Tina
Her brother-in-law introduced us at a lunch party, then left us to it. She had three mixed-race kids with her, from her current partner—her second husband—who was out of town. We talked for a while. She was pleasant, giving not the slightest hint of impropriety.
That evening, she called me. Coffee. Just the two of us. No crowd, no kids.
Over coffee, Tina talked. Not like someone spilling secrets, but like someone unburdening themselves to a stranger who might be gone tomorrow. No filter, no soft edges. Just the raw stuff.
She wasn't bitter. That was the thing. She told it like a story that had happened to someone else. The men who didn't even want to talk. The times she did anything to keep her head above water. Not all of them were bad, she liked the variety. Both her husbands were clients. Husband number one was black. He'd taken her like a stray dog, broke her in, shared her with colleagues, worked her hard, used her up. Had another girl just like her. Had an older wife who kept both girls in line. Brought them men. Always different. Most were black and used her every way they wanted. Three years in that cage. Had a baby to one of the men. Even pregnant she was worked till the day it was born. Then she ran. Got a day job. Two mouths to feed. Still a teenager she danced, every night performing naked for crowds of tourists. Then on her back for anyone with the cash. Sometimes several. More was a bonus. Top, bottom, front to back. Didn't matter. Done it all before.
Husband number two seemed different. Sure he fucked her every time but he had steady hands, steady job and kept coming back. They married and changed countries. But in the end, all he really wanted was to breed her.
She'd delivered and wasn't ashamed. She didn't even blink when she said it.
Now, she was thinking. Planning. The kids were getting older, and she was feeling the itch. More freedom. More control. Maybe a whole new life. But change is a funny thing—it calls to you and warns you away at the same time.
She sipped her coffee, eyes locked on mine. Measuring. Weighing. Then she smiled, slow and sharp.
"What about you?" she said.
And just like that, the ground shifted.
She's small—petite—but strong. Fit. Built like someone who's had to fight for everything. From the moment she takes your cock in her mouth you know she's experienced. In bed, she's all energy, all motion. Flexible. Wanting. Always up for more. But there's the downside, too. She's been stretched. A lot. Apart from all the men she's been bred. First black, unsure who's then three whites with hubby2. The first two were natural but difficult. Gyno's told her no more natural births. Western babies are too big for her small frame. She was bred more hence the cesarean scars.
Loose as she is she's trained herself. She can tighten up, grip like a fist. Or let go completely, so soft and loose I barely feel anything but her inner warmth. Relaxed makes for a long leisurely session. She's juicy. My fingers and cock go pussy to mouth any number of times. I want her eating pussy giving her a good taste. Fucking her I can tell her to relax loose and I edge along for hours if I want. She squeezes when she cums then we proceed. I finish with a hard pounding, use her mouth or flip her over. Bing fertile she's flexible that way too but prefers a load in her. When it's over she knows to go down and clean up. Her being stretched doesn't bother me. Not really.
Always available.
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Permanent.
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Hair tied up keeping her chest uncovered.
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Marked forever.
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