My Plug

Here is something I wrote about an expierence I had about 6 years,ago. Too short for an ebook, but I just thought I would share The bathroom mirror fogged, a hazy reflection of bare skin and wet tile. Steam curled around my limbs as I toweled off, the air thick with the scent of soap and something restless beneath my own pulse. Water droplets traced paths down my spine, disappearing into the towel’s terrycloth embrace before I let it fall to the floor. Coolness prickled my skin, a sharp contrast to the shower’s heat, making the silence of the empty apartment feel louder.

From the top drawer of the dresser, I pulled out the silicone plug, its smooth surface cool against my palm. The lube was where I’d left it—half-empty, practical. The process was methodical now, almost ritual: a squeeze of gel, a slow breath, the careful pressure and then the yielding, intimate stretch as it settled into place. The sensation bloomed, a low, constant hum of presence, grounding and strangely freeing. I held still for a moment, adjusting, the weight a secret anchor.

Dressing felt like armoring up in plain sight. Jeans first, the denim snug against hips, the waistband a firm line just above the plug’s base. A soft, worn t-shirt followed, then socks—mundane layers that transformed the private act into nothing more than an ordinary morning. I caught my reflection in the hallway mirror: tousled hair, tired eyes, the faintest flush high on my cheeks. Nothing showed. Nothing gave it away.

Keys jingled in my pocket as I locked the apartment door behind me. The hallway’s fluorescent light buzzed overhead, harsh and indifferent. Each step down the stairs sent a subtle shift through my core, a reminder of the hidden weight. The rhythm of my walk altered, just slightly—a deliberate steadiness replacing my usual stride.

Outside, the city air hit me: diesel fumes, damp pavement, the distant hum of traffic. Sunlight glared off wet windshields, sharp and intrusive. Crossing the street, I felt the plug settle deeper with the motion, a private pressure point anchoring me against the rush-hour chaos. A bus roared past, its exhaust warm on my calves, while pedestrians flowed around me like water around a stone.

At the corner deli, I grabbed milk and eggs. The cashier’s bored gaze slid over me as I placed my items on the counter. His fingers, thick and calloused, brushed mine when handing back change. The mundane contact felt amplified, electric against the constant internal awareness. I kept my smile tight, neutral, while beneath denim the silicone shifted minutely with my breath.

A group of construction workers catcalled from scaffolding across the street. Their laughter was a jagged sound in the air. One whistled, sharp and invasive. I didn’t flinch, didn’t hurry. Instead, I focused on the solid pressure inside, that intimate counterweight turning their crude noise into something distant, insignificant. My stride remained measured, each footfall deliberate on the cracked sidewalk.

The bank’s air conditioning was a shock, chilling the sweat at my temples. Fluorescent lights hummed, bleaching color from everything. The teller’s plastic smile didn’t reach her eyes as she processed the deposit slip. Behind me, someone shuffled impatiently, radiating heat. The plug pressed firmly against a deeper place with the stillness, a grounding thrum beneath the sterile impersonality of marble floors and clicking keyboards.

Next stop was the pharmacy. The harsh scent of antiseptic and stale candy hung in the air. Fluorescent bulbs flickered over aisles crammed with remedies. Near the back, a man in a stained coat muttered to himself, jabbing a finger at rows of cough syrup. I kept moving, the slight internal shift with each step a quiet anchor. The pharmacist’s bored drone over the counter as I picked up a prescription was a dull counterpoint to the vibrant, secret fullness inside.

Outside again, the sun had climbed higher, baking the sidewalk. Heat radiated up through my sneakers. I paused at a bus shelter plastered with peeling ads, the bench too hot to sit on. Across the street, a dog barked frantically, pulling against its leash while its owner shouted into a phone. The sudden, sharp sound vibrated through me, resonating strangely against the plug’s persistent pressure—a jarring harmony of external chaos and internal focus.

The bookstore’s heavy door swung shut behind me, muffling the street noise into a thick hush. Dust motes danced in shafts of light falling between tall shelves. The familiar smell of paper and binding glue was comforting, almost sacred. As I traced a finger along a spine, the subtle internal movement shifted with my reach, a private pulse beneath the quiet reverence of the space. An elderly clerk glanced up, nodded wordlessly, and returned to her ledger.

My phone buzzed against my thigh—a reminder for the dry cleaner. I turned too sharply between cramped aisles, and the plug pressed firmly against that deep, sensitive spot. A soft inhale escaped me, lost in the rustle of pages from a student flipping through textbooks nearby. The sensation lingered, warm and insistent, as I navigated toward the exit. Sunlight glared on the glass door again, harsh after the dim interior.

Outside, the dry cleaner’s striped awning flapped in a sudden gust. The smell of chemical solvents and steam hit me first. Inside, Mr. Chen’s radio crackled with static-heavy opera while he inspected a sequined gown under harsh work lights. He nodded at my ticket, his movements economical as he vanished behind plastic-shrouded garments. The counter’s laminate felt sticky under my palms. When he reappeared, sliding my blouse across with a rustle of plastic, his eyes flickered to my hands—steady, I noted—before he named the price.

The bus ride home was a study in containment. Bodies swayed against each other with every lurch, a stranger’s elbow brushing my hip. I gripped the pole tighter, knuckles whitening. The plug shifted with the vehicle’s rhythm, a deep, insistent pressure blooming like ink in water. Behind me, a toddler whined, high-pitched and grating. I focused on the vibration humming up through the floor, letting it sync with the internal weight until the child’s cries blurred into the engine’s drone.

Rain began as I stepped off, cold needles stinging my face. I ducked into the alley shortcut, shadows swallowing the daylight. Puddles reflected fractured neon from a nearby bar sign. Halfway down, the sharp scent of urine and wet brick cut through the damp air. My sneakers splashed through unseen puddles, each step sending a jolt up my spine that resonated low in my belly—a secret percussion beneath the alley’s dripping silence.

Mrs. Petrovsky’s yapping terrier hurled itself against her apartment door’s mesh screen as I passed her landing. Its shrill barks were frantic stitches in the stairwell’s stale quiet. I gripped the banister, the cold metal biting my palm as I climbed. With each upward pull, the plug nudged deeper, a slow bloom of pressure that tightened my breath. Her door clicked shut abruptly, muffling the noise, leaving only the echo of my own heartbeat in my ears.

Inside my apartment, the air hung still and heavy, tasting of dust and trapped sunlight. I dropped my keys into the chipped ceramic bowl—a hollow clatter that dissolved too quickly. Leaning back against the door, I felt the plug settle with finality, a deliberate fullness against the quiet. Outside, a siren wailed blocks away, a fading ache against the silence. My reflection in the darkened hallway mirror was a smudged outline, unreadable.

The fridge hummed as I poured water. Condensation dripped onto the counter, spreading dark circles on the laminate. I drank slowly, the cold liquid sharp against my throat while the plug’s persistent pressure pulsed in counterpoint to my swallowing. Through the window, twilight bruised the sky above the fire escape. A neighbor’s television flickered blue in the building across the alley—soundless, frantic images of a car chase.

My clothes pooled on the bedroom floor like shed skin. The air kissed bare shoulders, raising goosebumps. I didn’t turn on lamps. Streetlight glow sliced through the blinds, painting tiger stripes across the mattress. The sheets were cool and slightly gritty against my back as I stretched out, spine arching off the bed. My own breathing seemed loud in the stillness. Shadows deepened in the corners.

Fingertips traced the curve of my hipbone, a slow circuit down the flank. The touch was exploratory at first, light as dust motes drifting. Then came the press of knuckles against the inner thigh, the deliberate drag of a calloused pad over taut skin. A low hum started in my chest, vibrating against my ribs. My head tilted back, throat exposed to the dim ceiling. The city’s distant pulse felt syncopated against the thrum building low in my belly.

The heel of my palm found its rhythm against the swell of bone just above the apex, a steady, grinding pressure that sent sparks skittering behind closed lids. Breath hitched, became shallow. The plug remained a deep, anchoring counterpoint, its presence amplifying the friction above. Shadows deepened in the hollows of my collarbones as I arched, sheets whispering protest beneath my shoulder blades. A bead of sweat traced the dip of my spine.

Fingers dipped lower, slick and insistent, circling the plug’s base where it met skin. The pressure shifted, became a focused thrum that resonated through sinew and bone. Outside, the blue television flicker across the alley cut out abruptly, plunging the opposing window into darkness. Silence pooled thick, broken only by the ragged pull of air into my lungs and the slick, rhythmic sound beneath my own touch.

The plug wasn’t passive now. Its presence became a demanding counterpoint, a deep anchor against the building storm above. Each downward stroke, each deliberate grind of the heel of my palm, sent tremors that seemed to ricochet off it, amplifying the sensation into something almost audible. My free hand fisted in the sheets, the cool fabric rough against knuckles.

A car alarm wailed distantly, a jagged, mechanical scream that pierced the stillness. It synced, jarringly, with the tightening coil low in my belly. The sound didn’t distract; it became part of the rhythm, an external percussion driving the internal pressure higher, sharper. My back arched off the mattress, muscles straining against the sheets, every nerve ending alive to the dual sensations – the demanding friction above and the deep, answering pulse below.

The climax wasn’t a breaking wave, but a slow, inexorable flood. It began as a low vibration deep within, radiating outwards from the anchored plug, spreading like warm ink through muscle and marrow. It crested silently, a profound internal pressure releasing in a long, shuddering sigh that emptied my lungs and left my limbs trembling against the striped shadows. Only then did the car alarm cut off, leaving the city’s hum a distant, irrelevant thing.