Every so often, someone will ask me what I look for in a partner – either for a night or longer. Sometimes I tell them it’s a complex answer (and of course it is) with a lot of different factors. Sometimes, though, it’s the quiet type that drives me wild.

You might know them. You might be one yourself. Shy when it comes to anything in the bedroom, blushing furiously at the thought of being taken roughly, of having to grip against something for dear life as you tremble and shake and moan.

But shy definitely doesn’t mean unwillingness. The quiet type, the person who really gets my blood rushing is the one who wants all of those things so badly, but their embarrassment or reserved social nature keeps getting in the way. Some time early on in our next event at the Hideaway, one of those lovely shy quiet wonders wandered into the building.

By then, things had already started to move in full swing, if you’ll pardon a terrible pun – My boss Miss Caroline had told me that what she’d love to see was a bit more active involvement on my part. She wanted me to be less a polite but slightly standoffish host offering drinks and more… a hands-on type of facilitator. It was, of course, with a heavy heart that I agreed.

I had barely set out the champagne when the first cars started to arrive. A man with a very close shaved head in a suit and tie who carried with him the scent of a very unique cologne which I thought was perfect for finding him in a crowd of nameless strangers. A woman who struck me as…vaguely familiar.

It’s the incredible thing about an event like this – without any name marker, or any of the ways we identify each other in-world, you always wonder “Do I know you?” “Have we met outside of here?” and in the end – does it really matter? Sometimes (as you’ll see with the quiet type) sometimes it does. And sometimes, as with the woman who had walked in. Sometimes the mystery itself is what gets the heart beating faster.

I could swear, by how she held herself, how she walked, the lilt in her voice that I knew her from somewhere. She took a seat on the long couch near the man with the close shaved head. Her very short dress hiking up just a little on her thighs as she sat, cross-legged but fidgeting just a little, toe tapping, enough to show her mind wanted her body to be so much more active than just leaning back.

As the two of them began to talk, I helped myself to a glass of champagne, and as ever wondered how things would run between them when a woman in a barely there gold gossamer dress arrived and made herself comfortable next to me.

I needed to start playing my role as an active host. That was the boss’ orders, and I needed to follow them to a T because I am just a dutiful servant. It had nothing to do with how the woman in the gold dress looked, her breathtaking curves not being suggested by the dress, but offered up to the watcher. Nothing to do with that at all.

In the Hideaway, while you know (or infer) everyone is here for a lot of the same reasons, it’s always a good policy to check in with someone you’re interested in. A good policy all over, but even in a room wherein the next few minutes everyone could be pressing up against anyone, moaning in their ear, clawing at their suit, pulling at their dress it also applies. I tried to keep my composure, even as I felt my heart pounding in my ears, and did my best to make the woman in the gold dress smile.

Within a few minutes, I was leaning back against the couch, my hand slowly trailing along the hem of that golden skirt, lightly pushing it back up and up her thigh with every small pass of my hand. Her head had just tilted back, had just fallen over to the side in that gorgeous moment of a moan when her cellphone rang (my euphemism for disconnecting).

The absolutely exquisite woman in gold bolted up out of her seat and fled out the door, talking furiously to whoever was there, leaving me once more on my lonesome. Ahh well. This, of course, is life in the big city of SL its highs, its lows, its all around. I helped myself to a second glass of champagne. It’s tough to be a host of a sex event in the big city, and I needed all the courage I could get.

One of the wonderful things about an anonymous event like this if it is ongoing – how do you recognize someone who comes week to week? How do you try to find them again in a crowd of half naked, sighing beautiful bodies? If they stir you (and believe me I was stirred at the time as well as shaken) would you ever be able to pick them out in another place, away from the masks? Would they ever recognize you? I was wondering all of these things as I sipped my bubbly. And still hope to see the woman in the gold dress again someday. Longing is also a powerful aphrodisiac from time to time.

It was when I was in that state, already on edge a little, already stiff and aching while across from me that oh so familiar and oh so very desirable woman in the plunging neckline dress continued teasing the close cropped man in the suit that the Quiet Type of the header walked in.

She clearly felt out of place from the moment she stepped into the room. She was wearing a very revealing open fronted dress, barely held together with a series of small golden chains. You could see tattoos across her midriff and just along the inner rise of her breasts that just compelled you to want to be closer, if only to enjoy them and examine them more carefully. The tattoos, of course. She was taking very deep breaths, and her cheeks were flushed. And she had horns sprouting from her forehead, and a very long, swaying devil’s tail. And a pelt like black velvet from her upper thighs down, and from her shoulders to her hands.

I was transfixed. Rooted to the spot for a moment. I must confess it is another weakness of mine – tails and horns and nekos and all their kind. I am absolutely helpless in their presence. Another weakness is perhaps I have too many weaknesses, but that might be a story for another day. She was nervous, clearly. But the color in her cheeks told me everything I needed to know about what she wanted to overcome her shyness for. And I smiled, and asked her to sit down.

She said she’d never been to “something like this” before, and she was nearly breathless, trembling a little. I let her know I had only been doing “something like this” for a little while, so we were almost in the same boat. That flush on her skin was magnetic. It was absolutely mesmerizing to see how she was struggling with what she wanted versus how she felt she must behave. But those masks. I swear, sometimes they bring out the best in people.

As she reached for the champagne, I saw her look down to between my legs. It was very very clear at that point how I felt about being so close to her – those trousers are surprisingly flattering while being revealing at the same time. As she sat back, she somewhat clumsily drew her hand all the way back up my inner thigh, and pressed against the heat she felt there, holding her breath at being so daring, so bold in this room of strangers. I moaned, then. I couldn’t help it. Who could?

That very vocal consent was all the excuse she needed. Within less than a minute she was on her knees between my legs, struggling with the belt of my trousers while looking up at me through that mask with golden fiery eyes. I helped her help me undress, and was instantly rewarded for being such a “hands on host” by feeling her lips push and part over the very sensitive tip of me. I could now see the wisdom of Miss Caroline’s advice. And all I could do was groan even louder as the shy woman with the horns, the kind of woman who thought she would never do such a thing in a “place like this” wrapped one hand around me and started to take me deep into her mouth.

After some time (again, how long is so very very relative) in which my head rolled back and forth and my hips moved in time with her hand rising and falling against my cock, she pulled off, and climbed up the sofa, her hind claws digging into the fabric. I would need to replace the upholstery, for sure, but I didn’t care, because she had turned her back to me, and presented her glorious pussy with her backside lifted up, her head turning back to look in my eyes as her cheeks turned even more red and she begged me to take her just like this. I slid into her from behind and it was the most incredible feeling to have her already starting to clench around me, already trembling from the inside out.

I reached out, and gripped one of those horns sprouting from her head, and pulled back, tentatively at first, to gauge how she might feel about the action, and she went nearly berserk. Bucking back to me and crying out so loudly it seemed like she would shatter the crystal. That was all the encouragement I needed, and so I grabbed onto both her horns for dear life, and arched her spine in just the right way, at just the right angle, so the curve of me could brush against her in just the right moments.

She started to whisper that it was too soon, she didn’t want it so soon. And her whispers started getting louder, more strident, somehow mournful but also desperate as she drove back against me in an almost violent push. Before I could even form the words to ask what she didn’t want so soon she came. Shuddering around my cock, the cream of her dripping down her thigh and mine, gripping the pillow on the couch and nearly ripping it in half as she trembled.

It wasn’t very long after that of course that I reached the edge of my own capabilities to hold on. With her nearly screaming at every thrust back to her, with the feel of her still quivering around my aching cock it was going to happen for me as well, much much sooner than I wanted. When the climax came it shook me almost as much as her orgasm had affected her, and I yelled in surprise and desire and release as I filled this stranger, this shy stranger, with everything I had to give.

Somewhere around me, of course, others were moaning, that familiar woman was taking care of another man while he brought her over the edge himself. By that time I was very, very fuzzy on a lot of details on the periphery. I could put it down to the champagne, or I could put it down to this woman who blushed furiously, who swayed her tail coyly, and yet had just grabbed a strangers cock in the middle of a crowded room and devoured it while aching to be filled. I mean…really it was either or.

When everything was over and done, I had to send Miss Caroline the repair bill for the couch. It probably came out of the expenses for the Hideaway, but I would happily have paid for them out of pocket.

As I picked up the empty glasses, I wondered if I would ever see that shy girl again. While I was pretty sure I could pick her out from a crowd – horns and a tail and a pelt are usually hard to miss. I thought maybe she might never recognize me.

Longing is a powerful aphrodisiac, and I finished cleaning up as fast as I could because I knew I was going to have to take care of myself from thinking about seeing anyone from the event again.

(Hopefully as always, to be continued. The saga of these wonderful walls of the Hideaway is full of moments like this. Why not be a part of them yourself? Follow me on this adventure here, but you can definitely join us – Every Saturday in the witching hour of 1 AM SLT we are making a little magic at Caroline’s Secret Hideaway. Pick yourself up a mask, and while it takes you to our place, hopefully, we’ll be able to take you where you truly want to go.)