Matched online one restless night. An older woman, bold curves, eyes that promised filth. The messages turned explicit within minutes. No small talk. An address. A time. A warning I wouldn’t leave the same.

Her place smelled of wine, candles, and wet skin. A silk robe clung to her body, nipples hard beneath it. No words. Just a hungry kiss, teeth on lips, hands clawing clothes away. Skin met skin, heat rising, pulse pounding.

She pushed me down. The taste of her hit instantly — sweet, slick, warm. Tongue buried deep, lips locking around her clit. Her grip in my hair tightened as she rocked against my face, moaning loud, cursing, thighs trembling. She came hard, grinding down, wetness coating my chin.

She didn’t give me a second to breathe. Climbed on top, grabbed my cock, slid down in one slow, perfect stroke. Hot, tight, soaked. Her hips rolled, teasing me with every movement, milking every inch. Nails dragged down my chest, teeth found my neck.

She set the pace, riding faster, slamming down hard, wet sounds filling the room. A hand around my throat, squeezing just enough to make my heart race and cock throb. She came again, clenching around me, pulling me over the edge.

But it wasn’t just the orgasm. It was what she unlocked.

She showed me things I didn’t know I craved. Made me ache for submission, for hunger without hesitation. That night didn’t just ruin me — it rewired me. And I haven’t fucked the same since.