The door clicked shut behind them.
The room was dim, golden from the bedside lamps, the sheer curtains gently fluttering from the open balcony. The bed was still unmade from earlier, the scent of their earlier passion lingering faintly in the air.
Mina took a few slow steps forward, her heels softly tapping the tile, her back still to the waiter.
She stopped halfway to the bed.
And just stood there.
Her heart was pounding—loud, thudding, deafening. The room felt still, but inside her, everything was shaking.
This was the moment.
The line.
No more teasing. No more words. She was here. Alone. With him.
A man whose name she didn’t even know.
Her stomach tightened. Her thoughts swirled. What if I can’t do this? What if her husband said yes, but couldn’t actually handle the aftermath? What if she couldn’t? What if this changed something she couldn’t take back?
Her throat tightened.
She closed her eyes for a beat. Her chest rising and falling, hands shaking at her sides.
Then—quietly—she turned.
The waiter was standing just inside the door, watching her. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t spoken, his eyes fixed on her with something between awe and hunger.
Mina took a slow step toward him.
Then another.
Her breathing was still uneven, but something deeper—darker—was moving inside her. Driving her. The memory of his hand on her ass, the way he’d looked at her at dinner, the way her husband had stared as she walked away—it was all still echoing in her body.
She stopped just a foot in front of him.
Still not speaking.
Her hands slowly reached for her dress straps, fingers trembling as she slid one off her shoulder… then the other.
The fabric dipped down, inch by inch.
And then—her breasts spilled free.
Natural. Soft. Heavy with fullness. Her nipples already tightening in the warm air.
She stood there, baring herself, still unsure… still scared… but not turning back.
The waiter’s breath caught.
Then, low and hoarse, he muttered in Dominican Spanish under his breath:
“Dios mío… esas tetas son perfectas.”
He stepped forward slightly, eyes devouring every inch of her chest.
“Mira esas areolas…” he said, his voice darker now, reverent. “Voy a chuparlas hasta que me ruegues que pare.”
(My God… those tits are perfect. Look at those areolas… I’m going to suck on them until you beg me to stop.)
Mina’s breath hitched at the way he said it—gritty, almost reverent, not rehearsed but real. It wasn’t dirty talk for show. It was how he truly saw her.
And that look—that look—hit her deeper than any word ever could.
Because in that gaze, there was no hesitation. No guilt. No fear.
Only hunger.
Her arms instinctively crossed just below her breasts, not to hide them, but to hold herself steady. She was still struggling. Still trying to come up with a reason not to go through with this.
But every time she looked into his eyes… her reasons slipped further and further away.
No Turning Back
Mina took a shaky breath, standing still in the quiet of the room.
Her bare breasts rose and fell, nipples tightening more with each heartbeat. From the nerves. From the room’s cool air. From the intensity of his gaze. The waiter hadn’t taken his eyes off her chest—not once. His mouth was slightly parted, his breathing heavier than before.
She took one small step closer.
Then another.
The sound of her heartbeat filled her ears. She could barely believe her own body was doing this. That she was doing this.
I’ve never done anything like this…
Everything in her life until now had been controlled. Disciplined. Loyal. She was the good wife. The conservative Albanian woman who talked about fantasies—maybe whispered a few filthy words behind closed doors—but never acted on them.
But this? This wasn’t roleplay.
This was real.
She was topless in a hotel room with a stranger…And he was looking at her like she was already his.
As if reading her silence, the waiter stepped back slightly and dropped his pants to the floor with a quiet rustle. He then slid his underwear down—just enough to free himself.
And there it was.
Mina’s breath caught.
His cock sprung forward—thick, dark, and rising with each second. Bigger than she had even imagined. At least nine inches. And the girth…
She blinked, stunned. Thicker than my arm. She reached out, hands trembling, and placed them around the base of his shaft.
Her fingers didn’t come close to touching.
Not even halfway.
She stared at her own hands, wrapped around him, gaping inside.
I can’t even wrap my hands around it…
She looked up at him, her lips parting as she began to stroke—slowly, cautiously, reverently. His cock throbbed in her grasp, and still, it seemed to grow heavier.
The waiter let out a low groan, his head tilting back, the sound deep and raw.
His eyes locked on her chest, where her breasts were pressed together by the motion of her arms.
“Mierda,” he breathed.
“Tus tetas se ven tan malditamente buenas así,” he murmured. (Your tits look so damn good like that.)
Then his hands moved forward, cupping her breasts, thumbs brushing across her tight, sensitive nipples. The contact sent a jolt through her. Her knees wavered.
Her body screamed yes even as her mind stammered are you sure?
Still, her hands kept moving. Stroking.
And somewhere deep inside, she realized the question had shifted from can I stop?
To why would I want to?
The Edge Of Inhibition
Mina’s breath was shaky. Her hands moved slowly over his thick shaft, still struggling to process just how heavy and wide he felt in her grip. Her fingers couldn’t come close to meeting. Every stroke was a reminder—this wasn’t just taboo. This was beyond anything she ever thought she’d allow herself to do.
And she was doing it.
I should stop, a voice whispered from somewhere deep inside. This isn’t who I am. This isn’t what wives do. Not Albanian wives. Not good wives.
But it was being drowned out—moment by moment—by something else.
The way his hands cupped her breasts, squeezing, worshiping. The way his thumbs flicked her nipples, sending pulses of heat straight between her thighs. The way his eyes locked on her chest like he’d never seen anything so perfect.
Her heart was pounding.
Her nipples ached under his touch.
And his cock…
God.
He was getting harder in her hands.
She felt it—swelling, thickening, each throb more intense. Her strokes grew more confident now. Less nervous. More natural. She was finding a rhythm, feeling the weight of him glide against her palms. The more she touched, the more her hips shifted, unconsciously pressing her thighs together.
Then she felt it.
A warm, slick bead rolling across her knuckle.
She looked down.
Pre-cum.
Thick, clear, glistening. Coating the tip, then her hands. And soon her wrists. The motion spread it everywhere…
Oh my God…
He groaned, low and deep, his head dropping forward as his hands squeezed her breasts tighter, pulling her closer. His lips brushed hers—then kissed her. Slow. Open. Hungry.
Mina gasped against his mouth, her lips parting.
Her hands never stopped stroking.
And the more he kissed her, the more she wanted. The taste of him. The feel of his fingers sliding over her curves. The way he moaned against her lips when her thumb pressed over the slick head of his cock.
Her hands were soaked now. His pre-cum glistening across her arms… And something inside her shifted.
The worry hadn’t vanished—but it was getting buried. Overwhelmed. Melted down by heat and wetness and the raw, aching need that was pulsing through her with every stroke.
Maybe this is too far, she thought.
But her lips were already opening for another kiss.
And her hands were stroking faster.
Maybe I’ve already gone too far.
And still—she didn’t stop.
Surrender By Inches
Mina’s breath came in shallow waves, lips parted, her body warm and trembling from the kiss, her hands soaked with the slickness now covering his cock. His pre-cum was everywhere—on her fingers, her wrists, her chest. She could feel it cooling on her skin, contrasting with the heat building deep inside her.
She was no longer stroking him out of curiosity or hesitation.
She was stroking him because she wanted it.
Because she couldn’t stop.
Her hands moved in steady rhythm now—fast, wet, hungry. Her body responded to every twitch of him, every sound he made, every look he gave her. The more she gave in, the freer she felt. Her shame hadn’t disappeared—but it had been pushed aside, cornered by something louder: want.
And then—he grabbed her hips.
Firm.
Authoritative.
She gasped as he pulled her closer, walking her backward until the backs of her thighs touched the edge of the bed. He stepped forward, closing the space between them, his cock pulsing, hard, slick from her touch. Without a word, he pressed it between her legs.
Not inside.
Just… there.
Heavy. Hot. Teasing.
The thick head of his cock slid against the entrance of her pussy, parting her folds, rubbing over her clit, back and forth—slow, maddening pressure that made her knees buckle.
Mina moaned—soft, surprised by how deep the sound came from inside her.
Her breath hitched. Her thighs opened instinctively.
She looked down and saw it—him—gliding against her, so thick and long that just the feel of it near her had her shaking.
She didn’t speak.
She couldn’t.
She was lost in the feeling of it. The weight of him. The idea that he could push inside her right now. That he was going to.
She looked up at him.
And he was watching her with fire in his eyes.
Then, in a low growl—his voice thick with heat—he muttered in Dominican Spanish: “Qué mujer… qué diosa.”
(What a woman… what a goddess.)
His hands slid over her waist, gripping tighter.
“No hay forma que yo me saque de ti esta noche.”
(There’s no way I’m pulling out of you tonight.)
Mina’s breath caught.
The words hit her like a jolt to the chest—and lower. She should have flinched. Should have said no. Should have hesitated.
But instead, her hips shifted forward.
Her body leaned into his.
And her mind went silent.
There was no fantasy anymore.
Only reality.
And she was ready to let him in.
Nature’s Course…
Their mouths found each other again—hot, open, desperate.
Mina kissed him like she needed it to breathe. Her hands gripped his shoulders, his neck, sliding over the hard muscles of his chest as his cock continued to glide between her thighs, teasing the slick, swollen heat between her legs.
She could feel it pressing against her entrance now—massive, hot, coated in pre-cum and her own arousal.
And for the first time… she wanted it inside her.
All of it.
But as her hips rocked forward, grinding against him, her thoughts twisted, breath catching again.
How the hell is this even going to fit inside me?
She looked down for a split second—just enough to see the sheer magnitude of what she was about to take. Nine thick, veiny inches. Dark, heavy, still twitching with anticipation. Her fingers couldn’t wrap around it, and now she was about to let it push inside her?
It made no sense.
She was terrified of the stretch. The pressure. The ache.
But she was more terrified of not feeling it at all.
She moaned into his mouth, his hands gripping her ass, squeezing, guiding her closer, positioning her body as if he already knew she was ready—even if her mind still hadn’t admitted it.
Mina’s heart thundered in her chest, but her thoughts were beginning to unravel. Fears fading. Doubts fading. Even the image of her husband—watching, waiting, giving permission—began to disappear.
Right now, there was only this.
His lips on hers.
His cock between her thighs.
And the unstoppable heat rising inside her.
She thought back—unbidden—to how her husband always used to say it in those breathless, whispered moments in bed: “Thick women like you were made for this. For real cock. For big black cock. It’s only natural.”
She used to roll her eyes when he’d say it.
But now?
Now she felt it in her body. In her blood. In her thighs, her chest, her soaking folds. She felt how much she was aching to be filled—no matter how much it might hurt.
I’m going to give him my body tonight, she thought, her forehead pressing against his, eyes fluttering closed.
I don’t care what it takes. I want him inside me.
She exhaled, breathless, as her hips tilted just right—and the head of his cock caught, pressing slowly against her opening.
Let nature take its course…
Crossing The Line…
Mina took a shaky breath and stepped back from him, her chest still heaving from their kiss. Her body was buzzing—overheated, hypersensitive, alive in a way she’d never known.
Without a word, she turned and climbed onto the bed.
The sheets were cool against her skin as she lay back, her long hair spilling out over the pillows, her breasts rising and falling with each breath. One hand slid up to cup them—squeezing gently, thumb circling her already hard nipple. The other drifted lower, over the curve of her stomach, until her fingers slipped between her thighs.
She was soaked.
Her own touch made her flinch with how sensitive she had become.
She began to rub slowly, easing the tension, her legs spreading wider—inch by inch—until she was fully open beneath him. No more words. No more teasing. Her body was saying everything.
She looked up at him now, giving him a look—nervous, but hungry.
I’m ready.
The waiter moved forward, climbing onto the bed, muscles flexing, eyes locked onto hers as if reading her hesitation… and her permission.
He lowered himself over her, kissing her again—deeper this time, hungrier. His hand gripped her thigh, lifting it, opening her more, as his body moved between her legs.
Then she felt it.
The thick, warm head of his cock pressing softly at her entrance.
She gasped against his mouth, her hips shifting in instinctual rhythm.
Her hand reached down, wrapping around him again, now guiding it—slow strokes along her folds, rubbing it against her clit, the head teasing the spot that made her moan.
She started to pump him there—just at the edge of herself—wet, slick, flushed and throbbing.
It felt so good. Too good.
And with every rub, every pulse of him in her grip, her nerves melted a little more.
This was it.
Her heart thudded wildly.
This was really happening.
And for the first time, she didn’t stop it.