In the summer of 2009, one of my college classmates bought a house in the western suburbs of Xi'an and planned to renovate it for marriage. The classmate ran his own company and was busy with business all day, with little time to manage the renovation of the new house, so he asked me to help keep an eye on it. I would go over every few days in my spare time to check on it.
One day at noon it started to drizzle, and I went to a classmate's new home. Around four in the afternoon, just as I walked out of the residential complex gate, I saw her arrive, so I went back with her to take a look. Then her phone rang; a friend was inviting her to dinner for the opening of his company. After she repeatedly invited me, I went along too. After several rounds of drinking, the guests gradually left, leaving only the eight of us men. Someone suggested arranging some activities, and in the end most people agreed to go sing, so we drove to a KTV outside the North Gate.
After everyone drank, their body temperature rose, and someone started saying his wife was pregnant and they hadn't had sex in a long time; others echoed him one after another. They called in the madam, and my friends were quite picky—after changing more than a dozen batches, each of us ended up with a girl sitting beside us.
The girl beside me was called Xiao Li, 22, from Gansu. Her skin was lovely, smooth to the touch, with delicate features, an oval face, small mouth, and large eyes, giving her a pure look. About 160cm tall, with a curvy figure, no excess fat at the waist, well-developed. From chatting, I learned she had been doing this for a while, having chosen this path due to family circumstances.
Friends also connected with the girls around them. A few had already sat on friends' laps, with the friends groping all over, the girls scantily clad, moaning softly. Some were drinking and singing.
About half an hour later, someone put on loud music and the strobe lights kept flashing. Everyone ran to the center to dance, moving in a very suggestive way. Xiaoli pulled me up to dance with her. She twisted in front of me, her breasts swaying up and down. After dancing until we were tired, the music slowed. Xiaoli took my hand and placed it on her waist, and wrapped her arms around my shoulders, resting her head on my shoulder. The thin clothes couldn't block the rubbing of her chest; I felt her nipples slowly harden, soft moans came from her mouth, and her waist kept twisting, pressing against me.
I grew bolder, my hands caressing her body. Her moans quickened, and her body weight gradually leaned onto me. I carried her to the sofa, my hand continuing to tease her lower body, which was already soaked. Her hand also stroked me.
Friends all found places to start. Due to limited sofa space, some were on the coffee table, in the aisle, beside the TV. The room was filled with the smell of alcohol and tobacco, moans rising and falling.
Xiao Li was initially too shy to moan loudly, but the girl beside her was already completely naked, moaning loudly. She proactively unzipped my pants, whispering in my ear that she was so itchy down there, asking me to enter. Seeing that our friends around had already started, I let her get on top herself. She took off her panties and sat down, letting out a comfortable moan. It was very tight down there. I pulled down the straps of her camisole dress, kneading her perky breasts with both hands; her areolas were pink.
While she moved on me, she moaned. The friend beside us was working hard too, and the girl under him was shouting just as loudly. On a whim, I reached over and squeezed the other girl’s breast, and my friend reached over to squeeze Xiao Li’s. They didn’t object, so we grew bolder. I even slapped the other girl’s butt, and she let out a loud cry.
After hearing this, Xiao Li's movements became more intense, her moans rising wave after wave. She said she was tired and asked me to rest for a while. I flipped her over, placed her on the sofa, lifted her legs, and thrust vigorously, reaching deep each time. She moaned wildly, saying I was amazing, that she was going to be fucked to death. Because I had been drinking, I never felt the urge to ejaculate, just kept thrusting continuously.
We went to the toilet, but it was already occupied by classmates. A classmate called out to me, and the four of us went to the big bed inside together. My classmate and I swapped and played. Half an hour later, my classmate finished first, and with the two girls working together, I also came. When we came out, some others had already finished, some were making their final push. We drank some more wine. A friend wanted to go again but was refused. When the girls were almost off work, we also prepared to leave.
It was already 2 a.m. I was single at the time, renting a place in the southern suburbs, and couldn't get in when I returned. I smoked a cigarette by the roadside, waiting for Xiao Li to come out, and told her the situation. She suggested I go to a hotel or an internet cafe, but I had work the next day and didn't have much money on me. She had no choice but to agree to let me stay at her rented place for the night, but demanded that I behave and not mess around.
When we got to the place where she lived, after she changed clothes and took a shower and came out, I had already fallen asleep on the sofa. She told me I had to take a shower before I could sleep. I hurriedly rinsed off and came out, and she was already lying on the bed. I climbed in and said I would only hold her to sleep, and would not do anything she didn't want. We lay there in our underwear, but my hands were not obedient and wandered over her body, making her start soft moaning again, and she also put her hands on me.
In the end, she took off her panties herself, held me in her mouth, and even sat on my face. Under my fingering, her wetness flowed onto my face. This time she was active and uninhibited, igniting my desire. We went at it fiercely for forty minutes. After she climaxed twice, we came together.
Later she said I was very good, and that I could come find her whenever I had time, and she left me her phone number. During that half year, whenever I had time I would go find her. Before the New Year I went back to my hometown to work, and after that we lost contact. I still occasionally think of her now.
During that time, I lived a life like a married couple with a 22-year-old girl, and even now I occasionally think back on it. Life is just like that, things come and go.
The day after coming out of the KTV, I went to work as usual. Sitting in the office, my mind kept flashing back to last night’s scenes: Xiaoli’s slightly furrowed brow as she moved up and down on me, the wet sensation when she took the initiative to sit on my face, and the look of her softly leaning against my chest and catching her breath after I came. At lunch, I took out the number she had left me, hesitated for a long time, and still sent a text: “Thanks for last night. Let’s stay in touch when you have time.”
She replied quickly: “Okay. Let me know when it’s convenient for you.”
On the evening three days later, I took the initiative to ask her out. She told me to go straight to the place she was renting. It was on the third floor of an old building in an urban village, a one-bedroom apartment with a living room, not large but neatly kept. When she opened the door, she was wearing only a loose camisole nightdress, and there was obviously no underwear underneath. Seeing me, she smiled, pulled me inside, and casually locked the door.
“Shower first?” she asked.
I nodded. The bathroom was very small. When the two of us squeezed together under the shower, she actively helped me apply shower gel. Her hand slid from my chest down to my lower abdomen, finally grasping the half-hard place and gently stroking. I couldn't help but turn her around, pressing against her from behind, my hand reaching around to the front to knead her breasts. Her nipples soon hardened, and her body leaned back against me. The hot water poured over us. I slid my fingers between her legs; it was already wet there.
She turned off the water, turned around, stood on tiptoe, and kissed me. We weren’t even wearing clothes, and went straight to the bed. She主动 sat astride me, aligned herself, and slowly lowered down. When it all went in, she let out a long sigh, then began moving on her own. I lay beneath her watching her; her twenty-two-year-old body was firm yet soft, her breasts swaying up and down with her movements, her waist so slim I could almost encircle it with one hand. I reached out to rub her clitoris, and she immediately cried out even more wantonly, her movements quickening too. Not long after, she climaxed, her inner walls contracting in waves, gripping me tightly. I flipped over and pinned her beneath me, lifting her legs and thrusting hard. She gripped the bedsheet with both hands, crying out in broken phrases, calling my name, calling me brother, telling me to use more force. Before I ejaculated, I asked if I could come inside; she nodded and said this month was safe. After I shot everything inside, she clamped her legs shut, not letting the semen leak out, then turned to the side and leaned against me.
That night we did it once more, not sleeping until midnight. The next morning she got up and cooked noodles for me, watching me finish before seeing me downstairs. When we parted, she kissed my cheek and said, 'Next time, tell me earlier, I'll wait for you.'
Over the next half year, I almost went to see her once or twice every week. Sometimes it was at night, sometimes on weekend afternoons. She never asked me too many private questions, and I rarely brought up work. Between us it was more like a fixed transaction with a touch of warmth, yet it seemed to be more than just a simple transaction.
Once I arrived early, and she was still showering. I sat on the bed waiting, heard the water stop, and she came out wrapped in a towel. Seeing me, she directly pulled off the towel, walked over, and straddled my lap. We kissed for a long time; her hair was still dripping, wetting my shirt. I carried her to the bed and entered from behind. She knelt, her butt raised high, each thrust hitting deep. She looked back at me, her gaze seductive and soft, saying she liked being taken from behind, that it could hit the most comfortable spot. I reached around to the front and rubbed her clit; she soon climaxed, her body trembling nonstop, her hole contracting continuously. I didn't stop, kept thrusting until she begged me to cum. After cumming, I didn't pull out immediately, just held her lying on our side in the inserted position, my hand still gently kneading her breast. She leaned against me lazily, saying she was especially tired today and asked me to hold her a while longer.
When winter came, the house she rented had no heating, only air conditioning. Once I went over, and she had already warmed the quilt. We crawled inside, first chatting, talking about the winters in her hometown and the trivial things at my job. As we talked, her hand slid into my pants and took hold of me, stroking me. I pulled down her sleep pants and found she wasn’t wearing any underwear inside. She smiled and said she knew I would come, so she had prepared במיוחד. I asked her to turn around and entered her from the side. This position went in very deep; one of her legs rested on my waist, making it easier for me to thrust. While I was fucking her, she rubbed her own clitoris with her hand and came very quickly. After the orgasm she was still clenching tightly, and I deliberately slowed down, grinding little by little against the deepest part. She couldn’t take it and twisted her waist, begging me to go faster. In the end I came inside her, and she buried her face in the pillow, making a satisfied hum.
During that half year, we almost tried every position she liked. She liked woman on top the most, saying she could control the depth and speed herself; she also liked being held up by me and fucked, her back against the wall, her legs wrapped around my waist. Once she got her period, and we only used hands and mouth. She knelt by the bed and gave me oral, very skilled, using her tongue to circle the glans, and she could deep-throat too. When I ejaculated in her mouth, she swallowed it all, then lifted her head to look at me and smiled, saying the taste wasn’t too bad. I pulled her up and used my fingers and tongue to make her orgasm twice. When she climaxed, she would clamp tightly around my head, her thighs trembling, her love juice wetting my face.
We also occasionally go out to eat. She doesn't like places that are too lively, usually choosing quiet little restaurants. When eating, she'll sit leaning against me, sometimes deliberately stretching her leg over, rubbing her foot against my pant leg. Once after finishing a meal and walking on the road, she suddenly pulled me into a small alley, stood on tiptoe to kiss me, and her hand even grabbed me through my pants. I pressed her against the wall, my hand going under her skirt. She wasn't wearing panties, and she was already wet down there. I fingered her, and she bit my shoulder to keep herself from crying out. Later we didn't go all the way, just used our hands on each other. When she came on my hand, her body went so limp she almost couldn't stand, so I had to hold her until she recovered.
In the blink of an eye, it was just before the Chinese New Year. I had told her in advance about my plan to return to my hometown for work. That night, we made love slowly, as if trying to make up for all the times before. She actively requested internal ejaculation, saying she wanted to leave something inside. After I came, she clamped down, not letting me pull out, and held me for a long time. Later, she got up to shower and came out with slightly red eyes. She didn't mention the separation, just handed me a note with a new phone number, saying if I ever returned to Xi'an, I could call that number.
After returning to my hometown, I occasionally texted her for the first few months. Her replies became slower and slower, and eventually, we gradually lost contact. I changed jobs, moved cities, and life became filled. Those nights in Xi'an gradually turned into scenes I only occasionally recall.
Sometimes when working overtime late, walking on empty streets, I would suddenly remember the sight of her twenty-two-year-old body under the light, the expression on her face when she actively sat on top, the tight clamping force when she climaxed. Those memories have blurred but still carry warmth.
Life is like that. Some people appear at a certain stage, accompany you for a stretch of the road, and then each goes their separate way. No promises, no endings, only some sensations that the body still remembers.
Many years later, I remarried and had a stable life. Occasionally in the quiet of the night, I still think of that girl named Xiaoli, remember the summer of 2009 in Xi'an, and the chaos in the KTV followed by the brief warmth of the next six months.
That was a period of indulgence yet authenticity in my life. Looking back now, I neither regret it nor cling to it. Only occasionally, I let out a soft sigh.
In the first month after returning to my hometown, I almost opened my phone every day to take a look. Xiaoli’s messages were still there, and the last one she sent was: “Remember to say you got home.” I replied, and she quickly sent back an emoji. Over the next few days, I found excuses to message her, asking whether Xi’an was cold and whether she was eating properly. Her replies were brief, but they always carried a soft tone.
Once I worked overtime very late at night, sitting on the steps outside the company building smoking, and suddenly really wanted to hear her voice. I called. The phone rang for a long time before she answered, the background a bit noisy.
“What’s wrong?” her voice was a little hoarse.
“I’m fine, it’s just... I want to hear you talk.”
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the line, followed by a soft laugh: 'Thinking of me so late at night?'
I didn't know how to respond, so I just said work has been busy lately. She listened, occasionally making a sound of acknowledgment. Later, she said she had just finished with a client, was a bit tired, and wanted to sleep early. I quickly apologized and told her to rest. Before hanging up, she suddenly said, 'If you come back, let me know in advance.'
That sentence kept turning over in my mind for several days.
In the second month, contact noticeably decreased. I changed jobs, started adapting to the rhythm of the new city—overtime, social engagements, meeting clients—my days were packed full. Sometimes after a whole week of busyness, I'd realize I hadn't messaged her in a long time. Opening the chat history, I'd find the last conversation was already over ten days ago.
Once when I couldn't sleep in the middle of the night, I dug out a few old photos I'd saved. They were all ones she'd sent me herself—some were selfies of her in a camisole nightgown leaning against the headboard, others were blurry shots only showing her collarbone and shoulders. I stared at them for a long time, my hand unconsciously slipping into my pants. My mind was filled with images of her straddling me, her breasts swaying with the motion, her pussy hot and tight, suddenly clenching during climax, pulling me deeper. When I came, I was still holding onto that image, semen covering my hand.
After cleaning up, I lay in bed, suddenly feeling a bit empty. That emptiness wasn't regret; it was more like a gap left behind after something had been slowly drained away by time.
In the third month, I almost stopped initiating contact. She didn't send any messages either. Once, I got drunk and called her in the middle of the night. It rang for a long time with no answer. Waking up the next day and seeing the missed call reminder, I realized I had done something unnecessary. I deleted the call log, but didn't delete her number along with it.
Later, there was once a business trip back to Xi’an, where I stayed for three days. In the hotel, I repeatedly opened our chat window, typed and deleted, and in the end still did not send it. On the third night I passed by the urban village where she used to live, and stood at the intersection for a while. The building was still there, the lights sparse. I did not go upstairs; I just stood for a while and left.
After returning to the new city, life continued to move forward. I started dating steadily, later got married, and had my own home. My wife was gentle and considerate, and our relationship was very good. I never mentioned that period in Xi'an, and felt there was no need to mention it. That belonged to another stage of myself, and to a short relationship between me and a 22-year-old girl that carried traces of a transaction yet was not entirely a transaction.
But some memories just come up in some inadvertent moment.
For example, once when my wife was away on a business trip, I was home alone and watched an old movie at night. There was a girl in the film whose smile somewhat resembled Xiao Li's. I suddenly remembered how she would slightly bite her lower lip when she climaxed, her eyes half-closed, with faint moans escaping her throat. I remembered how she liked to look back at me when entered from behind, her gaze both seductive and soft. I remembered the sensation when she actively sat on my face, her thighs gently squeezing my head, and her juices flowing down the corner of my mouth.
That night I masturbated for a long time, came twice, my mind full of her. After finishing, I lay in bed smoking. As the smoke dispersed, I suddenly realized very clearly—some bodily memories are more stubborn than emotions.
Many years later, I still occasionally have related dreams. In the dream, we are still in that tiny rented room, the air conditioner humming, she straddles me naked, moving slowly on her own, yet each time sinking to the deepest point. She looks down at me, her hair brushing against my chest, and whispers, 'A little deeper...' I reach out, grip her waist, and thrust upward; she immediately cries out, her inner walls contracting in waves. The dream always ends at the moment of ejaculation, waking to find a small wet patch on the bedsheet in reality.
I never mention these things to anyone. Not even my closest friends know. That half-year feels like a private video sealed away by time, something only I occasionally rewind and replay.
Sometimes I wonder how she has been doing since then. Whether she left that line of work, got married, had children. I have never called that number again, nor have I looked it up. Maintaining this state of not knowing keeps the memory of her forever at twenty-two, in that slightly cold rented room in winter, in those few minutes when she actively kept the semen inside her body, not letting it flow out.
Life pushed us in different directions. I became a middle-aged man with a family; she became a forever young, forever slightly wanton yet gentle shadow in my memory.
Occasionally, late at night when everything is quiet, I let out a soft sigh. Not out of regret, and not because I miss it so much it hurts—just admitting that some of the things my body taught me have already been engraved into instinct. The warmth, taste, and sounds of those nights can still be fully awakened in an instant to this day.
And I, had already learned to coexist peacefully with these awakenings.
No more contact, no more searching, only occasionally allowing myself to reminisce in the dark. Then the next day, getting up as usual, living as usual, being a normal, needed person as usual.
That real period of time was thus neatly placed in the deepest drawer of memory. Open it for a look when needed, then gently close it again after seeing.
And so, enough.
But sometimes the two words “enough” are just consolation spoken to oneself.
After truly closing the drawer, the things inside don't disappear immediately. They will open by themselves at some unexpected moments.
One winter, my wife went back to her parents' home for a few days. I was the only one left at home. At night, after showering, I casually opened the backup folder on my old phone and found a few photos saved from back then. The photos were somewhat blurry and the colors were off, but Xiao Li leaning against the headboard was still clearly visible. The strap of her camisole nightgown had slipped to her elbow, and the small patch of skin below her collarbone was illuminated brightly by the bedside lamp. I stared at it for a long time, my breathing gradually growing heavier.
I zoomed in on the photo, imagining how she took it back then. Probably just after finishing, still sweaty, hair a bit messy, a post-coital laziness in her eyes. I reached into my pajama pants and grasped myself, my mind automatically continuing the scene: she pulled her nightgown off over her head, straddled me naked, aligned herself, and slowly sat down. When fully inserted, she would tremble slightly, then begin rocking her hips back and forth, her breasts swaying gently with the motion. I would rub her nipples with my hands, and she would bite her lower lip and look at me, her eyes soft and seductive.
That night I came thickly, semen splattering onto my lower abdomen. While cleaning up, I suddenly realized very clearly that after all these years, my body's memory of her had hardly faded. That tightness, heat, wetness, and the rhythmic sucking force of her inner walls during climax could still be summoned completely even now.
Later, I deliberately deleted those photos. Before deleting them, I looked at them once more, as if formally saying goodbye. After deleting them, I actually felt even calmer.
But memory will not disappear just because files are deleted.
Another time, my wife and I went traveling out of town and stayed at an old guesthouse. The room was small, the air conditioner was loud, and the bed was hard. That night, when we made love, my wife took the initiative to climb on top, her movements a little stiff. For some reason, Xiao Li’s image suddenly flashed through my mind. Whenever she climbed on top, she never hesitated; she would use her hand to guide my thing into place, slowly sit down, and after sitting all the way down would deliberately clamp tight, look into my eyes, and ask, “Deep?”
In that moment, I felt somewhat dazed, my movements pausing briefly. My wife thought I was tired and asked softly what was wrong. Coming back to my senses, I pulled her down for a kiss, using more forceful thrusts to push back the images that had suddenly flooded my mind. Afterwards, my wife fell asleep against my chest, but I stared at the ceiling for a long time, unable to close my eyes.
I never felt sorry for my wife. That half-year with Xiaoli, from the very beginning, had no promises and no future. It was more like a physically transactional relationship that was allowed to exist, yet slowly grew something indescribable through repeated embraces and ejaculations. That something, after parting, neither fermented into love nor completely dissipated; it just settled into an instinctive reaction within my body.
Some nights I actively recall.
I remember those days when she was on her period, we only used our mouths and hands. She knelt by the bed, took me in, her tongue灵活地绕着龟头转, occasionally lifting her eyes to look at me. When I came in her mouth, she would swallow it all, then stick out her tongue to show me, smiling and saying 'ate it all.' I carried her to the bed and used my fingers and tongue to bring her to climax twice. When she climaxed, she would tightly clamp my head, the muscles on her inner thighs抽搐,淫水弄得我下巴全是.
I also think of that winter once. The house was cold, and we crawled under the blankets. She had her back to me, letting me enter from behind. It went in very deep, and each thrust could reach the very innermost part. She buried her face in the pillow, her voice muffled, but she was wildly wanton. Before I ejaculated, I asked if she wanted me to pull out. She shook her head and said she wanted me to cum inside. After I came, she kept it in with her legs and stopped it from leaking out, then turned to kiss me; her tongue was soft, carrying the languidness after sex.
These images in my memory no longer have a chronological order; they suddenly pop up, complete and vivid, carrying the temperature and scent of that time.
I've already learned not to resist.
When they appear, I let them appear. Sometimes I masturbate once, sometimes I just quietly watch them play out in my mind, then continue with what I was doing. No more guilt, no more trying to analyze what it all means.
It is simply a period of time that happened, was real, and that the body still remembers to this day.
Just leaving it like this is already enough.
Occasionally, on a completely quiet late night, I still let out a soft sigh.
That tone held no regret, no obsession, just acknowledgment—some people teach you not just how to climax, but also how to neatly tuck a relationship without an ending into the deepest part of your memory after the climax. And then keep moving forward.
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