It all starts with my little unspeakable kink.
After being with each woman for a long time, simply having sex wasn't enough for me anymore. I started to enjoy interrogating her about her past while doing it. It wasn't jealousy, but it genuinely 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, so 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.
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, and the streetlight outside shone through the gap, landing exactly on her sweaty collarbone. I reached down, unhurriedly rubbing her still sensitive clitoris, and asked casually:
“In these two months apart, have you been messing around with other people behind my back?”
She had been enjoying the afterglow with her eyes closed. Hearing this, she softly hummed, with a hint of a nasal tone, and replied, 'Guess.'
I quickened the speed of my fingers, my other hand pinching her nipple, saying unhurriedly, 'That person who's been commenting on your Renren page all the time, you've gone out with them, right?'
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 immediately, just spread her legs a little wider, her buttocks slightly pushing toward 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 to hold my wrist, her voice soft and urgent: 'Don't stop... he touched me.'
“Where to touch?”
“Both the top……and the bottom were touched……”
"Did you touch him?"
“Mm…”
“Then did he fuck you?”
“No...”
I didn't ask why anymore, instead flipping her whole body over, making her lie on top of me, my fingers continuing to circle below. She soon reached another small climax, her body trembling slightly. After she recovered a bit, I officially began 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 meal ended, he suggested finding a place to sit. The two entered an UBC Coffee, and he directly requested 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, a habit even in summer. He started chatting about the stockings, and his hand unconsciously landed on her leg.
She said she wasn't very repulsed at the time. After being apart for two months, her body was indeed lonely. His hand slowly moved from the outside of her thigh to the inside, and she didn't stop him. Then he embraced her and kissed her directly. She struggled a bit but didn't really push him away. His hand slipped under her clothes, unfastened her bra, and his palm pressed against her breast.
“Were you wet then?” I asked as I lifted one of her legs and shoved back inside.
Biting her lip, she nodded, her voice intermittent: 'Wet... both panties and stockings are soaked through...'
He had her straddle his lap, his hands moving along her thighs and rubbing her pussy through her stockings. She didn’t know where to put her hands, and in the end she placed them on the already hard bulge, rubbing it through his pants. Before long he pulled his pants down a little, 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, you could feel distinct heat. He had her turn around to face him and used that thing to rub against her clitoris and labia over her stockings. At first, she just endured it, but later she started to twist her hips herself, actively grinding back and forth.
"What did it feel like when I brushed against you?" I deliberately slowed the thrusting, forcing her to explain clearly.
Her eyes were already somewhat unfocused, but she still answered honestly: 'Especially comfortable... more stimulating than using my own hand... My mind was completely blank at the time, I just wanted him to continue...'
She just held onto his neck like that, moving her hips herself, grinding her stockings until they were wet and hot. After about five minutes she climaxed, her whole body going soft in his arms. After the climax, desire quickly faded, she got off him and sat beside him, using her hand to help him. He wanted her to use her mouth, and she didn't refuse, lowering her head to take it in and lick for a while. But he never came, her hand and mouth got sore, so she stopped.
Only then did he bring up getting a room. She had already lost much interest and refused on the grounds that “it wouldn’t be good to meet for the first time like this.” The two parted unhappily.
After returning home, the guy was still sending explicit messages on WeChat. She replied while thinking about the earlier scene, fingering herself. She said the bedsheet was soaked that night, and later she simply went to the toilet and sat on the toilet seat, listening to the sound of water dripping into the bowl, bringing 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 hard from behind, each stroke hitting the deepest point. I fucked her so hard she kept crawling forward, and I kept pulling her back.
"Every time we make love from now on, tell me this." I said, biting her ear.
She nodded, her voice tinged with sobs and pleasure: "Okay... I'll tell... be gentle... it's too deep..."
From that day on, this experience became a fixed aphrodisiac trope between us.
Sometimes it's during foreplay, I make her kneel and give me head while describing in detail how his hands touched her that day, how he unbuttoned her underwear; sometimes it's when she's on the edge of climax, I deliberately stop, forcing her to recount every action in the cafe private room again; sometimes it's after, while she's still catching her breath, I've already started asking for details of the next round—whether he touched the entrance when he rubbed against her, whether she wanted him to just enter her, whether she thought of his face or his thing when she masturbated at home.
The more she talked, the more detailed she became, and the more she opened up. Once, she volunteered that actually, if he had persisted a little more that day, or simply pressed her down on the sofa, she might have agreed to go to a hotel room. After saying this, she was so embarrassed she buried her face in the pillow, while I got so excited I immediately hardened again, pulled her up, and did it once more.
Later, we even did role-play. I would have her put on stockings, imitating that day’s position as she straddled my legs, rubbing through the fabric. While rubbing, she would narrate in a storytelling tone, saying, “He was just like this then...” and when she got aroused, she would climax first on her own. Then I would tear open the stockings and actually enter her, asking her: “Is it thicker than his? Is it more comfortable than his?”
She was always asked until she felt both shy and aroused, answering intermittently, but she never refused to tell.
Once after we finished, she suddenly fell silent 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 stroking 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 moment, she reached out and held the place where I was reacting again, asking softly, 'Then... do you still want to hear?'
Of course I do.
So that night we did it again. This time I let her completely lead the rhythm of the telling. She sat on top of me, moving up and down on her own, and while moving, she retold the whole process from entering the coffee shop that day to going home and masturbating. When she got to the part where he rubbed against her through her stockings, her movements would unconsciously speed up; when she got to giving 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 had already come, her body trembling so much that she could barely sit still.
I held her, waiting for her to calm down, then whispered, 'Next time you talk about it, speak a little louder. I like hearing you say "he touched me" in that shy yet excited tone.'
She nodded, agreeing quickly.
Since then, this “cafe story during the breakup period” 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 initial shame to a kind of almost pleasurable cooperation—she knew that once she started telling it, I would definitely fuck her hard, and she liked being taken like that.
Sometimes I would deliberately interrupt her just as she was 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 after returning home, whether she called out that person's name. Driven to both urgency and pleasure, she would often come before finishing her words.
And what I'm 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 even tighter. She knows my quirks 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 back then he really had gotten it in, would you still want to hear it?”
I was just pulling out of her body when I heard that. My movement paused for a moment, then I answered honestly: 'Yes. And it would make me even harder.'
She stared at me for a few seconds, then suddenly smiled, a smile tinged with helplessness and a hint of understanding. 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 part he didn’t get to finish, and then I’ll fuck you like crazy 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 took all the details from that afternoon and turned them over from beginning to end. Her voice changed from clear to broken, from narration to lustful cries, and in the end became completely muffled moaning. And deep inside her body, I 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 also the most effective, aphrodisiac between us.
The days went on like this.
Sometimes it's normal desire, sometimes it's the 'cafe' 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 it's not normal, but I'm addicted. And she seems addicted too.
Neither of us ever mentioned breaking up again, nor did we bring up anything beyond that person's name. That experience stayed in the coffee shop booth and on her 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.
For the months after that, this 'café story' completely became our most private switch.
As long as I want to, I can at any time pull her out of her everyday state and into lust. Sometimes it’s after dinner while she’s washing the dishes; I hug her from behind, press my lips to her ear, and softly ask, “When he rubbed against you through your stockings that day, did you want him to just rip them off?” The plate in her hand would instantly stop, her back tense up, and then slowly soften. I would use that position to 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 her makeup, dressed, and I suddenly pull her back and press her against the door, my fingers pressing against her clit through her panties, whispering, 'Tell me once, then you can go.' She would blush and refuse, 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 on top herself. When she sat down, it 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 with the safest place, her voice still somewhat steady. “The stockings got very smooth from him touching them. 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 unfastened my underwear and directly grabbed... grabbed very hard. I was actually a bit scared at the time, but also... quite excited. We've been apart for too long; 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 the sentence.
"He had me sit on his lap and took 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 just started writhing myself."
"What were you thinking when you were twisting?"
“I want him to use a little more force... I want the stockings to get rubbed through... I want him to go in directly...” Her voice grew softer and softer, but clearer and clearer. Every time she got to this part, something inside her would involuntarily contract, squeezing me painfully tight.
I usually choose this moment to suddenly thrust my hips, burying myself completely inside. She lets out a short, startled cry, then is left speechless by my thrusts. But I still keep asking:
"When he rubbed against you, did he touch the entrance?"
“I... several times... I felt it...”
"Did you deliberately sit down lower, wanting 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 actively turn up the heat.
Once she whispered in my ear: 'Actually, after going home that day, when I masturbated, what I was thinking about wasn't his face, but his thing. I imagined what it would feel like if it really went in. 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.
Afterwards, she lay in my arms panting and suddenly asked very seriously: 'Would there ever come a day when you really couldn't take it anymore and wanted me to go find him once?'
I was silent for a few seconds, answering honestly: 'I've thought about it. But I'd rather just keep hearing you talk about the 'almost' parts forever. Actually doing it would be less interesting.'
She looked at me, her expression complex, and finally just nodded, taking the initiative to kiss me.
Since then, our role-playing has also been upgraded.
I would have her put on the same stockings and skirt from that day, imitating the pose in the coffee shop private room. She straddled my lap, grinding through the fabric, while narrating in a calm tone, 'He was like this at the time... using his hands to press my buttocks down... I could feel his tip constantly searching for a place...' When she got emotional, she would tear a small opening in the stockings herself, guide me in, and then continue adding details while being filled.
Sometimes I would blindfold her, letting her feel purely with her body. When she couldn't see, her narration would become bolder. She would voluntarily say, 'He's a bit thicker than you, the feeling when he thrusts is different... but you go deeper, and you also know where I'm sensitive.' These words were like tiny electric currents, burning all the way from the ears down to the lower body.
The most thrilling time was when she suddenly asked me back, right on the edge of orgasm:
“If you were outside the private room back then... looking at him doing that to me through the crack in the door, what would you do?”
Instantly, an image exploded in my mind: her pinned on the sofa by another man, stockings pulled to her knees, writhing her hips to meet him. My lower body ached with hardness, yet 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 thrusting, crying and saying sorry, that she shouldn't have asked like that. But I bit her shoulder and whispered, 'Keep asking. I like it.'
So she really continued.
In many sexual encounters afterward, she would occasionally throw out similar hypotheticals: 'If you saw him cum on my stockings...' 'If I hadn't refused to get a hotel room that day and came back with his stuff still inside me...' 'If you made me wear the stockings he rubbed against to see you...' With each sentence, my actions would become rougher. She seemed to have found the precise spot to leverage me and enjoyed the feeling of pushing me to the edge of losing control.
Once after we finished, she suddenly said very calmly, 'I actually quite enjoy it like this. Being repeatedly fucked by you with this matter gives me more feeling than actually cheating.'
I turned to look at her. The corners of her eyes were still red, but her expression was serious.
"Because every time you listen, you act like you’re trying to press me into your bones." She reached out, her fingertips brushing across my chest. "That feeling of being needed... it’s addictive."
I grabbed her hand and placed it on my own chest.
“Then keep getting addicted.”
She smiled, turned over, and straddled me again. This time, she didn't wait for my question and spoke up herself.
“That day when he kissed me, his tongue was very nimble. His hands were too. He kneaded my chest until it was very soft, then pinched my nipples... I was already drenched at that point. When he told me to turn around, I had actually spread my legs wider myself...”
Watching her rise and fall on top of me, listening to her increasingly ragged breathing as she dissected every detail of that day, I suddenly felt a strange sense of relief.
This experience, which should have become a rift, ultimately became the strongest link between us.
She was no longer afraid to tell, and I was no longer satisfied with superficial details. We were like two greedy people, jointly guarding a secret box that belonged only to us, each time opening it to add something more shameful, more real.
And the fuller the box, the more inseparable we become from each other.
The night was still long.
Her voice continued, husky with desire, bit by bit bringing that summer afternoon back to life as an aphrodisiac on our bed that would never expire.
I held her tight, matching her rhythm, and whispered in her ear:
"Keep talking. I'm listening."
She nodded, burying her face in the crook of my neck, and in a voice almost like a breath, slowly whispered the next, even more explicit details into my ear.
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