I don’t remember exactly how we met—probably one of the dating sites I joined right after I separated from my first husband. I was mid-thirties at the time, raw and restless, craving something reckless and alive. He was older—mid-fifties maybe. Married. We both knew what this was.

We agreed to meet halfway, behind a gas station. Not the sexiest location in the world, but discreet. Practical. I still remember the way my heart pounded during that entire drive. The nerves. The second-guessing.

What the hell am I doing? Meeting a married man behind a gas station in the dark? What if he’s dangerous?

But the arousal was stronger than the fear. My pussy had been aching for days. Soaking. I needed touch. I needed cock. I needed to feel like a woman again.

I remember pulling in and spotting his van right away—parked far from the bright lights, in the shadows. I parked next to him and climbed in the front seat beside him.

It was quiet—late at night, just the hum of a distant highway. The inside of the minivan felt like its own little world. He wore jeans and a navy polo. I could see the silver in his hair, his soft smile. He was tall and slender, with kind eyes and a quiet confidence. His voice was low and calm—like the whole world could catch fire, and he’d still be gentle.

I had dressed with intent: a blue skirt, a tank top, and my favorite nude lace panties. My tan skin was warm from the summer air. My tits, perfect C-cups with dark nipples, were aching. I didn’t need candlelight or dinner—I just needed this moment to unfold.

We talked a little, though I barely remember what we said. I was too aware of his presence, the tension slowly thickening between us. I leaned in to kiss him. Softly at first. His lips met mine with hesitation, and then heat.

And then it happened. That shift. That hunger. My hand moved to his jeans, unbuttoning him, pulling down the zipper. His cock was already hard—warm and smooth in my palm. He didn’t stop me. I stroked him gently, savoring the weight and feel of him in my hand. I always use my mouth when I’m that turned on—it’s instinctual. I needed him in every way I could have him.

I don’t remember how or when I got half-naked, but at some point I was straddling his lap. My panties were in the floor of the van and my skirt was bunched around my waist. Everything in my body wanted him inside me.

I rocked my hips against him, letting my wetness coat his shaft. It felt so good—hot and slick. I reached down, lined him up, and started to lower myself onto his cock.

That’s when he stopped me.

His voice was quiet but firm. His eyes were misty. “I don’t think I can do this,” he said, breath catching. “I don’t want to cheat on my wife.”

I froze, surprised—but also strangely touched. Here we were, tangled in the dark, halfway to fucking, and he still had a line he wouldn’t cross. There was something deeply human about that. It made me like him more.

He looked at me and said, “Let me just focus on you.”

So I curled up beside him, and we kissed again—slower this time. I could feel his hand on my thigh, moving with such intention. His fingers grazed my skin, teasing me, until they finally found my soaked pussy. He touched me softly. Gently. My whole body was electric.

I tried to grind against his hand. Tried to beg him for more. But he made me wait. And when his fingers finally slipped inside me, I moaned aloud—my pussy pulsing around him. My hips bucked. My body couldn’t stay still. He fucked me with his fingers until the pleasure built and built—and then it hit. I came hard, twisting and arching against him, my cries muffled by his chest and the night.

I was still breathless, glowing, when he looked at me and said, “I want to make you cum again.”

I laughed and told him no way—I’d never come twice like that. Not from fingers. Not from a guy I just met.

He asked if he could try.

And I said yes.

What followed was even slower. Softer. More deliberate. He was patient, so patient, coaxing my pleasure out like a secret. My body responded almost against my will. I started trembling. I could feel it rising again, deeper this time—deeper in my core.

And then I exploded. My whole body shook. I couldn’t stop the moans. I’d never felt anything like it—two orgasms, one after the other, both different and devastating.

Afterwards, I lay against him, still naked, still glowing.

He kissed my forehead and whispered, “I’ve never seen anything more beautiful than your body writhing in the moonlight.”

It was quiet again—just the sound of our breathing. We held each other in that borrowed space for a while longer.

We exchanged a few emails after that. Talked about meeting again. But it never happened.

And yet here I am, years later, still remembering every detail. Every sigh. Every tremble. Every moan.