Ratna, : that fucking red show that made me forget everything else I arrive first at the love hotel in Senayan City. The room is clean and welcoming as always, with dim red lights, a huge bed, a large wall mirror, and one on the ceiling. I take a quick shower, put on just boxers and a T-shirt, turn down the heat, and sit on the bed to wait. I think of her, of those photos she sent me, and my blood is already boiling. I know she's in the midst of separating, the divorce is almost done, she told me everything last time between rounds: "Finally free from that asshole, daddy, now I can do what I want." And I... I'm still stuck in a marriage that hasn't worked for years, a wife who won't touch me anymore, evenings spent arguing or ignoring each other. Ratna is my outlet, my secret that keeps me alive. Almost thirty minutes pass, she's late and she's doing it on purpose, I know. She wants to drive me crazy. There's a gentle knock. I open the door and... damn it. It's exactly like the WhatsApp photo she sent me to torture me: a tight-fitting red one-shoulder jumpsuit, bare shoulders, a perfect ass poking out, round and firm, seemingly challenging me. Dark glasses, a high ponytail, glossy red lips, that little smirk that says it all. "Sorry I'm late, daddy... traffic, and besides, I had to get ready for you." She sways in, closes the door with her heel, throws her bag away, and plugs the phone into the speaker. The usual slow reggaeton kicks in, the one that always gets us going. "First the show," she says in a low voice, "I made you wait, now I'll roast you a little longer." She pushes me onto the bed, "Sit there, hands still. Just watch, or I'll leave you with swollen balls and you'll go back to your wife and jerk off while thinking of me." And she starts dancing. Damn, she starts. Like someone who knows exactly what she's doing. Hips slow, hands on her body, she turns and shows me that perfect ass that moves perfectly. She slowly unzips her zipper, looking me straight in the eye, and underneath comes the sheer red lace kimono: a small bra that pushes up her firm breasts, her nipples already hard, a tiny thong that disappears between her butt cheeks, a piercing that glistens, high heels. She takes off the tracksuit, lets it fall, and now she's there in red from head to toe, dancing just for me. She approaches me without touching me, rubs perfume on me, bends over with her ass in my face, opens her ass cheeks, revealing her already wet thong. She pinches her nipples, moans, "Look how hard they are thinking of you...", and caresses her pussy over the fabric. Then she goes to the mirror, raises her leg on the counter, takes out her phone, and strikes the exact pose in the photo she sent me—leg up, ass out, a look of a slut that will tear you apart. I can't resist any longer. I get up, grab her by the waist, press her against the mirror, and rip her thong aside—it's soaking wet, it smells of her. I spread her legs and stick my tongue inside, licking hard, sucking her clit, she screams, "Yes, fuck, eat it!" and after a while she's shaking all over, coming hard, wetting my face, "I'm cumming, pig, keep going!" I turn her around, slamming my cock deep inside her from behind, tight and hot as hell. I fuck hard, watching her ass bounce, slapping her ass cheeks, "Take it all," she pushes back, "Fuck me, daddy, make me forget about that bastard husband of mine." I grab her, throw her on the couch, she climbs on top and rides me like crazy, tits out and bouncing, she looks me in the eyes, "This cock is the only good thing I have right now." I flip her doggy style, slap her ass again until it's red, then I slide a finger into her tight hole. She screams and comes a second time, her pussy squeezing me so hard. I put her under, legs over my shoulders, pump her deep until I can't take it anymore and cum all over her with a grunt, filling her to the last drop. We collapse on the bed, sweaty, panting, her red underwear torn everywhere. She laughs in that hoarse voice, caressing my still half-hard cock: "You destroyed me, bastard... at least you make me feel alive, so much more than a fucking divorce." I run a hand through her hair, thinking of my house, of my wife who must be sleeping unaware, and simply say, "I needed that." She smiles: "Next time I'll bring the pole, I'll give you such a show that you'll even forget your wife's name." With Ratna, a simple "more" is all it takes and we're off again. She's getting out of a broken marriage, I'm still in a long-dead one. But when we're there, nothing else exists. And for a few hours, that's fine.

Allforher
14-12-2025 13:24:23h