Many years ago I had an affair with a beautiful Chinese woman, an affair that started at work when she briefly did some clerical work for us while taking her professional exams. Because I was still married, and not always available to her, and she was a young woman with needs, she reasoned that it was fair that she should be allowed to sleep with whoever she wanted to.
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And she did.
She told me about the old friend who came into the country for a wedding and came round to her flat for coffee, to be greeted unaccountably by her in a bikini, and coffee turned into a massage (something he was professionally qualified to administer), which turned into a sudden and unexpected kiss, which turned into her suddenly throwing caution to the winds and riding his hard cock, pausing only to suck it with shameless eye contact. She told me about how he came back, a few days later, and this time there was no hesitation, no preamble and he fucked her on the kitchen floor. She boasted about his amazing abilities with his tongue, about how she bit her arm, drawing blood, to avoid screaming the block down.
She told me about how she had a knock at the door one evening just after she’d gone to bed, to find on her doorstep a young guy who had come down from the party upstairs, having been told by her neighbour that there was a single woman on the ground floor who was very into younger men. And despite being in her dressing gown, and it being a work night and after midnight, she took him in, let him undress her, exulted in his obvious delight at her slender body and pert breasts and then gave him an expert sloppy hand job with lots of spit which ended quickly with him losing control and cumming on her breasts before she sent him back off to the party.
She told me about the Greek guy with the huge cock she picked up at a party. About how she offered him a chance to crash at her place, and managed to keep this pretence up until they were waiting for a taxi, at which point she demonstrated very directly that he wasn’t going to have to sleep on the couch. About how the taxi driver barely avoided seeing her completely naked, so fast and far did they progress on the journey. About all the different positions he fucked her in, starting as soon as the door to her flat slammed behind them. About how she BEGGED him to put her flat on her stomach and fuck her hard like that. About how they fucked, sucked and licked all the way until dawn. Even after she had confessed this, she still fucked him twice more, including one occasion when she expressed reluctance, starting to feel guilty about me, but then “remembered how big his cock was” and fucked him in the bath, in the bedroom, during the night and again the next morning.
She told me about the young Brazilian motorcyclist from her dance class, with whom first she only flirted, teasing me with stories about how handsome he was, how cute his accent was, how all her friends were calling her a cougar. And eventually, when she’d had all the value out of teasing me like that, one evening she texted me that she was in a taxi on her way to his flat, at 9pm, to “drink wine and chill out”, which of course turned out to be a euphemism for “take this inexperienced 26 year-old and show him what a woman needs”. She fucked him all night, too, and because she’d told me in advance, I lay in bed on the other side of town, my cock in my hand, and jerked off three times during a completely sleepless night. She taught him a few things during his last few weeks in the country.
She told me about the guy from the office who she fucked. The cocky, swaggering young guy who just bowled up to her desk and asked her out, and she hated him, hated how self-assured he was, and all evening she listened to him talking about his career, his academic achievements, never once asking her about her own life, and she hated it all so much that she fucked him in a quiet lane close the the colleges of our university town. She told me about how his hands roughly pinned her wrists at her side as her entered her, standing. His hot breath at her neck; despite herself, whispering in his ear: “yes, that’s it… fuck me, fuck me deep. You’re so much bigger than my boyfriend.” This continued for a month, during which time I would regularly see him go past her desk, smirking, on his way to the deserted upper floor of the office, and I would see her hesitate maybe 30 seconds before following him in a manner that would be perhaps subtle to anyone not in the know, but to me could not have been more obvious had she exited already naked. And they would return, ten to twenty minutes later, her clothing disturbed, his smirk even larger. And she would text me: “just got fucked – his cum is still inside me.”
She told me about the young foreign bus driver who went out of his way to drop her off right outside her door during a torrential rainstorm, and about how she, in a moment of complete abandon, gave him her card (she was a physio) and invited him to call her if he needed treatment. Of course, he did, and she treated him at her flat, and at the conclusion of the treatment, which had been performed with perfect professionalism, there was just a beat of hesitation at the front door, a moment when it could have gone either way, but as ever she followed her instincts, gave him a gentle kiss, which turned into a very ungentle kiss, which turned very quickly into the hurried removal of clothing, which turned into her being on all fours on her bed, exposing her swollen, glistening vulva to a man who just three minutes earlier had been about to walk out of her life.
She told me about the Italian she met while on a group trip to the country, who acted as an informal guide for her and her friends, and about how on the last night, with the sexual tension having simmered the entire weekend, she slipped off to his flat late at night and demonstrated how grateful she was for his help by fellating him until he filled her mouth.
She would tell me these tales with a certain amount of relish, usually while I was inside her or just before. Occasionally she would tell them in public, enjoying the way I squirmed, unable to do anything about it. It was remarkable how many of these men had big, thick, rock-hard cocks. How many of them fucked her harder than I’d ever done, better than I’d ever done, deeper. How they made her cum in a way that I never could. While I was inside her, she would often close her eyes, and I knew she was fantasizing about them. Sometimes she would “accidentally” call me by their names. She would tell me her plans for the weekend as I fucked her. “I need to get fucked properly,” she would say, pretending to be oblivious to my discomfort.
And most of all, best of all/worst of all, about the personal trainer who she met at a wedding, the gentleman who asked for her number, and then three days later met her for coffee which quickly turned into “why don’t we got to my flat and watch a movie?“, which before the opening credits had finished turned into her on her knees in front of him, taking out his epically proportioned cock and sucking it again and again until he stripped completely to reveal his perfect body and fucked her raw, making her cum more than any man before or since. And it was him to whom I lost her, as she moved in with him in complete sexual bliss, occasionally still texting me with details. I still have a photo of them at some event, his arm around her, a full foot taller than her and overall surely twice her size. Occasionally I look at it while I masturbate, and imagine her pinned under him, fighting helplessly against his unmovable frame, cumming and cumming like she’s never done before.