It all has to start with that little unspeakable fetish of mine.
After being with each woman for a long time, simply having sex wasn't enough for me anymore. I started to enjoy forcing her to talk about her past while doing it. It wasn't jealousy; it actually made me hard. The more detailed the questions, the more ashamed she felt, and the more excited I became. Unfortunately, when I was with her before, she had hardly dated at all. No matter how much I asked, it only came down to kissing, touching breasts, and mutual hand stuff. After a while, it became boring.
Until we had a breakup once.
It had probably been about two months since we split up. During that time, I actually found someone else, and she probably wasn’t idle either. Later, both of us felt that the other person was still more suitable, so we got back together. The first time we slept together after getting back together was in her rented little apartment. That night we did it for a long time, from the living room to the bed, changing positions several times. She came twice before I ejaculated.
After finishing, we lay side by side. The curtains weren't fully closed, the streetlight outside shone through the gap,刚好 landing on her sweat-dampened collarbone. I reached down,揉着她 still sensitive clitoris不紧不慢地, and asked casually:
“During these two months apart, have you been fooling around with someone else behind my back?”
She had been lying with her eyes closed, enjoying the afterglow. Hearing this, she let out a soft hum, replying with a hint of a nasal tone: 'You guess.'
I quickened the pace of my fingers, while my other hand pinched her nipple, and I said unhurriedly, 'That person who kept commenting on your Renren profile—you've gone out with them, haven't you?'
Her body visibly stiffened for a moment, then softened again. Probably knowing she couldn't hide it, she admitted directly: 'I went.'
“What did you do?”
She didn't answer right away, just spread her legs a little wider, her buttocks subtly pushing towards my fingers. I deliberately slowed down, threatening her: 'If you don't tell me, I'll stop.'
This move worked particularly well on her. She immediately reached out and pressed my wrist, her voice soft and urgent: 'Don't stop... he's touching me.'
“Touch where?”
“Both upstairs... and downstairs have been touched...”
“Did you touch him?”
“Mm…”
“Then did he put it in you?”
“No…”
I don't press further about why. Instead, I flip her whole body over, making her lie on top of me, my fingers continuing to circle below. She soon reaches another small climax, her body trembling slightly. After she recovers a bit, I officially begin the 'interrogation.'
That guy was actually quite ordinary, decent-looking, but very direct in his speech. During the breakup period, she would occasionally reply to him a few times on Renren, and later the chat content became increasingly explicit. When he returned to Beijing on holiday, he asked her out for a meal. She was feeling empty at the time, and since he wasn't unpleasant to look at, she agreed.
After the dinner ended, he suggested finding a place to sit. The two of them went into an UBC Coffee, and he directly asked for a private room. Not long after sitting down, he moved next to her and began testing the waters with words. She was wearing stockings that day, as she often did even in summer. He started talking about the stockings, and his hand unconsciously rested on her leg.
She said she wasn't really disgusted at the time. After two months apart, her body was indeed lonely. His hand slowly moved from the outside of her thigh to the inside; she didn't stop him. Then he held her and kissed her directly. She struggled a bit but didn't really push him away. His hand slipped under the hem of her clothes, unhooked her bra, and his palm pressed against her breast.
“Were you wet at the time?” I asked as I lifted one of her legs and inserted it again.
She bit her lip and nodded, her voice halting: “Wet... my panties and stockings are soaked...”
He made her straddle his lap, his hands moving up from her thighs to rub her through her stockings. She didn’t know where to put her hands, and in the end rested them on his already hardened shaft, rubbing it through his pants. Not long after, he pulled his pants down a bit, took it out, and held her hand so she could touch it directly.
She said that thing was a bit thicker than mine, and holding it, she could feel distinct heat. He had her turn to face him and used that thing to rub against her clit and labia over her stockings. At first, she just endured it, but later she started grinding her hips on her own, actively moving back and forth.
“What did it feel like when it was rubbing against you?” I deliberately slowed the thrusting speed, forcing her to make herself clear.
Her eyes were already slightly unfocused, but she still answered honestly: 'It feels especially good... more stimulating than using my own hand... My mind went completely blank at the time, I just wanted him to keep going...'
She just held his neck like that, moving her hips on her own, rubbing her stockings until they were wet and hot. About five minutes later she climaxed, her whole body going limp in his arms. After the orgasm, desire quickly ebbed away; she got off him and sat beside him helping him with her hand. He wanted her to use her mouth, and she didn’t refuse either, lowering her head to take him in and lick for a while. But he still didn’t cum, and her hand ached and her mouth was sore, so she stopped.
Only then did he bring up getting a room. She had already lost much interest and refused on the excuse that “it’s not quite good to do this on the first meeting.” The two parted unhappily.
After returning home, that man was still sending explicit messages on WeChat. She replied while thinking about the scene just now and fingered herself. She said the bedsheets were soaked in a large area that night, and later she simply went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet, listening to the sound of water dripping into it, and brought herself to another climax.
By the time I got to this part of the story, I was completely hard. I flipped her over onto her knees and thrust into her from behind, each stroke hitting the deepest point. I fucked her so hard she kept crawling forward, and I kept pulling her back.
“From now on, every time we make love, tell me this story.” I said, biting her ear.
She nodded, her voice choked with sobs and pleasure: 'Okay... I'll tell... Be gentle... It's too deep...'
From that day on, this experience became a fixed aphrodisiac routine between us.
Sometimes during foreplay, I have her kneel and give me oral, while describing in detail how his hands touched her that day, how he unfastened her bra; sometimes when she's on the edge of climax, I deliberately stop, forcing her to recount every action from the café private room again; sometimes after we finish, while she's still panting, I already start asking for details of the next round—whether he touched the entrance when he rubbed against her, whether she wanted him to enter directly, whether when she masturbated at home she thought of his face or his thing.
She spoke in increasing detail and grew more uninhibited. Once, she volunteered that if he had persisted a bit more that day, or simply pressed her onto the sofa, she might have agreed to get a room. After saying this, she buried her face in the pillow out of shyness, while I became so aroused that I immediately got hard again, pulled her up, and did it once more.
Later, we even did role-play. I would have her put on stockings, imitate that day’s posture and straddle my legs, rubbing against me through the fabric. While rubbing, she would say in a narrative tone, “That’s exactly how he was at the time......”, and when she got aroused, she would go first herself. Then I would tear open a slit in the stockings and really insert it, and ask her: “Is it thicker than his? Is it more comfortable than his?”
She was always asked until she felt both shy and aroused, answering in broken sentences, but she never refused to tell.
Once after finishing, she was quiet for a long time, then whispered, 'Don't you think I'm cheap? It's only been two months since the breakup, and I'm already doing this with someone else.'
I pulled her into my arms, my hand still slowly rubbing her smooth back: "I don't think so. I just feel hard."
She didn't speak again, just buried her face in my chest. After a while, she reached out and grasped my already responsive part, asking softly: 'Then... do you still want to hear?'
Of course I want it.
So that night we did it again. This time I let her completely lead the pace of the recounting. She sat on top of me, moving up and down by herself, and while doing so, she retold the whole process from entering the coffee shop to returning home to masturbate. When she got to the part where he rubbed against her through her stockings, her movements would unconsciously speed up; when she got to the part where she gave him a blowjob, she would actively lower her head and take me into her mouth; when she got to sitting on the toilet at home and inserting herself, she was already gone, her body trembling so hard she could barely sit still.
Holding her, I waited for her to catch her breath before whispering, "Next time you talk about it, speak a little louder. I love hearing you say 'he touched me' in that shy yet excited tone."
She nodded, agreeing quickly.
Since then, that “coffee shop story during the breakup” had completely become the most stable, and most effective, catalyst in our sex life. As long as I wanted, I could ignite her desire at any time. And she gradually changed from her initial shame into an almost pleasurable cooperation — she knew that once she started telling it, I would definitely fuck her hard, and she liked being fucked like that too.
Sometimes I deliberately interrupt her just as she's about to climax, forcing her to add more details: how hot his hands were, how worn the stockings were, whether she cried out when she climaxed, how many fingers she used when she got home, whether she called out that person's name. Driven to both urgency and pleasure, she often comes before finishing her sentence.
And what I am most satisfied with is that she never truly felt so guilty about this matter that she wanted to end the relationship. On the contrary, this experience was like an invisible thread that bound us tighter. She knows my preferences and is willing to use her 'dark history' to satisfy me; I know how sensitive her body is and am willing to listen to her recount that afternoon that made me both jealous and excited, over and over again.
Later, once, after she climaxed, she suddenly asked me: “If he had really fucked in at the beginning, would you still want to hear it?”
I was just pulling out of her body when I heard those words. My movement paused for a moment, and then I answered honestly: 'Yes. And it would make me even harder.'
She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled, a hint of helplessness and understanding in that smile. She reached out and touched my face, saying, 'Then you're lucky, he didn't succeed.'
“Yeah.” I took her hand, brought it to my lips, and kissed it once. “So now I can only keep listening to you talk about the parts he didn’t manage to do, and then fuck you hard myself.”
My words made her both shy and weak. She actively wrapped her legs around my waist and whispered, "Then fuck me. Fuck me while you listen."
So that night, we once again went over all the details of that afternoon from beginning to end. Her voice went from clear to broken, from narration to loud moaning, and finally turned completely into muffled groans. And I, deep inside her body, repeatedly confirmed—this body now belonged only to me, but the memories of being touched by others and being brought to the edge of climax by others became the most private, and most effective, aphrodisiac between us.
Life went on like this.
Sometimes it's normal desire, sometimes it's the 'café' I suddenly bring up. Every time I ask, 'How did he touch you that day?' her body immediately reacts. She gets wet quickly and climaxes quickly too. I know this isn't normal, but I'm addicted. And she seems addicted too.
Neither of us ever mentioned breaking up again, nor did we bring up any follow-up beyond that person's name. That experience stopped at the coffee shop private room and the toilet after she went home, repeatedly chewed over and used by us, becoming the most tacit secret code between the sheets.
Sometimes I wonder, if we hadn't broken up back then, if it weren't for that accidental afternoon, would our sex life now be much less exciting? But whenever she uses a shy and seductive voice under me to say, 'He pressed me onto his lap at that time...', I immediately push that thought out of my mind.
Excitement is enough.
And what she gave was always more than I imagined.
The months that followed turned this 'café story' into our most private switch.
As long as I wanted to, I could at any time drag her out of her everyday state and into desire. Sometimes after dinner, while she was washing the dishes, I would hug her from behind, press my lips near her ear, and ask softly, “When he rubbed against you through your stockings that day, did you want him to just tear them off?” The plate in her hands would instantly stop, her back would tense, and then slowly soften. I would, in that position, slip my hand into her pants, confirm that she was already wet, and then carry her to the sofa to keep asking.
Sometimes it's when she's about to leave. She's put on makeup and dressed, and I suddenly pull her back, press her against the door, press my fingers against her clit through her panties, and whisper, 'Tell me once, then you can go.' She blushes and refuses, saying she'll be late, but her body obediently parts her legs a little. By the time she really starts describing in a breathy voice how he lifted her from the sofa onto his lap that day, how he used that thing to rub back and forth, her panties are often already soaked.
Most often, it happens in bed.
We almost formed a fixed ritual. Halfway through foreplay, I would stop and let her ride me herself. When she sat down, she was always tight and hot, but I deliberately wouldn't move, just looked up at her, waiting for her to speak.
She knew what I wanted to hear.
“That day……he first touched my leg……” She would start from the safest place first, her voice still somewhat steady, “The stockings got very smooth from his touching. Later, when he kissed me, his hand went into my clothes.”
I reached out and pinched her nipple, reminding her: 'Details.'
She bit her lip and continued: “He undid my underwear and just grabbed... grabbed really hard. I was actually a little scared at the time, but also... pretty excited. We had been apart for too long, and my body really wanted to be touched.”
When she gets to this point, she starts moving on her own, with very small movements. I hold her waist, preventing her from speeding up, forcing her to finish the rest of what she has to say.
“He made me sit on his lap and take it out. So hot, thicker than I imagined. He rubbed that thing against me through my stockings... from my clit all the way to the back. At first I was still holding back, but later I started moving on my own.”
“What were you thinking when you twisted?”
"I want him to be a little rougher... I want the stockings to get worn through... I want him to go in directly..." Her voice grew softer and softer, yet clearer and clearer. Every time she said this, the inside of her would involuntarily tighten, twisting me so hard it hurt.
I usually choose this moment to suddenly thrust my hips, burying myself completely inside. She lets out a short, sharp cry, then is left speechless by my thrusts. But I still keep asking:
“When he rubbed against you, did he touch the entrance?”
"There were... several times... when I could feel it..."
“Did you deliberately sit down lower, trying to let him in?”
“...Yes.”
The first time this answer came from her mouth, I almost came immediately. She was still trembling slightly as I came inside her, but her eyes were frighteningly bright. Later she admitted that seeing me lose control because of her 'honesty' gave her a strange sense of satisfaction.
So she began to take the initiative and raise the stakes.
Once she whispered in my ear, 'Actually, after going home that day, when I masturbated, I wasn't thinking of his face, but of his thing. I imagined what it would feel like if it really entered. My fingers weren't enough; I even used the showerhead by the bathtub... When the water stream hit my clit, I called his name.'
That day, I fucked her until she cried.
Afterward she lay in my arms panting, then suddenly asked very seriously, “Will there ever be a day when you really can’t stand it anymore and want me to go find him once?”
I am silent for a few seconds, answering honestly: 'I have thought about it. But I'd rather hear you always just talk about the 'almost' parts. Actually doing it would be less interesting.'
Looking at me, her expression was complex, but in the end, she just nodded and actively kissed me.
Since then, our role-play also escalated.
I would have her wear the same stockings and skirt from that day,模仿咖啡厅单间的姿势. She straddled my lap, grinding through the fabric,同时用叙述的语气讲: 'He was like this at the time... using his hand to press my buttocks down... I could feel his tip一直在找地方...' When she got to the动情处, she would tear a small opening in the stockings herself, guide me in, and then一边被填满一边继续补充细节.
Sometimes I blindfold her, letting her feel purely with her body. When she can't see, her narration becomes bolder. She volunteers: 'He's a bit thicker than you, the sensation of being pushed up is different... but you go deeper and understand where I'm sensitive better.' These words are like tiny electric currents, burning all the way from my ears down to my lower body.
The most thrilling time was when she suddenly asked me back, on the edge of climax:
"If you had been right outside the private room then... watching him do that to me through the crack in the door, what would you have done?"
Images instantly exploded in my mind: her pinned on the sofa by another man, stockings pulled down to her knees, twisting her hips to meet him. My lower body ached with hardness, but I could only listen to her panting outside the door.
I didn't answer, just pressed her legs wider apart and thrust in hard. She climaxed twice in a row from the force, crying and saying sorry, that she shouldn't have asked. But I bit her shoulder and whispered, 'Keep asking. I like it.'
So she really continued.
In many sex sessions after that, she would occasionally throw out hypothetical scenarios like: “If you saw him cum on my stockings...”“If I hadn’t refused to get a room that day, and came back with his stuff still in my pussy...”“If you let me come see you wearing the stockings he rubbed against...” Every time she said one, my thrusting would get a little heavier. She seemed to have found the precise spot that could pry me open, and she enjoyed the feeling of pushing me to the edge of losing control.
Once after finishing, she said very calmly, 'I actually quite enjoy things as they are now. Being repeatedly fucked by you over this matter feels even more thrilling than actually cheating.'
I turned my head to look at her. The corners of her eyes were still red, but her expression was serious.
“Because every time you listen, you seem to want to press me into your bones.” She reached out, fingertips brushing across my chest. “That feeling of being needed... is addictive.”
I grabbed her hand and placed it on my chest.
“Then keep getting addicted.”
She smiled, turned over, and straddled me again. This time, without waiting for my question, she spoke up:
“When he kissed me that day, his tongue was very skillful. His hands were too. He kneaded my breasts until they went soft, then pinched my nipples... By then I was already soaked through. When he told me to turn around, I had actually spread my legs wider myself...”
I watched her rise and fall on top of me, listening to her increasingly ragged breaths as she dissected every detail of that day, and suddenly felt a strange sense of relief.
This experience that should have become a rift ultimately became the strongest bond between us.
She was no longer afraid to tell it, and I was no longer satisfied with surface details. We were like two greedy people, guarding a secret box belonging only to us; each time we opened it, we had to add something even more shameful and more real.
And the fuller the box, the more inseparable we become.
The night is still long.
Her voice continued, husky with desire, slowly bringing that summer afternoon back to life, turning it into an aphrodisiac on our bed that would never expire.
I held her close, matching her rhythm, and whispered in her ear:
“Keep talking. I’m listening.”
She nodded, buried her face in the crook of my neck, and in a near-whisper, slowly breathed the next, even more explicit detail into my ear.
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