I can still close my eyes and relive that day as if it were happening right now. It was my birthday—I had just turned eighteen—and there are moments that stay etched in your memory forever, don’t you think? I’m not going to tell you about my first time in the typical sense; no, that was something that happened without much fuss or fanfare. What I want to share with you is something far more intense, something that changed me. Hi, I’m Lucía, and this is the story of how I experienced pleasure so overwhelming it felt like I was detaching from my own body.
It was January 10th, several years ago now. I remember the salty air hitting my face as I clung to my boyfriend’s waist, the two of us buzzing along on his motorcycle toward the beach. We were eighteen, two young souls brimming with a hunger to live, to squeeze every drop out of the day. We barely brought anything with us—just enough cash for gas and a bag of homemade food we’d packed. The plan was simple: get there, enjoy the sun and the sea, and head back that same afternoon. Straightforward, no complications. Or so we thought.
We arrived at the beach, and as I climbed off the bike, I realized it was just an ordinary Wednesday. The place was nearly deserted, with only a handful of people scattered across the sand. And honestly, I loved that. I’m not one for crowds; I prefer space, the freedom to feel like the world belongs to me for a little while. That day, the sun was shining exactly how I needed it to, the ocean roared softly in the distance, and the salty breeze filled my lungs. I felt alive, weightless, like everything had aligned to make it perfect. My boyfriend and I were laughing at anything and everything, tossing our food onto the sand and splashing each other with water. We were in our own little bubble, having the time of our lives.
But of course, we were young, and desire always ends up taking over. My longing for him was immense, like a fire I couldn’t put out. I don’t know who suggested it first, but soon we were looking for a way to get closer, right there on the beach. We waded into the water, laughing like it was a game, and between the waves, we tried for something more intimate. It was tricky—the sea wasn’t helping, the motion kept throwing us off—but we managed a moment, a brief, clumsy brush that made me gasp. It wasn’t comfortable, not at all; the sand got where it shouldn’t, and the cold water crashed against us, but that adrenaline, that feeling of being on the edge, lit me up even more. I wanted to keep going, I wanted more.
It was fun, sure, but we craved it with an intensity that defied reason. It wasn’t a challenge or about proving anything; it was just raw, wild desire to give ourselves to each other right then and there. Naturally, like any pair of desperate teenagers, we messed up more than once. We stumbled, laughed too loud, and our awkward movements started giving us away. I noticed the stares from a couple of people in the distance—they didn’t say anything, but their eyes knew everything. They knew exactly what we were trying to do, and we, in our reckless haze, couldn’t stop ourselves from keeping at it.
The desire wasn’t just a game anymore; it had turned painful, an urgency that burned inside us. We were so fired up that we couldn’t stay still, so we decided to find a more secluded spot on the beach. We ran to grab a towel, thinking about slipping away into the bushes or behind some rocks, when suddenly someone in the distance waved us over. It was an older man, about forty-eight, with slightly graying hair and a calm look in his eyes. Honestly, I don’t remember his name. I’m sure he told me at some point, but it’s slipped my mind completely.
I left my boyfriend to gather our stuff and walked over to talk to him. He asked, in a steady voice, if we were planning to head to the other side of the beach or if we were just packing up to leave. I told him we wanted to move a little farther down, and he fixed me with a steady gaze before shaking his head.
“You’d better not go over there,” he said. “In that area, among the bushes, there are guys hiding out, waiting to record young couples like you and then blackmail them.”
In that moment, a flush of heat rushed to my face. He knew exactly why we wanted to go there, and I realized it instantly. I blushed but managed to stammer out a “thank you so much” with a grateful smile before quickly saying goodbye and heading back to my boyfriend.
I told him everything, and between nervous laughs, we decided to stay put. It wasn’t worth the risk. We pulled out the food we’d brought, sat down on the sand, and started eating, trying to settle the restless energy still buzzing through us. A little while later, as we were finishing up, the man came over again. He was alone, holding a soda in his hand, which he offered to us with a kind smile. He wanted to chat, and honestly, I didn’t mind. He was one of those people who’s easy to like without even trying.
He sat down with us, and little by little, he joined the conversation. We started with small talk, but then he began telling us a story from when he was our age. He said he’d also wanted to try everything, everywhere, no matter where he was. “It was so obvious what I was up to that everyone could tell,” he said with a laugh, his eyes sparkling with a distant memory. As he spoke, he looked at me for a second too long, and I knew what he was hinting at without fully saying it. He understood us, and somehow, that made me feel more at ease with him.
The afternoon flew by, and by then, we were getting along great with this guy. I wish I could tell you his name, but as I’m recounting this, I rack my brain and still can’t pull it up. What I do remember clearly is how the clock hit 5 p.m., and we knew we had a three-hour motorcycle ride back home ahead of us. I mentioned it almost in passing while we packed up our things. “We’ve got to head out now,” I told him, and he frowned, a little concerned. He warned us about how dangerous the road could be at night, especially for two young people like us, inexperienced and without an extra dime in our pockets. We didn’t even have enough for a hotel, and I let him know with a nervous laugh.
Then, with that calm demeanor that defined him, he looked at us and said, “I live right here, across from the beach. I’ve got a nice house with a spare room. Why don’t you stay?”
I didn’t even hesitate. “Yes, of course!” I blurted out, thrilled. I can still picture my boyfriend’s face—a mix of surprise and uncertainty. He wasn’t as sold on the idea, but when he saw how excited I was, my eyes practically sparkling, he gave in. “Alright, fine,” he mumbled, and my smile grew even wider. It was going to be my first time sleeping by the sea, and the thought filled me with an almost childlike joy.
The house was just a few steps from the beach, so close you could smell the salt from the doorway. It was simple but cozy, with white walls and an air that smelled like freedom. He showed us to the room he was offering: a modest bed, a window letting in the breeze, and not much else. We dropped our stuff there and headed back out to the sand, this time with a different feeling. Knowing we didn’t have to race against the clock, that there was no rush to get back, filled me with an unexpected peace. We walked barefoot, letting the waves brush our feet, and for the first time that day, I took a deep breath, feeling like everything was exactly as it should be.
Once we were settled in the house, he offered us beer, pulling a couple of cold bottles from a little fridge in the living room. I said no, not feeling like it, but my boyfriend, who was already in high spirits, accepted without a second thought. He was in his element, laughing and talking more than usual. Wanting to contribute something, I got an idea. “Mind if I use your kitchen?” I asked, and with a smile, he told me to go right ahead, to make myself at home. He lent me the space, and I got to work, trying my best to whip up something tasty with the little we had. Every time he came into the kitchen—bringing something or just poking around—I noticed how his eyes lingered on me. I was still in my swimsuit, one that didn’t leave much to the imagination, and at one point, as he leaned against the doorway, I saw how his pants betrayed that something in him had stirred. But he wasn’t crude or out of line; on the contrary, he always kept that respectful attitude that made me feel at ease.
The night rolled on with chatter and laughter. My boyfriend kept going with the beers, one after another, until, well into the night, he lifted his head, swaying a little, and said, “We’d better head to bed.”
He was drunk, his eyes glassy and his voice thick; he couldn’t take any more. The man and I helped him to the room, holding him up by the arms. The second he hit the bed, he collapsed and was out cold within moments, snoring softly. Me, though? I didn’t have the slightest hint of sleepiness. I felt so alive, so buzzing with energy, that going to bed seemed like a waste of time. If you could only feel what I felt in that moment, you’d get it—it was like the day was begging me not to let it go.
He could tell I wasn’t ready to surrender to the night.
“Want me to make you a coffee?” he offered, and I nodded with a smile. It was chilly outside, the sea breeze slipping through the windows, so he grabbed a blanket and draped it over my shoulders. It was almost one in the morning. He sat with me in the living room, his beer in hand, and we started chatting again. The coffee warmed my hands, and the blanket wrapped around me like a hug. After a while, as the silence of the night mingled with the sound of the waves, I said, “I want to take a bath. I’ve still got sand stuck to my skin.” He nodded, got up, and led me to the bathroom, pointing out where everything was with that familiar kindness of his.
I stepped out of the bathroom wrapped in a cloud of steam, and right outside the door, I found a pair of pajamas he’d left for me. I slipped them on, and they fit like they were made for me—sexy, with a cut that left little to the imagination. Curious, I asked, “Whose are these?”
He looked at me with a calm smile and said, “My daughter’s. She’s twenty-five, in college. She comes here sometimes with her friends.”
I laughed and said, “Well, your daughter’s got some bold taste in clothes.” His eyes traveled over me, from bottom to top, and he let out a little chuckle. “I never noticed how… revealing these pajamas were,” he remarked. Then, with a glint in his eye, he added, “Now I won’t be able to see her in them the same way.” We both laughed, but the air shifted, like the words had tangled up between us.
I didn’t know what to say. He was standing there in front of me, and I noticed that tension in his pants again. He was older than my dad, and that sent a weird twist through my stomach. Maybe it was the desire still smoldering from the beach, or maybe I’m just that impulsive, or perhaps, deep down, it was my way of thanking him for everything. I don’t know.
I broke the silence by saying, “Let’s go check on my boyfriend, see if he’s okay.”
I walked to the room, opened the door, and saw him sprawled out on the bed, fast asleep. I motioned for the man to come closer. “Look at him,” I said. He stepped behind me and murmured near my ear, “I think the beer hit him hard.” We made some noise—“Hey, hey, wake up!”—but nothing, not even a flinch. We raised our voices, tapped the bed a little, and still, he didn’t budge.
But honestly, did we really want to wake him? Or were we just testing how deep his sleep was? Without realizing it—or maybe I did—I took a step back, and my body pressed against his. I felt that heat, that pressure against me, through the thin fabric of the pajamas. I turned my head, looked into his eyes, and with a mix of curiosity and defiance, asked, “And what’s that?”
His face turned red instantly, like my words had caught him off guard.
“Rest up,” he mumbled, nearly tripping over his own feet as he backed out of the room. He closed the door behind him, leaving me there alone with my boyfriend. I pushed him over a bit to make space on the bed, but I was restless. Sleep wasn’t happening, no way. My body was tense, my mind spinning, trapped in an anxious buzz that wouldn’t let me settle. I wanted sex—craved it with an intensity that burned inside me. My boyfriend was still lost in his drunken slumber, motionless, and I couldn’t take it anymore. I touched myself, seeking relief, and though I managed to tremble and reach a climax, it wasn’t enough. I wanted more, so much more.
I left the room under the pretense of getting water. My legs were trembling, but it wasn’t just from the cold. Looking back now, I realize: when we’re young, we don’t weigh the consequences. We don’t stop to analyze; we just act, diving headfirst into the risky stuff without a glance back. I say this because, after drinking a glass of water in the kitchen, I didn’t return to my boyfriend. Instead, I opened the door to that man’s room.
“Are you asleep?” I asked in a low voice.
He sat up slightly, surprised, and looked at me with confused eyes. “Is something wrong?” he said.
“No, nothing,” I replied quickly. “Can I hang out here for a bit?” I didn’t give him time to answer—I didn’t want to hear a no. I walked in, climbed onto his bed, turned my back to him, and said, “Hold me, just for a little while, until I fall asleep.”
At first, he hesitated. I had to insist, almost force him to wrap his arms around me. But when he did, I felt it: that firm pressure against my back, his warm breath grazing my neck. My fingers started playing with his hand, stroking it slowly, as I pressed myself closer to him. I wanted to feel him near, as near as possible. He knew—I’m sure he knew. He understood what I wanted, what my body was silently screaming for, but he didn’t move, didn’t take the first step. I was too young for him, and that held him back.
I shifted carefully, sliding the pajamas down to my knees, subtle enough that he didn’t notice right away. My breathing quickened, a whirlwind of heat rising in my chest. I wanted to take the next step, craved it with every fiber of my being, but he wouldn’t budge. He needed a push, and since it wasn’t coming from him, I had to give it to myself. His arm was under my head, like a makeshift pillow, and his other hand rested on my chest, holding me. I reached back with my hand, fumbling for the fabric of his pants. I closed my eyes, though the room was nearly pitch-black, lit only by the silvery glow sneaking through the window. With one hand, clumsy but determined, I started pulling his pants down. He didn’t say anything, didn’t resist, so I whispered, “Lift up a little.” He shifted just enough off the bed for me to slide the fabric down to his knees.
I let out a sigh, an involuntary sound, and took his hand in a gesture that said, “Okay, now let’s sleep.” But my mind was anything but calm. Thoughts of my boyfriend, asleep in the other room, crashed into me. He’d been my first, the only man I’d known until that night. Yet something in me had awakened, something wild I couldn’t ignore. I started moving my hips, seeking to align myself with him, feeling our heat meet. He was wet, I was too—so much so that everything flowed with an almost sinful ease. His body brushed against mine, pausing right at the threshold, waiting for my permission. I didn’t hesitate. I pushed my hips back, decisive, without pause.
What I felt was a slow, deep invasion that stole my breath away. He was bigger, firmer, more experienced than anything I’d known, like there was no end to him. My body opened for him, yielding to a pressure that filled me in a new, almost overwhelming way. A long moan escaped me, impossible to hold back, as he sank deeper and deeper, claiming every inch of me. When he was fully inside, I twisted my neck, seeking his lips. He kissed me with a passion that unraveled me, his hands gripping me as he moved with an intensity that made me tremble. It was a fierce, hungry rhythm, and I surrendered completely, lost in the fire consuming us both.
This story isn’t just about how he took me, though of course I’ll tell you how it was. But before I go on, I want to pause for a second and tell you how it felt with an older man, how the weight of being unfaithful hit me, how, in that moment, I turned into someone I didn’t recognize: a woman unleashed, free, almost like I’d become a whore for a night. It was a whirlwind of emotions I hadn’t expected, and even now, I struggle to put it into words.
Once he was inside me, he took control, and it was like the world bent to his will. I’d never felt anything like it—a command over my body that enveloped me completely. He turned me firmly, putting me on my knees, hands braced against the bed, and with a slow but deliberate motion, he slid the pajamas down to my ankles, leaving me exposed. Then his fingers found the edge of the top and lifted it over my head, stripping me bare. I felt small, submissive, like every move he made bound me tighter to him. It was a control that didn’t ask permission, but one I gave up without resistance.
His movements were deep, rhythmic, a dance that filled me and emptied me all at once. Each thrust was a surprise, a blend of strength and precision I hadn’t expected from an older man. He possessed me in an exquisite way, like he knew exactly how to break me down, how to make me his. He wanted to dominate me, and I let him, surrendered to the sensation piercing through me. My moans spilled out, louder and louder, echoing in the room without a care. I didn’t worry about whether my boyfriend, asleep just a few feet away, could hear them. I was so immersed, so caught in that consuming pleasure, that I could only let myself go, reveling in it fully, as if the rest of the world had vanished.
Suddenly, his hands turned me again, this time face down, my face buried in the pillow and my hips lifted toward him. I felt exposed, vulnerable, like an offering he accepted without hesitation. The heat of his body against mine made me shake, and every touch was a reminder that I no longer had control. I was at his mercy, and that ignited me in a way I couldn’t explain. But then, without warning, without asking, I felt his fingers exploring further, seeking a place my boyfriend had never touched. First it was one, sliding in with a slowness that made me hold my breath. I could tell how much he enjoyed it, the way his breathing grew heavier, more primal.
I was on the verge of stopping him, of saying I didn’t want it, that it was too much. But there was something in the way he moved, that wild confidence, that broke me down. Suddenly, I didn’t just accept it—I craved it. I wanted to know how it felt, wanted him to take me there too. When he moved past his fingers and went further, when his body found that forbidden place and began to push through, it was like the world shattered into pieces. It was my first time like that, and it marked me forever. I felt an intense pressure, a burning that mingled with a dark, new pleasure, slicing through me like lightning. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t gentle; it was raw, and I writhed beneath him, caught between pain and a euphoria that transformed me from the inside out.
He gripped my hair hard, pulling it back, and in that moment, he stopped being the kind man who’d offered us his home. He turned into a beast, a savage claiming every part of me. His hands fell to my hips, and then, for the first time, I felt the sting of his spanks, firm and resounding in the room. Each smack was an echo of his desire, and I took it, arching toward him, lost in that ferocious dance. It was so different from what I knew with my boyfriend. This older man didn’t ask, he took; he didn’t hesitate, he acted. His experience showed in every move, in the way he filled me, dominated me, drove me to the edge of something vast. He was rough, mature, relentless, and I let myself be consumed, moaning uncontrollably, surrendered to an intensity that tore me apart and pieced me back together.
More than an hour passed, and it was like time melted between us. He had me in so many ways that my body still remembers each one. He lifted me against the wall, my legs trembling as he held me with a strength that made me feel tiny. Then he laid me on my side, his breath hot on my neck as he claimed me with a rhythm that pulled gasps from my lungs. At one point, he put me on all fours again, his hands marking my skin, and I could only yield, given over to that voracity that left no room for anything else. Finally, he sat me on the edge of the bed, exhausted but still hungry, and stood in front of me. I watched him take himself in his hands, moving them with an urgency that mesmerized me. That was something I’d never done before. My boyfriend had asked me once, but I always said no. And now I understood: asking is one thing, taking is another, and being taken felt so good, so right in that moment.
He didn’t ask what I wanted. He didn’t need to. His maturity, his experience, told him exactly how to push me to the limit, how to unravel me. And he did. I remember that first time it all exploded: a hot torrent flooded my mouth, abundant, like it would never stop. I swallowed once, twice, three times, as he took my head and guided me deeper, filling my throat. I heard him groan, a deep, guttural sound that echoed through me like a reward. From that night on, I learned to love that sound—the groan of a man when he’s completely lost. It made me feel powerful, even though I’d barely done anything; I’d just let him lead, and I loved it.
When he finished, he looked at me and said, with a tired smile, “You did good.”
I let out a soft laugh, because honestly, I hadn’t done much. He’d been the master, and I’d been his canvas.
I dressed slowly, picking the pajamas up off the floor, still trembling inside. I walked back to my boyfriend’s room, lay down beside him, and fell into a sleep so deep I didn’t even feel it take me. The next day, he shook me awake. “Come on, we’ve got to go,” he said, and I got up quickly, my head still foggy. We dressed in a rush, gathered our things, and that man saw us off at the door. He handed us his number, scribbled on a piece of paper. “If you want to come back, call me,” he said with that calm demeanor of his. I smiled and replied, “We’ll definitely be back.”
But here’s the truth: I did return, yes, but alone. Because what I experienced that night with him was magical, a dark spell no guy my age could ever match.
Being touched by an older man was like waking a beast inside me. His hands knew where to press, where to punish, where to make me beg without me saying a word. He took me with a rawness that marked my skin and soul, taught me the pleasure of being possessed, of being devoured by someone who doesn’t doubt, who doesn’t falter. It was perverse, it was intense, and I’ll carry it with me always, like a burning secret that still sears me when I think of it.
