My first regret fuck.

It was 11:47 p.m. when my phone buzzed. Hazel.
“Ten minutes away. I’m dripping. Come open the door.”

I stared at the screen, cock already half-hard from boredom and the sleep I’d been nursing. I knew I should ignore it. Last time had been… fine. But fine wasn’t worth the hangover of regret I always woke up with. Still, thirty-something hormones don’t negotiate. I typed back: “Not tonight.”

Three dots. Then:
“Don’t make me beg in your lobby. I’ll suck you in the elevator if I have to.”

Fuck. Ten minutes later I was at her apartment block instead of mine—she’d rerouted me with a pinched, desperate voice note that went straight to my balls.

She yanked me inside the moment the door cracked open. Chubby, gorgeous Malaysian Chinese face flushed, accountant hair still in its neat bun, blouse already half-unbuttoned. The hallway light caught the soft swell of her belly, the heavy sway of her tits in a black lace bra that was doing overtime.

“Living room. Now,” she ordered, shoving me toward the couch.

No hello. No kiss. Just her mouth on my zipper before I’d even sat down. The first warning sign hit me immediately—her breath. Cigarettes and laksa and something sour that lived at the back of her throat. I flinched. She didn’t notice, just swallowed me down like she was starving. Wet, loud, mechanical. No eye contact, no moans, just efficient suction until I was throbbing against her tonsils.

She climbed up, yanked her panties aside, and sank down on me in one rough drop.

“Fuck me hard,” she growled. “Don’t talk.”

So I did. Gripped her wide hips and pounded up into her soaking cunt while she rode me like a machine—fast, joyless, chasing her own orgasm with single-minded greed. Her pussy was hot and ridiculously wet, but she just stared at the ceiling, mouth open, grunting numbers under her breath like she was reconciling a balance sheet. “Harder—yes—don’t stop—fuck—”

She came with a sudden jerk, nails digging into my shoulders, flooding around my cock, then immediately climbed off.

“Bedroom. Round two.”

I followed like an idiot.

On her bed she pushed me flat, climbed on my face, and ground her sweaty pussy against my mouth until she came again, thighs trembling, no sound except wet squelching and her bossy “Tongue—there—faster—” When I tried to touch her clit the way that usually makes women lose their minds, she slapped my hand away. “I know what I want. Just do it.”

I fucked her missionary after that. She wrapped her thick legs around me, but it was like screwing a demanding starfish—limbs heavy, face blank, just “Deeper, faster, make me cum again.” I did. She did. Then she rolled over and said, “Hold my hand,” like a child, and passed out.

The snoring started immediately—deep, wet, chainsaw-level. I tried to extract my hand. She gripped tighter in her sleep, mumbled “Don’t let go,” and yanked me half off the mattress. Every time I drifted off she’d kick—hard shin to my calf, elbow to my ribs—then roll over, dragging me with her until I literally fell out of bed and hit the floor with a thud.

I lay there on the carpet, cock raw, nose full of her sharp, unwashed body odor that had only gotten stronger with sweat, listening to her snore, and felt the regret sink all the way into my bones.

But my dick—traitorous, stupid—twitched again when she suddenly sat up in the dark.

“Toilet. Now.”

She waddled ahead of me, bent over the sink, ass up, pussy glistening. “Fuck me from behind. Hard. I need to cum again before I sleep properly.”

So I did. Slammed into her while she braced her hands on the mirror, watching herself with that same blank, greedy expression. The smell in the small room was overwhelming—sweat, sex, that sour mouth when she turned to bark “Harder!” over her shoulder. I gripped her soft hips and hate-fucked her until she came with a guttural groan, pussy clamping down so hard it dragged my own orgasm out of me. I pulled out and shot across her ass, watching it drip down her thighs.

She didn’t even turn around. Just reached for tissue, wiped once, and said, “Okay, back to bed. Hold my hand.”

I left at 5 a.m. while she was still snoring, her thick fingers still clutching air for mine.

Never again, I told myself, deleting her number in the elevator.

My cock throbbed the whole drive home, already half hoping she’d text.