I was a filthy slut, that I was going to do whatever he asked of me.

By the time I opened my eyes, I was already pretty turned on. My thighs were wet and my cunt was pulsing.

I went to the bathroom.

The bathroom in my apartment is small, with white tiled floors that are always cold. I locked the door even though I was alone, out of habit or ritual, I don’t know which. I left only the mirror light on, which gives off a warm orange glow very different from the cold fluorescent light on the ceiling.

I knelt on the floor. The cold tiles against my knees were a constant reminder of where I was and what I was about to do.

I put a plastic bowl beneath me and squatted over it. I’d been holding my pee for a while, quite a bit longer than I would have in other circumstances. When I let go, the sound of liquid hitting plastic echoed in the bathroom’s silence. I slipped two fingers into my cunt while I kept pissing, and felt the stream change direction as it hit my hand.

That sound, that surrender, made me even hotter. I rubbed my wet palm over my clit and let out a stupid little moan all by myself.

I waited a moment before continuing. I breathed. I looked at the dark yellow liquid in the bowl. I’d drunk very little water that day on purpose, so it would be more concentrated, stronger. I had a large syringe ready, the kind used to clean wounds, which I’d kept tucked away in the bottom drawer for weeks.

It was the fantasy that had lived longest in my head: to be fucked in the ass after pissing inside it, to have a warm piss enema done on me and then be ridden. Since I’d never done it with another person, I would do it alone. As with so many other things in my life.

I filled the syringe slowly. I got down on all fours, forehead resting on the cold floor, ass raised and legs spread. I sucked my middle finger and slipped it into my ass hole to relax it, pushing in with small circles until I felt it give. I inserted the tip of the syringe carefully. It didn’t hurt. I’d practiced enough over the last few months that my body no longer resisted small things. I pushed the plunger very slowly, centimeter by centimeter.

The sensation was exactly as I had imagined: warmth spreading through my ass, a strange pressure that wasn’t exactly pain but wasn’t neutral either. I was aware of every millimeter of liquid going in, of its warm temperature, of the way it filled my guts. I closed my eyes and stayed still, not wanting it to go too quickly. With my free hand I touched my clit, barely brushing it, and felt my cunt contract in response, clenching around the emptiness. I pushed two fingers into my pussy while I held the pee back in the back, and through the thin wall of flesh I felt the liquid filling my ass. The sensation of being stuffed through both holes at once made me let out a long moan against the tiles.

When I couldn’t hold it anymore, I pushed. The liquid came out hard, with something more than just liquid, streaming down my thighs and splashing into the bowl I’d put underneath. I stayed in that position for a moment, head down, breathing hard, my asshole open and throbbing after being emptied.

There was a part of me —the part that sometimes tries to convince me I’m a completely normal person— that told me to stop there. That I’d already tried enough. That I was crossing a line I shouldn’t cross.

But another part, the one that had spent months building toward this moment, had no intention of stopping. My cunt was soaked, my clit swollen, and the urge to have something thick fuck my ass was too strong to stop there.

I reached for the dildo I’d left ready on the floor, on a folded towel. It’s medium-sized, neither the smallest I own nor the largest. A black silicone cock, thick, with prominent veins and heavy balls at the base. I spat on it and rubbed it with my hand to spread the saliva. I ran it over my lips and sucked it like it was real, taking it in until the tip touched my throat and made me tear up. I pulled it out with a string of spit hanging from it and brought it to my ass.

I slid it in slowly, carefully, feeling every centimeter. The head pushed its way in first, that moment of resistance that is always the most intense, and then the rest went in with a slow thrust. There was a different kind of lubrication than usual, organic and raw, dirty and yet enough, and that was part of the experience: what in other circumstances would be an obstacle here was part of the game. I took the silicone cock all the way to the base and stayed like that for a moment, ass filled to the brim and the fake balls pressed against my soaked cunt.

It was strange. It was intense. It was exactly what I wanted.

I started moving it, first slowly, then with more rhythm. I pulled it almost all the way out and shoved it back in with a sharp thrust. Every movement had a texture different from what I knew, slipperier, deeper. I heard myself breathing. I heard myself making sounds I don’t normally make: guttural moans, grunts when the cock reached the bottom, a whispered “yes, fuck” against the floor that I didn’t even know I’d said until I heard it. I fucked my ass with one hand and with the other rubbed my clit in fast circles, and with every thrust I felt the dildo pressing from inside against the wall of my cunt, giving me a double sensation.

The mind sometimes tries to insert itself with its judgments —this is wrong, this is too much, stop— but if you ignore it long enough, it learns to shut up.

I let it slide out on its own and shoved it back in. Once. Again. Four, five, ten times, each time faster, until my ass cheeks started slapping against my heels with a wet sound. The floor beneath me was dirty, and that dirt was part of what I felt, what excited me. I dragged my fingers across the outside of my ass, smearing them. I lifted them to eye level. I looked at them. Then I brought them to my mouth and sucked them without thinking, with the dildo still buried all the way inside me. The taste was sharp and salty and made me moan louder.

At that moment there was no thought. Only sensation. Only a body impaled, sweating, panting, willing to do anything.

I wanted more. I always want more when I reach a certain point: it’s as if the body’s threshold moves forward and what once seemed enough is no longer enough.

I pulled the dildo out of my ass with a wet pop and set it aside, shiny and filthy on the towel. I started with my fingers. First one, then two, sliding into the already open, hungry hole. I know myself well, I know how to relax, I know how to breathe so it doesn’t hurt. Three fingers. With my other hand I buried two more in my cunt, and I fucked both holes at once, feeling the fingertips meet through the thin inner membrane. The stretch from three to four is always harder for me: there’s a resistance there that never fully disappears with time or practice. I took a deep breath. Exhaled very slowly. Four fingers.

I felt my asshole stretch to its limit around my knuckles. I stayed still with all four fingers sunk to the palm, letting my ass get used to it, letting the sting become heat and the heat become pleasure. I touched my clit with the thumb of my other hand, without taking two fingers out of my cunt, and realized I was about to come from that alone.

The pain was real. I’m not going to romanticize it or make it more poetic than it was. But the way that pain mixed with everything else until it became something different was also real: it was no longer just pain, it was absolute physical presence. I was aware of every muscle, every limit, exactly how far I could take my body.

The fifth finger was the hardest. I tried twice before I managed it. I gathered the fingertips of all five fingers into a cone, pushed, felt the ring of my ass resist, give a little, tighten again. I added more spit, breathed deeply, and on the third try my hand slipped in past the knuckles.

When I finally did it, I stayed absolutely still. With my whole hand inside my ass, my fist barely clenched within me, feeling the asshole tighten and loosen in waves around my wrist.

I don’t know how long I stayed like that. Time does strange things in those moments. It could have been a minute or ten. I could only hear my own ragged breathing and the rain outside and the distant hum of the fridge. With my free hand I touched my cunt slowly, two fingers circling my clit in tight little motions, feeling the pressure of the fist inside my ass pushing the flesh of my cunt from the other side. Every heartbeat I felt in the walls of my rectum against my fingers.

I did it, I thought. I really did it.

I started moving my hand inside, very little, barely half a centimeter back and forth, a tiny fist striking from within. And with the other hand I fucked my cunt with three fingers while rubbing my clit with my palm. Both holes working at once. My ass filled with my own hand up to the wrist, my cunt soaked and contracting, my clit swollen until it hurt.

The orgasm came without my actively chasing it, like a wave you can see coming from far away and that is already inevitable once it reaches a certain distance. It wasn’t the kind of orgasm you hunt for. It was the kind that happens to you when you’ve been held at the edge long enough. It shook me through and through. I felt my ass clench hard around my wrist, my cunt contracting in spasms around my fingers, a hot gush coming out the front and soaking my forearm. I came screaming against the tiles, forehead pressed to the floor, without stopping the movement of my hand, drawing out the orgasm until I couldn’t take any more and was left trembling, with my hand still inside and my cunt throbbing.

It took me a good while to collect myself. I pulled my hand out slowly, carefully, and felt my asshole remain open for a moment before beginning to close again. I sat on the bathroom floor, back against the cold wall and knees drawn up to my chest, breathing until my pulse returned to something close to normal.

The bathroom was a mess. I was a mess.

I got up slowly. The body doesn’t move the same after certain things: there’s a particular numbness in the ass, the feeling of having used muscles that under normal circumstances practically don’t exist for you. I cleaned everything carefully and without haste. I folded the towels. Put the things away. Turned on the shower and waited for the water to heat up before stepping in.

Under the water I stayed still for a long while, head bowed and eyes closed. I felt the heat on my shoulders and back. I ran my fingers over my cunt and ass slowly, checking what was left. I also felt the soft ache that always remains after taking the body to a certain point: it wasn’t pain exactly, more the physical memory of what had happened. The body remembering the silicone cock, the five fingers, the fist.

I did not regret it. I want to say that too, because often the narrative around these things assumes there must be regret at the end, or shame or guilt to redeem the story. That night none of that happened.

I only felt that I had given myself permission for something I had wanted for a long time, and that the result had been exactly what I expected.

I wrote to them the next day. Just four words: I did it. It was good.

It took them a few hours to answer. When they did, they wrote: I knew you would. Tell me everything.

I smiled without meaning to at the phone screen, sitting on the sofa with my morning coffee still hot. And I told them. Everything. In detail. With the raw words. With the smell and the taste and the sting of the fifth finger and the hot gush that came out when I came. That person already knew enough about me to understand what those first four words meant, but they deserved the whole story, and I deserved to tell it.

There are fantasies that lose their power the moment they’re realized. This wasn’t one of them. I did it and I enjoyed it, and now it lives in my memory as one of those nights I won’t forget even if I want to. I don’t know if I’ll repeat it soon. Probably yes, when the urge comes back and the moment is right. It’s not something that works if you turn it into routine or force it when the body isn’t ready.

It’s part of a mental catalog of things that, once you’ve really done them, can no longer scare you in the same way. Fear lives mostly in anticipation. In what you imagine beforehand. In all the “what ifs” that pile up while you don’t dare.

That night I stopped imagining. And that was worth more than anything else.