The humid Tokyo night clung to the apartment like a second skin, the city’s glow flickering through half-closed blinds. Mariko, 34, in her silk robe barely tied at the waist, stood in the kitchen, sipping iced tea after putting her husband to bed — or so she thought. But tonight wasn’t about duty. Tonight, she craved release. The kind that couldn’t be found in whispered texts or fantasy novels. She wanted hard cock, thick and unrelenting, stretching her lips, making her gag, owning her.
And then he walked in.
Tall, broad-shouldered, an American businessman visiting for a trade summit. He’d stayed late at the dinner party, laughing too loudly, staring too long. Now, here he was — in her home, shirt unbuttoned, eyes locked on her exposed thigh. No words. Just heat. Raw, animal want.
“You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered, but her voice trembled with excitement, not fear.
“You know you want this,” he growled, stepping closer. His hand slid up her bare leg, pushing the robe open. Her pussy was already wet, slick with anticipation. She hadn’t touched herself in weeks — hadn’t been touched — and now, the air crackled with forbidden energy.
Without another word, he unzipped his pants. Out sprang his cock — thick, veiny, the head swollen and glistening. Mariko dropped to her knees like she was meant to worship. She didn’t hesitate. Her lips wrapped around the tip, sucking gently, savoring the musk of his skin, the salty tang of pre-cum. Her tongue swirled the ridge, then took him deeper — inch by inch — until her nose pressed against his belly.
Gag.
Her eyes watered, but she pushed through. This was what she needed. To be used. To be filled. To feel like a dirty little slut who’d sell her dignity for one long, hard cock down her throat. Her husband was soft, quiet, polite. This man? He grabbed her hair, yanked her head back, then slammed into her mouth again. Rough. Dominant. Perfect.
“Suck it, Mariko,” he grunted. “Just like your husband never taught you.”
She moaned around his shaft, the vibration making him shudder. Her hands crept up his thighs, nails digging in. She wanted more — needed more. With one slick motion, she freed her breasts from the robe, pinching her nipples as she bobbed faster, deeper. The slurping sounds echoed off the tiles. Pre-cum dripped down her chin. She didn’t wipe it. Let him see how filthy she was for him.
Then he pulled out. “On the counter. Now.”
She obeyed. Legs spread. Pussy exposed. He spit on his palm, stroked once, then plunged deep inside her. She cried out — not pain, but pure ecstasy. He filled her completely, his balls slapping against her ass with every thrust. She clawed at the countertop, back arching, begging in broken English: “Harder! Please, harder!”
He fucked her like she was his personal toy. No mercy. No gentleness. Just raw, uncut fucking. The kind that made her toes curl and her vision blur. She came first — a violent, shuddering climax that left her gasping. But he wasn’t done.
He flipped her over, bent her forward, and re-entered from behind. Deeper. Faster. The slap of skin on skin was deafening. Her wetness coated his cock, dripping down her inner thighs. She could feel every vein, every pulse, as he pounded her toward a second, even more intense release.
When he finally pulled out, he made her turn. She knew what he wanted.
Her lips sealed around his cock again — now slick with her own juices — and she sucked him to the root. Three hard pumps. A groan. Then hot, thick cum erupted down her throat. She swallowed fast, but some spilled — dripping from the corner of her mouth, down her neck.
He pulled back, zipped up, and without a word, walked out.
Mariko sat there, trembling, soaked in sweat and cum. And for the first time in years… she felt alive.
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