She answered the door in a long black silk robe. No bra. No shame. Just elegance wrapped in temptation.
“Please,” she said softly, “come in.”
I’d met her through a friend—a last-minute dinner guest, nothing more. I wasn’t expecting a woman like her. Mid-40s, Japanese, graceful in a way that made you feel clumsy just standing next to her. She walked like the floor was sacred. Hair pinned up. Red lips painted with intention. And eyes that held more experience than I could imagine.
I was 26. Blonde. Big. Gym-built MMA trained. Nothing refined—just raw, respectful, and maybe a little curious.
She poured wine with steady hands. Sat across from me with one leg crossed over the other, robe sliding just enough to show the soft, toned curve of her thigh. She asked questions with interest. Listened without interrupting. When she laughed, it was soft and sudden—like something she forgot she still knew how to do.
I caught her watching me. My chest. My arms. The way I gripped the glass. She didn’t stare. But she looked long enough to let me know.
And then she said it.
“You’re very... strong.”
I smiled. “And you’re very beautiful.”
She held my gaze. Sipped her wine. Then stood.
“Come,” she said. “Let me show you something.”
I followed her down a hallway lined with paper lanterns and calligraphy. She opened a door to a minimalist bedroom—tatami mat floors, soft lighting, and a low bed draped in ivory silk.
She turned to face me. Let the robe slip off her shoulders.
It hit the floor without a sound.
Her skin was flawless. Her breasts full, nipples already tight. Her hips—perfect. She stood there, naked, calm, waiting.
I stepped forward. Put my hands on her waist.
“You’re shaking,” I whispered.
“I haven’t done this in a long time,” she admitted.
I kissed her gently. Tasted wine and breath and something sweet I couldn’t name. I lifted her—slow, steady—and laid her on the silk sheets like something fragile and sacred.
She let out the softest gasp as my mouth touched her collarbone.
I took my time. Worshipped her neck, her chest, her stomach. I kissed the inside of her thighs until her legs trembled. Her hands gripped the sheets. Her breath hitched with every inch I moved lower.
She moaned my name the first time I slipped my tongue inside her.
“G-god,” she whispered. “Please…”
I teased her. Let her ride the edge, hips twitching, legs clenching around my shoulders. She came hard, quiet at first—then louder. More open. Her voice cracked as her body gave in.
And then I gave her all of me.
I slid in slow. Her eyes rolled back. She arched her back, breasts rising toward me as I filled her inch by inch. My body hovered over hers, muscles flexing, holding back the urge to ravage.
But she looked up at me with begging eyes and whispered:
“Don’t be gentle.”
So I wasn't.
I pinned her wrists above her head. Thrust deep. Her soft cries turned into whimpers. Her thighs wrapped tight around my waist as I drove into her, hips slamming against silk, her wet heat pulling me in deeper each time.
She came again. And again. I felt her body convulse beneath mine—each orgasm stealing the strength from her limbs.
When I finally let go, I held her face in both hands and kissed her as I came inside her. Slow. Deep. Satisfying.
She sighed against my mouth. A trembling, beautiful sound.
We laid there after, skin to skin, silk tangled around our bodies.
“You’re still shaking,” I said.
She laughed. Whispered, “That’s not going away for a while.”