The Jakarta heat clung to my skin like a second, unwanted shirt, a constant reminder of everything I hadn’t accomplished. Forty-one years. Forty-one years of breathing this humid air, and what did I have to show for it? A rented room, a dwindling bank account, and the ghosts of potential futures that never materialized. My college days, a blur of half-hearted ambition and late-night noodle stands, seemed a lifetime ago. That’s when Silvany’s message popped up, a bright, jarring spark in the dull monochrome of my existence.
“Sam? Is that really you?” Her profile picture, a vibrant burst of color against a cityscape, showed a woman who had clearly thrived. A sharp, confident smile, eyes that held a certain knowing glint. It was Silvany, alright. The same Silvany who had aced every exam, who spoke of master’s degrees and corporate ladders while I was still trying to figure out how to pay for my next textbook.
“Silvany! Wow. Long time no see,” I typed back, my fingers fumbling. The years had been kind to her. Her hair, a cascade of dark waves, framed a face that seemed to have only gained in elegance. My own reflection in the darkened phone screen showed a man etched with the anxieties of a life lived on the fringes, a faint stubble perpetually shadowing my jaw.
“I know, right? It’s been… what, twenty years?”
“At least. What have you been up to? Last I heard, you were conquering the world.”
“Something like that,” a laughing emoji followed. “Got my master’s, married, working in finance. The usual. And you?”
My stomach tightened. “Still around. Doing… odd jobs. Keeping busy.” I hated the vagueness, the way it screamed *failure*.
“Oh, Sam. Don’t be so modest. I remember how brilliant you were. You could have done anything.”
I snorted, a bitter sound that thankfully didn't transmit through the phone. *Could have*, being the operative phrase.
The messages continued, a slow, steady stream. She’d send me motivational quotes, memes about resilience, articles on mindfulness. I’d retaliate with absurd animal videos, dark humor, anything to deflect from the bleak reality of my days. But beneath the surface, something shifted. Her messages, always encouraging, always positive, started to chip away at the walls I’d built around myself. She never judged, never asked too many probing questions about my current situation. She just… listened. And slowly, imperceptibly, I started to open up.
“You know, I’m four months pregnant,” she confessed one evening, her message punctuated by a tiny, trembling heart emoji. “IVF. It’s been… a journey. Eleven years of marriage, trying everything.”
A child. A family. Things I’d only ever glimpsed from a distance. “Wow, Silvany. That’s… incredible. Congratulations.” My fingers hovered over the keyboard, unsure how to convey the complex swirl of emotions – admiration, a pang of something akin to envy, and a genuine happiness for her.
“Thank you, Sam. It really is. It’s what we’ve always wanted.”
*We*. Her husband. The phantom presence in our conversations. He was a successful businessman, she’d mentioned once. Always traveling, always busy. A provider, she’d implied, but not much else.
“He’s… not really around for the appointments,” she admitted a few weeks later. “Too many meetings. It’s fine, I can manage.”
“Are you sure?” I typed, a sudden, unexpected urge to help rising within me. “I could… I could go with you, if you wanted. Just for support. Not like I’m busy.” The last part was true, painfully so.
“Sam, really? That would be… so kind of you. Are you sure it’s not too much trouble?”
“No trouble at all. Just tell me when.”
The first time I saw her in person again, two weeks after that offer, was at the clinic. She emerged from a taxi, a vision in a flowing sundress that gently draped over the slight curve of her belly. Her hair caught the Jakarta sun, shimmering like liquid obsidian. Her smile, when she saw me, was hesitant, then bloomed into genuine warmth.
“Sam,” she breathed, her voice a soft melody I remembered from college.
“Silvany. You look… amazing.” It was an understatement. She radiated a quiet strength, a maternal glow already settling upon her.
We fell into an easy rhythm in the waiting room, chatting about old professors, shared absurdities from our youth. Her hand, when it brushed mine as she reached for a magazine, felt warm, electric. The doctor called her name, and I squeezed her arm gently.
“You got this.”
She smiled, a flash of vulnerability in her eyes. “Thanks, Sam. Really.”
Later, after the appointment, she looked a little pale, a little tired. “Can I drop you off?” I asked, flagging down a passing *ojek*.
“Actually… my apartment needs a few things fixed. A leaky faucet, a wobbly shelf. My husband usually handles it, but he’s… well, you know.” She looked at me, a silent plea in her gaze. “Would you mind? I could pay you, of course.”
“Don’t be silly. I’ll help. Consider it my handyman service.” A genuine smile touched my lips. It felt good to be useful, to be needed.
Her apartment was a testament to her success – spacious, elegantly furnished, with a sweeping view of the city. A stark contrast to my cramped room. While I worked on the faucet, she brought me a glass of iced tea, her movements graceful despite the slight shift in her balance.
“You’re really good at this, Sam,” she observed, leaning against the doorframe, watching me.
“It’s just basic plumbing. Nothing fancy.” I straightened up, wiping my hands on a rag. The air in the apartment felt different, softer, imbued with her scent – a faint floral perfume mixed with something subtly feminine, something that made my senses hum.
“Still, not everyone can do it. My husband certainly can’t.” A small, rueful smile played on her lips. “He’s more of a… delegate things to others kind of guy.”
Our eyes met, and in that moment, something shifted. The air thickened. The years melted away, leaving only the two of us, adrift in the quiet intimacy of her living room. Her gaze held mine, a question, a silent invitation.
I took a step closer. Her breath hitched. The city hummed outside, a distant, irrelevant symphony. I reached out, my hand tracing the curve of her jaw, her skin soft and warm beneath my fingertips. Her eyes fluttered closed as I leaned in, my lips brushing hers. It was a tentative, feather-light touch, a question more than a kiss.
She responded instantly, her lips parting, a soft sigh escaping her. Her hands, surprisingly strong, found my shoulders, gripping them gently. The kiss deepened, a slow, languid exploration. Her mouth tasted of mint and something sweet, something intoxicating. My tongue sought hers, a delicate dance of rediscovery. The world outside the apartment faded, replaced by the soft press of her body against mine, the gentle swell of her belly a soft cushion between us. This was two weeks after we reconnected, a spark igniting into a quiet flame.
The next few weeks were a blur of texts, stolen moments, and clandestine meetings. We’d meet for coffee, for walks in the park, our conversations deepening, our eyes lingering a little too long. The physical tension between us grew, a palpable hum in the air whenever we were together.
One afternoon, a month after our first kiss, she called me. “Sam, I… I need you to come over. Now.” Her voice was tight, strained.
I arrived within minutes, my heart pounding. She opened the door, her face pale, tears welling in her eyes.
“What’s wrong, Silvany?” I stepped inside, closing the door behind me.
She buried her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking. “He… he cancelled again. Our anniversary dinner. Said he had an urgent business trip. An urgent business trip, Sam! On our anniversary!”
I pulled her into my arms, holding her close. Her body felt soft, fragile, her slight belly pressing against my chest. She sobbed into my shirt, her grief a raw, open wound.
“It’s okay, Silvany. It’s okay.” I murmured, stroking her hair, the familiar scent of her filling my nostrils.
She pulled back, her eyes red-rimmed but defiant. “No, it’s not okay, Sam. It’s never okay. He’s never here. He’s never truly *here*.” Her voice was a fierce whisper. “I’m pregnant with his child, and he treats me like… like an afterthought.”
My heart ached for her, a fierce surge of protectiveness washing over me. “He’s an idiot, Silvany. You deserve so much more.”
Her gaze locked with mine, a desperate hunger in their depths. “Do I, Sam? Do I really?” Her hand reached up, cupping my cheek, her thumb stroking my skin. “You’re here. You’re always here.”
The air crackled with unspoken desires. We were standing in the middle of her living room, the late afternoon sun casting long shadows. Her eyes, filled with a mixture of pain and longing, drew me in. I lowered my head, kissing her again, this time with a fierce urgency. Her lips were soft, yielding, her tongue meeting mine with an almost desperate hunger. Her hands tangled in my hair, pulling me closer, her body arching against mine.
“Sam,” she moaned, her voice thick with emotion, “I… I need you.”
“I’m here, Silvany. I’m here.”
My hands slid down her back, cupping her ass, lifting her slightly, pressing her soft belly against my hardening cock. A soft gasp escaped her lips. I carried her into the bedroom, the journey a blur of tangled limbs and desperate kisses. The room was bathed in the soft glow of twilight filtering through the curtains. I gently set her down on the edge of the bed, our eyes never breaking contact.
Her dress, a delicate barrier, was quickly discarded, revealing the creamy expanse of her skin. Her belly, now more pronounced, was a beautiful testament to the life growing within her. Her breasts, fuller, her nipples already taut and dark, beckoned. I knelt before her, my hands trembling as I reached for her.
“You’re beautiful, Silvany,” I whispered, my voice raw.
She met my gaze, her eyes shining with a mixture of apprehension and desire. “Are you sure, Sam? With… with the baby?”
“More than sure,” I reassured her, my voice firm. “You are exquisite.”
My fingers traced the curve of her belly, the soft, smooth skin. I leaned in, my lips pressing a gentle kiss to its roundness, a silent acknowledgment of the life within. She gasped, her fingers threading through my hair. I moved upwards, my tongue flicking at her navel, then higher, over her ribs, until I reached her breasts. I took one swollen nipple into my mouth, sucking gently, my tongue swirling around the sensitive peak.
“Ahhh, Sam,” she moaned, her back arching, her hips shifting restlessly. “Oh God, that feels so good.”
I suckled harder, drawing a soft, wet sound from her, my other hand kneading her other breast, teasing the nipple between my thumb and forefinger. Her scent, a heady mix of woman, pregnancy, and desire, filled my head, intoxicating me. I moved between her legs, pushing her thighs apart. Her pussy, hidden beneath a delicate triangle of dark hair, was already wet, gleaming.
“You’re so wet, Silvany,” I breathed against her inner thigh, my fingers tracing the swollen folds of her labia.
She squirmed, her legs trembling. “Please, Sam. Please.”
I parted her lips, revealing the glistening pearl of her clit. I lowered my head, my tongue flicking out, tasting her, a salty-sweet essence that sent a jolt of pure pleasure through me. She cried out, her fingers digging into my hair, pulling me closer. I licked, I sucked, I swirled, my tongue finding every sensitive crease, every pulsing nerve ending. Her hips bucked against my mouth, her moans growing louder, more urgent.
“Oh, oh God, Sam! Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop!”
I continued my ministrations, savoring the taste, the feel of her. Her body tensed, her legs wrapped around my head, her pussy clenching around my tongue. A low, guttural moan tore from her throat as she convulsed, her orgasm shaking her from head to toe. Her pussy pulsed around my tongue, a gush of warm, slick wetness coating my face.
She lay back, panting, her eyes glazed over with pleasure. “Oh, Sam,” she whispered, her voice husky. “That was… incredible.”
I moved up, stripping off my own clothes, my cock, thick and hard, springing free. She reached for me, her fingers wrapping around my shaft, stroking me with a surprising confidence.
“You’re so hard,” she murmured, her eyes tracing the length of me.
“For you, Silvany. Always for you.”
I positioned myself between her legs, her pussy still slick and open from her orgasm. I pushed gently, the head of my cock sliding against her wet folds. She gasped, her eyes wide.
“No protection, Sam,” she whispered, a hint of fear in her voice.
“Do you want it?” I asked, my voice low, my eyes searching hers.
She hesitated for a beat, then shook her head, a defiant glint in her eyes. “No. I don’t want it. I want *you*.”
I pushed in further, slowly, letting her body adjust to mine. Her pussy was tight, hot, stretching around me, gripping me with an exquisite intensity. A soft moan escaped my lips.
“Oh, Sam,” she whimpered, her nails digging into my shoulders.
I slid in deeper, inch by agonizing inch, until I was fully buried inside her. Her body enveloped me, a warm, wet glove. I paused, letting us both adjust to the sensation, the profound intimacy of our bodies joined. I felt the soft, yielding cushion of her cervix as my cock gently nudged it.
“You feel so good, Silvany,” I rasped, my lips brushing her forehead.
“You too, Sam. So good.”
I began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, deep and full. Each stroke sent a jolt of pleasure through me, the friction of her wet walls against my shaft, the soft slap of my balls against her ass. She met my rhythm, her hips lifting to meet my thrusts, her moans growing in intensity.
“Faster, Sam,” she pleaded, her voice breathy. “Please, faster.”
I picked up the pace, my thrusts becoming more urgent, more primal. Her body bounced with each deep penetration, the bed creaking beneath us. Her breasts jiggled with every movement, her nipples brushing against my chest, sending shivers down my spine. The sounds of our coupling filled the room – the wet *shlicking* of my cock sliding in and out of her pussy, the soft *squelching* of her wetness, her gasps and moans, my own guttural grunts.
I leaned down, kissing her deeply, my tongue tangling with hers, tasting the salt of our sweat, the sweetness of her mouth. Her legs wrapped around my waist, pulling me even deeper, her pussy milking my cock with every contraction.
“I’m going to cum, Silvany,” I groaned, my voice thick with impending release.
“Cum in me, Sam! Please! Cum deep inside me!”
I pulled back slightly, then plunged forward with a final, deep thrust, burying myself to the hilt. My body tensed, a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure washing over me as I emptied myself deep inside her, hot, thick cum pulsing into her womb. She cried out, her body convulsing around me, her own orgasm mirroring mine, a torrent of pleasure that seemed to last forever.
We lay there, tangled together, our bodies slick with sweat, our breaths ragged. Her hand rested on my chest, her fingers tracing idle patterns on my skin. The silence, after the storm, was profound.
“Wow,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Yeah. Wow.”
From that day on, our affair became a clandestine dance, a stolen symphony of pleasure and intimacy. We devoured each other, our hunger insatiable. Her apartment became our sanctuary, our illicit playground. We explored every facet of our desire, pushing boundaries, indulging in every forbidden fantasy.
She loved my mouth on her, my tongue teasing her clit until she writhed beneath me, screaming my name. I loved the way her pregnant belly swayed with each thrust, the soft, yielding flesh of her thighs wrapped around my waist. We fucked on the bed, on the plush carpet, against the cool glass of her balcony overlooking the glittering Jakarta skyline.
One weekend, her husband was on an extended business trip. “Come over, Sam,” she texted, a single word that promised everything.
I arrived, my heart pounding with anticipation. She opened the door, dressed in nothing but a thin silk robe, her hair artfully disheveled, her eyes sparkling with mischief.
“Welcome to my lair,” she purred, pulling me inside.
The next two days were a blur of nakedness and raw pleasure. We woke up tangled in each other, our bodies already seeking connection. My morning erection found its way into her warm, wet pussy before we even had a chance to fully awaken. The bed was a landscape of rumpled sheets, damp with our sweat and juices.
We took turns pleasuring each other. I’d go down on her, her pussy swollen and slick, my tongue swirling around her clit until she was a trembling mess, her legs wrapped around my head, her moans echoing through the quiet apartment. She’d take my cock into her mouth, her lips soft and skilled, her tongue teasing my sensitive head, drawing out guttural groans of pleasure from me. She’d suck me until I was on the verge of exploding, then pull away, a wicked glint in her eyes, making me beg for more.
“Please, Silvany,” I’d plead, my voice hoarse. “Just one more time.”
“Oh, you want it, do you?” she’d tease, her fingers wrapping around my shaft, stroking me slowly. “Beg for it, Sam.”
And I would. I’d beg, I’d plead, I’d do anything to feel her wet heat around me again.
We explored anal sex, a new frontier for both of us. The first time was tentative, a slow, careful exploration. I prepped her with my fingers, spreading her asshole, lubricating it with saliva, gently stretching her tight ring. She gasped, a mix of apprehension and excitement in her eyes.
“It’s okay, Silvany,” I whispered, kissing her neck, my fingers working gently. “Just relax.”
When I finally pushed the head of my cock against her asshole, she tensed. “It’s tight, Sam,” she whimpered.
“I know. Just breathe.” I eased in, inch by agonizing inch, her tight sphincter gripping me like a vice. She cried out, a sharp intake of breath, then slowly relaxed, her muscles yielding. I pushed further, until I was fully buried in her ass, the sensation unbelievably intense, a deep, primal pleasure.
“Oh… my… God,” she gasped, her voice strained. “That’s… something else.”
I began to move, a slow, deliberate rhythm, pulling out almost completely before thrusting back in, deep and full. The friction was incredible, her ass gripping my cock with a ferocity that made me groan. She moaned beneath me, her hips rising to meet my thrusts, her body arching. We fucked like animals, our bodies glistening with sweat, the smell of sex heavy in the air. Her ass cheeks slapped against my thighs with each powerful thrust, the sound a rhythmic punctuation to our desperate grunts and moans. We came together, a violent, shuddering release, my hot cum coating the inside of her tight asshole.
We ate, naked, on the couch, feeding each other grapes and small pastries, the sweetness a counterpoint to the raw hunger that still simmered between us. We’d shower together, her pregnant belly pressing against my chest, my hands cupping her full, heavy breasts as the warm water sluiced over us. I’d soap her up, my hands lingering on every curve, every dip of her body, and she’d return the favor, her fingers tracing the planes of my chest, the hardness of my cock.
“You know,” she murmured one afternoon, her head resting on my chest, her fingers playing with the hair on my stomach, “he calls sometimes. Asks how I’m doing. Never asks if I need anything.”
“He’s missing out,” I whispered, pressing a kiss to her hair.
“He really is.” She lifted her head, her eyes meeting mine, a mischievous glint in them. “You know, I’m getting another ultrasound next week. Care to join me?”
“I’d love to.”
Our routine solidified. I became her shadow, her confidant, her lover. I fixed her leaky pipes, hung her new curtains, and accompanied her to every prenatal check-up. The doctors and nurses, seeing us together, assumed I was the father. She never corrected them. Sometimes, she’d even lean on my arm, a possessive gesture that thrilled me to my core.
The baby grew, her belly swelling, her body softening in places, firming in others. Her breasts became even fuller, her nipples perpetually engorged. Our sex life only intensified, the urgency of it fueled by the knowledge that our time was finite. We made love in every position imaginable, finding new ways to accommodate her growing belly. Spooning from behind, her ass pressed against my hips, my cock sliding into her from behind, her moans muffled against the pillows. Her on top of me, riding my cock, her belly bouncing gently with each thrust, her hands bracing against my chest as she rode me to orgasm after orgasm.
One evening, as we lay entwined after a particularly passionate session, she sighed, a deep, contented sound.
“What are we doing, Sam?” she whispered, her voice soft in the dim light.
I pulled her closer, kissing the top of her head. “We’re… living.”
“Is that what this is? Living?” She chuckled, a wry, bittersweet sound. “My husband is coming back next month. For good, this time. Until the baby comes, anyway.”
My heart sank. The unspoken truth hung heavy in the air. Our stolen paradise, our secret world, was about to be shattered.
“What will you do?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper.
She was silent for a long moment, her fingers tracing the lines on my palm. “I don’t know, Sam. I honestly don’t know.” She looked up at me, her eyes filled with a desperate sadness. “I love him, Sam. Or… I think I do. He’s the father of my child. He provides for us. He’s… safe.”
“And me?”
Her gaze lingered on my face, a complex mixture of longing, regret, and something else, something akin to fear. “You, Sam,” she said, her voice trembling, “you make me feel alive. You make me feel… seen. And desired. In a way he never has.” A tear traced a path down her cheek. “But this… this can’t last, can it?”
The question hung in the air, unanswered. We both knew the answer. The world outside, the world of responsibilities and expectations, was closing in. Our affair, born of loneliness and a desperate yearning for connection, was fragile, unsustainable.
The next few weeks were fraught with a quiet tension. Our lovemaking became more desperate, more intense, as if we could somehow stave off the inevitable with sheer force of will and pleasure. Each touch, each kiss, each thrust was imbued with a sense of farewell, a silent acknowledgment of the impending end.
The day her husband returned, she sent me a single text: “He’s home.”
My heart twisted in my chest. I didn’t reply. What was there to say?
Days turned into weeks. Our messages dwindled, then stopped. The silence was deafening, a stark contrast to the constant hum of our stolen intimacy. I saw her once, from a distance, at a grocery store. She was pushing a cart, her belly now significantly larger, her husband’s arm possessively around her waist. She looked different, somehow. Her smile, when she turned to him, seemed forced, a practiced gesture. Our eyes didn’t meet. She didn't see me.
I went back to my rented room, to the Jakarta heat, to the familiar dull ache of loneliness. The scent of her, the feel of her body, the taste of her, lingered in my memory, a phantom presence that haunted my days and nights. I thought of the baby, growing inside her, a product of her husband’s seed, but nurtured by my touch, by my presence. A dark, twisted secret that only we shared.
The last message I received from her was a picture. A scan of a tiny, perfectly formed hand, clutching a thumb. “It’s a girl, Sam,” the caption read. “She’s beautiful.”
I stared at the image, a wave of profound sadness washing over me. A beautiful girl. A life brought into the world amidst a web of deceit and stolen passion. I knew I would never see her again, never hold her, never know the child I had, in a way, helped nurture.
The Jakarta sun still beat down, relentless and unforgiving. My life, once briefly illuminated by the fierce, illicit flame of our affair, had returned to its muted shades of grey. But sometimes, in the quiet solitude of my room, I could still feel her, her body pressed against mine, her moans echoing in the silence, a ghost of pleasure, a dark, beautiful memory that would forever mark my soul. The scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her pregnant body, would be with me always, a secret, burning ember in the desolate landscape of my life. And I knew, with a chilling certainty, that somewhere, beneath the veneer of her perfect life, she carried the same ember, a silent testament to the dark, complicated love we had shared.
The scent of Jakarta rain, heavy and sweet with petrichor, clung to my clothes as I stepped into Silvany’s new house. A year. A year since I’d seen her, pushing a cart through the brightly lit aisles of a grocery store, her husband’s hand resting possessively on the small of her back. The image, sharp and unwelcome, had haunted me, a ghost of a love I thought long buried. Now, fate, or perhaps a mischievous god, had brought us crashing back together.
“Come in, Sam. Don’t just stand there letting the humidity eat you alive,” Silvany’s voice, a low thrum that always resonated deep within me, pulled me from my thoughts. She stood framed in the doorway, a simple batik dress clinging to her curves, a faint smile playing on her lips. Her eyes, dark and knowing, held a flicker of the past, and a promise of the future.
I stepped inside, the cool air of her home a welcome contrast to the oppressive heat outside. The house, smaller than her previous one, felt lived-in, warm. Toys lay scattered in one corner of the living room, a vibrant splash of color against the polished wood floor. Marie, her daughter, was two now, a tiny whirlwind of energy.
“It’s good to see you, Silvany,” I managed, my voice a little rougher than I intended.
She simply nodded, her gaze lingering on mine. “It is.”
We spent the afternoon in a comfortable rhythm, catching up on the year that had passed. She spoke of the divorce with a detached calm, a testament to her inner strength. Her ex-husband’s family, a chorus of whispers and expectations, had pushed him towards a younger woman, a fresh womb, a better chance at a male heir. The irony, I knew, was a bitter pill for them. Silvany’s prenup, a testament to her foresight, ensured Marie’s future was secure, a trust fund for her education, a comfortable stipend for them both. The elite Jakarta circles might have gossiped, but Silvany had landed on her feet, not just surviving, but thriving.
The sun dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in fiery hues of orange and purple. Marie, tired from her birthday festivities, had finally succumbed to sleep, her soft snores audible through the baby monitor. The house grew quiet, save for the hum of the air conditioning.
Silvany poured two glasses of wine, the clink of ice cubes the only sound. She handed me one, her fingers brushing mine, sending a jolt through my arm. We sat on the plush sofa, the silence between us heavy with unspoken history, with undeniable longing.
“I missed this,” she murmured, her gaze fixed on the dancing flames of a scented candle.
“I did too,” I replied, my voice husky.
She turned to me then, her eyes searching mine. “Do you remember how we used to be?”
A primal ache stirred within me. “Every single day.”
She leaned closer, the scent of her perfume, light and floral, enveloping me. Her hand rose, her fingertips tracing the line of my jaw. “I want to remember it again, Sam.”
Her words were a match to tinder. I leaned in, capturing her lips. The kiss was tentative at first, a gentle reacquaintance, then it deepened, a hungry exploration. Her mouth opened under mine, her tongue meeting mine in a dance as old as time. I tasted the wine, the subtle sweetness of her, the intoxicating flavor of desire. My hand found the small of her back, pressing her closer until her soft curves molded against my harder frame. A soft moan escaped her throat, swallowed by my kiss.
We undressed each other slowly, each button, each zipper, an act of reverence. Her batik dress slid to the floor, revealing the smooth expanse of her skin, the gentle swell of her breasts, the dark lace of her bra. My shirt followed, then hers, her nipples hardening under my eager gaze. Her skirt, then my trousers, pooling around our ankles. We stood there, naked under the soft glow of the lamp, our bodies a testament to time and absence, and the fierce, burning need that had never truly died.
I lifted her into my arms, her legs instinctively wrapping around my waist. She buried her face in my neck, her breath warm against my skin. I carried her to the bedroom, the soft mattress yielding beneath us. We fell together, a tangle of limbs and hungry mouths.
My fingers traced the delicate curve of her hip, then found the elastic of her panties, pulling them down, revealing the dark, inviting triangle between her thighs. She was already wet, a clear sign of her readiness, a testament to the years of unspoken desire. I dipped my finger into her slick folds, bringing it to my lips, savoring the salty, sweet taste of her arousal.
She gasped, her hips arching. “Sam, please.”
I moved over her, my cock, already thick and throbbing, pressing against her entrance. She guided me with a gentle hand, her touch sending shivers through me. I slid inside, a slow, deliberate push, filling her completely. A sigh of pure contentment escaped her lips, echoing my own. We moved together, a rhythm born of memory and renewed passion, the bed creaking softly with each thrust. Her nails dug into my shoulders, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.
“Oh, God, Sam,” she cried out, her voice thick with pleasure. “Yes, just like that.”
I drove into her, harder, faster, her body clenching around me, milking every inch of my cock. The pleasure was overwhelming, a tidal wave crashing over us both. My vision blurred, my muscles tensed, and with a guttural roar, I emptied myself deep inside her, her own cries of release mingling with mine. We lay there, breathless, tangled, our bodies slick with sweat, the scent of sex heavy in the air.
From that night, our love affair rekindled, no longer hidden, no longer secretive. The house became our sanctuary, a place where clothing was often optional, where our desires ran free. We explored new kinks, new ways to pleasure each other, our bodies a canvas for our shared fantasies. We fucked on the kitchen counter, against the living room wall, in the shower, on the balcony under the Jakarta sky. Every touch, every kiss, every thrust was a rediscovery, a deepening of our bond.
Then, at 42, Silvany received the surprise of her life. A positive pregnancy test. Natural conception, without medical intervention, a miracle given her previous struggles. She joked about my "potent sperm" on Instagram, a playful jab that sent ripples through our friends, and, unbeknownst to us, further afield.
Life, meanwhile, had taken a different turn for her ex-husband. He married a 26-year-old, a woman less astute than Silvany in managing her finances, utterly dependent on him. A year into their marriage, he suffered a stroke, his mobility impaired. His extended family, vultures circling, began to question why the new wife hadn’t produced a son. The truth, long hidden, began to surface: his slow sperm motility, a problem he had always blamed on Silvany.
Rita, his new wife, stumbled upon Silvany’s Instagram post, the playful remark about my potent sperm, and the implication that it had overcome Silvany’s "obstructed fallopian tube," resonated deeply. Soon after, Silvany started receiving calls from unknown numbers. She’d answer, but only silence met her ear.
One weekend, the doorbell chimed. The Ring camera notification flashed on Silvany’s phone. Her eyes widened. “It’s Rita.”
I pulled into the garage later that evening, the Jakarta heat still clinging to the air. Our house, our rules. Clothing optional. I shed my clothes as I walked, my shirt, trousers, underwear, all discarded by the time I pushed open the kitchen door. The cool tile felt good under my bare feet. I heard a sharp gasp from the living room.
“Oh!”
I paused, my cock, already semi-hard from the day’s suppressed desire, swaying freely. Silvany sat on the sofa, fully dressed in a modest blouse and skirt, a coffee cup in her hand. Beside her, perched delicately, was Rita, her eyes, wide and startled, fixed on my exposed erection. She was dressed in a stylish, form-fitting dress, a stark contrast to my nakedness.
Rita’s gaze traveled from my face, down my chest, over my stomach, finally settling on my cock. A slow smile spread across her face. “So, this is the cock where those potent sperm come from. Impressive!”
Silvany let out a peel of laughter, a rich, throaty sound that surprised me. I, on the other hand, felt a blush creep up my neck. My first instinct was to cover myself, but then I remembered. This was *my* home. My rules.
I met her gaze, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Clothing is optional in this house, Miss. You are overdressed.” My voice was steady, confident. I turned, my hard cock swaying proudly with each step, and walked past them towards the main bedroom, leaving them with the sight of my retreating, naked ass.
I pulled on a pair of basketball shorts and a loose t-shirt, the fabric feeling strange after the freedom of nakedness. When I returned to the living room, the scene had shifted. Rita was now seated beside a completely naked Silvany, who wore only a black lace bra and a pair of crotchless panties. Her body, even after two children, was magnificent, her skin glowing in the soft light.
Silvany gestured towards Rita. “Sam, this is Rita. Rita, Sam.”
Rita’s eyes, still bright with curiosity, met mine. “Silvany was just explaining your… domestic policy.” She gestured to Silvany’s near-naked form. “And she was also explaining why I’m here.”
“Oh?” I raised an eyebrow, a hint of amusement in my tone.
“She’s here to verify her husband’s sperm problem,” Silvany supplied, a mischievous glint in her eye.
Rita nodded, her expression suddenly serious. “My husband’s stroke… he can’t provide sperm for IVF anymore. And I… I want a child. I want a family.” Her gaze flicked to my crotch, still visible beneath the shorts. “I’ve seen your cock, and judging by Silvany’s pregnancy, I believe your sperm are indeed… potent. I’d rather you impregnate me than some stranger donor.”
Just then, a soft gurgle echoed from the baby monitor. Marie. Silvany stood, pulling on a silk robe. “Sounds like Marie’s waking up.” She glanced at me, a silent message passing between us. “I’ll be right back.” She disappeared down the hallway.
Rita leaned forward, her eyes fixed on me. “So, what do you think? Silvany has no problem with the idea. She said she’d support whatever decision we make.”
I stood there for a moment, processing her words, the audacity of the request, the unexpectedness of it all. I walked to Marie’s bedroom, finding Silvany gently rocking her daughter back to sleep.
“She’s serious, isn’t she?” I whispered, my gaze on Rita’s retreating form through the open doorway.
Silvany looked up, a soft smile on her face. “She is. It’s a big ask, I know. But she’s desperate. And she wants a child. It’s just… a help, Sam. I’ll support your decision, whatever it is.” Her eyes held no judgment, only understanding.
I returned to the living room. Rita had shed her dress and bra, lying on the sofa, completely naked. Her legs were spread wide, her hand teasing her clitoris, her fingers delving into her slick pussy. Her gaze, sultry and inviting, met mine.
I knelt before her, the scent of her arousal, musky and sweet, filling my nostrils. I leaned in, my tongue flicking out, tasting her. She was already so wet, her juices tangy and warm on my tongue. I licked, swirled, sucked, drawing out her moans, her hips arching against my face. My fingers found her clit, circling it gently, then pressing, teasing. She whimpered, her body trembling.
“Oh, Sam,” she gasped, her voice raw with desire. “Yes, that’s it.”
After a few minutes of intense licking, I pulled away, standing up. My cock, now fully engorged, pulsed with a life of its own. I offered it to her, a silent invitation. She looked up, her eyes wide with anticipation, then reached out, her fingers wrapping around my shaft. She brought me to her mouth, her lips closing around my head, drawing me in. Her tongue swirled around the tip, then she sucked, hard and deep, her throat working rhythmically. Her free hand reached down, fondling my balls, her touch sending waves of pleasure through me. I groaned, my head tilting back, savoring the feeling.
She sucked me for what felt like an eternity, her mouth a hot, wet heaven. Finally, I pulled out, a trail of saliva glistening on my cock. I turned her over, positioning her on her hands and knees. Her ass, round and firm, presented itself, her pussy still glistening from my tongue, her asshole winking invitingly. I knelt behind her, my hands gripping her hips, and drove into her from behind.
“Ah!” she cried out, her back arching.
I thrust into her, a deep, rhythmic motion, her pussy clenching around me. The angle was perfect, allowing me to hit her G-spot with every stroke. She moaned, her ass slapping against my thighs with each powerful thrust. Fifteen minutes passed in a blur of sweat and sensation. I felt the familiar surge, the tightening in my balls, the rush of impending release.
“I’m going to cum!” I roared, my voice hoarse.
“Me too!” she shrieked, her body convulsing around me.
We exploded together, my hot cum coating the inside of her, her cries echoing mine. I pulled out, my cock dripping, and collapsed beside her, both of us panting, our bodies spent.
Just then, Silvany re-entered the living room, Marie in tow, the child’s eyes wide with sleepy curiosity. Silvany, still in her robe, walked past us, her gaze sweeping over our naked, spent forms, a knowing smile playing on her lips. She headed straight for the kitchen, grabbing a glass of water.
“Don’t hold back, hun,” she called over her shoulder, her voice surprisingly calm. “Give it to her. Make her scream.”
And so, I did. That evening, I continued to fuck Rita, alternating positions, exploring every curve of her body. I fucked her from behind again, then had her lie on her back, her legs wrapped around my waist, her pussy begging for more. I pounded into her, her screams of pleasure filling the house, until I cum three more times, painting her belly and thighs with my hot seed.
When Rita was finally spent, her body trembling with exhaustion, I turned my attention to Silvany. She met my gaze, her eyes dark with desire, and led me to our bedroom. We fucked with a ferocity born of observation and delayed gratification, her body responding to my every touch, my every thrust, until we were both breathless and sated.
That night, I slept on the couch next to Rita, my arm draped over her, while Silvany, ever the protective mother, slept in Marie’s room. The next morning, after a late breakfast, the desire surged anew. We found ourselves back on the sofa, bodies intertwining. At one point, Rita leaned in, her lips finding Silvany’s. Silvany, surprised for a moment, reciprocated, her mouth opening, her tongue meeting Rita’s in a slow, sensual dance. I watched, my cock hardening, as they kissed, their hands exploring each other’s bodies.
We spent the day in a blur of shared pleasure. We explored anal play, Rita’s tight ass clenching around my cock as Silvany licked her pussy, then Rita returning the favor, her tongue teasing Silvany’s clit as I fucked her from behind. It was a symphony of bodies, a tapestry of pleasure woven with three threads.
At 4 PM, Rita announced her departure. She hugged Silvany, then kissed her deeply, a lingering touch that spoke volumes. She turned to me, a radiant smile on her face. “Thank you, Sam. Thank you both.” She kissed me, a soft, grateful press of her lips against mine, then she was gone, leaving behind a lingering scent of sex and possibility.
That month, Rita visited us two more times, each visit a whirlwind of shared pleasure. We fucked, we laughed, we explored. Three months later, a text message arrived: *I’m pregnant. It’s yours.* A tiny emoji of a baby followed. My heart swelled with a mixture of surprise and profound joy.
Silvany gave birth to our child naturally, a testament to her strength and my "potent sperm." This time, no induction, no medical intervention needed. Marie, now three, and I welcomed our new family addition, baby Mark, into the world.
A week after childbirth, we were back at it, our bodies drawn to each other with an irresistible force. We walked naked through the house, our lovemaking sometimes happening right in front of baby Mark and Marie, who watched with innocent curiosity, accustomed to the sight of their parents’ uninhibited affection.
A year later, we celebrated Marie’s fourth birthday and Mark’s first together, a joyous occasion filled with laughter and cake. Amidst the celebration, we heard the news: Silvany’s ex-husband had died the week before, succumbing to medical complications. We tried to reach Rita, to offer our condolences, but her phone went unanswered.
A week passed. Then, late one night, a text message flashed on my phone, from an unknown number. *Can I come to your house now?* It was Rita.
I looked at Silvany, who was already awake, having seen the message. “Okay,” we replied.
An hour later, the crunch of tires on our gravel driveway announced her arrival. A rideshare car. We saw Rita emerge, a baby carrier clutched in one hand, a few suitcases stacked beside her. We rushed out, helping her with the baby and luggage, thanking the driver as he pulled away.
“Quickly, inside,” Rita urged, her voice hushed, her eyes darting around the dark street.
We settled her suitcases in the living room. Rita, her face etched with exhaustion and fear, turned to us. She hugged Silvany first, a tight, desperate embrace, then me, her body trembling.
“This is Annalise,” she whispered, pulling back slightly, her gaze falling on the sleeping infant in the carrier. “Your daughter, Sam.”
My heart skipped a beat. Annalise. My daughter. She had my eyes, even in sleep, a tiny replica of me.
“My husband… before he passed,” Rita began, her voice cracking. “He revised his will. Annalise and I… we got full access to his accounts, the house. And I’m the major shareholder of his company.”
Silvany gasped, her hand flying to her mouth.
“His family,” Rita continued, a bitter edge to her voice. “They don’t approve. They tried to set me up with one of his nephews. They don’t want the company going to outsiders.” Her eyes hardened. “The nephew… he was emboldened. He tried to move into the house weeks before my husband passed. He even tried to grope me in the kitchen.” Her voice trembled with remembered fear. “I screamed. My maid… she came to my aid. Threw hot water at him.”
She looked down at Annalise, tears welling in her eyes. “After he died, I felt so alone. So afraid. I hired a law firm to handle the harassment, but I don’t feel safe in that house. That’s why I came here. I have nowhere else to go.”
Silvany pulled Rita into another hug, stroking her hair as Rita sobbed into her shoulder. I held baby Annalise, her tiny weight a profound realization in my arms, my gaze fixed on the two women.
As I watched, Silvany and Rita pulled apart, their eyes locking. The tears still streamed down Rita’s face, but her gaze held a new intensity, a desperate longing. Silvany’s fingers found the buttons of Rita’s blouse, undoing them slowly. Rita’s hands, trembling, reached for the zipper of Silvany’s robe. They kissed, a desperate, hungry kiss, their mouths devouring each other, their bodies pressing together, seeking solace, seeking escape, seeking each other. Their clothes fell away, discarded in a heap on the floor, their bodies already slick with tears and burgeoning desire.
I took Annalise to the children’s room, placing her gently in Marie’s old crib, next to the newer one where baby Mark slept soundly. Marie was in her own bed, across the room, oblivious to the unfolding drama.
When I returned, the sight that greeted me made my cock surge, already hard as granite. Silvany and Rita were on the couch, tangled limbs, their mouths locked in a passionate 69. Rita was licking Silvany’s pussy, her tongue swirling and sucking, while Silvany’s mouth worked on Rita’s clit, drawing out whimpers of pleasure. The air was thick with their moans, the scent of sex and female arousal.
I stood there for a moment, my breath catching in my throat, then I shed my shorts, my cock springing free, throbbing with anticipation. I approached Rita from behind, my hard shaft nudging her ass. She paused, looking over her shoulder, her eyes wide, her mouth still slick from Silvany. She took my cock in her hand, guiding it, her tongue flicking out to lubricate the tip.
Then, with a gentle push, I slid inside her ass.
“Ah!” she cried out, a mixture of pain and pleasure.
I moved slowly at first, allowing her to adjust, her ass muscles clenching and relaxing around me. Below her, Silvany continued to lick her pussy, her tongue now working with renewed vigor, as Rita, in turn, continued to lick Silvany’s pussy, creating a delicious, interconnected chain of pleasure.
I began to thrust, a slow, deliberate rhythm, my cock sliding in and out of Rita’s tight ass. The sensation was exquisite, the friction intense. Rita moaned, her head thrown back, her ass rising to meet my thrusts. Silvany’s moans grew louder, her body arching under Rita’s ministrations. The couch creaked under our combined weight, a symphony of shlicks and squelches filling the room.
That morning, the sun streamed through the windows, illuminating our tangled, sweaty bodies. We had a threesome on the couch, a raw, uninhibited exploration of desire. I fucked both of them, alternating between their pussies and asses, my cock a relentless engine of pleasure. I cum in Silvany’s pussy, then Rita’s, then in their mouths, painting their faces and bodies with my hot, sticky seed.
In the throes of our shared ecstasy, a new kink emerged. I stood over them, my bladder full, and began to pee, a golden shower raining down on their glistening bodies. They cried out, a mixture of surprise and delight, their mouths opening, eager to catch the warm stream. They drank my pee, their eyes meeting mine, a shared, primal understanding passing between us. Then, with a mischievous glint in their eyes, they returned the favor, their own warm streams raining down on me, their pee washing over my body, a liquid baptism into our new, wild reality. We drank each other’s essence, a complete surrender to our desires, our bodies and fluids intertwining in a dance of ultimate intimacy. Rita and Silvany kissed again, their lips wet with my pee, then with their own, their hands exploring each other’s bodies, their fingers delving into their pussies, rubbing their clits, a shared, sensual awakening.
From that day forward, Rita became a permanent addition to our lives, a vibrant, passionate force who brought a new dimension to our love, our family, our home..