“So, you’re telling me,” I said, leaning across the small, lacquered table, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that the one with the little fox ears is your favorite?”Ken’s eyes, dark and bright behind his glasses, sparkled with a mix of pride and mischief. He took a delicate sip of his sake. “For daily wear, absolutely. The silicone is medical grade, the shape is anatomically perfect for… prolonged comfort. But the hand-blown glass one with the nebula swirls? That’s for special occasions.”I felt a flush spread from my chest up to my cheeks, a warmth that had nothing to do with the spicy tuna roll I’d just eaten. This was not first-date conversation. This was… something else entirely. And I was into it. The Metro Divorced Club algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, had served up a computer programmer who collected butt plugs like some men collect vintage vinyl. My ex-husband, Brad, would have choked on his overpriced scotch.“Special occasions,” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air between us. The restaurant hummed around us, a cocoon of low light and murmured conversations. “Like a third date?”He didn’t look away. “Could be a first date, if the vibe is right.”The vibe was so right it was vibrating. I’d been horny walking into the sleek sushi bar, a low-grade hum of need that was my constant companion since the divorce papers were finalized. Three years of unsatisfying flings and clumsy hook-ups had left me… curious. And frustrated. Brad had never understood my body, had taken my lack of screaming orgasms from penetration as a personal affront rather than a simple matter of anatomy. You’re just too big down there, he’d grumbled once, as if it were a design flaw.But Ken? Ken was looking at me like I was a fascinating puzzle he was eager to solve. And he’d just shown me his secret hobby without a shred of embarrassment.“The vibe,” I said, tracing the rim of my water glass with a fingertip, “is interested. Very, very interested.”He smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. “Good. Because I have a theory.”“Oh?”“I think the MDC algorithm doesn’t match based on compatibility. I think it matches based on complementary… kinks. Unspoken desires.”My breath hitched. “What unspoken desire did it sniff out for me?”He leaned forward now, our faces only a foot apart. “That you need to be filled. Completely. And that you haven’t been. Not for a long time.”The directness was a lightning strike. It bypassed all the usual first-date posturing and went straight to the core of me. He was right. The emptiness was a physical ache some nights. I nodded, slowly, my throat tight.“And you?” I managed.“I like the weight,” he said simply. “The feeling of being… anchored. Occupied. It helps me think.”“So you’re wearing one now.” It wasn’t a question.His smile turned sly. “The fox ears. For luck.”The check came, and he paid without a fuss. The walk to his car was charged, our arms brushing, the cool night air doing nothing to cool the heat between us. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The decision had been made over that last piece of uni.His condo was a stereotypical programmer’s lair: clean, minimalist, with a massive monitor setup and shelves lined with manga figurines. But my eyes went straight to the elegant, glass-fronted display cabinet on the far wall. It was lit from within, like a museum exhibit.“The collection,” he said, watching me.I walked over, my heels clicking on the hardwood. They were arranged by material, color, size. Silicone in rainbow hues. Shimmering metal. Opalescent glass. Some were whimsical, with animal tails or jeweled ends. Others were severe, geometric, intimidating. It was absurd and beautiful and incredibly, intensely erotic.“It’s… impressive,” I breathed.“Thank you.” He came to stand behind me, not touching, but I could feel the heat of his body. “Heather. Would you like to see the special occasion one?”I turned to face him. “Yes.”What followed was a slow, deliberate undressing. Not a frantic clawing of clothes, but a ritual. He watched as I unzipped my dress, let it pool at my feet. His gaze was appreciative, clinical almost, as he took in my body—the curves of a forty-two-year-old mother of two, the stretch marks I’d learned to stop hating. When I stood before him in just my black lace bra and panties, he finally reached out. His fingers traced the line of my collarbone, down between my breasts.“You are magnificent,” he said, and it sounded like a fact.He led me to his bedroom, which was just as tidy as the living room. The bed was made with military precision. He sat me on the edge of it and knelt before me.“May I?” he asked, his fingers hooking into the sides of my panties.I just nodded.He peeled them down my legs, his breath catching when he saw me fully exposed. “Oh,” he whispered. “The algorithm is a genius.”He didn’t need to explain. My clit, swollen and prominent, begged for attention. My folds were already slick, glistening in the low light from a tasteful bedside lamp. He leaned in, not to kiss me there, but to simply look, his nose almost touching my skin. He inhaled deeply.“Perfect,” he murmured. Then he looked up at me. “I want to taste you. But first, I need to get ready.”He stood up and, with a calm efficiency that was wildly hot, began to undress. He was lean, with the softness of a man who sat at a desk but the defined arms of someone who probably lifted weights to counter it. And then he turned, bending over to pick up his pants, and I saw it.The base of the plug, nestled between his firm cheeks. It was a soft, pale pink silicone, and sure enough, two perky little fox ears protruded cutely. The sight of it, this secret he’d been carrying all through dinner, sent a fresh flood of wetness between my own legs.He saw me looking and grinned. “Told you.”He walked to the display cabinet, unlocked it with a small key, and selected a piece. It was the glass one he’d mentioned, a stunning swirl of deep blue and silver, like a captured galaxy. It was larger than the one he wore, with a graceful, flared base.“For you,” he said, bringing it to me. The glass was cool and smooth in my hand. “If you want it.”“I do,” I said, my voice husky.“Lie back.”I did, scooting up the bed until my head was on the pillows. He joined me, kneeling between my spread legs, the galaxy plug in one hand. With the other, he reached for a bottle of lube on the nightstand. He poured a generous amount over the glass, making it gleam, then warmed more on his fingers.“This might be cold,” he warned.I just spread my legs wider, an open invitation.He used his clean hand to part my folds, his touch reverent. Then, the cool, slick tip of the glass pressed against my entrance. I gasped. It was cold, a shocking contrast to my own heat. He pushed slowly, inexorably, and the sensation was incredible. The stretch was immediate, profound. This was no ordinary toy. It was substantial. It filled me in a way I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. A low, guttural moan escaped me as he worked it deeper, inch by breathtaking inch, until the flared base rested snugly against me.“Oh my god,” I panted, feeling impossibly full, the cool glass already warming to my body’s temperature. “Ken…”“I know,” he said, his own breathing ragged. He leaned down and finally, finally put his mouth on me.His tongue was a revelation. He didn’t just lick; he explored. He mapped the sensitive, swollen landscape of my clit with the focus of a scholar, flicking, circling, applying pressure then releasing it. His nose nudged the base of the plug, sending subtle vibrations through the glass and deep into my core. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, stretching fullness inside me and the exquisite, targeted attention on my most sensitive nerve cluster.I writhed, my hands fisting in the crisp bedsheets. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” I chanted, my hips lifting to meet his mouth.He didn’t. He sucked my clit into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had stars bursting behind my eyelids. The plug shifted inside me with every movement of my hips, stimulating places that had been dormant for a decade. The pleasure built, a coil tightening low in my belly, hotter and brighter than anything I’d ever felt.“I’m gonna… Ken, I’m gonna come!” I cried out, the warning torn from me.He responded by sliding two fingers inside me alongside the plug, a delicious, impossible stretch that tipped me over the edge.The orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a tsunami. It crashed through me, a blinding, white-hot detonation that started in my clit and radiated outwards, clamping down hard on the glass plug and his fingers. My back arched off the bed, a raw, ragged scream ripped from my throat. It went on and on, convulsion after sweet convulsion, until I collapsed, boneless and gasping, onto the mattress.Ken gently withdrew his fingers and crawled up my body, kissing my stomach, my breasts, my neck. He was hard, his erection pressing against my thigh. I could feel the fox ears of his own plug through his skin.“That,” I wheezed, “was…”“The first one,” he finished, his eyes dark with desire. “My turn.”He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him. I straddled his hips, the glass plug inside me shifting deliciously. I reached between us, wrapping my hand around his cock. He was thick, velvety steel in my grip. I guided him to my entrance, which was still stretched and slick from the plug and my climax.“Wait,” he gasped. “The plug…”“I want to feel you,” I insisted, the need to be filled by him now overriding everything else. “I want to feel you with it inside me.”His eyes widened, but he nodded, a quick, eager jerk of his head.I lifted my hips and, holding his shaft steady, began to lower myself onto him. It was a lot. The plug was a constant, stretching presence, and now he was stretching me further, wider. The burn was intense, almost too much, but the feeling of being so utterly, completely occupied was a drug. I sank down slowly, taking him inch by glorious inch, until he was fully sheathed inside me, his hips pressed against mine. The plug was pushed even deeper, creating a pressure against my inner walls that was borderline painful in the most exquisite way.“Fuck,” Ken groaned, his hands flying to my hips, his knuckles white. “Heather… you’re so tight. So full.”I began to move. It was a slow, rocking grind at first, the dual penetration creating sensations I had no words for. Every slide of his cock was amplified by the unyielding presence of the glass. I could feel every ridge, every vein of him, and beneath that, the smooth, cool solidity of the nebula. It was overwhelming. My head fell back, a string of incoherent curses and pleas falling from my lips.“Faster,” he urged, his hips bucking up to meet my downward strokes.I complied, rising and falling on him, setting a rhythm that was less about friction and more about depth, about claiming every millimeter of space inside me. The sounds were obscene—wet, slapping flesh, our mingled groans, the creak of the bed. I looked down at him. His glasses were slightly askew, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure. The sight of him, this sweet, weird, brilliant man, unraveling beneath me because of my body, sent another bolt of pure lust through me.I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest, and changed the angle. He cried out as I rode him harder, deeper. The new position made the base of the plug press firmly against my clit with every thrust. The stimulation was constant, relentless. Another orgasm began to build, this one slower, deeper, coiling from the very depths of my filled core.“I can feel it,” he panted. “I can feel the plug… through you. It’s… I’m close.”“Come with me,” I demanded, my movements becoming frantic, desperate. “Fill me up, Ken. Please.”That was all it took. His body went rigid beneath me, a strangled shout tearing from his throat as he came, his release pulsing hot and deep inside me. The feeling of his climax, the rhythmic clenching of his own muscles around the plug he wore, triggered my own. My second orgasm slammed into me, a deep, rolling quake that milked his cock and made my vision tunnel. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, shuddering gasps.For a long time, the only sound was our slowing heartbeats. The glass plug was still inside me, a now-warm, heavy reminder. His softening cock was still nestled within me, alongside it. We were a tangled, sated, utterly connected mess.Finally, he stirred, his hand coming up to stroke my damp hair. “So,” he said, his voice hoarse. “How was dessert?”I let out a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

“So, you’re telling me,” I said, leaning across the small, lacquered table, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, “that the one with the little fox ears is your *favorite*?”

Ken’s eyes, dark and bright behind his glasses, sparkled with a mix of pride and mischief. He took a delicate sip of his sake. “For daily wear, absolutely. The silicone is medical grade, the shape is anatomically perfect for… prolonged comfort. But the hand-blown glass one with the nebula swirls? That’s for special occasions.”

I felt a flush spread from my chest up to my cheeks, a warmth that had nothing to do with the spicy tuna roll I’d just eaten. *This* was not first-date conversation. This was… something else entirely. And I was *into* it. The Metro Divorced Club algorithm, in its infinite, mysterious wisdom, had served up a computer programmer who collected butt plugs like some men collect vintage vinyl. My ex-husband, Brad, would have choked on his overpriced scotch.

“Special occasions,” I repeated, letting the words hang in the air between us. The restaurant hummed around us, a cocoon of low light and murmured conversations. “Like a third date?”

He didn’t look away. “Could be a first date, if the vibe is right.”

The vibe was so right it was vibrating. I’d been horny walking into the sleek sushi bar, a low-grade hum of need that was my constant companion since the divorce papers were finalized. Three years of unsatisfying flings and clumsy hook-ups had left me… curious. And frustrated. Brad had never understood my body, had taken my lack of screaming orgasms from penetration as a personal affront rather than a simple matter of anatomy. *You’re just too big down there*, he’d grumbled once, as if it were a design flaw.

But Ken? Ken was looking at me like I was a fascinating puzzle he was eager to solve. And he’d just shown me his secret hobby without a shred of embarrassment.

“The vibe,” I said, tracing the rim of my water glass with a fingertip, “is interested. Very, very interested.”

He smiled, a genuine, unguarded expression that made him look younger than his thirty-five years. “Good. Because I have a theory.”

“Oh?”

“I think the MDC algorithm doesn’t match based on compatibility. I think it matches based on complementary… kinks. Unspoken desires.”

My breath hitched. “What unspoken desire did it sniff out for me?”

He leaned forward now, our faces only a foot apart. “That you need to be *filled*. Completely. And that you haven’t been. Not for a long time.”

The directness was a lightning strike. It bypassed all the usual first-date posturing and went straight to the core of me. He was right. The emptiness was a physical ache some nights. I nodded, slowly, my throat tight.

“And you?” I managed.

“I like the weight,” he said simply. “The feeling of being… anchored. Occupied. It helps me think.”

“So you’re wearing one now.” It wasn’t a question.

His smile turned sly. “The fox ears. For luck.”

The check came, and he paid without a fuss. The walk to his car was charged, our arms brushing, the cool night air doing nothing to cool the heat between us. We didn’t speak. We didn’t need to. The decision had been made over that last piece of uni.

His condo was a stereotypical programmer’s lair: clean, minimalist, with a massive monitor setup and shelves lined with manga figurines. But my eyes went straight to the elegant, glass-fronted display cabinet on the far wall. It was lit from within, like a museum exhibit.

“The collection,” he said, watching me.

I walked over, my heels clicking on the hardwood. They were arranged by material, color, size. Silicone in rainbow hues. Shimmering metal. Opalescent glass. Some were whimsical, with animal tails or jeweled ends. Others were severe, geometric, intimidating. It was absurd and beautiful and incredibly, intensely erotic.

“It’s… impressive,” I breathed.

“Thank you.” He came to stand behind me, not touching, but I could feel the heat of his body. “Heather. Would you like to see the special occasion one?”

I turned to face him. “Yes.”

What followed was a slow, deliberate undressing. Not a frantic clawing of clothes, but a ritual. He watched as I unzipped my dress, let it pool at my feet. His gaze was appreciative, clinical almost, as he took in my body—the curves of a forty-two-year-old mother of two, the stretch marks I’d learned to stop hating. When I stood before him in just my black lace bra and panties, he finally reached out. His fingers traced the line of my collarbone, down between my breasts.

“You are magnificent,” he said, and it sounded like a fact.

He led me to his bedroom, which was just as tidy as the living room. The bed was made with military precision. He sat me on the edge of it and knelt before me.

“May I?” he asked, his fingers hooking into the sides of my panties.

I just nodded.

He peeled them down my legs, his breath catching when he saw me fully exposed. “Oh,” he whispered. “The algorithm is a genius.”

He didn’t need to explain. My clit, swollen and prominent, begged for attention. My folds were already slick, glistening in the low light from a tasteful bedside lamp. He leaned in, not to kiss me there, but to simply look, his nose almost touching my skin. He inhaled deeply.

“Perfect,” he murmured. Then he looked up at me. “I want to taste you. But first, I need to get ready.”

He stood up and, with a calm efficiency that was wildly hot, began to undress. He was lean, with the softness of a man who sat at a desk but the defined arms of someone who probably lifted weights to counter it. And then he turned, bending over to pick up his pants, and I saw it.

The base of the plug, nestled between his firm cheeks. It was a soft, pale pink silicone, and sure enough, two perky little fox ears protruded cutely. The sight of it, this secret he’d been carrying all through dinner, sent a fresh flood of wetness between my own legs.

He saw me looking and grinned. “Told you.”

He walked to the display cabinet, unlocked it with a small key, and selected a piece. It was the glass one he’d mentioned, a stunning swirl of deep blue and silver, like a captured galaxy. It was larger than the one he wore, with a graceful, flared base.

“For you,” he said, bringing it to me. The glass was cool and smooth in my hand. “If you want it.”

“I do,” I said, my voice husky.

“Lie back.”

I did, scooting up the bed until my head was on the pillows. He joined me, kneeling between my spread legs, the galaxy plug in one hand. With the other, he reached for a bottle of lube on the nightstand. He poured a generous amount over the glass, making it gleam, then warmed more on his fingers.

“This might be cold,” he warned.

I just spread my legs wider, an open invitation.

He used his clean hand to part my folds, his touch reverent. Then, the cool, slick tip of the glass pressed against my entrance. I gasped. It *was* cold, a shocking contrast to my own heat. He pushed slowly, inexorably, and the sensation was incredible. The stretch was immediate, profound. This was no ordinary toy. It was substantial. It filled me in a way I hadn’t felt in years, maybe ever. A low, guttural moan escaped me as he worked it deeper, inch by breathtaking inch, until the flared base rested snugly against me.

“Oh my god,” I panted, feeling impossibly full, the cool glass already warming to my body’s temperature. “Ken…”

“I know,” he said, his own breathing ragged. He leaned down and finally, *finally* put his mouth on me.

His tongue was a revelation. He didn’t just lick; he explored. He mapped the sensitive, swollen landscape of my clit with the focus of a scholar, flicking, circling, applying pressure then releasing it. His nose nudged the base of the plug, sending subtle vibrations through the glass and deep into my core. The dual sensation was overwhelming—the deep, stretching fullness inside me and the exquisite, targeted attention on my most sensitive nerve cluster.

I writhed, my hands fisting in the crisp bedsheets. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop,” I chanted, my hips lifting to meet his mouth.

He didn’t. He sucked my clit into his mouth, applying a steady, rhythmic pressure that had stars bursting behind my eyelids. The plug shifted inside me with every movement of my hips, stimulating places that had been dormant for a decade. The pleasure built, a coil tightening low in my belly, hotter and brighter than anything I’d ever felt.

“I’m gonna… Ken, I’m gonna come!” I cried out, the warning torn from me.

He responded by sliding two fingers inside me alongside the plug, a delicious, impossible stretch that tipped me over the edge.

The orgasm wasn’t a wave; it was a tsunami. It crashed through me, a blinding, white-hot detonation that started in my clit and radiated outwards, clamping down hard on the glass plug and his fingers. My back arched off the bed, a raw, ragged scream ripped from my throat. It went on and on, convulsion after sweet convulsion, until I collapsed, boneless and gasping, onto the mattress.

Ken gently withdrew his fingers and crawled up my body, kissing my stomach, my breasts, my neck. He was hard, his erection pressing against my thigh. I could feel the fox ears of his own plug through his skin.

“That,” I wheezed, “was…”

“The first one,” he finished, his eyes dark with desire. “My turn.”

He rolled onto his back, pulling me on top of him. I straddled his hips, the glass plug inside me shifting deliciously. I reached between us, wrapping my hand around his cock. He was thick, velvety steel in my grip. I guided him to my entrance, which was still stretched and slick from the plug and my climax.

“Wait,” he gasped. “The plug…”

“I want to feel you,” I insisted, the need to be filled by *him* now overriding everything else. “I want to feel you with it inside me.”

His eyes widened, but he nodded, a quick, eager jerk of his head.

I lifted my hips and, holding his shaft steady, began to lower myself onto him. It was a lot. The plug was a constant, stretching presence, and now he was stretching me further, wider. The burn was intense, almost too much, but the feeling of being so utterly, completely *occupied* was a drug. I sank down slowly, taking him inch by glorious inch, until he was fully sheathed inside me, his hips pressed against mine. The plug was pushed even deeper, creating a pressure against my inner walls that was borderline painful in the most exquisite way.

“Fuck,” Ken groaned, his hands flying to my hips, his knuckles white. “Heather… you’re so tight. So full.”

I began to move. It was a slow, rocking grind at first, the dual penetration creating sensations I had no words for. Every slide of his cock was amplified by the unyielding presence of the glass. I could feel every ridge, every vein of him, and beneath that, the smooth, cool solidity of the nebula. It was overwhelming. My head fell back, a string of incoherent curses and pleas falling from my lips.

“Faster,” he urged, his hips bucking up to meet my downward strokes.

I complied, rising and falling on him, setting a rhythm that was less about friction and more about depth, about claiming every millimeter of space inside me. The sounds were obscene—wet, slapping flesh, our mingled groans, the creak of the bed. I looked down at him. His glasses were slightly askew, his mouth open in a silent cry of pleasure. The sight of him, this sweet, weird, brilliant man, unraveling beneath me because of *my* body, sent another bolt of pure lust through me.

I leaned forward, bracing my hands on his chest, and changed the angle. He cried out as I rode him harder, deeper. The new position made the base of the plug press firmly against my clit with every thrust. The stimulation was constant, relentless. Another orgasm began to build, this one slower, deeper, coiling from the very depths of my filled core.

“I can feel it,” he panted. “I can feel the plug… through you. It’s… I’m close.”

“Come with me,” I demanded, my movements becoming frantic, desperate. “Fill me up, Ken. *Please*.”

That was all it took. His body went rigid beneath me, a strangled shout tearing from his throat as he came, his release pulsing hot and deep inside me. The feeling of his climax, the rhythmic clenching of his own muscles around the plug he wore, triggered my own. My second orgasm slammed into me, a deep, rolling quake that milked his cock and made my vision tunnel. I collapsed onto his chest, both of us slick with sweat, breathing in ragged, shuddering gasps.

For a long time, the only sound was our slowing heartbeats. The glass plug was still inside me, a now-warm, heavy reminder. His softening cock was still nestled within me, alongside it. We were a tangled, sated, utterly connected mess.

Finally, he stirred, his hand coming up to stroke my damp hair. “So,” he said, his voice hoarse. “How was dessert?”

I let out a weak, breathless laugh against his skin.

Anthology Episode

Metro Divorced Club

Heather

Brad

Coco

Heather and Ken, both members of the Metro Divorced Club, meet for sushi and end up exploring their shared kinks in a night of intense, intimate play.

Heather, a recently divorced woman, is curious and frustrated, seeking something new and exciting.

Ken, a computer programmer, has a unique collection of butt plugs, and is open about his kinks.

The two share an immediate, intense connection, and end up at Ken's place, where they explore each other's bodies and desires.

Ken introduces Heather to his collection of butt plugs, and they use them in a night of intense, intimate play.

The two end up having sex, with Ken wearing a butt plug, and Heather wearing a large, glass butt plug.

The sex is intense, with both partners experiencing multiple orgasms.

Divorced Heather's sushi date ignites with Ken's butt plug secrets, awakening her deepest cravings. Explore the thrill now.

Heather's Fiery Butt Plug Rendezvous

We're using Metro Divorced Club to develop a continuous anthology series that  explores the lighter side of sexual interactions, while still keeping it hot.  

Assume all characters are horny going into their dates.

  meeting up for sushi and ... dessert.  Told from Heather's perspective. 

Metro Divorced Club, Episode 1: Ken and Heather

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Metro Divorced Club, Episode 1: Ken and Heather

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