Chapter 1 — A Night with My Junior's Girlfriend

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination. All characters are adults aged 18 or over.

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It was sometime last year, on a Friday evening, when I met up with a former college junior for drinks after a long time.

We'd been extremely close back in the day—before he started working—and I was happy to see him again. Even though he insisted I come near his place, I didn't mind going out of my way. We drank, caught up, and talked about everything under the sun.

At some point, it came out that he was now in a serious relationship with his girlfriend.

A year ago, he'd suddenly shown up at my place, troubled and embarrassed, confessing that his first time had ended too quickly. I'd given him advice—tips, really—and now, it seemed, he'd found someone special.

As we drank, he couldn't stop bragging about her. I, having no one at the time, just smiled and listened.

Then I remembered that awkward visit from a year ago—how nervous he'd been—and I couldn't help but chuckle quietly to myself. I wondered if he was doing any better now.

Tired of hearing him gush, I teased him lightly. That's when he started boasting about himself instead.

"Daniel, I'm not the same guy I was back then."

"What do you mean?"

"I've gotten really good."

"Really?"

I smirked.

"No, seriously. Your advice helped, of course, but I've developed some killer techniques—skills, you know?"

"Yeah? You can control your timing now?"

"Oh, absolutely. Sure, sometimes it doesn't go well—she's just that good—but out of ten times, eight or nine last over thirty minutes."

"Over thirty minutes? Seriously? You mean the whole thing, right?"

I chuckled.

"No, Daniel. I mean after I go in. Thirty minutes just from penetration. Add foreplay, and we're hitting an hour."

"Damn. Impressive."

"Right? I told you—I'm not the same guy."

"But doesn't she get tired? Doing it that long?"

"Sometimes she says she's tired, but I'm just that good—she stays completely into it."

"Pfft. I don't buy it. Maybe once or twice, but every time? She'd be exhausted."

"No, seriously! Daniel, I'm not big or anything, but my technique? It's next level."

"Hah. Yeah, you're not exactly big."

"Hey, come on! I'm telling the truth. Ugh, you know what? Should I call my girlfriend and ask her? Huh? Want me to?"

"What? Nah, forget it. Why call her?"

"No, seriously. Since you don't believe me, I should prove it. Show you I'm not the same guy. Besides, it's fine—she knows about you. I've told her a lot."

Before I could stop him, he called her and told her to come to the bar. She was working late, but said she'd come as soon as she finished.

And while we waited, he kept drinking and rambling—detailing every move he used with her.

Guess these are his bedroom secrets.

She didn't show up until past eleven—her overtime ran long. When she finally arrived, I got it immediately: she gave off this quiet, composed vibe.

Not cute in a bubbly way, nor curvy or soft—but tall, slender, with a delicate, elegant face. There was no flashiness, no cheap allure. Just a clean, modest presence. The kind of woman who doesn't stand out, but leaves a soft, lasting glow.

I felt a twinge of jealousy. How the hell did this guy land someone like her?

He immediately started bragging again, sitting her beside him. She blushed and kept nudging him, whispering, "Stop it… you're embarrassing me…"

Watching them, I couldn't help but feel envious. They looked good together.

We kept drinking. She had driven, so she initially refused—but he insisted he'd call a driver to take her home, so she eventually gave in and had a few drinks.

By midnight, he was clearly drunk. Slurring his words, he started repeating his earlier claims about his sexual prowess.

She turned bright red, slapping his shoulder and arm, whispering, "Stop it… why are you like this tonight? Seriously…"

I felt awkward too—so much so that I stood up and excused myself to the bathroom. I lit a cigarette, thinking I'd shift the topic when I returned.

Back at the table, he was giggling at me. She was still hitting his shoulder, muttering, "Stop it. Seriously. Stop."

I realized they were still on that topic. I straightened up, ready to change the subject.

But he looked at me again.

"Daniel, I'm right, right?"

"About what?"

"What I said earlier. About how good I am."

"Yeah, okay. I get it. Let's drop it. I'm sorry. Alright?"

"Now you get it, right? You believe me now?"

"Yeah. I believe you. Okay?"

"Daniel… be honest. You don't really believe me, do you?"

"What? Why wouldn't I?"

"No, come on. You say you do, but you don't. You think I'm not good because I'm not big. Right? You are a bit bigger than me, I know. Remember? This big?"

He used his hands to show the size of my cock.

At first, she'd been trying to stop him, but now she looked at his face—his tone, his drunkenness—and seemed to realize something was off.

She stared at him, then said firmly, "You're drunk. Let's go. Now."

"Daniel, it's not just about size, right? That's why you look down on me. Isn't it? Being bigger doesn't mean everything. Right? Size and stamina aren't related. Right?"

"Look, I'm not looking down on you. You're drunk. Let's go home."

"Nah, I'm fine. Just one more—"

"Let's go. I'm tired. I need to sleep."

"Yeah, let's go."

"No, wait—just a sec—"

"Come on, let's go. Even if you're not drunk, I am."

"Wait… just… I need to go to the bathroom. You can't leave without me. Okay? Don't leave while I'm gone."

"Fine. I won't."

"You want to come with?"

"No, it's fine. Just gotta pee."

He staggered off to the bathroom. The moment he left, she and I sat in awkward silence.

"He doesn't usually drink this much…"

"No… he's acting strange tonight."

More silence. I drifted into thought.

He's been holding onto this for a year. I should've been more careful with my words. Even as a joke.

A year ago, when he came to me, I'd joked, "You're just too small. No matter how hard you try, it won't last. Time and size go hand in hand."

I'd meant it as a tease. But clearly, it had cut deep.

I really need to watch what I say—even in jest.

We sat there, tense and quiet, until he finally returned. He looked like he'd thrown up.

She stood immediately. "Let's go." He nodded, dazed.

We paid and stepped outside. He was leaning heavily against the wall, half-supported by her.

She said his place was nearby, but seeing how he could barely stand, I knew she couldn't get him home alone.

I practically carried him, following her directions to his apartment.

It wasn't far. I dropped him off, turned to leave.

She insisted she'd be fine, but it was nearly one in the morning. Sending her off alone in a driver's car didn't feel right.

"I'm heading that way anyway. I'll come with you. I can grab a taxi from your place—cheaper than going back downtown."

She nodded once.

We sat side by side in the backseat. No words. I leaned my head back, closed my eyes.

Memories of his boasting came back—how he claimed to last, how he praised her body—and slowly, my mind wandered.

I imagined them together. Then, strangely, he faded from the image.

Only her remained—naked, faint, glowing.

What would this quiet girl look like naked? What kind of sounds would she make? And how would her pussy feel?

With my eyes closed, I pictured her beside me—stripped bare, lying beneath me, arms and legs wrapped around me, moaning softly in that same gentle voice.

I got hard instantly.

It had been a long time since a fantasy alone made my whole body tingle like that.

I indulged in the fantasy—her body, her breath, her heat—until suddenly, I snapped back.

What the hell am I thinking?

Just then, the car entered the underground parking of her officetel.

B4. She paid the driver, and we stepped out toward the elevator.

At the elevator, she offered to show me where to catch a taxi.

"I'll just go down to the first floor. You go up. Don't wait."

"No, I'll tell you where—"

I looked into her eyes, listening.

Then, without realizing it, I was staring at her lips.

Her voice trailed off. I blinked, looked up.

Our eyes met.

We both froze—flustered, speechless.

The elevator dinged.

We stepped in, silent.

I pressed 1. She pressed 16.

We stood side by side. She watched the floor numbers change: B4, B3, B2, B1.

As the elevator reached the first floor, she turned to me, about to say goodbye—

And I turned, pressed my lips to hers, and shoved her into the corner.

She gasped, tried to turn her head, pushed at my chest—but I pinned her against the wall with my body, grabbed her face with both hands, pressed her cheeks, and forced my tongue into her mouth.

People on the first floor gasped. "Oh my, what a surprise!" They whispered, then stepped onto the elevator.

The doors closed. The elevator began to rise.

She stood stiff, rigid, every muscle tense.

I heard giggles from the others. They must've found it funny—some guy forcing a kiss on a woman who stood frozen.

Then, slowly, her body relaxed.

Her hands, still on my chest, slid down and wrapped slightly around my waist.

Her lips parted.

She let my tongue in.

And just like that, we were locked in a deep, hungry kiss—arms wrapped tight, mouths devouring each other.

The giggles faded. Only soft murmurs—"Oh my… oh my…"—then silence.

The elevator reached 16, but we didn't move.

It began descending again.

Someone got on, then off.

Only then did I pull my mouth from hers.

She kept her head down, silent.

The elevator stopped at 10.

I pressed 16 again and pulled her close—so close our bodies were fully pressed together.

My cock, already rock-hard, pressed against her lower stomach.

I ran my hands over her hips, her waist.

When the elevator reached 16, I kept my arm around her as we stepped out.

She moved to the side, pressed the button, and opened the door.

The moment we stepped inside, I turned her and kissed her again.

I caressed her hips, her back, then slid my hand under her blouse, pushing it up, and gripped her breast.

My hand moved down, under her skirt, over her ass, feeling her through her panties.

She pulled me tighter.

I slipped my hand into her panties, then yanked them down to her thighs.

I quickly unbuckled my belt, unbuttoned my pants, and pulled both my pants and boxers down.

I tried to push my cock between her legs, but her panties were still caught at her thighs—her legs couldn't spread.

I dropped to my knees, pulled her panties down to her knees.

She lifted one leg, stepping out completely.

I pressed her against the wall, shoved her skirt up to her waist, lifted one of her legs around my waist, and guided my cock to her entrance.

I slid one hand under her raised thigh, aimed my cock at her slit, and thrust in.

"Hah!"

She cried out sharply, twisting her hips.

I stayed standing, driving into her fast and hard. She gasped—"Hah! Hah!"—over and over.

Wanting to go deeper, I lowered her leg, turned her around.

She braced herself against the kitchen counter, ass pushed back.

I grabbed her hips, pulled her open, and slammed my cock deep inside.

Her pussy clenched.

"Wait… wait… don't go so deep…" she panted.

I ignored her. Pushed deeper.

Soon, she stopped speaking.

Only moans remained—soft, breathy, barely there.

But as I gripped her hips tighter and pounded into her harder and faster, her moans grew louder, higher, quicker.

I thrust faster—losing control.

And then, I came—hard—deep inside her.

I held her hips, emptied myself completely, my cock pulsing as it flooded her.

With each hot burst, she let out a moan—soft, trembling, mixed with a sigh—like she couldn't tell if she was in pain or pleasure.

And I didn't pull out. Not yet.

I wasn't done.