The next morning, the world was sharp and high-contrast. My nipples ached so sweetly I could sense their shadow through the silk of my pajamas, and every step on my hardwood floor sent a ripple of pleasure up my spine. I should have been prepping for my 8:30 video conference, but instead I stood naked in front of the mirror, rolling the new bars between thumb and finger, watching the skin stretch and harden. It wasn’t just arousing; it was addictive, a low-grade chemical burn that colored everything else I did.

My home office was less an office than an art installation, all monochrome, not a single paper clip out of alignment. I’d chosen this room for the south-facing window and the absolute control it gave me over my image—webcam at 45 degrees, bookshelf in the background curated with only the correct titles, not a speck of dust to catch the morning sun.

My client, a CEO in his fifties with an ego so dense light bent around him, appeared on the screen in grainy 720p, his voice somehow both nasal and bassy through my speakers. “Heidi, walk me through the new regulatory language on the data retention clause.”

I nodded, lips pursed, and began to explain. But halfway through my first paragraph, I lost the thread. It wasn’t nerves. It was the memory of last night’s wet fingers, the echo of that bright, pinching pain as the needle punched my clit. The CEO’s face blurred; my mind spat out a rapid-fire reel of images: the needle, the jewelry, Vex’s tattooed hands, the long slow slide of my own fingers after, the ache as I fingered myself over and over, coming so hard I left a stain on the duvet.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” I blinked, willing the red away from my cheeks. My nipples pressed hard against the silk, more visible than I wanted. I repositioned myself in the chair, crossing my arms casually, but not so much that it looked deliberate.

He rephrased his question, a little annoyed. I forced myself to focus on the moving parts, the numbers and verbs and little bullets on my annotated PDF, but the more I forced it, the more my mind fought back. Every time I said “penetrate the market,” I pictured the black opal barbell cresting above the lips of my pussy, shining in the ring light of Vex’s studio. “Due diligence” sounded like foreplay, “hold harmless” made me want to be bent over the glass table and spanked.

This was not me. I was always in control, always professional, but now I was a split screen: high-achieving lawyer on one side, hungry, needy fuck toy on the other, and the line between them was pixelating fast.

The meeting lasted 54 minutes, and by the end I was sweating, every nerve flayed open and humming. When it was finally over, I clicked out of the Zoom and sat there, breathing hard. My nipples burned. My pussy throbbed. The new piercings were so fresh that my arousal made them ache, but I didn’t dare touch them, not yet, not with a day’s worth of billable hours ahead.

I checked my calendar. I was supposed to meet a partner for dinner at Jardinière. Fuck that. I texted her, “Woke up with a temp, don’t want to infect anyone, reschedule?” She replied with a thumbs up and a wine emoji. I felt a brief, irrational stab of guilt—this was my mentor, my old boss—but the thought faded instantly.

Instead, I googled “deepthroat porn.” It wasn’t my usual taste. I was a left-brain, a person who once wrote a Medium post about “ethical sexuality.” But when the search results filled the screen, a deep, hot thrill overtook me. I clicked the first link. Then another. Then a playlist.

The scenes were violent, obscene: women gagging on cocks so thick they looked inhuman, mascara streaking, saliva streaming down chins, hands gripping skulls like the steering wheels of sports cars. I should have been disgusted, or at least bored. Instead, I was mesmerized. My heart hammered. The words—“Take it, slut,” “You love it in your throat, don’t you?”—sounded like Vex’s voice in my head. I wanted it. I wanted to be forced, held down, ruined by pleasure.

I realized my hand was between my legs, rubbing the new piercing, coaxing the barbell to scrape the hood just so. It was an instant orgasm, so fast it left me breathless, the aftershocks setting off a whole new wave of craving.

I slammed the laptop shut and paced the apartment, as if movement could dissipate the static. It didn’t. I needed more. Not just more porn, but more sensation, more of the boundary-pushing, more of the edge.

Without thinking, I opened DoorDash and typed “adult store.” There were three in the delivery radius, all offering “discreet packaging” and same-day options. I scrolled past the costumes and cheap vibrators and went straight to the section labeled “Extreme.” I ordered a silicone dildo the size and color of a bruised banana, a bright red ball gag, a tub of lube so thick it promised “no drips, no mess,” and a set of graduated anal plugs, the largest almost as thick as my wrist. I checked out and set the delivery to “Leave at door, no signature.”

Then I showered and put on the only thing in my closet that wasn’t business casual: an old Stanford hoodie and a pair of running shorts. No bra, obviously. I wanted the chill, the friction, the little micro-torments that would keep me aroused until the package arrived.

It was barely noon, but I opened a bottle of white. I paced. I did ten pushups, then twenty. I checked the DoorDash tracking every three minutes. I rubbed at my nipples through the hoodie, letting the pain edge into pleasure, loving the way the bars caught and stretched the skin. The more I touched myself, the more the old boundaries dissolved. Every time I reminded myself I’d never been this way, another voice—smug, certain, intimate—whispered that I’d always loved this, I was just too busy before.

The package arrived at 12:47, a white paper bag with the store’s logo disguised by a peel-off sticker. My hands shook as I tore it open, unpacking each item with a ceremonial slowness. The dildo was monstrous, heavier than it looked. The ball gag had a weirdly sweet smell, almost like cherry cough drops. The plugs gleamed, lined up on the coffee table like a row of chess pieces.

I took all of it to my bedroom, then shut the blackout curtains so the city couldn’t watch. For a long moment I just stared at the toys, calculating how to start, which threshold to cross first.

I began with the gag. The strap was adjustable, but even at the tightest notch it didn’t quite fit my jaw. I forced it, biting down until my teeth ached, then buckled it behind my head and tried to say my own name. The sound was a garbled moan. I watched myself in the vanity mirror, drool escaping the corners of my mouth, eyes wide and crazed. The humiliation made me dizzy.

Next: lube. I covered the first plug, smallest but still intimidating, and pressed it against my asshole. There was resistance, then a hot, almost burning stretch, then it slid in with a wet pop. I whimpered, the sound muffled by the gag, and forced myself to look at my reflection. I’d always hated my own body—hips too wide, belly never flat enough—but here, plugged and gagged, nipples so raw I could see their outline through the fabric, I looked transformed. Like someone who could do anything, to herself or anyone else.

I swapped the small plug for the medium. The stretch made my eyes water, but I kept going, savoring the mix of pain and need, never letting the sensation settle. Then I flexed my ass and it shot out with a squelch.

I added more lube, then pushed the largest plug in, slow and relentless. The fullness was overwhelming. I could feel my pulse in my asshole, every throb a reminder that I was more animal than person.

Then the dildo. I peeled the gag off and let it drop to the bed. My jaw hurt, but I wanted to see how far I could take it. I lubed the head and eased it into my mouth.

I choked. Gagged. My eyes ran with tears, but I kept at it, using both hands to shove the dildo to the back of my throat. I remembered the porn, the technique: relax the jaw, press the tongue down, let the throat open. I managed four, then five inches before I had to pull back, gasping, spit and snot dripping down my chin.

I lay back, panting, the plug still inside me, my fingers already working my clit. The jewelry caught every flick, amplifying sensation to a level that was almost unbearable. I pressed the dildo between my legs, teasing the entrance of my pussy. I needed to fuck myself in both holes at once. As the dildo went in my cunt, I pulled the plug out of my asshole, then the reverse, then repeat.

It was too much at first. I fought it, every muscle tight, but the more I pressed, the more I wanted. I kept at it, moaning, fingers flying on my clit. The toy breached me, slow and brutal, and I came so hard I bit down on my own tongue, blood mixing with the aftertaste of silicone and spit.

When I finally stopped shaking, I realized I was on my hands and knees, face buried in the sheets, the dildo and plug still half-inserted. I grinned. I giggled. I felt like I’d cracked the code of my own body, broken through some invisible firewall to find the root directory of pleasure.

I spent the rest of the afternoon alternating between the toys and my own fingers, learning exactly how much I could take, how far I could push. By sunset, I was so sore I could barely walk, but my mind was clear, blank, the anxiety and self-loathing scrubbed away.

I texted Jay: “Push all meetings to Friday. Need some time for personal growth.”

He responded, “You okay?”

“Best I’ve ever been,” I typed, and it was true.

That night, I slept nude, every new bruise and ache a badge of honor. I dreamed of ball gags and needles, of Steve’s tattooed hands around my throat, of a row of strangers waiting to use me and me begging them not to stop. I woke at 6:00 a.m. with my hand already between my legs.

My phone, face up on the nightstand, lit up with a notification:

Steve Mitchell has used Super Match to connect with you!

I stared at the words, but before I could tap them, the phone glitched. The screen flickered, pixelated, then cut to black. When it came back, The app had replaced the lock screen.

It loaded my profile automatically. The photo was new: I wore a blouse unbuttoned nearly to the waist, both nipples obvious, the piercings shining even through the pixel compression. In place of “perfectionist litigator,” it now read:

Pierced, inked, addicted to edge. Always down for anal, and can cum just from deepthroating. Love getting fisted and even hotter for pissplay—don’t judge, just ask.

The words didn’t even shock me. I had revised my profile to be more honest. It was all true. I smiled, flicking a barbell between thumb and finger, wondering how soon I could test out the last two lines. Maybe I already had. Maybe I’d just forgotten.

Steve’s message was waiting: “You’re everything I hoped for. When do we meet up? I’ll bring toys if you bring the attitude.”

I started to reply, then stopped, remembering the protocol. I’d wait at least fifteen minutes. I liked to be pursued, even if I knew how the game ended. I closed the app, closed my eyes, and let the morning sun light up every inch of my ruined, perfect body.

I was myself now, finally.