ERZÄHLUNG

The plump Chinese woman who gave head — sex in the office, anal in the warehouse

Gesehen: 42 Mal Kommentare 0 Date: 16-06-2026 Sprache:

I lived in Jakarta for ten years. Ten years of traffic, humidity that clung to you the moment you stepped outside, endless negotiations, and cigarettes smoked under a slowly rotating ceiling fan. My wife had come with me at the beginning, ten years earlier, full of enthusiasm. Now, that enthusiasm had been gone for a long time. Our marriage floated like a boat stalled in the middle of the sea: it wasn't sinking, but it wasn't going anywhere either. We spoke only when necessary. We slept in the same bed without touching. Sometimes weeks would pass without me really looking at her.

One evening, the owner of one of our suppliers—a refined Chinese man who always spoke softly, as if sharing a secret—invited us to dinner at a hotel in Jakarta. My wife came with me, as she always did for formal dinners. It was her role: to play the manager's wife, to smile, to entertain the other spouses.

With the owner was his assistant. Yeni.

I saw her enter the hotel lobby, and something inside me stopped. She was ChineseIndonesian, around 35, pleasantly plump in all the right places. An enormous bosom that her light blouse couldn't quite contain, the buttons straining. Wide hips that swayed as she walked with confident steps. A full, generous backside that her pencil skirt tried to rein in but that burst free with every step. A sweet face, with those full cheeks that gave her an almost childish air, but her eyes... her eyes were alert, intelligent, mischievous. Then she opened her mouth and spoke perfect English, without the slightest accent. I later learned she had studied in Canada.

My wife greeted her with her usual cool courtesy. I shook her hand. Her skin was warm, dry, and the contact lasted a second too long.

The dinner was formal, professional. We talked about raw materials, prices, deliveries. But every time Yeni leaned over to get water or explain a detail, I watched her. Once, our eyes met. She didn't look away first. She smiled slightly, with that smile that said, I see you. I noticed you.

At the end of the evening, we exchanged business cards in the usual Chinese ritual. But I went home with her image burned into my mind. It wasn't love, mind you. It was curiosity. It was desire. It was the feeling of having seen something rare: an Indonesian woman with those curves, that mind, that air of I know what I want and I take it.

In the following days, I thought of her often. I didn't do anything, but I thought of her.

A few weeks passed. My wife had gone to Bali with friends. I had to make a trip to Yogyakarta to visit some ceramic producers. It was a small area, few suppliers. It was easy to run into the same faces.

I arrived at Jakarta airport with my usual travel bag, the usual bitter dutyfree coffee. I checked in and ed to the gate.

I saw her sitting down, one leg crossed over the other, a book in her hand.

Yeni.

She had the same straight black hair, the same light blouse that that time had been semitransparent, so that underneath you could glimpse a dark bra—a rare sight in Indonesia, but the Chinese are free to do what they want here... Her lips were glossy with lip balm. She wore a pair of reading glasses on her nose, and that little detail suddenly seemed intimate to me, as if I had caught her in a private moment.

I stopped. A second. Then she looked up, saw me, and her eyes widened into such a genuine smile that I felt something melt in my chest.

You too?

she said, closing her book.

Me too,

I replied.

Small world.

Or maybe there are very few clients in Yogya,

she said, laughing.

She was on the same plane. We sat far apart, but for the entire onehour flight, I thought about her. Every now and then I turned around, saw her reading or looking out the window, and felt a kind of light excitement, like before something you know is going to happen but you don't know when.

In Yogyakarta, we said goodbye. She had her appointments, I had mine. But the next morning, at the second client's of the day, I walked into the meeting room and found her already there, sitting next to the ceiling fan.

We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

Am I following you?

she said.

Or am I following you?

I replied.

The supplier, an old Chinese man who didn't understand why two people from the same company (he thought we were colleagues) would show up separately, looked at us perplexed. Yeni explained something to him in Indonesian, then shot me a complicit glance.

We spent the morning together. During the meeting, sitting next to each other, our knees touched under the table. She didn't move hers. In fact, for a moment I felt her leg press slightly against mine, a brief, light contact, but it made the hairs on my arm stand up.

When we went out, the Yogyakarta sun was already high and hot. She ran a hand through her hair, exposing her neck.

What are you doing tonight?

I asked her.

Nothing,

she said.

Except eating dinner alone at the hotel.

You're not alone anymore.

I took her to Trattoria, an Italian place run by a Sicilian who had married a Javanese woman. It wasn't the height of authenticity, but the wine was good and the lights were low. I asked for a table in the back, in the corner.

Yeni arrived half an hour after I was already seated. She had changed. She had left the assistant's suit behind and was wearing a soft, formfitting black dress. The fabric slid over her, following every curve. Her enormous breasts pressed against the neckline, and when she sat down across from me, her full hips barely fit on the chair. She put her bag on the floor, settled herself, and for a moment I saw the beginning of her thighs, white and soft.

Do you like it?

she asked, seeing me look.

Very much,

I said. Without shame.

Good.

We ordered a bottle of Barolo. The waiter uncorked it, had me taste it, then filled our glasses.

We talked for hours. She told me about Canada, the Toronto winters, her economics course, the weekends spent drinking icecold beer with Canadian friends. She told me she had returned to Jakarta because her mother was sick, and that she had been stuck there ever since, trapped in a job that didn't satisfy her but paid the bills.

And you?

she asked.

Are you happy?

I hadn't expected that question. But the wine had loosened me up.

I don't know,

I answered.

I've been here for ten years. I have a wife I don't look at the way I should anymore. A job I know by heart. Sometimes I feel like I'm already dead and no one told me.

She looked at me, serious for a moment. Then she smiled.

Then tonight I'll make you feel alive.

The way she said it made my cock stiffen in my pants. I read it in her eyes: it wasn't a promise. It was a statement.

We drank the second bottle. When we went out, her cheeks were flushed and her eyes were bright. Walking, her hand brushed against mine. Then our fingers intertwined. A few seconds. Just long enough to cross the street.

But it was enough.

I took her to an underground club I knew. Red lights, a DJ pumping house music, a young crowd moving like one body. Yeni liked to drink, you could tell. When she saw the shot list, her eyes lit up.

Tequila,

she said.

Just tequila.

I ordered four shots to start. Salt, lime, small glasses. We did the first one together. She licked the back of her hand with studied slowness, threw back the tequila without flinching, bit the lime. Her mouth puckered from the acidity, then opened into a smile.

Second one,

she said.

On the second shot, her fingers brushed mine as we reached for the salt.

On the third, we were already close, my knees between hers.

On the fourth, we were dancing.

I don't know who made the first move. Maybe it was me, placing my hands on her hips, feeling the warm fabric of her dress and the soft flesh underneath. Maybe it was her, pressing her ass against my package, feeling what was happening to me. The fact is, we found ourselves locked together, her enormous breasts crushed against my chest, her pelvis moving slowly to the rhythm of the music.

I felt her curves on me. Her breasts pressing. Her soft belly. Her thighs opening and closing with each step. My cock was rock hard, so hard it almost hurt, and she could feel it perfectly because every now and then she pushed her pelvis back and rubbed against it.

The DJ changed tracks. A slower, more hypnotic beat. She turned around, looked at me with eyes shiny from tequila and desire, and whispered in my ear:

Take me to the hotel.

We took an Uber. She was glued to me in the back seat, her warm thigh against mine, her breast pressing against my arm. We didn't talk. The hum of the engine, the warm night air, her floral perfume mixed with tequila. My hand landed on her knee. She didn't remove it. Instead, she covered it with hers.

We arrived at her hotel. I was staying at another one, three kilometers away, but I didn't even think about it. I paid for the ride, followed her into the lobby, into the elevator.

The elevator doors closed. We were alone. The hum of the elevator, the lights marking the floors. She pressed the button for the eighth floor, then turned toward me. Her eyes were dark, her mouth slightly open, her chest rising and falling with her breath.

One last drop,

she said.

From the minibar.

Okay,

I replied.

Why not.

It was an excuse. We both knew it.

The door to her room opened with a click. She went in, turned on the bedside lamp. A normal room: queen bed, heavy curtains, a desk, a bathroom with a neon light. She approached the minibar, bent down to open it, and her dress rode up her thighs.

I saw the start of her underwear. Black. Lace.

My breathing grew heavier.

She pulled out a small bottle of vodka, opened it, took a sip. Then she handed it to me. I drank too. The liquor burned my throat, but it wasn't enough to quench what I had inside.

I put the bottle on the nightstand. She was there, a step away from me. Her hands found mine. Our fingers intertwined. For a long moment, we stayed like that, still, looking at each other.

You know you're married, right?

she whispered.

Yes. I know.

And you know I won't stop just because you're married.

I didn't answer. I grabbed her hips, pulled her against me. Her soft body pressed against mine. My cock was hard as stone, crushed against her belly.

I kissed her.

It was a slow kiss at first, almost shy. Her lips were warm, soft, tasted of tequila and vodka. Then her mouth opened, her tongue found mine, and the world disappeared. Everything that was out there—my wife, work, Jakarta, the sense of being dead inside—dissolved in a second. There was only her, her mouth, her hands sliding up to my neck, her breasts pressing against my chest.

Her hands began to unbutton my shirt. Mine slid down her back, down to her ass. I squeezed it with both hands. It was full, firm and soft at the same time. The flesh yielded under my fingers. She moaned into the kiss.

We started undressing quickly. We didn't speak. There was no need. Her blouse flew off, then her bra. Her breasts came out, enormous, heavy, perfect. Her nipples were dark, already hard, as big as coins. I took them in my hands, squeezed them, felt them full and warm. She threw her back and made a sound, a low moan that came from deep within.

Do you like them?

she asked, with that mischievous smile I already knew.

They drive me crazy.

I lowered my , took a nipple in my mouth. She dug her nails into my shoulders, leaned on me as if her legs were about to give way. I licked her, sucked her, bit her lightly. She moaned louder.

Enough,

she said after a while.

I want you inside.

I pulled down her black panties. They fell to the floor. She stepped out of them, and I saw her naked. Perfectly naked. Her curves, her soft belly, her barely shaved pubis, her full thighs closing against each other.

I laid her on the bed. She opened for me as if she had been waiting for years.

The first time was fast. Almost violent. I took her just like that, without preamble. I entered her, and she was warm, wet, tight. She cried out, a scream muffled by the pillow she had brought to her mouth. I grabbed her hips and started thrusting. Her legs rose, wrapped around my waist. Her breasts swayed with each thrust. Her face was a mix of pain and pleasure, mouth open, eyes closed.

I came after a few minutes. I couldn't hold back. She felt it, squeezed her legs tighter, and came too, a moment later, with a long, broken moan that seemed never to end.

We stayed there, locked together, sweaty, speechless. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. I was still inside her, and I could feel her sex pulsing, squeezing me gently, as if it didn't want to let me go.

Then she laughed. That full laugh that had won me over right away.

I didn't think you were like that,

she said.

Like what?

Hungry.

I kissed her again. Slower, this time. And I felt that something inside me was already stirring again.

The second time was longer. I explored all of her. Her neck, which I bit softly. Her shoulders, where I left red marks. Her soft belly, which I kissed all over, from bottom to top. The inside of her thighs, where the skin was lighter and smoother. Her pussy, which I licked until she screamed, gripping the sheets with her hands, lifting her pelvis toward my mouth as if she wanted to climb inside me.

Then I turned her over. I took her from behind, on her knees on the bed. She leaned on her elbows, her ass up, her back forming a perfect curve. She looked at me over her shoulder, hair falling across her face, eyes glistening.

Take me,

she said.

I grabbed her hips. I entered. It was even tighter from behind. She moaned, buried her face in the pillow. I started thrusting, first slow, then harder. Her ass rippled with each thrust, and I watched those full buttocks slap against my pelvis, yielding under my grip. I heard her stifled cries, her hands clutching the sheets.

I came inside her again. She came a moment later, with a scream she couldn't muffle this time.

We slept for maybe an hour, embraced. Her breast pressed against my chest, her leg tucked between mine. I felt her breathing, warm, alive. I wasn't sleeping. I was watching her. Thinking about my wife. Thinking about what I had just done. But I didn't feel guilty.

I felt alive.

The Morning

I woke up to the gray light of dawn. The curtains let in a strip of light that fell across her face. She was still sleeping, hair spread across the pillow, mouth slightly open, one breast uncovered rising and falling with her breath.

I looked at the clock. Six in the morning.

I had an appointment at eight. I got up quietly, put my clothes back on. Before leaving, I leaned over, brushed my lips against her full cheek. She opened her eyes for a second, smiled faintly.

Text me,

she whispered.

I left. The Yogyakarta air was humid and fragrant with cloves and distant rain. My was full of her. Her scent on me. Her screams in my ears. The desire to see her again, already.

We never fell in love. Neither of us. This is important.

I liked fucking her. She liked getting fucked and drinking tequila with me. With others, I don't know, and I never cared. We weren't dating. We weren't in love. We were two people who found each other, looked each other in the eye, and knew that what was between us was only what happened between a pair of legs and a glass of tequila.

And that was enough.

For almost two years, we saw each other regularly. She lived with her mother, in a small house in a workingclass neighborhood of Jakarta. I lived with my wife, in a small villa with a garden in Sudirang. Our worlds were separate, but they met in the gaps of routine: a free afternoon, an excuse to leave the house, a night when my wife was out.

She had an apartment. A small studio she rented out occasionally, but which stayed empty for weeks when she couldn't find tenants. It was our place. On the third floor of a building without an elevator, with a window overlooking the rooftops and a wide bed that took up half the room.

I went there with my heart pounding. I ran up the stairs. She opened the door, and the first thing we did was drink. Always. Tequila, two, three shots. It was our ritual. Without tequila, it wasn't the same.

Then she would kneel.

Yeni had a perfect mouth. Warm, soft, with full lips that knew how to envelop you. But what drove me crazy was how she used her throat.

She never did things halfway. When she took me in her mouth, she took it all. All the way down. I could feel the tip of my cock touch her throat, and she didn't have the slightest gag reflex. She stayed there, mouth full, eyes looking up at me from below.

Then she started moving.

Up and down, slow, with a rhythm that seemed studied. Every now and then she would stop her , make a circular motion with her tongue around the glans, then resume. Her left hand massaged my balls, her right rested on my thigh, nails digging slightly into the skin.

I watched her. Her full cheeks hollowing and filling with each movement. Her eyes never stopping to look at me. Her enormous breasts swaying slightly, resting on her thighs.

When I was about to come, I told her.

I'm coming.

She didn't stop. In fact, she sped up. She took my cock deeper, held her still, and made contractions with her throat around the tip. It was an incredible sensation, as if she were sucking my soul out.

I came straight down her throat. She swallowed everything, without wasting a drop. She kept sucking until I was completely empty, then slowly pulled back, letting her tongue slide along my cock to the tip.

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Smiled.

Good boy,

she said.

And every time, for a moment, I thought I could fall in love with her. Then she would get up, take the tequila bottle, take a sip, and say:

Now it's your turn.

And she would make me sit on the edge of the bed, lie down in front of me with her legs open, and I would lean over her.

In the apartment, we had sex everywhere. On the bed, obviously. But also on the faux leather sofa that creaked with every movement. In the kitchen, with her leaning against the stove, her ass pressed against the edge of the sink, me taking her from behind while she laughed and said

the neighbor can hear

and I said

I don't care.

Once I took her on the balcony, at night, with her holding onto the railing and me holding her hips, looking at the rooftops of Jakarta below us.

Each time was different, but each time it started the same way: tequila, blowjob with swallowing, and then a fuck that lasted until we got hungry or sleepy.

She liked being taken from behind. It was her favorite position. On her stomach, or on her knees on the bed, or standing against the wall. She said it made her feel it all, that it filled her ass and pussy at the same time. I don't know if it was true, but when I took her from behind, she screamed louder.

Once I took her in the ass. It wasn't her first time, she told me as we were getting ready.

I've done it before,

she said.

I like it.

We used lubricant she kept in the nightstand. I laid her on her stomach, with a pillow under her hips to lift her pelvis. I entered slowly. She bit her lip, took a deep breath, then nodded.

Go.

I started moving. It was tight, warm, different. She pushed back to take me deeper with each thrust. She enjoyed it so much that at one point she started laughing, a laugh punctuated by moans.

Don't stop,

she said.

Don't stop.

I didn't stop.

One night, around midnight, I took her to the company warehouse.

I had the keys. The gate opened with a creak. I parked the car outside, turned off the lights. We entered the darkness. The only light was the moon filtering through the high windows.

The warehouse smelled of dust, jute, raw materials. There were piles of sacks as tall as a man, lined up in orderly rows. Yeni looked around, excited.

What if we get caught?

We won't.

She leaned against a sack. Touched it, pressed it. It was soft, yielding, almost like a mattress.

Here,

she said.

I took her hand, led her between two piles of sacks. They formed a kind of narrow tunnel, with the sacks acting as walls. At the end, a small space where you could lie down.

She lay down on the sacks. The rough fabric scratched, but she didn't care. She took off her shirt, her bra. Her breasts emerged in the darkness, white, enormous, faintly lit by the moon. She took off her pants, her panties. She looked at me.

Get undressed.

I got undressed. My cock was already hard.

I took her on the sacks. She was beneath me, legs up, arms open. I penetrated her without speaking. The sacks rustled beneath us. The sound seemed amplified in the silence of the warehouse. She moaned, brought a hand to her mouth to stay quiet.

Don't worry,

I whispered.

There's no one here.

Then she stopped holding back. She screamed. Not loud, but loud enough for the sound to bounce off the concrete walls. I thrust harder, felt her breasts slap against my chest, her nails scratch my back.

Then I turned her around. Bent her over the sacks, ass up. I took her from behind, first in her pussy, then in her ass. She clung to the sacks, knuckles white. I held her by the hair, my other hand on her hip.

I came inside her ass. She came a moment earlier, with a tremor that ran down her entire back.

We stayed there for a while, panting, sweaty, dirty with dust. The sacks had left red marks on her skin. She turned, looked at me, and smiled.

You're an animal,

she said.

So are you.

I left the warehouse at almost two in the morning. I took her home. Kissed her at the door. Then I went back to my wife, who was sleeping, unaware.

Months passed. Yeni was increasingly frustrated with her job. Her boss, that elegant Chinese man who spoke softly, treated her badly. He gave her menial tasks, scolded her in front of clients, made her work overtime without pay.

I saw it, but I didn't say anything. It wasn't my role.

One evening Yeni called me. Her voice was broken.

I fought with him today.

Tell me.

She told me in pieces. It had happened that afternoon. The boss had humiliated her in front of an important client, told her she was stupid, that she understood nothing about the job, that she was just a pretty face. Yeni had felt like dying. But instead of lowering her as she had done for years, she had reacted.

She told him he was a petty man. That he paid her a pittance. That without her, the company would collapse. She had raised her voice, something you never do to a boss in a culture like Indonesia's.

Then she had picked up her bag and walked out.

Did he fire me?

I asked.

No,

said Yeni.

I quit.

Silence.

I don't have a job anymore,

she added. And her voice broke.

I heard her cry, softly. Yeni never cried. She was always the strong one, the one who laughed and drank tequila and got fucked without asking for anything. Hearing her like that had a strange effect on me.

Can I come over?

I asked.

Not tonight. My mother is home. But tomorrow... we can meet at the apartment.

The next morning I went to the apartment. She was already there, sitting on the bed, a cup of coffee in her hand. She didn't have her usual smile. Her eyes were red.

I sat down next to her.

How are you?

A disaster.

Finding another job?

I'm trying. But you know how it is. Jakarta is full of assistants. Without recommendations, you don't get anywhere.

She paused. Then she looked at me. Her eyes were different, more vulnerable.

You... you don't happen to need an assistant, do you?

The question caught me off guard.

Or maybe you know some company that could hire me?

she continued.

Someone looking for someone with my experience?

I looked at her. Her face was serious, but there was something else inside: shame. Yeni never asked for favors. She was proud. Asking me for help must have cost her effort.

I don't know,

I said.

I need to think about it.

Okay,

she said, lowering her gaze.

We sat in silence for a while. Then she put down her cup, came closer to me, and started unbuttoning my pants.

You don't have to,

I said.

I know,

she replied.

But I want to.

And she bent down.

That day, the blowjob was different. Slower, more intense. There was no usual mischief. There was something deeper, as if she wanted to thank me in a way words couldn't. When I came, she swallowed as always, but then she stayed there, her resting on my thigh, silent.

I stroked her hair.

I'll let you know,

I said.

I thought about it for a few days. Hiring Yeni as my personal assistant was crazy. It would be dangerous. Despite myself, I would see her every day. My colleagues might suspect. My wife might find out.

But I needed her. Not for love. For the sex. I was addicted to that dependency. To her mouth, her ass, her pussy, the tequila we drank before and after.

So I called her.

I spoke with the office. We have an open position. It's yours if you want it.

She paused. Then I heard her voice, warm and mischievous as I hadn't heard it in days.

When do I start?

Monday.

Then on Monday, I'll give you a blowjob in the office. To celebrate.

I laughed.

I can't wait.

And I hired her. It was one of the most exciting decisions of my life.

Yeni showed up at the office on Monday in an elegant suit, hair pulled back, a professional smile. No one would ever have imagined that the night before she had been kneeling in front of me, mouth full.

For weeks, we managed to stay in our places. But it didn't last long.

The first time in the office happened about a month later. It was Friday evening, everyone had gone home. I was in my office finishing some paperwork. She knocked on the door.

Boss, do you need anything?

She entered, closed the door behind her. She approached the desk.

I'm done with everything,

she said.

Can I go?

You can,

I replied.

But if you want to stay...

I didn't finish the sentence. She sat on the desk, knocking over a pile of papers. She lifted her skirt. Pulled down her panties. She looked at me.

What are you thinking?

I'm thinking I need to fuck you.

Good.

It was fast, furtive, exciting. I took her right there, on the desk, with documents still open and the computer on. She bit her lip to stay quiet, but when I came, she let out a stifled moan that gave me chills.

Then she straightened her skirt, fixed her hair, and walked out of the office as if nothing had happened.

Have a good weekend, boss,

she said from the door.

Have a good weekend, Yeni.

After that time, it became a habit. At least two evenings a week, after everyone had left, we closed the door to my office. Sometimes she came to me. Sometimes I called her.

We had sex everywhere. On the desk. On the armchair, with her straddling me. Standing, leaning against the bookshelf. Once I took her on the carpet, with the lights off and the city shining through the windows.

The office blowjobs were her favorites. She liked getting under the desk, between my legs, while I pretended to work. She'd unbutton my pants, take my cock in her mouth, and start. I tried to keep a straight face in case someone walked in. But it was hard when she did those things with her tongue.

She always swallowed, cleaned the tip with her finger, wiped her mouth, and went back to her desk as if she'd just gone for coffee.

The Warehouse – At Night, Again

We went back several times, at night. It had become our secret place. I parked the car outside, she sat next to me with a bottle of tequila. We drank, then went in.

Among the sacks of raw materials, in the dark, with only the moonlight. The dust, the smell of jute, the silence broken only by our moans and the rustling of the sacks.

Once I brought a blanket. I spread it over the sacks, laid Yeni down on it. I licked her for half an hour, until she came three times, gripping my with her thighs and pulling my hair. Then I took her in every position I knew. In the end, we were so tired we fell asleep there, embraced, naked, dirty with dust.

I woke up at four in the morning. She was still sleeping, one breast crushed against my chest, her mouth slightly open. I looked at her. For a moment I thought I could fall in love with her. Then she opened her eyes, looked at me, and said:

I'm thirsty. Any tequila left?

There wasn't. But in the warehouse there were some bottles of water. We took them, drank, then dressed in silence.

I drove her home. It was almost five. My wife was sleeping. I slipped into bed next to her and didn't close my eyes until dawn.

Once we went to Kuala Lumpur. It had been a heavy period, for both of us. I needed a break. So did she.

I told my wife I had a business trip. She didn't ask questions. She hadn't for years.

Yeni took two days off. We booked a flight to KL, a hotel that wasn't too fancy but discreet, in a quiet area. We arrived on Friday afternoon.

The city was hot, humid, full of lights and skyscrapers. We went to the room, dropped our bags, and the first thing we did was order a bottle of tequila from room service.

We drank the first shot on the balcony, watching the city light up.

Tonight we don't stop,

Yeni said.

Are you sure?

I'm already drunk from the first shot. Imagine later.

We laughed. We drank the second shot. The third. Then we went out.

We went to a club in Bukit Bintang. Loud music, crowds, strobe lights. Yeni danced like there was no tomorrow, her body moving freely among the people. I watched her from behind a glass.

We drank more. Tequila, then beer, then another shot. I don't remember the order. I remember that at some point we were in another club, smaller, more intimate. She was leaning against the counter, her curves pressing against the wood. I was behind her, hands on her hips.

Then the void.

The Black Hole

I woke up the next morning with my splitting. Sunlight filtered through the curtains, sharp as a knife. The room was a disaster: empty bottles on the floor, clothes scattered, a lamp knocked over. The bed was unmade, sheets tangled.

Yeni was next to me, naked, sleeping. One arm covered her eyes. Her mouth was slightly open, her breast rising and falling with her breath.

I sat up. My heart started pounding. I tried to remember the night, but only found fragments. Her riding, her screams. Her on all fours on the bed, me taking her from behind. Her laughing, the tequila bottle passing from hand to hand. A moment when it seemed like she was about to faint from pleasure.

And then... nothing.

Panic rose in me.

Did I get her pregnant?

I broke out in a cold sweat. My wife, my life, everything flashed before me in a second. I turned pale. I got up, went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on my face. I looked at myself in the mirror. My eyes were red, my beard was long, there was a bruise on my neck.

When I returned to the room, Yeni was awake. She was sitting on the bed, the sheet pulled up to her chest, shoulders bare. She looked at me, smiled.

Hey,

she said.

How's the ?

Shit. Yeni, last night... I don't remember anything.

She looked at me. The smile died on her lips.

You don't remember anything?

Flashes. Fragments. But most of it... nothing.

She paused. Then she said, seriously:

It was a good night. Lots of tequila. Lots of sex. That's all.

But did we... I mean, are you sure we used protection?

She looked at me for a long second. Then she burst out laughing. A liberating, full laugh that made her breasts tremble under the sheet.

Relax,

she said.

I can't have children.

I stood silent for a second.

Really?

Really. Something in there. Doesn't work. Always has been.

I felt an enormous weight lift from my shoulders. I collapsed onto the bed next to her, exhausted.

You could have told me before,

I murmured.

And ruin the surprise?

We laughed. Then she moved closer, kissed my shoulder.

Don't worry. I'll never get pregnant. You can come inside as much as you want.

Her hands began to slide down my chest.

And anyway,

she added,

last night you came so many times I don't know if you'd have anything left to put in.

She lowered the sheet, looked at my cock, and smiled.

But I see it's already ready again.

She bent down. And as she did, she ordered room service.

A bottle of tequila,

she said into the phone.

And two limes.

After KL, things continued as before. Sex, tequila, apartment, warehouse, office. But something had changed in Yeni. I could feel it.

Jakarta was too small for her. She said it more and more often. The city was too cramped, too suffocating. She wanted a different life. She wanted to leave, see the world, not end her days in the same house with her mother.

So she started chatting with many men. I knew it. She didn't hide it from me. Sometimes, when we were in bed after fucking, she'd pick up her phone and scroll through the chats. She'd laugh, comment, show me the photos.

This one's Australian. Very boring.

This one's French. Talks too much.

This one's American. Lives in Texas. A pilot.

When she told me about the American pilot, I didn't think much of it. She had met plenty before. But this time was different.

She started spending more time on her phone. Talking to him in the evening. Smiling as she read his messages.

Once, while we were in the apartment after sex, she was lying next to me and showed me his photo.

He's tall. Blonde. Has a house in Texas with a pool.

Nice,

I said, without particular enthusiasm.

He wants me there. Says he can get me over. Sort out my documents.

And what do you want?

She looked at me. For a moment, her eyes were serious.

I want to leave here.

I didn't say anything. I took her hand. We stayed silent, listening to the traffic noise from the window.

A few weeks later, Yeni told me she had made a decision. She was going to Texas. The pilot had bought her ticket. She would leave in a month.

We didn't fight. There was nothing to fight about. We weren't dating. We weren't in love. We were two people who had fun together, who had shared nights of tequila and sex, and who were now going their separate ways.

The last time I saw her was in the apartment.

I brought a bottle of tequila. Two limes. Salt.

We drank in silence, sitting on the bed. Then she bent down and gave me a blowjob. Slow, deep, as if she wanted to remember me. When I came, she swallowed, then stayed there with her on my thigh.

I'll miss you,

she said.

Me too.

Then I took her. For the last time. I fucked her in every position I knew . On the bed, on the floor, standing against the wall. She screamed, laughed, cried a little at the end, but I don't know if it was for me or for what she was leaving behind.

At dawn, I dressed. I kissed her fore.

Text me,

she said.

I will.

I left. The door closed behind me. I walked down the stairs without looking back.

Yeni now lives in Texas. The pilot married her. Every now and then she texts me. A short message, a sunset photo, a song. She tells me she lives well, that the house is big, that the sky is enormous. She tells me she's not really in love, but that he treats her well, that she lacks nothing.

I miss the sex with you,

she writes sometimes.

And the tequila.

I always reply. A few words. A heart. A virtual toast.

I never fell in love with her. Never. And she never fell in love with me. We liked fucking, we liked drinking tequila, and we liked being together without asking anything of each other.

But every time I drink tequila, I think of her. Of her soft body. Her enormous breasts swaying as she rode. Her mouth taking me all the way down. Her muffled screams into the pillow. Her full ass sinking into the mattress.

And I smile.

Because for two years, between a blowjob with swallowing and a pounding among the warehouse sacks, between a night of tequila in Kuala Lumpur and an afternoon of sex on the desk, we had fun like two free animals.

And no love can stand up to that, really.