Zita, whose first love I was, had always been what you’d call every man’s type. Tall — 174 cm — with straight blonde hair reaching the middle of her back, slim but athletic, with skin like porcelain. She was the kind of beauty men notice, but women don’t hate. Not untouchable. Not haughty. Just… magnetic. Her deep blue eyes were curious, always searching, scanning, asking. The kind of gaze that makes you lose your mind a little every time she looks at you.
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As if that weren’t enough, everything about her — every gesture, every movement — radiated a quiet, generational wealth. She came from a prominent family of rural lawyers, and she was spending her final summer before university with me at her father’s lake house somewhere in Europe.
The house itself was modest, but it served its purpose. We devoured each other. And I devoured her. I naïvely thought I was good at what I was doing with her, but what could I possibly have known at twenty-two? She already had older, more serious men interested in her — the kind who understood things I didn’t even know I didn’t know.
At one day during our stay, when we get a little bored, we decided to head into the nearby lakeside resort town for some late-afternoon cocktails. The plan was simple: have a few drinks, take a cab back, and pick up the car the next day when we went swimming. I won’t name the town, since it would make identifying the people involved far too easy, but suffice it to say: in the summer, it’s home to more than a few successful individuals.
Zita wore white shorts, a crisp white shirt, and wedge heels — classic summer attire.
Nothing vulgar. The kind of outfit that turned heads, yes, but with elegance. Needless to say, the moment we walked into the bar, nearly every man (and woman) turned to look at her. And, of course, at me too — trying to figure out who I was, what I was doing with her.
Zita acted as if she didn’t notice a thing, as always.
I ordered our drinks, and that’s when the first little twist hit: Zita had forgotten her sunglasses back at our house. It wasn’t a huge deal, but knowing how sunlight could bother her, I offered to go back and grab them. It was just a ten-minute drive.
Zita reacted with pure delight — she kissed me long and deep, the kind of kiss people rarely give each other in public. Maybe we were still young enough for it not to feel scandalous. Still, I caught a few stares.
"Enjoy the sun — and your corpse reviver
"I will. Hurry back."
I guess I didn’t hurry fast enough. By the time I returned, Zita was no longer sitting alone.
In my place was a well-dressed, sun-kissed, lean gentleman, somewhere between fifty and sixty — though later I’d learn he was exactly sixty. He didn’t look it.
As I approached, Zita caught my uneasy expression. She waved to a waiter and asked for another chair — for me. That was… not exactly the solution I desired. I sat. She introduced us.
His name was Ferdinand. He’d been a partner at her father’s law firm and had known Zita since childhood — though, he added, he hadn’t seen her in years, only in photos. He claimed he just wanted to say hello.
I was naïve. That “hello” quickly became another round of drinks. They both tried to include me in the conversation, politely — but it wasn’t easy. Ferdinand entertained her with old stories from the firm, from the days he worked alongside her father. And Zita was fully engaged. As the drinks kept coming, so did her laughter. Her attention. Her curiosity. He asked about her studies. The mood grew warmer. I began to feel… displaced.
Soon she stopped trying to include me. Her body angled toward him. Her gaze stayed locked on him. She was smiling, playing with her hair, and shifting her legs every minute or so — sometimes dramatically crossing them, sometimes keeping them pressed tightly together.
It was clear I wasn’t part of this conversation anymore. And while I kept telling myself Ferdinand was harmless — far too old to be anything more than a family friend — the third round of drinks made me start to question that.
At some point, nature called, and I stepped away to use the restroom. And it was on the way back that I had my first little heart attack. As I walked back toward the table, I saw it.
Ferdinand’s hand was resting on Zita’s thigh. Not by accident. Not a brush, not a gentleman’s reassuring pat. His palm was planted there, firm, familiar — fingers curved just enough to say: mine, for the moment.
And Zita… wasn’t pushing him away. She wasn’t even pretending to be uncomfortable. She was smiling. Still flushed from the drinks, a light sheen of sweat now on her neck and forehead.
As I got closer, Ferdinand removed his hand — smoothly, casually — as if he’d just remembered his manners. But the spot where it had been was telling. Not near her knee. Much higher. Very close to her shorts, and what was beneath them.
I couldn’t tell whether the redness on Zita’s face came from the alcohol or from his touch. Maybe both. And yes — maybe this was still the point where I could have walked away. Said something. Stood up for myself. But I didn’t.
Why? Maybe I was curious. Maybe I wanted to see how far this would go. Maybe I still trusted Zita completely, believed she’d shut it down if she needed to.
Or maybe it was the very faint tingling I started to feel in my own body — unexpected, unfamiliar, but not entirely unwelcome.
One time, Ferdinand played his hand:
“What if we moved the evening to my place? My summer house is ten minutes from here, and I could offer you much better drinks.”
Before I could say a word, Zita accepted the invitation with a huge smile, not even giving me the chance to protest. By the time I realized what was happening, I was already trying not to lose them in the crowd, following behind — stunned — as I saw Zita casually slip her arm into Ferdinand’s.
I won’t lie, there was a second jolt of something — not entirely unpleasant. Zita, in her all-white outfit, with that youthful glow, looked… incredible beside him. In that moment, an outsider would’ve seen them as a couple.
Then Ferdinand, in a move that was subtle only to anyone but me, slid his hand across her ass. And somehow — maybe thanks to the drinks — even this fucked-up situation started to feel weirdly natural.
The house exceeded all imagination. A vast living room, a view opening onto the lake — it was hard to tell where the interior ended and the terrace began. Ferdinand greeted us with a strong gin and tonic, along with some Colombian coffee — a wise choice, considering the strength of the drinks, though neither Zita nor I had tried cocaine yet. As usual, my objections held no sway: Zita already sniffed a full line of it that would’ve benched Uma Thurman herself, and within minutes, the conversation took an unexpected turn.
Ferdinand started asking about us — how long we’d been together, when we started having sex, how often we do it, what our favorites were. By this time, Zita was practically laying next to Ferdinand, her legs in widgets rested on his lap, drawing lines of cocaine from him every few minutes, while I remained on the opposite couch, watching.
We answered. Told him that we were each other’s firsts, and that we'd been sexually active for about six months by that summer. We even described the choreography: I’d go down on Zita for a few minutes, then put on a condom and I usually fuck her missionary-style for five to ten minutes until I came, followed by cuddling.
Why did we tell him all this? Maybe the coke, maybe the power of suggestion in his voice.
We’d never even discussed favorites with each other before, so that part was… enlightening.
Zita revealed that she found it incredibly arousing to have sex while fully clothed — or nearly so — I didn’t know this until, so I always managed to strip her before having sex.
I confessed that I found it hottest when my partner wore high heels and never took them off, not even in bed.
Ferdinand then responded:
"Lucky you, those two fantasies are easily compatible."
Then he asked us to follow him.
"This is my daughter Rebeka’s bedroom. She’s 32, but her size and shape is about like yours dear" As he said this, Ferdinand stepped behind Zita. One hand grabbed her tits, hard and full, the other clutched her ass. The movements were rough, firm — but exactly on point. Controlled. Measured. He knew what he was doing. And he made sure Zita was watching herself the whole time in the mirror. I saw it too — the same mirror showed me everything. My little girlfriend looked like she was about to pass out. Her face was deep red, her legs unsteady, her mouth slightly open.
And I swear — for a split second — I saw her come. Just a little. But it was real.
"She’s not here now, barely ever visits her daddy’s lake house anymore, but she’s left plenty of outfits behind — evening dresses, cocktail dresses, shoes. Pick anything you like for your little girlfriend, said to me. It’s getting dark, so white is not an option"
But it was his last sentence that really landed the blow:
"Besides," he added, "you’re not going to fuck your girlfriend tonight in those shorts anyway. And I will watch closely — every second — as you take her right here on this couch, fully dressed, with my daugters heels on her."
My heart pounded in my throat; Zita, all fire and mischief, smiled with her whole body, biting at her lips like it was the only thing keeping her from exploding. Obeying the command, I picked out a little cocktail dress — black, knee-length. From the front, it revealed absolutely nothing, the neckline went all the way up; but from the back, it seemed to reveal nearly everything, plunging down to the base of her spine, almost to her buttocks. Then came the choice of shoes. After a bit of deliberation, my eyes settled on the nude Louboutins with the iconic burning red soles — though it was obvious from their condition that their original owner, Ferdinand’s daughter, Rebeka had already lived through a few wild nights in them.
By this point, the alcohol and cocaine had loosened my reservations, and despite Ferdinand’s earlier reasoning, I already knew that i am no longer choosing what my sweet little girlfriend (my imagined future wife) will be wearing while i’ll having sex with her on some stranger’s leather couch. No. At that time of the evening I was perfectly aware that I am carefully choosing the outfit in which this old stranger would fuck my sweet little girlfriend tonight — maybe more than once — in ways only God knows, perhaps even in the ways Zita had always so fiercely resisted (of course — she was eighteen).
If I was lucky, I might get to watch; if not, I’d just have to imagine it from the other room.
The knowledge that these clothes belonged to Ferdinand’s 32-year-old daughter (Rebeka) — a woman far older than my love — weighed on my stomach like bags of lead, and it felt as if some invisible vice had clamped down on my testicles. I was almost certain that if I reached down to touch myself, I would find nothing — every part of my dick had already retreated somewhere into my gut.
"Dress her."
And I obeyed.
After helping Zita into the cocktail dress, I knelt in front of her and slipped the Louboutins onto her feet — first the left, then the right. The sight was otherworldly. I had never seen my girlfriend in anything like this. She was the queen of the night. She glanced at herself in the mirror — and perhaps it was in that moment she understood: her girlhood was over. She had become, irreversibly, a woman — with all the privileges that came with it.
We returned to the living room. Ferdinand offered us both a line of cocaine. Then he asked Zita to dance.
Watching her — the girl I had first fallen in love with — in another man’s arms, like that, was unreal. Somewhere deep inside, I knew: this battle was already lost. Zita had forgotten I was even there.
But Ferdinand granted me one last chance.
"Dance with your girlfriend."
So we danced.
"Good. Now I want to see you kiss her."
I kissed Zita.
But it wasn’t like the kiss she had given me that afternoon. Her lips remained closed — soft, unmoving. At best, it was a polite kiss on the mouth between old friends.
Okey. Its Boring. Let me show you.
In the next moment, he grabbed Zita’s ass, pulled her close, and kissed her deeply. Her reaction to him was entirely different. I could almost see her taking Ferdinand into her whole body, melting in his arms. His hand slid upward, and although the fabric still covered her, Zita welcomed his fingers eagerly — then, as she kissed him back with equal intensity, she let him know with the rhythmic sway of her hips and soft moans that tonight she was saying yes to everything. She didn’t care that her boyfriend was awkwardly sitting right beside them.
Meanwhile, Ferdinand firmly pushed Zita down to her knees in front of me, then ordered me to pull down my pants and have my girlfriend suck me off. As I’ve said, the mix of coke, alcohol, and the heavy anxiety sitting in my gut had rendered my manhood utterly useless for anything involving my girlfriend. I had quite literally never seen myself that small and helpless — barely even visible through the pubic hair.
At the same time, Ferdinand dropped his pants too. His cock was similar in length to mine, maybe a bit thicker, but fully ready for battle — hard, veined, and sun-kissed like the rest of him. He began slapping it playfully against Zita’s ear. Zita, with a polite gesture but a faintly bored expression, took me in her mouth — not that it made me any bigger. If anything, the contrast between my limp cock and Ferdinand’s powerful erection was growing more grotesque by the second.
I don’t know, maybe he’d taken Viagra while I wasn’t looking. But the only thought spinning through my head was that the gentle flicks of Zita’s tongue, with which she was trying to revive me despite her lack of enthusiasm, would soon be lavished on my rival’s cock instead.
A few seconds later, Zita gave up her efforts. She let my cock slip from her mouth, then turned and opened her lips in front of Ferdinand’s dick. She looked straight into my eyes—deeply, couriously, and deliberately stopped for a moment as she was wating for me for somekind of answer.
„Please no honey. Please No – I whispered.
The next moment, she took the head of his cock into her mouth—only the tip, because that was all that could fit—then winked at me and, giggling, flipped me off with her middle finger.
The next ten minutes—though it could just as well have been an hour—I sat frozen, staring as Zita knelt on the carpet before Ferdinand, sucking him rhythmically to the beat of the Latin music playing softly in the background. Every now and then, she’d glance my way with a look of amused contempt, as if to remind me my place tonight.
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