Chronicle of Erotic Balance. Chapter 1 – Transformation. An Intensive Training Program with Felicia.
Or How, in Pandora’s Box, One Might Stumble Upon a Yogurt and Two Poppy Seed Pretzels—Alongside All the Other Temptations.
Me
I’m not the kind of man who takes the subway. I don’t step willingly into a metal can where strangers' breath seeps into your lungs like secondhand regret. But that day, traffic left me no choice.
Bucharest was a mess. Notifications kept pinging on my phone—delays, accidents, the whole city choking on its own impatience. So, with the reluctant disgust of a working man surrendering to his fate, I left the car and went underground.
The subway has its own smell. Burnt rubber, cheap perfume, the stale sweat of people too tired to care. A whole world pressed into a moving steel coffin—ads for quick loans, vacant stares, a beggar spreading his stink in the corner, a kid blasting manele on a Bluetooth speaker, eyes daring someone to tell him to turn it down.
I grabbed a seat near the door, tried to disappear into the rhythm of the train. And then she got on.
Brunette. Tight jeans. A lace-collared shirt that belonged in another decade. Not pretty in the way that gets you stopped on the street, but put together in a way that made you look. Full breasts, a waist you could wrap a hand around, delicate ankles, and the kind of self-assurance that had no business being in a packed subway car at that hour.
She saw the empty seat next to me and took it. That’s when I noticed them.
Two guys, a few seats down. The type that think they’re funny but only if you laugh along. They whistled when she stepped in. Then came the usual "Hey, baby, gimme your number."
I saw her roll her eyes, that quick breath in—preparing to ignore them.
And then my mouth opened before my brain caught up.
— “There you are. So, did you decide where we’re going tonight?”
She looked at me—a long, unreadable stare. I saw the moment she made her choice. She could either play along or leave me to die. Then, she smiled, slow and easy, like we had known each other forever.
— “I was thinking somewhere with wine. Lots of wine.”
I laughed, dropped a hand on her thigh—casual, familiar, just enough to make it real. The two jackasses exchanged glances, scoffed, muttered something about “Shit luck, man” and got off at the next stop.
And then it was just us. Two strangers. One of us more awkward than the other. Or maybe just me.
She watched me, sizing me up, then reached into her bag and pulled out a business card.
— “For what you did… you can ask me for anything.”
I took it, not sure if she was joking or daring me.
— “Anything?”
— “Anything.”
She got off at the next station without looking back.
I sat there, the card between my fingers, knowing something had started—something I couldn’t name yet, something that wasn’t going to end anytime soon.
Anything.
Two days later, after my second coffee, a shit night’s sleep, and two aspirin, I grabbed my phone and typed:
"Alright, I’ve decided. I want you to come over right now with a yogurt and two poppy seed pretzels. I’m starving."
Then I sent my address, fully aware I was the only man in the universe who thought seducing a woman like her meant giving her a fucking Glovo order.
She replied almost instantly:
"It’ll take about an hour, I’m at work. But I’ll come."
And she did.
She walked in without knocking, dropped the yogurt and pretzels on my desk like a courier with better tits.
I worked out of an old downtown house, too big, too decadent for a lone wolf who was, in truth, just a guy faking his way through a real estate consulting gig. I thought I knew my shit; my clients tolerated me; I was scraping by, keeping the illusion alive. The global crash that was coming would take care of that soon enough. But that’s another story.
— “Eat. I want a coffee.”
The absurdity of the moment wasn’t lost on me. I poured her a coffee, lit a cigarette, and dug into the breakfast I had so boldly demanded.
There was no tension. No small talk. No weird first-time energy. It felt like we had known each other for years.
Her dress had ridden up slightly, showing off the soft curve of her thighs. Her breasts, heavy under the fabric, an invitation that sat there, waiting. But at that moment, I was still a man eating a pretzel.
And then it shifted.
She watched me, slow, deliberate, weighing something in her mind.
— “Come sit next to me.”
I froze, cigarette hanging from my lips.
— “Why?”
I was batting a thousand with dumb lines that day.
— “I want to suck your cock.”
A pause. A beat. A shift in gravity.
— “I’ve wanted to since last night. I don’t want anything else, I don’t have time. Maybe later, but right now—come here.”
I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t that kind of man. I wasn’t anything I thought I was before that moment.
But I let it happen.
She unbuckled my belt with practiced ease, like it was the most natural thing in the world. Zipper down. A firm hand through fabric, warm and certain. And that’s when I felt it—her quiet confidence, the detached mastery of a woman who knew exactly how much she could take before letting a man think he had any control.
I didn’t.
She pulled me out of myself, the way you brush crumbs off a table. This wasn’t seduction. This wasn’t romance. It was something sharper, rawer—a hunger that didn’t ask permission.
I leaned back, exhaled. This wasn’t sex. This was something else.
Felicia didn’t want to be touched. It wasn’t about her. It wasn’t even about me. It was about something that no one had ever given me before—without conditions, without illusions, without the lie that it could be more than it was.
When she was done, she looked at me, smiling like she was deciding whether or not I had been worth it.
— “That was incredible. I want to fuck too. But Friday—I’m free all day. Think you can handle it?”
Hell if I knew.
Friday
I was an idiot. That much was clear.
Thirty years of keeping my life afloat—no excesses, no reckless decisions, no detours from the straight line of what’s expected. And now, here I was, about to fuck like a real man.
Which, of course, meant I was scared shitless.
As if the tsunami in my office hadn’t already flipped my world upside down, now I had an actual date. A real one. One where I had to deliver, to perform, to prove that I deserved the woman who, in some act of divine indulgence, had made room for me between her thighs.
So, I did what every panicked man does—I threw money at the problem.
Luxury hotel. Silk sheets. Five-star room service. A bottle of champagne sweating in an ice bucket. All of it, a desperate attempt to cover up the fact that I had no fucking clue what I was doing.
On the way to the hotel, I was a bomb of insecurity. I felt like a teenager sneaking into an adult club, some kid who’d faked an ID but now had to face the real deal. Except no one was checking at the door. It was just me, my panic, and a woman I wasn’t sure I had the capacity to satisfy.
Felicia was in her twenties, but she looked at the world like someone who had already seen too much. I was thirty, but I looked at her like some kid freshly let out of his mother’s house.
And then she walked in, and the panic vanished.
Not because I calmed down. But because, suddenly, it didn’t fucking matter.
She kicked off her heels mid-step, pulled her dress over her head, and let it fall to the carpet like I wasn’t even there. No theatrics, no hesitation.
— "If you’re hungry, you can order something."
She said it without even looking at me, stretching across the massive bed like a well-fed cat.
Hungry? I had no idea what I’d even ordered. I wasn’t hungry for food. I wasn’t hungry for anything but her. And she knew it.
Summer School
Felicia didn’t want a wild stallion.
She didn’t want to be pinned against a wall, taken, devoured.
Felicia wanted to teach me.
I spent an entire day between her thighs, learning—how to listen, how to read her, how to understand. She showed me how to look, how to touch, how to be close without rushing.
I must have licked acres of pussy in those hours, drowning in the desperate need to have her and the equally desperate fear that I wasn’t enough.
She let me struggle. She let me fail, let me be ridiculous, let me start over. When she said "slower," I slowed down. When she said "harder," I pulled her like I wasn’t sure she was even real.
She reined me in and set me free in the same breath. She showed me how to give, how to take, how to exist in the space between. She told me where to put my hands. More importantly, she told me where not to.
I wasn’t a bull.
I wasn’t some sex god.
I was a grown-ass man with gray in his beard, sitting in a classroom where I didn’t belong.
Felicia taught me to ask questions. She told me where to put my mouth, where to place my palms, how to pull her without breaking her, how to hold her without making her a prisoner. She taught me what it meant to listen. To be there. To exist in the moment, fully, completely.
And above all, she taught me to be proud of myself.
Not because I was big, or strong, or tireless. But because, while I was inside her, I knew exactly where all ten of my fingers were. By evening, we parted ways.
Me—satisfied, alive.
But knowing I wasn’t going to see her again anytime soon.
Felicia had woken something up in me.
I remember walking home, looking at the women on the street, and for the first time, I felt them looking back. Like they sensed I was different. Like they knew I had become a man who knew what he was doing.
In reality, I had just taken a basic-ass exam. On the whole damn subject.
Felicia didn’t need a man like me.
And I didn’t need her anymore either.
I had an endless field ahead of me.
And I was ready to walk it alone.
My Name is Felicia.
At some point, I must have lost my fucking mind.
I didn’t marry for love. I married out of fear. That ugly, gnawing fear that if I waited, if I picked, if I kept looking, I’d end up alone.
So, I took a man who loved me. A good man. A man who would never hurt me.
And one day, I realized he didn’t see me.
If I unbuttoned my blouse, let my breasts hang heavy in front of him, he’d stroke my cheek and tell me I was beautiful. If I climbed onto him, naked, rubbing myself against him, he’d kiss my forehead and say I must be tired.
So, one morning, as he handed me my coffee and told me I was the love of his life, I wondered what it felt like to be fucked by a man who actually wanted me.
Two weeks later, I found out.
A stranger on the subway.
I saw him the moment I stepped in. Big. Heavy. Gentle. A man who had no idea what to do with all that strength. A man who could have broken me in two if he wanted, but who probably spent too much time thinking about the consequences.
Two cocky little pricks behind me, breathing down my neck, their grins stale, unoriginal. I could have handled them myself.
But he opened his mouth.
— "There you are. So, have you decided where we’re going tonight?"
And that’s when I knew.
This wasn’t some knight in shining armor.
This was a man who got involved without thinking. A man who didn’t stop to consider if he’d get his teeth knocked out for it. A man who was simply wired that way.
I let my hand fall onto his thigh. I saw him swallow hard.
— "I was thinking somewhere with wine. Lots of wine."
Did he choose me?
Not a chance.
So, I handed him my card.
— "For what you did… you can ask me for anything."
Two days later, he texted me.
"I want you to come over right now with a yogurt and two poppy seed pretzels. I’m starving."
Oh, baby. You really don’t know how to ask for things.
I laughed.
But I went.
I still didn’t know what I’d do with him. Maybe we’d have coffee. Maybe I’d leave after ten minutes. But then I saw him—biting his lip, staring at me, still trying to figure out why the hell I was there. And I decided I wasn’t going to wait for him to find me.
I took him myself.
— "I want to suck your cock."
He said nothing. He didn’t have to.
The belt. The zipper. The scent of his skin under his shirt. That dense, male heat between his thighs. I didn’t lick. I didn’t tease. I didn’t drag my nails over his skin or pretend to seduce him. I took him in one motion. Shock. A sharp inhale. A moment of complete, suffocating silence.
I let him slide down my throat, let him feel how I tightened around him, how I pulled him deeper.
When he was done, I looked up at him, smiling. Like I was deciding, right then and there, if he had been good enough for me.
— "That was nice. I want to fuck, too. But Friday."
A statement. Not a request.
Friday.
He panicked. Of course, he panicked. He prepared for this like he was about to fuck the first woman in the history of the world. Luxury hotel. Silk sheets. Room service. Champagne.
I took off my dress and dropped it to the floor. Not seductive. Not dramatic. Not playing the part of the femme fatale. More like… a mild inconvenience.
— "If you’re hungry, you can order something."
That was the brilliant thing my mind came up with. But he didn’t need food.
He placed his hands on me like I was made of porcelain. And that’s when I knew—I had to be gentle. I let him taste me. Let him lick me. Let him lose himself between my thighs, fumbling, searching, second-guessing himself.
I guided him.
Until he didn’t need guidance anymore. Until he took me.
He pushed into me like he was claiming his place. He pulled me into him, pressed me against him, filled me.
And it was good.
The Final Lesson
He lay there after, naked, staring at the ceiling, smoking. I watched him. He could still feel his own power. His body still trembled, just slightly, still humming from what he had done.
And I still wasn’t done with him.
I let my tongue trace his neck, moving down, past his collarbone, his chest. Lower.
I felt his muscles tighten.
Felt him hold his breath.
Felt his hands grip the sheets.
And when I crossed that invisible line, when my mouth touched a place he had never been touched before, he let out a sound—somewhere between a gasp and a surrender.
He let go.
No shame. No fear. No resistance.
Just pure, unfiltered pleasure.
He was mine now.
I bit him.
Pulled him back to me. Silently told him we weren’t done until he fucked me against the wall. And he did. He grabbed my hips, yanked me back, exactly how he was supposed to. No hesitation. No questions. No doubts.
It was an explosion.
I arched, thrashed, felt myself shatter, felt myself break, felt myself lose track of time. And when it was over, when I collapsed into the sheets, I knew—This had been the last lesson.
By evening, we dressed. A quick kiss. And then we left.
I watched him walk down the street, his steps different now.
The steps of a man who had just learned who the fuck he was.
And that night, back home, I felt him everywhere.
On my skin.
In my flesh.
In my mind.
Inside me.
Felicia was Felicia again.
To be continued.