When my twenties ended, so did my relationship with a complete slag of a woman that I affectionately refer to as "HatchetSnatch."

I, then, began a period of dating...aggressively. or, sexually acting out. It's unclear. I moved back to my hometown. Found an apartment. Then started plowing through the local population. At the local bar, I quickly became the guy that the women would gather and trade stories about. I was quite popular. And not in a good way.

During this time, I was doing my best to numb the pain and anger I felt over my relationship ending. It was a dumpster fire. But it was my dumpster fire. Plus, I was working for her dad. I would absolutely dissuade anyone from working for their ex-inlaws. I was on the second shift and mostly worked alone. So by six in the evening, I was well into the case of beer I always had in my truck. Four out of five work days, I was piss drunk by the time I'd clock out. The fifth night out of five, you ask? I would get off of work, get home, hop in the shower, and drink a half bottle of vodka before the water shut off. I was in fairly bad shape.

I'm at work one day. A Tuesday. I remember it like it was yesterday. I meet the new nursing department secretary. Twenty-seven. Five foot, seven Inches. 135 pounds. A perfect hourglass figure. Emerald green eyes. And beautiful red hair down the middle of her back. That day, she had on this beautiful navy blue dress that fell to her mid-calf, nude seamed stockings, and navy blue four-inch heels. But for me, the cherry on top was that she was a tried and true, down-home country girl.

I was stopped dead in my tracks. I'm a fairly chatty guy. But with her? I couldn't form an intelligent thought. Let alone, strike up a conversation.

I finally made up some reason to talk to this lady. It started out innocent enough. Then it slid down to joke-type innuendo. Then straight-up flirting. I did notice something peculiar, though. Whenever we would talk, she would slip off the doorknob-sized diamond ring her husband gave her.

Oh, yeah. She was married with a two-year-old daughter. Since I was in my sexually acting out period, I had the thought that sickens me to this day. I justified this behavior by saying "I don't know this cat. I don't owe him a God damned thing.". That was all I needed to hear.

Then, one very lovely Saturday evening, I get the call. Not "a" call. I got "THE" call. Her old man was leaving in half an hour, and will be gone for two days. She gave me her address. We set a time. And she asked if there was an outfit I had in mind. If not, then a favorite color.

We were set for ten that night. I show up and she answers the door in an ensemble that made my jaw drop. From the floor to the top of her head. Every bit of her was made up exactly as I asked. A royal blue bra, garter belt, and bikini-cut panty. Black seamed stockings and matte black five-inch heels. I couldn't have dressed her better if I had done it myself. Plus, also for me, she had on just the bare minimum amount of makeup. She really was a naturally pretty girl. And I've never been a big fan of War paint that's applied with a fuckin trowel.

She led me through the foyer to the great room. Then to the adjoining kitchen, where she produced a pint bottle of Southern Comfort that she had in the freezer. I was impressed. I had mentioned freezer-kept So Co to her once, a few months back. She pours herself three fingers of Jim Beam. Again, I was impressed.

We take our drinks and make out way to the living room. She sits down, crossing her legs, in the recliner. I'm on this couch-type piece. I down my So Co. and then walk to her, taking her cheeks in my hands, I lean in to attempt "my move". Yes, I had a move. Just one. I have never seen it fail. While never losing eye contact, I went in slowly for a kiss. When I could feel her bated breath, I went in just a hair farther. When I could feel the heat from her lips, I just barely brushed up against them.

She melted. Every nerve in her body was in the palm of my hand. Her breath was staggered. She had goosebumps. Even through a ber expensive Italian bra, I could tell that her nipples were now perfect pink pencil erasers. The muscles in her thighs twitched uncontrollably. All the while keeping eye contact, I smiled and went in for a proper kiss. She went limp. I did not, let's say.

After I was sure she wasn't going to pass out, I pulled her to her feet. Now sitting in her recliner, I couldn't help but notice an impressive wet spot she left behind. Facing me, again with eye contact, I hooked my two index fingers inside the elastic of her panties. She whimpered as I started to slide them down her perfectly formed legs. Having her then step out of that soggy garment, I had her put her right foot up on the coffee table that was beside her. Without saying a word, I slid down onto my knees.

Ever so lightly, I traced every contour of her perfectly formed legs. I traced the seam in her stockings. Trailed my fingers across her taut, fit belly. Earlier that day, I had asked her to shave and trim her public hair into a well-trained "V" shape. She complied. The absolute first second I touched her clit with my tongue, she squirted like a fire hose all over my face. We were both shocked and pleasantly surprised. Shouldn't have been, though. We had about three months' worth of foreplay.

After that, there was no more call for this delicate touching schtick. I grabbed her by the ass cheeks and drove my tongue into her gushing pussy. My thumb was working her clit. And I had my middle finger in her ass. She had to park it before she fell through the coffee table. So without removing my mouth, I followed her to the couch. I ate her pussy like someone bet me that I couldn't. I went down on her like it was my job.

Once she got her eyes uncrowded, she reached out and grabbed me by the belt buckle. She yanked me to my feet. She fumbled with my belt, jeans button, and zipper for a very brief moment. Then, before I could even blink, she had my rock-hard cock swallowed to the root. She only gagged once, bless her heart. She quickly came to terms with the mushroom head hitting her uvula. And she made it hit every time...like a trooper. After about five minutes of the best head I had ever had up to that point, she popped my dick out of her mouth.

"Fuck me?"

"Ask nicely."

"No. I need this dick in my twat. Right now."

Being a gentleman who was raised right, how could I refuse this lady's need? She lay down and arched those statuesque legs wide open. I took my cock and start rubbing it up and down her drenched pussy lips. She groaned. Then she growled. She needed me to fuck her. Again, I'm a gentleman. So I slid my cock into The. Single. Wettest. Pussy. I. Have. Ever. Felt. Ever...EEEEEEVER. After about fifteen minutes, and four positions later, I felt her pussy grab ahold of my dick like it was saving it from rolling off the table or something. She tells "Pull out! Pull out!" I do. Then she fires a squirt almost all the way across the room. I heard it sizzle when she hit the fireplace with it.

She collapsed and said "Take what you need. No more. No less." I take a great deal of pride in that statement, even to this day. I took mercy on us both. I wrapped it up in about five minutes. When she felt my cock get harder, she pushed me off of her. She then hit her knees and immediately took my entire dick in her mouth. She sucked me so well, so skillfully, so, I don't know, thankfully? that I couldn't have fought off an orgasm even if I had wanted to. When I came, I came so hard that it knocked her head backward. But to her credit, she never lost suction and her lips never parted. Not for a second. She swallowed every single drop of cum. When she finally let my dick out of her mouth, she still swung back a couple of times to make sure there weren't any cum drops left in my shift.

We have another drink and go outside for a cigarette. We trade a little small talk. Then I hit the road.

A couple more rendezvous take place. But nothing like that first none. If we tried to top that performance, one of us would look at the other and say "Holy shit! One of us is gonna die."

Then one day, outta the blue, it hit me like a ton of bricks. I'm destroying this man. I'm taking everything he's basing all of his decisions upon...and just setting it on fire. I mean, I knew it. It was no secret that she was spoken for. I just didn't give a damn.

Then, all of a sudden, I cared. I pictured this family man having to move into a one-bedroom apartment with shag carpet. And a flip-and-fuck couch for the baby to sleep on when it was his weekend to have her.

I had a sudden attack of morality. I told her that it had to stop. I couldn't be the reason why she and Kittle Lord Fuck Pants had to divorce. So I just...walked.

Not long after, I changed jobs. And I never spoke to her again. It wasn't out of hate, spite, anger, or jealousy. It wasn't out of respect for her husband. Or even their marriage. It was because I forgot what it felt like to be so pissed off at the world that you spent every minute just praying for death. Although it is rarely the reality of the situation, a man gets some really dark thoughts when he feels like he has nothing left to lose.

I couldn't do that to another man. Even if that man soloed under a lucky star and snagged one of the sexiest women that had ever graced these parts.