I’m thirty-five, and life’s thrown me for a loop. Fifteen years in the military, a straight-up soldier, married to my high school sweetheart—my world was set, disciplined, predictable. But now? Divorced, medically retired, and sporting a dad bod with a full head of graying hair and a beard I’m damn proud of. I still hit the gym, but I’m not the chiseled grunt I was at twenty. Life’s different now, and I’m adrift in a world I don’t quite get. My buddy Tom, over a few beers, gave me the push I needed: “Get on the apps, man. Time to live.”

Dating apps? Hell, I hadn’t dated since the ‘90s, back when flirting meant passing notes in high school. Swiping, profiles, texting—it’s a damn jungle. My blunt, military-bred humor, what my ex called “immature and inappropriate,” didn’t exactly win hearts at first. A few crude jokes crashed and burned, teaching me quick to rein it in. I went on dates—some were disasters, others were okay but missing something. No spark. No fire. Just polite goodbyes and promises to “stay in touch” that we both knew were bullshit.

Then I saw her. Elly. A couple of years older than me, her profile hit like a grenade: curvy, with big blue-gray eyes that could pull you under, a smile that screamed trouble, and a bio that hinted at wit and depth. I swiped, half-expecting to get ghosted. But she messaged back immediately. Our texts were electric—flirty, fast, like we’d known each other forever. I was rusty, but I went for it and asked her out. Late spring, an outdoor bar with string lights and a breeze carrying the scent of blooming flowers.

That first date was unreal. Five hours flew by—laughter, stories, her eyes locking onto mine like she could see right through me. Elly’s curves filled out her dress in a way that made my pulse hammer, but it was her laugh, her quick wit, that had me hooked. We closed the bar down, neither of us ready to call it a night. “I don’t want this to end,” I said, my voice softer than I meant.

“I know, neither do I,” Elly replied, her eyes glinting. “I live a couple blocks from here. Wanna come over?”

“Absolutely,” I said, grinning.

“No sex,” she said, her tone firm but playful.

“Oh, yeah, absolutely,” I shot back, matching her smile.

We walked to her apartment, and I reached for her hand. She glanced at me, her lips curling into a smile that sent butterflies rioting in my chest. We flirted and talked the whole way, the air between us buzzing. Inside, she poured us wine, and we sank onto her couch. The conversation flowed, but my eyes kept drifting to her lips. I leaned in and kissed her, and damn, it was like nothing I’d ever felt. Not with my ex, not with anyone. Her lips were soft, urgent, and the spark was a goddamn wildfire.

We made out, my hand resting on her cheek, then sliding down to graze the side of her chest. I paused, testing the waters. She moaned softly, encouraging me, and my hand moved to her breast, caressing over her shirt.

“You’re being bad,” she teased, her voice low.

“Sorry,” I said, pulling back slightly.

“Don’t be,” she moaned, her eyes locked on mine. “No sex, okay?”

“Absolutely,” I said, heart pounding.

“Wanna come up to my bedroom?” she asked.

“Yeah,” I managed, my voice rough.

We headed upstairs, fell onto her bed, and the next few hours were a blur of making out, talking about our lives, and drifting off only to wake up and keep going. I spilled about the military, my divorce, the weirdness of starting over. She shared her own stories, her laugh filling the room. Around 5 a.m., we finally passed out, tangled in each other’s arms. A couple of hours later, I had to head home. At her door, I kissed her one last time. “Last night was amazing,” I said. “I hope we do it again.”

“Me too,” she said, smirking. “You better call me.”

“Absolutely,” I grinned, heading to my car, my head spinning.

That day, I was on cloud nine, completely infatuated. Elly was gorgeous, funny, smart, sexy—everything I could want. We texted all day, reliving the night, the spark still crackling through every message. When she asked if I wanted to come over for dinner, I didn’t hesitate. Hell yes. I grabbed some flowers, napped, showered, dressed up, and headed to her place. She opened the door in a black sundress that hugged every curve, and I swear my jaw hit the floor. “Wow, just… wow,” I said. She blushed, did a little spin, and I was done for.

Dinner was almost ready. We ate, laughed, and the chemistry was even stronger than the night before. On her couch, we were kissing within minutes, my hands exploring her body. I ran my fingers over her breast through her dress, her moans driving me wild. I pulled her dress over her head, tossed it aside, and unhooked her bra. My fingers teased her nipples, my lips kissing and sucking her chest as her moans grew louder. She yanked my shirt off, her hands on my chest, pinching my nipples as she kissed my neck, then bit it—hard enough to sting, just right.

My kisses trailed lower, down her stomach, to the edge of her black panties. I looked up at her, hooked my fingers in the waistband, and slid them down. Her pussy was gorgeous, shaven, inviting. I ran a finger gently between her lips, leaned in to taste her, but her bare foot pressed against my chest, stopping me.

“Do you wanna eat my pussy, baby?” she asked, her voice sweet and commanding.

“Yes,” I said, my throat tight.

“Queen,” she added, her eyes sharp.

“Queen?” I asked, confused.

“You will address me as Queen. Do you understand?”

“Yes, my Queen,” I said, the words feeling right in a way I didn’t expect.

“Good.” She dropped her foot, spreading her legs. “Now, do you wanna eat my pussy?”

“Yes, my Queen,” I said, and something clicked inside me. I buried my face between her thighs, driven by a need to please her, to serve her. I’d never felt this before—this hunger to make her feel good. I licked and sucked her clit, adding a finger, her hands gripping my head. She flipped me around, my back to the couch, and sat on my face, grinding against my mouth. Her legs shook, her screams built, and when she came, she squirted, soaking my face and chest. She looked down at me, panting. “Good boy.”

“Thank you, my Queen,” I said, grinning, my heart racing.

“Good boy, you’re learning,” she said. “Now fuck me.” She bent over the arm of the couch, and I was on fire. I dropped my pants, my thick seven-inch cock ready, and rubbed it against her soaked pussy before sliding in. She yelped, “Oh, fuck, you’re thick!” Her pussy felt incredible, gripping me as we moved together, each thrust in sync. I flipped her onto her back, her legs up, feet on my chest. I pounded into her, her right foot against my lips. I sucked her big toe as she played with her pussy, screaming she was about to cum again. I couldn’t hold back—her moans, her body, her control pushed me over the edge. “I’m cumming,” I groaned.

“Fill me up,” she moaned back. I did, pumping into her as she came, collapsing beside her on the couch, both of us breathless.

She curled into my arms. “So, I like to control my man in bed,” she said softly. “You okay with that?”

I looked at her, still buzzing from it all. “Yes, my Queen.”

“Good boy,” she whispered.