I never thought I’d confess this, but that night changed everything. My name is Aiko, a 28-year-old office worker in Tokyo, with a body that’s always drawn admiring glances—curves that sway gracefully, skin as smooth as silk, full breasts that stand firm with pale pink areolas, and down below, plump labia that hide a tight, warm passage. It was a humid summer evening when I met him, Jake, a tall American businessman with muscles like a Greek god, his presence both intimidating and intoxicating.
Our eyes locked in a crowded izakaya. His gaze was hungry, tracing my figure under the dim lights. We talked, laughed, and before I knew it, we were stumbling into my small apartment. The air was thick with anticipation, scented with the faint cherry blossom perfume I wore and his musky cologne. He pulled me close, his large hands roaming over my blouse, feeling the heat of my skin. I confessed my desires in whispers, ‘I’ve never been with someone like you.’
He kissed me deeply, his tongue tasting of whiskey and salt, exploring my mouth as I melted. His fingers unbuttoned my shirt, exposing my breasts. The visual of my nipples hardening under his stare, the touch of his rough palms cupping them, sending shivers. He sucked on one, the wet warmth of his mouth, the gentle bite—salty-sweet on my tongue when I kissed him after. My hand found his bulge, feeling the throbbing length through his pants.
I undressed him, revealing his cock—thick, veined, the purple-red head swollen and glistening with pre-cum. The scent of his arousal mixed with mine, a heady musk. He laid me on the bed, spreading my legs. His fingers parted my labia, exposing my tender clit, swollen and pink. He licked, the taste of my salty-sweet nectar on his lips as he delved deeper, his tongue flicking the folds, making wet slurping sounds echo in the room.
For our first union, he positioned me on all fours. His cock teased my entrance, the head rubbing against my slick folds. Slowly, he pushed in—the initial stretch, my tight walls yielding, wrapping him in wet heat. Inch by inch, the friction of his veined shaft against my inner pleats, until he bottomed out, his tip kissing my cervix. The sensation was exquisite, like being filled completely, our bodies merging.
He thrust rhythmically, the slap of skin on skin, my moans growing louder, breathy gasps. The scent of sweat and sex filled the air. As climax built, my breathing quickened, vagina walls fluttering lightly, more juices coating him. Then the peak—my body shook violently, walls clenching like a fist around his cock, squirting fluids in waves, a scream escaping my lips as muscles tensed then released in bliss. In the afterglow, my passage pulsed gently, our mixed essences warm and sticky, a soul-deep satisfaction as he held me.
We cuddled, whispering confessions of hidden fantasies. ‘I want to ride you,’ I admitted boldly. For the second time, I straddled him, guiding his still-hard cock into me. The descent was slow, feeling every ridge enter my depths, my full breasts bouncing with each rock. His hands gripped my hips, the touch firm yet tender. The rhythm built—slow grinds to frantic bucks, the wet sounds of our union, his grunts mixing with my whimpers.
High tide approached again: breaths ragged, my clit grinding against his base, inner walls spasming prelude. Ecstasy hit—tremors wracking me, fierce contractions milking him, a gush of warmth, cries of release, then the languid pulses, our scents mingling in the humid air, bodies entwined in euphoric haze.
Needing refreshment, we moved to the bathroom. Under the shower, water cascaded over us, highlighting my curves in the steam, droplets tracing my skin. He pressed me against the wall from behind, his cock sliding in easily now, the water adding slickness. The insertion was swift, deep, hitting that spot, the echo of wet slaps louder in the tiled space.
Thrusts varied—slow and teasing, then pounding. I confessed, ‘Take me harder,’ and he did. The build-up: increasing wetness, breaths hitching, walls quivering. Climax exploded—shudders, tight squeezes expelling him almost, floods of liquid mixing with water, a muffled scream against the wall, followed by soothing throbs, the warmth of his seed inside me as he joined.
Back in the bedroom, dried and heated anew, we confessed more—my desire for dominance. He lightly bound my wrists with a scarf, a playful force. On the floor, he entered missionary style, my legs wrapped around him. The deep penetration, his weight pressing, the visual of his muscles flexing, the taste of sweat as I licked his neck.
Pumping steady, then frantic, our dialogues laced with passion: ‘Confess how much you need this.’ ‘I do, so much.’ High point: prelude tremors, then volcanic release—body arching, vaginal grip ironclad, squirting ecstasy, wails, then melting into pulsing aftershocks, mingled fluids a testament to our union.
Finally, in the living room on the sofa, we ended with a cooperative embrace. Side by side, he entered from the side, slow and intimate. The fusion was profound, his cock delving to my core, even feeling like it breached into my womb’s embrace. Whispers of confessions, senses overwhelmed.
The last climax built mutually: shared breaths, synchronized spasms, peaking in harmonious shudders, contractions drawing out his release, a symphony of moans, tastes, scents, and touches fading into exhausted bliss. As dawn broke, we parted, but the memories linger in my confessions.
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