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belly. It was only a matter of time, he thought. Until those breasts, now still trapped in old fabric, would move—free, swaying, heavy and soft, like the promise of late summer. These breasts—yes, these very ones—were what his thoughts revolved around. Not in crude lust, not as prey. But as a promise. They lay still now, covered by fabric, held in place by the gentle resistance of old habit. Perhaps a bra that had long known how to support them. Perhaps a dress made of soft, flowing fabric that caressed every curve and yet revealed nothing. But he sensed them. The shape. The weight. The movement.

If he leaned over her, if their bodies found each other - then he would feel it: the swaying. That gentle, weightless rocking under his weight. Like two moons that don't need to hurry because they know that every movement is a cosmos in itself. He imagined how they rose and fell with each of his thrusts. How they didn't obey his rhythm, but responded to it. Heavy and soft. No resistance, no pride—just the pure, deep harmony of lived femininity.

He wouldn't touch her roughly, not greedily. He would hold her, support her perhaps, placing his hands beneath her like ripe fruit that almost falls into his hands by itself. And then see—no, feel—how she moved. How she came alive to his rhythm. No longer hidden, no longer held, but free. Free and soft and heavy. And how they sounded - not loud, but audible. That gentle, soft beating of skin against skin, of fullness against chest, when he penetrated her deeply. As if the body itself were murmuring a poem, word for word, verse for verse.

No longer young, he thought. But all the more real.

Because what moved him was not youthful smoothness or the promise of mere freshness. It was depth. A certainty that rested beneath the surface. There was no doubt in her, no question as to whether she was desirable. She was. And that was enough. Her breasts were not a statement. They were memory, experience, strength. They were made to be held—not looked at. To be felt—not admired.

And he imagined how he would feel them. Not just in his hands. But on his stomach, on his chest, when he pressed himself against her. How they would nestle against him, mold themselves to him, sway toward him. Maybe she would writhe beneath him, not in feigned lust, but in that deep, difficult-to-control movement when the body stops controlling itself. When she moaned—maybe softly, maybe loudly—when her hands scratched his back or clasped it tightly, as if she wanted to pull him completely inside her.

And he knew: he would look at her while he took her. Not because he wanted to see himself. But because he wanted to see how she gave herself to him. How she closed her eyes. How her mouth opened, just a little. How her breasts moved with every movement, with every thrust, how they lived—heavy, soft, unstoppable. How they danced beneath him. Not for him—but with him.

A dance of two bodies that knew each other even though they had never touched before. A dance that had no goal except the moment itself, declaring the climax of pleasure as its destination. And when it was over—when they sank back exhausted, when their breathing was still uneven and the sweat between their bodies formed little streams—then he would hold her. He would place his hand on her breast, just lightly, to feel that she was still there. That they had lived.

And maybe—just maybe—she would laugh softly. That warm, dark laugh that women have when they know they have given everything.

"Do you live nearby?" Anna asked. He nodded, still lost in other thoughts that were not yet ready to be spoken, let alone printed. How could he think like that, he wondered, but the thought was too beautiful to end abruptly. "A few streets away. And you?"

"An old villa. With a garden. Too big, really. But I don't like giving things up just because other people say you should... when you're alone..."

He smiled. And saw how a gust of wind caught her blouse, how Anna smoothed it down in response - and how her hand brushed lightly against her breast. Not intentional. But not startled either.

He said, "May I—I mean, may we—walk with you for a bit?"

She hesitated. But then she nodded. And he already suspected that they were no longer just two people out for a walk. Her too? Maybe—it didn't matter... he didn't mind.

They walked side by side, dogs in front, in unequal harmony, well adapted to the enormous difference in size.

He felt the closeness of her hips. The scent of roses mixed with soap and something that perhaps only she wore—maybe vanilla, maybe just a memory. Powder? Maybe that was it—and not the artificial perfume from the factories. Old powder, noble and fine.

He wondered what it would be like to touch this body. Not just to desire it. But to know it. To feel it and experience it. Not in a fit of greed. But slowly. Like reading a poem you discovered too late - but now want to memorize and understand word for word. Letting the sound of the words melt on your tongue, just as he wanted to let her scent and femininity melt on his tongue in a completely different form and truth.

And while she talked—about dogs, about the heat, about watering her plants—he thought about her skin. About what was waiting underneath. And about what might never move again. Or only when someone came along who was young enough not to ask. But just to do it. To take it!

He wouldn't push her. But he wouldn't let her go either. Not yet.

The Maltese growled again. Just briefly. Perhaps he had more instinct than most other people. Then he whimpered. And Anna—Anna put her hand on his head and said, "It's okay, sweetie. He just wants to talk."

The man laughed. And thought: Not him. But me.

And when she listened to him—then she would hear it. What he hadn't even said yet.

It was only a few steps to her garden gate, but each one was carried by something that refused to be named. Maybe it was just the afternoon sun, which was so low that it cast a golden glow around her silhouette. Maybe it was her footsteps, which betrayed a certain uncertainty in the gravel. Maybe it was just his own imagination running wild, from a glance to desire, from words to imagination.

He imagined what she was like when she slept. Whether she curled up tightly or spread out like an exhausted animal. He imagined what she was like when she undressed—not quickly, not playfully, but as a ritual. As an act with meaning. How long had she been doing this? And with whom? The man was dead; she hadn't said so, but he knew. Her eyes knew it. Her laughter knew it. Her body carried this knowledge. And with one word or another, she had also revealed it, without it being necessary.

What remained when the last time was so long ago that you couldn't remember it yourself? Was there an echo? Or just a glimmer? Was there a desire that didn't dare to be a desire?

He watched her as she bent down to take the key out of her bag.

Her blouse stretched across her back. Her hips—no doubt about it: this body was made to be touched. Not just to be seen, not just to be thought about. But to be explored with his hands, to be discovered and slowly conquered. Her breasts, he knew, would sway in his hands as if they had never aged, only matured. He imagined how her nipples would rise when he brushed them with his tongue. And how she might be startled herself by what still lay dormant within her, something she had long since dismissed and given up on, due to her age and probably the fact that her husband had been much older than her... sick in his final days and then... the famous fate of widows who remain young at heart.

She unlocked the gate, stepped inside, then stopped. She didn't turn around completely, only halfway, a gesture between invitation and farewell. And then—that moment. Her lips parted slightly, as if she wanted to say something.

He thought he saw it on her tongue, a question, a wish, perhaps a very tender, indecisive impulse: whether he wanted to come in. Whether he should stay. But she said nothing. And that was exactly it. She didn't know him. How could she? And yet—there was something. Something in her gaze that pointed beyond the garden.

Beyond tea and pleasantries. He saw her cheeks flush, not just from the light, not just from the wind. And beneath her blouse, something was straining. He couldn't tell if it was really there or if his desire was turning into perception—but he imagined he saw a dark shadow, a hint of a bulge, as if her body was responding to his thoughts. Was it the slight twitch of a nipple? Or just the fabric shifting, the slight friction—all of it mechanically explainable and not a chemical reaction to what he hoped for and dared to imagine again and again in his mind.

But inside him, everything had long since awakened. He saw her, not naked, no—but in her vulnerability. And at the same time in a dignity that no one had ever dared to kiss. Not like this. Not with his tongue. Not with his forehead. Not with his hands, which knew that skin on skin was more than a game. With an appreciative treatment and rediscovery that she had probably never experienced before.

She raised her shoulders slightly, as if to say: I don't know either. And that was exactly what was so moving. That she herself was frightened by what she wanted. Or by what she thought she no longer wanted - and now suddenly began to feel again, very gently.

He took half a step back. Maybe it was cowardice. Maybe respect. Maybe it was the desire not to tear this delicate fabric apart. Not yet.

He could have said yes. He could have followed her. But he felt that would be too much. Today. Not yet.

"Thank you," he said. "But maybe... tomorrow... again?"

She looked at him. Longer than was polite. And then nodded. "Tomorrow."

They were still on formal terms. Although the informal "you" was almost in the air. Like a veil that had not yet been lifted. Not yet. But soon. Soon they would no longer need a barrier.

He turned around, leaving her behind with the dog and the garden gate. And yet he could feel her eyes following him. How she wondered why he had left. And how she was grateful at the same time that he had. Because otherwise she wouldn't have known how to take that step back. And yet—she hadn't invited him in. Not with words, not spoken from her lips, and yet it had been a signal, so direct and clear and unambiguous that she had to ask herself. Had she thought aloud or had she spoken what he had unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, rejected?

He thought of her breasts. Of the shadow under her collar. Of her lips, which had uttered the word "maybe" almost lovingly.

He thought about her thighs, her underwear, her stomach. He thought about her scent, the way she talked to the dog, her shoulders, which probably weren't held very often anymore. Or her breasts. Especially her breasts, to see them sway and roll when she lay beneath him. He swallowed and smiled. He knew he would come back.

And she would wait for him. Even if she didn't know it yet.

And Richard imagined her stepping into the bathroom alone tonight. How she undressed. Slowly. Glancing in the mirror, asking questions she couldn't answer. Was she thinking about him? Could she sense that he was thinking about her? That he was thinking about her body, her laughter, her trembling?

He imagined her standing there. Perhaps naked. Perhaps in a shirt. And how she looked at herself. Not like before. But new. And how she might feel desire for the first time in a long time. Not in a general way. But for him.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow he would see her again. And then they would take another step. He was certain of that.

Not far to go. Not long now.

----------------------------

The morning did not begin with a song, not with a smile—but with restlessness. A tingling sensation under her skin that she couldn't explain. When Anna woke up, her first thought was not of the newspaper, not of coffee, not of the dog, but of him. The young man. Richard. She remembered his gaze, his voice, the moment at the garden gate—and her heart beat faster as if she were sixteen and on her way to her first date.

She hadn't expected anything like this. Not anymore. Not at her age. And yet she got up as if the day were a promise. Her feet carried her as if by themselves to the bathroom, where the mirror showed her a face that was not unfamiliar—and yet seemed different today. Wasn't there a sparkle in her eyes? A little more color on her cheeks? She leaned closer, looked at her skin, the wrinkles at her temples, the lines around her mouth. And yet: there was also warmth. A new kind of anticipation.

What should she wear? The question came suddenly, like a light that flickers and then becomes bright. It wasn't trivial, but something significant. She tried on blouses, lifted skirts, imagined herself in dresses she hadn't worn in a long time. Once she undressed again, just to look at herself naked. What would he see when he looked at her? Would he be disgusted by her? Would he really feel the desire she was trying to deny? A flame she had felt burning in him... or maybe not. Had that been her madness, her own projection of something long forgotten and sunk into the darkness of indifference?

She felt ashamed. And at the same time, she didn't. Her nipples were hard. She noticed this with surprise—not because of the cold, but because of her imagination. She imagined his hand brushing against her, his lips touching the curve of her neck, his fingers... Oh, she stopped the thought and ran her fingers through her hair, embarrassed.

Was it crazy? Yes. Was it forbidden? Maybe. Was it real? That was the biggest question.

She stood there for a while, barefoot, wearing only her underwear. Then she opened the drawer with her perfumes. Many of them had been there for years. Some were almost empty, others untouched. She chose the old, heavy bottle with the golden lettering. Just a hint, no more. It shouldn't smell like an invitation. It should smell like a memory.

Then the skirt. Not too short, but softly flowing. The blouse, light and airy, with a hint of transparency that seemed appropriate. And a bra that lifted her breasts without being ostentatious. She looked at herself, turned sideways, looked at her back, her neck, her profile. And she asked herself: Is this still my skin, my figure? Is this still my body? What about the wrinkles and the color of her hair, not totally dyed, but darkened, a dark natural blonde with white or silver strands in it?

But something wouldn't let her go. A thought that crept tenderly into her mind. The idea that he would see her naked. Completely. Maybe even where no one had ever really looked at her before. She thought of the fine line below her back, the delicate spot between her buttocks. Where she had never felt anything special—but now that his gaze might fall there... How could she? But he had looked at her when he didn't think she was being watched. That look! Those looks! Everywhere—breathtaking!

She took the small mirror out of the drawer. And a razor. Her hand trembled a little, but she did it. She shaved. Carefully. Not out of duty, not out of habit. But out of anticipation. It was truly a sacred act. And afterwards she applied a thin layer of cream. The scent rose to her nose - sweet, almost innocent, and yet promising. She had hardly ever done that before - or at least not in this millennium. An eternity ago!

In the kitchen, her hand trembled slightly as she turned on the kettle. She wasn't hungry. Not in the slightest. The bread remained untouched, the apple lay on the plate like a question. She just sipped her tea. There was something in her stomach—not pain, not nausea, but a fluttering. Like butterflies, one might say. Butterflies in her stomach? Ridiculous. Not at her age. No, certainly not, ridiculous! Like being in love, if one had the courage to say it.

But she didn't. She reproached herself. What was it all about? A young man! So young he could be her grandson. And she—she was acting like a girl. It was ridiculous. It was embarrassing. And yet: it was real. And she couldn't stop it: perhaps the worst part was knowing that it had to be embarrassing and still not being able to change it.

The dog sat next to her and looked at her. So calm, so alert. As if he could sense it. As if he knew something was wrong. Or that something was new. He didn't move, didn't whine—he just looked at her. With that look that could say everything and yet reveal nothing.

Anna stood up, went into the bedroom, only to return.

She was restless. She couldn't sit still. Her fingers slid across the table, across the back of the chair, across her own neck. Her body was electrified. Not from the outside - but from the inside.

And then she imagined what it would be like if he looked at her again today. If he smiled. If he came closer. If his hand touched her, maybe just on the elbow. Or - more.

She shook her head. Loudly. As if to dispel the thoughts. But they remained. They crept under her skin, whispered in her ear, tickled between her legs. It was like a rush. A daydream. A prohibition. A truth. A madness that tried to beguile her with a forked tongue.

But she knew: if he came, if he looked at her again, if his voice said the word "tomorrow" once more—then she would no longer be able to flee.

She stroked the dog. And murmured: "Crazy, isn't it?"

The dog didn't bark. But there was something in its gaze that almost frightened her: understanding. Or judgment.

And then, almost imperceptibly, she reached for the fabric of her skirt. Smoothed it. Examining it. As if the hem were a sign. As if it were telling her: You are still beautiful. You can do this. It is your body. Your desire. And—you can still show your legs. Not a miniskirt, of course, but just a hand's width above the knee. She was never too old for that. Not yet!

But her appetite did not return. The tea tasted stale. And when she looked at the clock, she was startled. So much time left until the afternoon. Until the rose garden and the usual walk. Until maybe. Until him.

Something fluttered inside her that wasn't hunger. It was anticipation. Greed. Fear. And a hint of happiness. No, expectation and hope, which she just didn't want to be disappointed in, even though she knew at the same time that these were all pointless thoughts. Fantasies and delusions, futile hopes.

Even the dog seemed alert. Suspicious, perhaps. Or puzzled. Could he sense it? That his Anna wasn't the same today?

She blushed. Then smiled. Shook her head at herself. And yet she knew: this was only the beginning.

-----------------------------

The afternoon seemed to be made of gold. The sun fell in long, warm rays on the paths of the rose garden, where conversation flowed easily—like a stream that didn't know where it was going but enjoyed meandering. Anna and Richard walked side by side as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The Maltese seemed to have calmed down, running obediently ahead, while Richard's large setter trotted alongside his master with well-trained patience.

They chatted. About books, about gardens, about travel. But never directly, never with too many questions. Always with a smile that suggested more than it said. A brush of the arms here, a chance touch of fingers there - everything was casual and yet meaningful.

"Maybe we'll see each other again?" he asked.

Anna stopped. For a moment. Her heart was beating audibly in her ears. She wanted to say "yes." But not just like that. Not like an invitation for coffee and cake. But with everything that went with it. With that feeling in her body, that sense that her world had just begun to turn.

She smiled—but inside her, a storm was raging. Should she really invite him?

It was too soon. And yet it might be too late if she didn't. Her body craved closeness, warmth, touch. But her mind resisted. What did she want? Just a game? A second youth? Or was it more—this damn longing she thought she had buried long ago?

With Richard, it wasn't like it used to be. It wasn't the slow, tentative approach she had known with her husband. That was before... far too long ago... decades ago, in another millennium, practically the Stone Age. Today? Everything was different. Spontaneous. Wild, almost. And yet delicate. There were no expectations. No goals. Just this unconditional now. And that scared her. Losing something that might not come around again? Was that it? Last-minute panic!

He hadn't made any demands. He had just asked. And she knew that if she hesitated now, if she waited too long, he would pull away. And she couldn't bear that.

"Would you like to come back to my place?" she asked, almost too quietly, almost whispering. And immediately she felt ashamed. She looked down at the floor. Her heart was racing. She was afraid that she had made a mistake, that she had gone too far.

Richard didn't answer right away. But his eyes grew darker, warmer, softer. He tilted his head slightly. And stepped closer.

On the way home, they were silent for the first few minutes. As if every word was one drop too many. Their shoulders touched. The warmth of his closeness crept through her thin fabric. And she felt crazy and alive at the same time.

"I don't know what I'm doing," she said, more to herself than to him. Her voice was barely audible.

"I don't know either," he replied.

The key trembled slightly in her hand as she unlocked the door. The dog disappeared inside. She let Richard enter first. And then she closed the door. Slowly. As if she were closing not only the door, but the old world behind her.

"Would you like to...?" she began.

But he was already there. Very close. His hands found hers. And it was as if a current was flowing through her fingers.

She laughed softly. Nervously. Embarrassed. Like a girl. And at the same time she felt it. Very clearly. The tension. The pull. The desire that didn't scream loudly, but gently tugged at her.

They stood in the hallway. Still at a distance. But everything inside her was vibrating. He looked at her. With a look that didn't ask, but understood.

"Maybe this is a mistake," she said.

"Maybe," he replied. And smiled.

He stepped closer. Placed his hands on her waist. And she let him. Didn't push him away. Didn't pull back.

Her lips parted slightly, a breath, a barely perceptible tremor.

"I'm scared," she said. And immediately she could have slapped herself for those words. Too direct. Too naked.

But Richard leaned forward. And kissed her. Not greedily. Not demandingly. But with a respect that was more tender than anything she had ever known.

His mouth on hers. His warmth. His scent. And her body nestling into his closeness as if it had been waiting for years.

She knew that if she didn't stop him now, she would never be able to stop him. And she didn't want to.

She led him into the living room. The lights were still on. Everything was still normal. But her pace had slowed. Her steps were tentative.

"I don't know what I want," she said.

"Your body knows," he whispered.

And there it was. The first "you." No more "you." No distance. No polite dance. Just closeness.

He stood behind her. His hands slid under her blouse. Touched skin. Caressed. She trembled. With desire. With fear. With anticipation.

"Not too fast," she whispered, but was she even speaking to herself? Or was it just in her thoughts? Did the words drip from her lips, or were they more like a demand?

But it was too late. The buttons of her blouse gave way. Her bra followed. And his lips found her neck. Her back. Her shoulders.

She closed her eyes. And let herself fall. Not onto the sofa. But into the feeling that was overwhelming her. Into the heat. Into the forbidden. Into what she hadn't felt in so long.

And she knew she wouldn't regret it. Even if she would be ashamed of it tomorrow.

Now—was now.

The door closed softly, almost silently, like a promise. Richard entered—not hastily, not demanding, but with an alertness that could no longer be denied. Anna stood just a few steps in front of him in the dimly lit hallway, her coat half open, her hair glistening in the light from the wall lamp. She hadn't turned around.

He stepped closer. Very quietly. And placed his hands on her shoulders. She flinched almost imperceptibly. Not in fright—more like a pause. Like someone who senses something coming but doesn't know how close it is.

His fingers slid gently over the fabric, over the soft transition from her neck to her collarbone. Then deeper. Over her back, slowly, deliberately. His breath brushed her scent: a hint of soap, a touch of wine, and underneath it a warmth that needed no name.

He leaned forward, very slightly, and his crotch pressed against hers. She felt it. Felt the hardness in his pants, unmistakable. And she faltered. Not out of rejection. More out of surprise. Her shoulders were tense, but not defensive.

"I... I don't know," she said softly. "I... you don't really mean that..."

His hands found their way up her stomach, slid under her arms and finally rested on her breasts. He didn't squeeze. Just held them. Like you hold something that hasn't been touched in a long time.

She took a sharp breath. "You... you can't..." But she didn't turn away. Her breasts were soft, heavy, warming his hand through the fabric.

"Tell me when I should stop," he whispered.

"I... I don't know..." Her laughter was strange, uncertain, almost embarrassed. "I don't even know what this feels like anymore..."

He didn't answer. He didn't even move faster. Only firmer. Only closer. His hips were now pressed against her butt, and he began to rub himself slowly against her. She stood still, breathing deeper, a little shakily. Her hand touched his thigh, perhaps by accident, perhaps not.

Richard took her fingers, very carefully, and guided them to his center. Her hand now lay on his arousal, hot and hard beneath the fabric. She didn't pull it away, even though she was almost startled. Not touched for so long, so unfamiliar, so demanding and hard — and obviously thick and all that — it had been years. Ready for action. Right here, right now!

"You're...," she whispered. "So hard..."

He saw her swallow. How her cheeks flushed. And yet her hand remained there. And then—it moved. Very gently. Her fingers rubbed him softly, hesitantly, but not uncertainly.

"I haven't done this... in so long," she said, almost without sound. "Maybe only... back then. With him. Maybe only once."

He didn't kiss her. Not yet. He wanted her hands to speak first. And they did. Her touch became firmer. More curious. And he felt his body twitch with pleasure and joy under the pressure of her fingers.

Slowly, he began to undo the buttons of her blouse. One by one. She held still. Her chest rose. Her skin became visible - pale, warm, marked by time. When he undid the last button, he saw the top of her bra - cream-colored, delicate, worn. Not a sexy model. But something about it turned him on immensely.

He slid his hand underneath. Her skin was soft. Her breast filled his hand completely. When he pressed lightly against it, she moaned softly. A sound, half suppressed, half lost, yet expressing all the longing in the world.

"I... I don't know if I can do this..."

"You don't have to do anything. Just feel."

She gasped softly when his thumb touched her nipple. It grew hard. She closed her eyes and leaned her head against his shoulder. She took a deep breath and felt her heart beating wildly. Was this reality or a dream she was living?

"So this is what it feels like... to be alive again."

He said nothing. Left his hand there. With the other, he guided her fingers lower. Her touch was no longer a question. It was a request. An answer. A first, tentative yes.

She began to rub him through the fabric. Not rhythmically. Still hesitant, but with each breath more determined, more curious, more eager.

He moaned softly, leaning closer to her. With his lips on her neck, he whispered, "Do you want me to undress you?"

She didn't answer. But she pulled the blouse off her shoulders herself, letting it hang from her arms. Her hand remained on him. Her other hand sought support on his back.

He unhooked her bra at the back. Slowly. Her breathing quickened. He pushed it forward, letting it slide down her arms. Her breasts were free. She threw her head back slightly, revealing herself completely to him. Large. Full. Glistening in the light. Busty. Pure femininity.

He took them in his hands. Leaned forward. Kissed them. Gently at first. Then with more pressure. Her nipples were stiff. She gasped again.

"I don't know how long I've been repressing this..." she whispered.

"You don't have to do anything. Just feel. And enjoy."

Her fingers now slid under the waistband of his pants. He paused, letting her do it. She found what she was looking for—his naked hardness. Her hand around it. Her eyes wide, her mouth open. And a breath she could hardly hold, let alone control.

"So young..." was all she said.

Then she laughed softly. Not mockingly. In amazement. Almost girlishly.

"I never thought I'd do this again."

He held her, kissed her, and felt everything vibrate inside her. Lust, fear, memory. And readiness.

Now she was there.

---------------------------

When Richard gently led Anna to the bed and she hesitantly sat down, the air between them seemed to thicken. Not a word was spoken, but the silence was full of questions—and answers that would soon translate into physicality. He knelt in front of her, caressed her calves, kissed her knees, and slowly, very slowly, he opened her legs.

Anna held her breath. Her thoughts raced, as they had so often lately. What was she willing to allow? What would he do? And—would she be able to bear this feeling of complete vulnerability?

When his lips touched her inner thigh, she flinched slightly. It wasn't the first time in her life, but it felt like the first time with a man who really wanted it. Not like her husband back then, in the first months of their marriage. Back then, he had tried a few times, almost dutifully, without passion, as if it were an item on a list, an example of modern marriage. She had never been able to let herself go—and he had soon given up, almost relieved, she thought later. Maybe it had disgusted him. Or made him feel insecure. Or both. But that had been true for both of them—him as well as her... but now... all that was different and forgotten.

But now there was Richard. His tongue was like a dashing plow of erotic lust, a gentle, warm, wet messenger that didn't search, but found its target with determination. Anna felt every breath, every pressure, every twitch of his lips. It wasn't hurried sucking, not quick flicking - it was devotion. He tasted her like a poem that one wanted to understand anew rather than memorize. He sucked and chewed and nibbled and bit into her and out of her and back into her lustfully wet, swelling flesh, he danced in her and on her, spreading his tongue like an erotic carpet over her clitoris and making it flutter at a frequency that made her head begin to sway.

She tried not to tense up, but her whole body was electrified. Her hands clawed at the sheet, her legs wanted to close, open, escape, stay open - all at once. Spread - alone, as the word itself sounded. Memories raced through her head: how she had secretly read in a guidebook that women could also be touched there.

How ashamed she had been to want that. How she had never been allowed to say it. And now it was there, not only allowed, but desired - by him. Practiced, truly celebrated. She dared to glance down. Richard's face was buried between her thighs, his eyes half closed, his gaze lost as if he were drinking. And drink he did, with his tongue, with his lips, with his breath.

He gently nibbled on her mons pubis, let his teeth glide over her pubic hair, then went deeper, where her wetness gathered, using his nose as if he were a plow, stretching and widening and opening this slit, digging deeper inside for wetness, more than she could muster, to her surprise.

Anna gasped. There was something that took her breath away. Not pain—more a shame that turned into lust. His tongue drew circles, tasted, licked, sucked—so persistently, so undemanding, so full of delight that she no longer knew what to think, feel, or say. Words would have been too small here.

"My God..." she whispered. No, she gasped it. She moaned it with the deep throbbing awareness that she could let herself go under this wonderful oral torture of her young lover.

He heard it, but he didn't answer. Instead, his hand slid under her butt, lifting it slightly so that she opened herself even more. Anna felt like never before. She felt that she was wet, yes - but more than that. She was open. Receptive. Ready.

And suddenly the memory came back like a flash: how her husband had said after a failed attempt: "This isn't for me. It's somehow... too intimate." And she had just nodded, even though she knew he hadn't meant her. It wasn't too intimate. It was too close. Too real. Too much of her. And yes, there was no question about it - it was intimate. But that was precisely why there was this familiarity of closeness that couldn't have been any closer. And she didn't really know him at all - but that was water under the bridge, it didn't matter.

Now it was different. Richard let himself get involved with her as if it were nothing more than breathing. As if she were a landscape he didn't want to conquer, but rather love, describe, draw, embrace, and later... climb, conquer, and... she swallowed: impregnate, like a field as he plowed furrows in her.

Her legs began to tremble. Her pelvis lifted toward him. Her hands left the sheet and sought his head, burying themselves in his hair. She couldn't hold on to anything anymore. Not her thoughts. Not her restraint. Not herself. She felt this throbbing and pulling, a feeling she had lost.

"I... I can't... I..." she blurted out.

But Richard didn't stop. He didn't go faster. He didn't get louder. Just deeper. More focused. He knew what was coming. He felt it just like she did: the rise, the tremor, the darkening of the senses.

And then—a light.

She came. Quietly. Trembling. Wave-like. Hesitant at first, almost embarrassed by what was happening to her. A soft cry stuck in her throat and a current raced through her entire body. Her hips trembled, her fingers clung to him, her breath caught and then dissolved into a long moan. Loud still, as it vibrated inside her, vibrated on her, his tongue beating her in time with the waves of pleasure, until she was whimpering, almost chasing away the dog, who didn't quite know what was happening to his mistress. And then... then she roared, pressed herself against him, wanted to feel her shame truly torn open, kissed and sucked by him, pressing herself against his lips and teeth and nose and chin... everything that revealed itself to him between her wide-open thighs.

Richard let go of her, slowly, lovingly, kissing her thigh, her hip, her pubic area, as if she were a precious relic. And Anna lay there, her heart a wild animal, her chest heaving, her eyes glazed.

"So this is what it feels like... when you're really being licked," she said. And she laughed. A laugh like from another time. A laugh that said: I survived. And I'm back.

And her body had known it all along.

She was still lying there, soft and open, her hair tousled, her skin covered in a dull golden glow from the light. Anna had her eyes closed, as if she were lingering in a dream, in that moment that had made her tremble before. Her thighs were still slightly spread, as if she wanted to keep him there, where he had just been playing with his tongue and lips.

Richard knelt beside her, looking at her. His erection was unbroken, powerful, throbbing—and at the same time patient. He didn't push. He waited. He breathed. His gaze was fixed on her face, on her stomach, on the delicate wetness glistening where his tongue had aroused her desire just minutes ago. Everything about her seemed ready. And yet she hesitated.

She slowly opened her eyes and looked at him. There was no fear in them. Only amazement. And a faint shadow of uncertainty.

"I... don't know if I can do this. Not right now," she murmured. Her voice was soft, fragile.

Richard leaned toward her and kissed her forehead. "You don't have to do anything," he said softly. "Just feel. And say when you want to."

Anna nodded almost imperceptibly. Her chest rose, her breathing quickened. She looked at him, then lowered her gaze—to his body, to what stood between them. Her face flushed, but she didn't move.

He lay down beside her, caressed her side, ran his hand along her waist until it slid between her thighs, not demanding, but gently opening her. His fingers found the warmth and moisture again. And she flinched, but not from pain. From memory.

"My husband... never did that," she whispered. "In the beginning... maybe once. But it was... never like this. So slow. So... tender. It was too intimate for him. Too strange."

"And now?" Richard asked.

She didn't answer. But her gaze softened. Her lips parted. And then she pulled his hips toward her.

He understood. He kissed her neck, her shoulder, her breast, while his body nestled against hers. His shaft now lay heavy and warm against her pubic area, not yet penetrating, but noticeable. A promise.

She lifted her pelvis slightly. And whispered, "Slowly."

He entered her - carefully, inch by inch. Her wetness took him in, but her body was tight, almost unfamiliar, as long as the muscles had not been stretched and massaged. She gasped. He paused, kissed her again, waited.

"It's okay..." She closed her eyes. "It's just... it's been so long..."

His movement was little more than a gentle gliding. A rocking. He adjusted to her rhythm, paying attention to every tremor, every tension in her body. And she began to open up. More. Further. Her hips moved toward him. Her fingers clung to his shoulder. Her lips found his and her voice became rougher, firmer and deeper, more excited and willing, opening up just like her thighs, her slit and her stretched femininity.

"I've never felt like this before..." she said softly. "Not even in the past. Not even when I was... young."

He kissed her again, deeper now, more eagerly, and their bodies began to move in unison. Her breasts pressed against his chest, and with every movement she felt her innermost being respond to him - warm, wet, pulsating. Massaging him, enveloping him, letting him inside her, lubricating him with her juices of lust.

A moan escaped her lips. Then another. Then her body went limp again, then tense, then twitching. He paused, feeling her tremble, seeing her lips quiver.

"I'm coming... again," she whispered, startled, surprised—and full of lust.

He braced himself and let her come. He saw her body twitch, felt her insides clench around him. And then, as she slowly calmed down, he moved again, now a little more demanding, a little deeper. Her legs wrapped around him.

"I... want you all..." she whispered with more certainty and inner confidence.

He took her. Completely. And let himself go. He was still young, but it wasn't youthful haste. It was a journey. A flow. An encounter.

His hips slammed against hers, his shaft sliding deep inside her. And then he lifted himself up, looked down at her—and her face, trembling with lust, gratitude, amazement.

Her hair stuck to her temples, her nipples stood erect, her hands held his hips.

"I want you to come inside me," she said, blushing like a schoolgirl telling her first lover.

He nodded. And increased the rhythm. Their bodies moved faster, their voices louder, their lust palpable. And then—in one thrust, one deep, vibrating urge—he came. Deep inside her. Warm. Pulsing. And she gasped. Felt it. Looked at him.

She moaned. Laughed. Almost cried.

And then—she pulled him toward her. Held him tight. Really tight.

"It's never been like this," she said. "It's never been like this before."

=========================

He was still lying heavily on top of her, his breath warm on her neck, his sweat mingling with hers. Anna had her eyes closed, but her mind was wide awake. Her body was still vibrating, a delicate echo of the waves that had washed over her. She could still feel him deep inside her, like a gentle glow.

But something stirred inside her, a thought, a curiosity, a memory that she couldn't shake off. Slowly, almost shyly, she slipped out from under him, sliding sideways out of his arm. Richard barely lifted his head, but his eyes followed her, questioning, open, interested and curious at the same time.

She looked at him. Lowering her gaze, then raising it again. He was now lying on his back, relaxed, and yet his member was still there, half erect, slippery with her juices and his semen. A drop ran down the inside of his thigh.

Anna swallowed. "I... want to taste you."

She hadn't planned that. She hadn't thought she'd ever say it again. Her husband hadn't liked it, had never let her clean him, never offered, never received her with pleasure. And she had believed him: that it wasn't for her. That it was something for other people. For girls, for strangers, for whores at most - it wasn't normal to think about such things. Afterwards... you had to retreat to the bathroom quickly and get rid of the... smell.

But now everything was different.

She leaned forward and knelt between his legs. His hips lifted slightly, as if to make it easier. And there it was: soft but still firm, with that taste of the forbidden, of closeness, of skin and strength and what she had just received and felt pulsing and exploding inside her.

Anna lowered her head and stroked his shaft with the tip of her tongue. Carefully. Like a cat trying something new. The taste was strange, salty, intense. But not unpleasant. Not now.

She overcame her shyness. Let her lips follow. Took him between her lips, just as he was. And felt a tremor run through his body.

"You don't have to..."

"I want to."

And she did. She took him in, slowly, carefully, and cleaned him with her tongue, her lust, her will. Every inch was tenderly enveloped, every drop licked away, as if she wanted to take every part of this experience for herself, to absorb it, to inhale it. Every drop of the memory that had been so sweet to her.

He moaned. His hips lifted, but he forced himself to stay still. She wasn't experienced, you could tell. But her devotion was honest, her will pure, her curiosity burning. Her lips grew wetter, her tongue bolder, and her mouth tighter. Her movements longer and deeper, taking him more and more into her, letting him swell.

And he grew in her mouth. Again. Slowly. But unstoppably.

She felt it. And she wasn't afraid. On the contrary: she licked on, harder, in circles. Took him deeper. Pressed her lips around him. Her fingers held his root, gently but firmly. And with every movement, she felt his lust returning.

"I can't... again..."

But she wanted to. She was now completely in her role. No more hesitation. Only desire. Only the need to give him what she herself had experienced. And the feeling that what she was doing meant as much to her as it did to him.

His fingers ran through her hair. Not pulling. Guiding. She let him. Took him deeper. Almost choked, pulled back, licked the tip, repeated the circle.

She was wet between her legs. Again. Even though he had just taken her. Or maybe because of that, and because of how he was now dripping out of her. His lust, his seed, his masculinity.

And she thought:

"Why was it never like this? Why did I believe this wasn't for me?"

The shaft was now slippery with saliva and lust. She played with it, licked it from the root to the tip, sucked it, tasted it like a fruit she hadn't eaten in a long time.

He was now hard. Completely.

And she was proud.

She lifted her head, looked at him, her lips moist and her eyes burning. "Not yet... don't come. I want you. Again... differently now..."

He just smiled. And stretched out his arms toward her.

She came to him, lay down on top of him, rubbed herself against him. And she knew: this day was by no means over. Not now. Not by a long shot.

She knelt on the bed, elbows propped up, her hair falling in soft waves over her shoulders. Her breath came quickly. Her whole body was still trembling with the aftershocks of pleasure, and yet there was also a new current, a new excitement slowly rising within her.

When Richard moved behind her, she immediately felt his warmth, his gaze, his hand, which first gently traced her back, tracing the curve of her loins before resting on her waist. Anna trembled slightly, not from cold. But because it was something she had never done before. Not like this. Never had a man taken her from behind.

Not even her husband. The thought of it had always been something animalistic, indecent to her. And now, kneeling before him like this, she felt that very mixture of fear, lust, excitement, and defensiveness unfolding within her like a damp petal.

"I won't hurt you," Richard said softly as his hand slid over her hip, then between her thighs. He found her ready. Open. Wet. She moaned softly.

"I know..." she whispered. "It's just... I've never been like this before..."

He kissed her back, her loins, caressed her thighs. Then she felt him—his hard shaft pressing against her, parting her, finding her. And slowly, inch by inch, he entered her. From behind. Like an ancient ritual.

Anna moaned, deeply, vibrating. Her pelvis moved toward him. It was unfamiliar, but not painful. It was more—an opening up to a new depth. In a position where he could penetrate her even deeper than in the missionary position, which she had long since come to consider normal. Crazy that she had never tried this before... with her husband, why not?

He grabbed her hips and pulled her gently toward him. And then he began to move. Slowly at first. Then deeper, more rhythmically. The sound of their union—that wet, smacking gurgling—filled the room as their bodies rocked in time. And now her breasts swayed like bells, circling and sometimes slapping against each other, adding another erotic touch to the whole act.

She felt him completely. She felt him filling her, her chest heaving, heavy and hot with every thrust.

And then - his hand. It slid from her hip to the back, deeper, between her buttocks. A finger that rested very lightly on her rosebud. No pressure. Just a hint. A circle. A stroke. A touch so gentle and full of suggestion that it seemed almost non-existent.

Anna flinched. A jolt ran through her. "Oh!" she gasped.

She turned halfway around, her eyes wide with fear. "That... please don't... I..."

Richard paused. "Just outside. Just feel it. I would never..."

She looked at him. Her eyes were wide, breathless. But her body had not rejected him. Her hips remained raised, his hardness still inside her. And she felt that she was not only startled—but also that an absurd, hot wave was passing through her.

"No one has ever..."

He kissed her spine. "I know. It's just... beautiful. You are beautiful."

She didn't turn away. She let it happen. His fingers continued to play with her skin, circling as his shaft slid deeper and deeper into her. She now moaned with every movement. Her knees slid slightly apart, her pelvis lowered more, offering itself to him. Completely.

"Harder..." she whispered. "Please... take me... properly."

He did. His grip on her hips became more determined. The thrusts deeper, stronger. Her whole body rocked with him, her breasts swaying with every movement, and the gurgling between her legs became wetter, louder.

She bit into the pillow. Her fingers cramped in the blanket.

"I... I can't take it... I... I'm coming..."

Richard groaned, saw her back arch, her hips tremble, her buttocks tense, and then he felt her close around him, twitch, vibrate, tremble. Her entire body became a stream of lust and heat.

"Yes... like that..." she gasped. "Give me everything..."

Her head was still bowed low, her hair falling wildly over her shoulders, when he knelt behind her, slowly, exploring, like an artist contemplating a familiar yet undiscovered motif. His gaze slid over her back, over her hips arching toward him, over her thighs, still trembling from before.

His hand rested on her sacrum, then wandered lower, as if tracing the line of her spine. Anna breathed shallowly. She knew what was coming. And yet - every moment was like the first time. When his fingers found her slit, wet with her lust, she twitched slightly.

But not from pain. It was the tremor of anticipation that could no longer be hidden. He guided himself with his other hand. The tip of his member was slippery, shiny. He rubbed it against her lips, not demanding, just caressing. Anna moaned softly, her head turned halfway to the side. Her gaze sought him—not directly, but diagonally over her shoulder. And then she saw it. The tip of his penis, wet, moving between her cheeks, almost shamelessly feeling its way along her rosebud. She froze. Not out of fear. Out of shame. A heat rose to her face, mixed with embarrassment and—yes, that was it—lust. Something tightened inside her.

An image flashed through her mind: her husband, who had never done anything like this. Never asked, never wanted to. Never even looked. And now this.

"Not there... please..." she whispered. Her voice was barely audible.

But his thumb lingered, stroking gently, leaving the gesture hanging like a promise. No pressure. Just a sign: I see you. I want you. All of you.

And that only made it worse. Or better. Or both. Her whole body tensed in a moment of awareness: there she was - naked, open, viewed from behind, touched by his thumb in a place she never thought would react like this. And it did. Her vagina contracted, violently, almost painfully with pleasure.

A moan escaped her lips. A sound that said more than words ever could. She was ashamed—ashamed of how much she wanted him to keep going.

"I... I can't..." she whispered.

"You don't have to," he said, his voice rough. And yet he let his thumb slide over her opening once more before sitting down deeper, pushing his hips against hers.

Then—the thrust. Slow. Deep. Smacking.

She moaned loudly, fell forward, braced herself. His member filled her completely, soaked with her wetness, which now began to stir again in waves. He paused briefly, letting her expand, then withdrew almost completely—only to thrust deep into her again. Hard, firm, demanding, almost brutally impaling her.

She felt her pelvis tremble, her breath quicken. His hands on her hips, then back on her breasts, which swayed beneath her, painfully sensitive.

"Harder... please..." she gasped, startled by her own words.

He obeyed. He thrust harder. Her thighs began to cramp, but she held on, braced herself against him. It was raw, wild, but never brutal. It was what she never thought she would experience.

His pelvis slapped against hers. Her labia were swollen, her lust washing over her. And then—as his thumb slid over her asshole again, just a touch—she came. Loud. Wild. Tremors ran through her. Her vagina twitched, spasmed, sucked him deeper into her.

He held her tight, groaning, but he didn't come yet. He waited. Let her tremble. Let her lose herself.

Then he bent over her. His chest on her back, his breath hot on her ear.

"I love the way you give yourself..." he whispered.

She couldn't answer. Not yet. Her fingers dug into the sheet. Her buttocks lifted, twitching.

He pulled back a little. Guided himself with his hand. And now, as she turned slightly and looked over her shoulder, she saw his tip again, shiny, throbbing, dripping.

"No... not again..." she whispered, and yet it wasn't a no.

He rubbed her with the tip. Not inside her. On her. On her slit, on her entrance, over her pink rim.

She twitched. Again. Her nipples burned. And she knew: one more time. And she would tear apart.

Then, when his hand took her again, his hips thrust into hers—deeper than ever before—he came. His member twitched. Hot. Pulsing. He spilled into her. Deep. Filling. Unstoppable.

She didn't scream. But her body screamed. It trembled. It took him in. All of him. And all she could think was:

Never. Never before.

And yet - so right.

Then she sank forward, breathing heavily, her legs wobbly, her hands cramped. He lay on top of her, both of them trembling. His juice ran slowly out of her, warm, wet, almost sacred.

And she knew: This was more than a fuck. It was breaking open. Feeling new. And the inkling: It's not over yet.

---------------------------

Anna was still lying on her stomach, half collapsed, her thighs slightly open, her gaze buried in the pillow, while Richard lay heavily on top of her. His weight wasn't oppressive, not heavy—more like a warm blanket, like a protective cover enveloping her. His breath brushed her neck, rhythmic, slowly subsiding, and she could still feel the last stir of his member deep inside her. A soft, late pulsation that washed through her in waves, like an echo of their mutual desire.

Her thoughts had not yet settled. Too much had happened, too fast, too intense. She had given herself like never before. It wasn't planned. Not calculated. It had just happened. And yet - it hadn't been a mistake.

Her rosebud still burned slightly, not from pain, but from that one touch that had triggered so much more in her than any words ever could. A wet stroke with his tip after they had both been open, intertwined, sunk into each other. A stroke that had touched something in her that no man had ever touched before. Not her husband. Not even herself. And yet, in that one second, she had wanted it. Not consciously. But her body had twitched, her skin had responded, her desire had been ignited and, for a second or two, had even opened up and signaled fatal readiness to him.

She turned her head slightly to the side, listening to Richard's breathing. He was still inside her, half limp, but present. It was a feeling she had never known before: to be filled, savored, accepted. Still warm from him, still open.

And as she lay there, sweat on her skin, her hair damp at the nape of her neck, she thought of her husband. How much he had avoided such things. How his tongue had never reached for her, how her slit had always remained unkissed. And how she had believed that was normal. A woman's fate, perhaps. Something you didn't expect. Didn't demand.

But Richard had done it. Without hesitation. As if it were the most natural thing in the world to taste her, to savor her, to celebrate her with his lips and tongue. As if she had a right to it. And more than that: as if it had been his desire not only to serve her pleasure, but to lose himself in it.

She remembered the moment when he had kissed her for the first time, down there, the first touch, the frightened flinch, the almost childlike fear: "What if I smell bad? What if I'm too old? What if..."

But then there had been only his tongue. Warm. Confident. Lustful. And her thoughts had evaporated, melted like wax in the fire of his devotion.

Now, in the afterglow, she felt the aftershocks: her mons pubis still throbbing, her innermost being still open, her rosebud moist from his juices. She hardly dared to close her legs, so completely was she taken by him. She wanted to keep him. Inside her. Just a little longer.

A soft "Mmh" escaped her lips. Not quite a word, but a sign.

Richard hardly moved. But she knew he was awake. She felt his breath change. And then—his lips on her shoulder, gentle, loving.

"I'm still here," he murmured.

She smiled without seeing it. It was enough.

Then, as he slowly rolled to the side and pulled away from her, she felt something warm emerge between her thighs. Her insides were wet, slippery, her rosebud too. A mixture of him and her. Of lust and love and courage.

She reached for a towel, hesitantly, almost bashfully. But then she left it there. It wasn't dirt. It was a memory. She closed her legs slowly and held the feeling inside her. She wanted to keep it. Maybe she would smell and taste him in the morning, so she would know for sure that it wasn't just a hollow daydream.

Then, as he slowly rolled to the side and pulled away from her, she felt something warm trickle between her thighs. Her insides were wet, slippery, her rosebud too. Wet, as if she had been bathed in intimacy. A mixture of him and her. Of lust and love and courage.

He hadn't quite left her yet when his hand found her again. His fingers gently traced her loins, over the slightly open slit where his wet warmth still lingered. And then, slowly, almost reverently, his thumb slid deeper again. To where she felt most vulnerable. To where she didn't know how to react or even what to do. It was such a novel experience that she could only hold her breath, barely react, let alone speak.

A fine film of their combined juices glistened on her skin. The crack between her buttocks was not dry - it was moist, soft, yielding. Richard did not spread her. Not yet. Only his fingers stroked gently along the moist line, touching her ring, barely perceptibly, with his fingertip.

The tip of his thumb circled in tiny, almost playful movements. Not penetrating. Never pushing. Just tempting and enticing, sorting and probing. And she flinched. Not out of fear. Or was it? It was a new tremor. One she had never known before. Her breath caught. Her thoughts revolved around the forbidden.

"Sodom," flashed through her mind. "That's forbidden. That's... that's not done."

But her pores were open. Her body did not respond to morality, but to sensation. And it was so intense that her vision almost blackened. His thumb slid over her, not searching, not penetrating, just tracing. A line. A promise. A circle of lust around something she had never given.

Her insides twitched. Her vagina contracted. And with it, more moist warmth poured out, shimmering, sticky, alive. Richard felt it on his hand, on his fingertips, which now slid, almost glided, into a pressure that opened nothing—only hinted at something.

"So this is what it feels like," Anna thought. "This is what it feels like when you fall... and fly."

And as his finger slowly withdrew, his hand caressing her buttocks, she knew: he hadn't taken anything from her. He had given her something. A hint. Access to something that had been dormant within her.

Her gaze remained fixed on the pillow. But something had awakened inside her. Not a decision. Not yet. But a knowledge. A longing. A sense of wonder.

Her gaze fell to the side. Richard was now lying on his back, his face relaxed, his member soft but still standing at a proud angle and brushed with their combined juices. She thought: How can this young man know so well what she needs?

One last thought before sleep overcame her, half-open, half-lost:

"If he touched me there... with desire... could I ever dare to let him do more?"

And she knew she hadn't made up her mind yet. But the question was now inside her. Alive.

--------------------------

She hadn't slept, not really. Her body lay exhausted and stretched out, but her mind was awake, glowing, caught between lust and shame. And now, in this strange state between dream and consciousness, Anna felt something. Something that was not imagination. Something wet. Something warm.

His tongue.

She didn't dare open her eyes. Not even to breathe. Like an animal hoping not to be noticed by its hunter, she lay still, motionless, her head half pressed into the pillow. But she felt it. Clearly. It wasn't a memory, not an echo of the last hour. He was there. Down there. His lips on her skin, his tongue—between her buttocks.

She should have been outraged. Startled, turned away. But she lay there. Still. And trembling. Not out of fear. Not entirely. It was the trembling of realization that something was happening that she had never thought possible. Never.

Her husband had never kissed her there. On the contrary. He had laughed at such thoughts, even despised them. "Only gay people do that," he had said once when she had cautiously asked if he would like to... there... she hadn't even gotten that far. And she had remained silent. Silenced. Buried the desire like an old secret.

But Richard... Richard just did it. Without warning. Without asking. As if it belonged to her. As if he had the right to give her pleasure there.

And her? She let him.

No, more than that: she enjoyed it. With a shiver running through her entire body. His tongue slid gently over her ring, circled it, tapped lightly against the center of her innocence. She flinched. Her breath escaped with a sound she couldn't suppress. Not a moan. More surprised. But charged.

He knew. Of course he knew. That she was awake.

That she felt it. And that she didn't say no.

His fingers gently opened her, holding her cheeks slightly apart to allow his tongue to slide deeper. And Anna, who could never have imagined that she would ever be touched there, now felt her whole body vibrate. Her vagina, already wet from their previous union, grew wetter with every passing second.

She felt her juices mixing with his saliva, her skin becoming sticky with lust. His tongue was not hasty. It was solemn. Like a consecration. Like a celebration of a sacred space.

A thought flashed through her mind: "Am I crazy? Am I a pervert?"

And then she smiled. Inside. Because what she felt was not shame. It was liberation. A sin, perhaps, but one she no longer wanted to be without.

He now gently pressed a finger into her vagina while his tongue continued to pleasure her anus. The combination threw her off balance. Her body tensed. The lust rose. She was close to coming.

And she knew: now she was ready. Completely. Open. For anything.

One last, deeper thrust of his tongue—a tiny penetration that crossed no boundaries, but said everything. And she came. Hard. Tremors ran through her. Her fingers clenched the blanket. A half-stifled sound escaped her lips. And tears sprang to her eyes.

Not from pain.

From gratitude.

From life.

Richard slowly pulled away, his face wet from her. And she turned, pulled him toward her, kissed him. Without disgust. Without doubt. She tasted herself on his lips. And it was the most beautiful thing she had ever tasted.

At that moment, Anna knew: she was back. Back to life. Back to lust. Back to the present.

And as she felt his lips, soft, warm, with the trace of her own ecstasy on them, new thoughts raced through her mind—wild, forbidden, frighteningly beautiful. What if anything was possible? What if her body was ready to open up in ways she never believed possible—ways she never even dared to dream of?

She thought of all the things she had never done, things she was embarrassed about, things that made people giggle at most—anal, tied up, watched, guided—and now there was only this inkling: if he wanted it, if he touched her like this, then she would give everything. Allow everything. Everything—even the things that had once filled her with disgust.

And yet - it was precisely this thought that made her blush and tremble at the same time. The shame at her willingness, at the heat between her thighs as his tongue caressed her where one wasn't supposed to... where one wasn't allowed to.

But her body didn't lie. Her wetness didn't lie. And his gaze, his tender gaze that looked at her as if she were beautiful, desirable, whole - that didn't lie either.

Anna felt the shiver between hesitation and surrender. Between "What am I willing to do?" and "What has he given me?"

And when she nestled against him, panting softly, her forehead against his chest, she knew: If this intoxication of lust remains—if he loves her like this, caresses her like this, leads her like this—then she will follow him. Anywhere. Even where she never looked.

She smiled. And almost cried. With happiness.

============================

Anna woke up early, much too early. Even before the first ray of sunlight crept over the windowsill, she was already in the shower. The water ran hot over her skin, cascading over her shoulders, over her stomach, between her thighs. And as she soaped herself with calm, circular movements, she felt her thoughts wander. Not aimlessly, oh no - rather purposefully, just too difficult to grasp.

There was this feeling inside her. A throbbing, a glow that hadn't gone away. The night with Richard—she couldn't forget it. His mouth. His hands. And especially his tongue. There. That tenderness, that boldness. It had opened something inside her. Something she could hardly name. And now it was there. Indelible.

She ran her hands over her breasts, took herself in her hands, felt the heaviness and the reaction to the memory. Her nipples became hard, very quickly. And yet it wasn't what she was looking for. Her hand wandered lower, hesitated, then higher again. No, not here. Not like this. Not alone. Or maybe? Maybe. But differently. Supported. Reinforced.

The thought came quietly: Where can you get something like that?

Something like that—it was a dildo. Or a vibrator. Or something else she had never had to name. She had never thought about it before. Or if she had, then only briefly, in the shadow of shame. Her husband would have laughed at her. Or worse: he would have remained silent, shaking his head in incomprehension.

A sex shop? No, that was too much. She didn't want to be seen, didn't want anyone to look at her with those thoughts in her head. And yet there was a longing, a desire for something of her own, something secret, something she discovered for herself. Not as a wife. Not as a widow. As a woman.

Maybe—a drugstore? Yes. It would be less conspicuous there. Between the toothpaste and shampoo. No one would think anything. Or would they?

The thought made her smile. And tremble.

It was an inconspicuous drugstore in a shopping center, one of those places where you only buy toothpaste, shower gel, or dish soap. And yet Anna had come here deliberately that morning—with a goal that still seemed strange to her. Her coat was buttoned up, her gaze calm, almost too calm. But beneath the fabric, a thought, a premonition, a longing burned.

She had slept poorly. Her body was still sensitive from yesterday's experience, her insides vibrating with every memory. Richard's tongue, his lips, his patient touch—it echoed inside her like a forbidden psalm. And now that she was alone, she almost believed it hadn't really happened. Her body told her otherwise.

She stepped through the automatic door and was greeted by the familiar beeping sound. The aisles were empty. It was early morning. Anna knew what she was looking for—and yet had no idea how she would find it. Her gaze wandered over the shelves. There: lubricant. And... toys.

She moved closer. Her heart was pounding. As she looked at the small boxes with ornate names and discreet designs, she felt dizzy. Words like "multi-speed," "flexible use," "extra quiet," and "velvety soft surface" caught her eye. One model was even "waterproof." Another promised "pleasurable stimulation from two sides."

Her hand reached out—and pulled back. Then she went for it. A slim, silver dildo, rechargeable, with a delicate LED ring. Modern. Discreet. And in her imagination, in a crazy way... beautiful. She grabbed it, put it in her shopping basket, covered by a pack of tissues.

She added some lubricant - neutral, but according to the packaging "ideal for intense pleasure." The cashier was young, maybe twenty-five, with a ponytail and chewing gum. When she saw Anna's basket, she raised an eyebrow but said nothing. Just a sidelong glance - first at the product, then at Anna. A moment too long.

"Is that for... yourself?" she asked quietly, not unkindly, but not entirely without mockery.

Anna blushed so suddenly and deeply that she lowered her gaze. "I... yes. Well..."

The cashier grinned. "No worries. It's a good model. Flexible. Even in the back, if you want."

A stab in Anna's chest. Had she really said that? The cashier was already scanning the item. "It's good for everyone to treat themselves sometimes. At any age."

Anna entered the wrong PIN. The cashier waited. Anna sweated. Again. This time she got it right. The beep sounded. "Thank you," said the young woman. And handed her the bag with a look that said more than words could express.

Anna stepped outside. The air was cool. She took a deep breath. And laughed. Softly at first. Then louder. It was a laugh full of absurdity. And truth. She had done it. Just like that. After all these years. She had bought a toy that she would—maybe—use tonight. Maybe.

What if Richard had seen her here? Right at that moment, at the checkout, with lubricant and a dildo in her hand? The idea was so embarrassing, so crazy, that she almost moaned. And yet, her body tensed slightly at the thought. Her breasts tightened. Her pubic area tingled.

She imagined placing the dildo on her nightstand. Looking at it. Trying it out. Carefully at first. Then differently. Deeper. And if Richard came in, by chance, as if by accident, and found her like that—pleasuring herself, not quite finished...

Anna shook her head. And laughed again.

She was alive. And she could feel it in her fingertips.

----------------------

She was just stepping out of the passageway, the paper from the drugstore bag rustling in her hand, when she saw him. Richard. As if by chance, as if fate had decided to immediately pick up the thread between them again. He stood there, slightly sideways to the sun, which caressed his face. A light breeze ruffled his hair. And when he saw her, he raised his hand—not surprised, more like someone who knew she was coming.

"Anna," he said simply.

She stood still, her heart pounding, her face red. "Hello. I... just quickly..." She held the bag closer to her body as if he could see through it. And maybe he could. He stepped closer. His eyes rested warmly on her. And Anna knew: she was done for.

"Can I walk with you for a bit?"

She nodded. Wordlessly. And they walked.

It was a quiet walk, full of glances. He didn't talk much. And she hardly said anything. But every step was like a beat of anticipation. She felt the moisture between her thighs. The warmth rising inside her. The vibration of a desire she could hardly control.

When they reached her front door, she knew she would invite him in. Not out of politeness. Not out of insecurity. But because everything in her wanted it.

"Do you want to come up?" she asked quietly, almost apologetically.

He didn't answer. But he stepped inside.

The apartment was quiet. Only the breath of things. And the whisper of memories of the previous night.

He stood behind her, barely waiting for her to close the door. Her jacket fell. And his hands wrapped around her waist. Warm. Firm. Questioning.

"You're still so soft..." he murmured in her neck. "And you smell like yesterday."

She wanted to say something. But her mouth was too dry. Instead, she turned around, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him. Gently. Then deeper. Her lips parted. His tongue entered. And everything was back again.

She led him into the bedroom. Not slowly. Not hesitantly. But with a movement that knew no escape. When the door closed behind them, she pulled him toward her. She felt his body, his hunger, his hardness through his pants. And she knew: she wanted him.

Her hands slid under his sweater, exploring the landscape of his skin, his muscles. And he opened her blouse, button by button, kissing her bare skin. Her nipples were hard, too hard, too fast—and she moaned in lustful anticipation.

"I'm... so wet," she whispered, startled by her own words.

"I know," he said simply.

And then he opened her skirt, letting it slide slowly down her legs. She stepped out, standing there in her panties and shirt, trembling. Her hand moved to her stomach, caressing herself.

"I need you," she said.

He pushed her onto the bed, not roughly, but decisively. She lay there, half naked, her knees slightly open. Her hands searched for support. And then - he pushed her panties aside. And inhaled her scent.

"You're ready," he said. And his gaze was hot.

He exposed himself, slowly, without haste. And when his member was finally free, it twitched slightly.

She held her breath. So hard. So full. So much for her. Concentrated and swollen lust and masculinity.

He knelt over her, caressed her pubic area with the tip, slowly ran over her wet lips. And she moaned, clenching her fingers into the sheets.

"Please..." she whispered. "Now..."

He slid into her. All the way. Without haste. Without haste. Her wetness took him in like an invitation. Like a plea. She arched toward him, letting him enter her completely. Her body vibrated as if it had been waiting for this moment.

And he began to move. Slowly at first. Then harder. Her legs wrapped around his hips. Her hands in his hair. Her lips on his neck.

"Yes..." she whispered. "Like that... keep going..."

He turned her onto her stomach and pulled her hips toward him. And she understood. Her knees on the bed, her upper body low. And he entered her from behind. Deep. Filling. The sound of their bodies, the slapping, the smacking—it drove her almost crazy.

"You're so tight..." he moaned with pleasure.

"I can't help it... I..." she gasped.

His pace quickened. Her breasts swayed. Her skin glowed. And then—she came. Violently. Twitching. Her head pressed into the pillow. Moaning loudly.

And he didn't stop. Didn't wait for her to stretch out again. But took her again. Again. And again. Until she came again and laughed and cried and moaned and twitched.

Because it wasn't over. Her body craved more, too often, too intensely to call it mere aftershock. Something had opened up inside her, something that couldn't be closed again. His hands were still on her skin, his lips on her cheek, his breath hot on her ear.

"I can't... not anymore..." she whispered. "And yet..."

He turned halfway toward her and looked at her. Her cheeks were glowing, her hair was stuck to her neck, and her chest was rising and falling so violently that he thought her heart would burst.

And then—her carelessly discarded robe slipped from the arm of the chair. The fabric fell to the floor, almost silently, but not without effect: the bag with the groceries, the dildo, the lubricant slipped out of the inner compartment. And everything fell to the floor.

A soft rumbling. A clacking sound. Then silence.

They both looked down. Anna was startled at first, then—as if in a trance. The silver body of the dildo lay exposed next to the small bottle of lubricant. The receipts were still there.

A tremor ran through her. It was different than before. Deeper. Darker. And hotter.

"I... I just wanted to try it," she said breathlessly, almost apologetically, so embarrassed that she didn't even know what was happening to her. "Just to see..."

He looked at her for a long time. No mockery. No questions. Just a smile, a knowing, tender smile.

"Then show it to me," he said quietly.

She hesitated. But only briefly. Then she reached - with trembling hands - for the toy. The cold plastic in her hand, the small weight, the idea of how...

"But... I'm so... full... of you..." she whispered.

"Then show me how you want it anyway."

He sat down next to her and watched her. And she knelt down. Lay back. Guided the device between her thighs. Not inside yet. Just touching. Just playing. Her juices glistened where his body had been inside her.

And she turned it on.

A soft hum. A flash of light. And she closed her eyes. Let it circle. Against her clit. Along her pubic mound. Until she trembled. Moaned. Twitched. And guided it into her wet, gurgling, sucking femininity.

Not deep. Just enough. Her pubic area was soft, wide, stretched by lust. And then it came: an orgasm that didn't scream, but roared. She tensed up. Bit her lip. Pressed her thighs together. And fell—into herself.

He held her. Took the toy from her. Put it aside. And then—he was hard again.

"How... can you... again?"

"Because you won't let me go."

And he took her again. Held her legs up, penetrated her while she was exhausted, drained, but charged with lust.

"Please... don't stop..."

"I'll only stop when you can't take it anymore."

"I can't. But I want to."

And he fucked her into a state that knew nothing else: no name, no age, no hesitation. Only shame. Embers. A throbbing yes.

She felt him take her breasts, suck them, pinch them, kiss them. And then, as he was about to come, he reached between her legs again. Searched for her small entrance.

Just caressed it. Ran his thumb over the narrow, wet ring.

"Not... there... please... not..."

"I just want to know if you... would be ready. Someday."

She closed her eyes. She was ashamed. She was frightened. And she gasped—not out of fear, but out of lust.

"Maybe... someday... if I..."

"If you know that I would never hurt you."

"Yes..."

And in that moment, as he came, deep and warm, in long, throbbing thrusts, she knew: this was no longer the life she knew. This was the beginning of everything.

And long after they lay next to each other, breathless and silent, she thought:

It has only just begun...

--------------------------

It was dark in the room, only the faint light from the curtain allowed them to make out the outlines. Richard was still lying next to her, one hand on her stomach, warm and heavy, almost like a seal on what they had experienced. And she lay there, awake, steaming inside, in a state between intoxication and clarity, between lust and a premonition she could hardly put into words.

She had allowed it. Everything. And more. Her body had become an open book, rewritten page by page. And yet—as she felt him slowly sit up, lean over her, and kiss her neck—she knew that this was not the end. It was a beginning, another one.

His fingers fumbled for the bag on the floor. She heard the soft crackling, then the quiet clicking of the plastic lid. And she knew what he was holding in his hand. Lubricant. The one she had bought herself. Secretly. Trembling. Now it was there. In his hand. For what she perhaps feared most.

He stroked her gently down her back, then lower, to her tailbone. And even lower. His fingers were soft. Warm. And when she felt the first cold glide of the liquid, she flinched.

"No..." she whispered. But it didn't sound like no. More like a startled gasp. Like: Not yet. Or: Really, now?

"Just with my finger. Just... outside," he said softly, soothingly, yet excitedly.

And she nodded. Very slightly. Almost imperceptibly. But it was a nod. A yes.

He took his time. So much time that she hardly knew where she was breathing anymore. The first pressure was barely a pressure. A caress. A circling.

The lubricant made everything smooth, shimmering, receptive. He circled her ring. Didn't press. Just touched. Again and again. Until she felt something inside her release—not a muscle, but a resistance in her head that had slowly given up its refusal.

Then—he slid in. Just with the tip. Just a tiny moment of penetration. But her whole body tensed. Her breath caught.

"Is it... good?" he asked.

"I don't know..." she whispered. "It feels... so different."

"Different in a good way?"

"Different in a strange way. But... not bad."

He remained still. Didn't move his finger. Waited until she relaxed. And then—he slid a little deeper. Millimeter by millimeter. No pressure. No thrusting. A slow, guided slide, as if he were entering a temple whose threshold had been untouched for decades. A lubricated advance into dark realms that were foreign even to her... entering a sanctuary, cautiously and reverently.

Anna felt everything. Every breath, every nuance. It wasn't just the physical stimulation. It was the thought. The idea. The breaking of a taboo. Her husband had never done it. He had been disgusted, had never asked, never hinted that he ever wanted to. Would she have wanted it? In the past and back then. Hardly, unless... She shook her head and dismissed the thought.

And now: Richard. With his warm hands. His tender pressure. And his quiet respect.

"You're... so tight," he murmured. "So tender."

She couldn't answer. Could only breathe. Moaned. Softly. Trembling.

And then—she felt his finger move a little. Circling. Very gently. She wasn't very open yet, but the ring began to respond. Not with resistance—but with a soft opening.

"I'm ashamed..." she whispered suddenly.

"Of what?"

"That I... like it."

He kissed her. On the shoulder. On the neck. Then he just said, "Don't be ashamed. You're beautiful. And your yes is everything."

She felt tears in her eyes. And at the same time—a throbbing in her center. Her shame was wet. It was dripping. And she knew: it wasn't from the lubricant. It was her. Her own juice. Her own answer.

"You can..." she said softly.

He moved his finger a little further. Not deep yet. But open. And she moaned. No longer out of fear. But out of this indescribable mixture of embarrassment, discovery, and lust.

"This is what sin feels like," she thought. And: "This is what freedom feels like."

She closed her eyes. And let herself fall into it.

The dildo was still there, like a quiet promise between everything that had already happened. Anna felt it with every glance, as if it were breathing with her. And Richard, lying next to her, hadn't forgotten it. His fingers stroked the shiny silicone as if by accident, and she knew: now it was her turn.

She lay back, her legs half open, her pussy shiny, soft, inviting. Richard knelt beside her, opened the lube again, and this time it was she who reached for the dildo. Her fingers were barely trembling. It was no longer a struggle—it was a realization. A need.

She carefully pushed the toy against her labia, moistening it with the gel and her own juices, which were flowing freely. Then, very gently, it slid inside. Her lips opened as if by themselves, her lap was wide, ready. The silver dildo disappeared inside her, slowly, inch by inch.

She moaned softly. No scream. No drama. Just a drawn-out, sensual expression of what she was feeling. And what she felt was herself. Deeper, more honest, more raw than ever before.

Richard watched her, his eyes dark, full of admiration and desire. His hand stroked her hip again, her stomach, then - he slid deeper. And his fingers, still slippery from the lubricant, found their way to the other entrance.

"Very slowly..." he murmured, lustfully explaining what she was already feeling.

She nodded. The dildo was deep inside her. Filling her. Almost pulsing. And now—Richard's fingers, at her anus, circling, caressing. No penetration. Not yet. Just massaging, opening, probing.

"I can feel you... so clearly..." she gasped. "You... you're so close..."

He let the dildo circle gently while his finger began to enter her. Just the tip. But she was open. Slippery. Hot. And ready.

"I... I can feel you... through the wall..." she moaned. And then - a movement, a tremor, a lifting of her pelvis. Her whole body seemed to explode.

His finger in her tight ring. The dildo deep inside her vagina. And between them - just a wafer-thin membrane. She felt everything. The closeness. The pressure. The heat.

And then - she came.

Not screaming. Not twitching. But like a star spreading out. Her thighs cramped.

Her hands grasped at the air. Her voice was just a whisper, a plea, an unutterable "yes."

"Oh God..." she murmured. "I can't... I can't anymore..."

But she wanted to. One more time. Again. Richard felt it, gently pulled out the dildo, kept his finger circling, very gently, until she trembled again.

She lay there, her thighs spread wide, her rosebud glistening, her lap wet, her face flooded with lust and shame and a strange pride.

"I never knew..." she whispered. "That you could feel this..."

He kissed her. Gently. On the forehead. Then the lips. And then—he kissed her belly, her mons pubis, her labia. She flinched, but she let him. Everything.

"You are... beautiful," he said. And she believed him. For the first time. Because that's how she felt: whole. And open.

The vibrating dildo was back in her hand as if it had never stopped. Richard had pressed the button—a gentle hum that traveled deep into her body. And with each vibration, something opened up inside her. Not just her lap, not just her body—her thoughts as well.

The desire rose again, this time differently. Not surprising, not overwhelming, but demanding. The vibrations spread like warm waves, penetrating her core, circling the spot inside her that was now trembling, shimmering, yearning.

"You're open... so open..." Richard whispered, barely audibly, as his fingers spread the lubricant again. This time there was no hesitation. No questions. Just a conscious yes.

He stroked her buttocks gently, her thighs, then the first drop of gel slid over her rosebud. Warm. Wet. She flinched slightly but let him continue. Her body was soft, her legs spread, her lap glistening with her own juices and the memory of what she had just experienced and the anxious anticipation of what was to come.

"I want you... everywhere," he whispered.

She nodded. Just the slightest movement.

His finger slid back to her back entrance. This time not groping, but searching. The dildo vibrated deep inside her vagina as he circled, moistened, and massaged the ring of her anus with practiced patience. And then he pressed.

She moaned. Not a sound of pain. A sound of overwhelm, subtle surprise, not averse.

"I... I don't know if I can..."

"Tell me when to stop."

She didn't. Instead, she pressed her hips against him. Her ring opened, slowly, trembling, but without resistance. The finger slid in. Deeper. Warmer. And she felt it—that other feeling. Not like the one in front. But rawer. More direct. A revelation.

The vibrating dildo struck her deepest core as his finger penetrated deeper. And she felt—split. Like two beings at once. One who knew she had never wanted this. And the other who now demanded that it never end.

"Oh God..." she whispered. "What are we doing...?"

"Only what you want."

And she wanted it. Everything.

The vibration intensified. Richard pushed the dildo a little deeper while his finger circled and began to gently oscillate. She felt both movements meet, her body trembling between them, stretched, thrust, and opened with pleasure.

"I... I'm so open... so... slippery..."

"So beautiful..."

She laughed softly. An insane laugh. Between lust and madness. She felt like she was in a dream, a feverish, shameless dream from which she never wanted to wake up.

And then - the second finger. She gasped. Her anus was wide, ready, open, even though it still ached and throbbed - it slid past the now useless guardian of her anal innocence. And the dildo vibrated against her wall.

"I'm coming... I... I can't..."

But she could. And she came. A tremor. A quivering. A complete loss of control.

She didn't scream. She didn't cry. She was simply: wide open. And returned to herself.

Richard held her while she trembled. The dildo was still vibrating inside her. His fingers rested. And she knew: this was the point of no return.

She had allowed everything. Or almost everything... except the finale...

And she regretted nothing.

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