Chapter 4 — My First Intimate Night with My Wife - 1 (4)

The year our daughter turned five, we began to wonder whether we should have a second child.

Of course, just watching our little girl's playful antics brought us immense joy. We often said—half-joking, half-serious—that we wouldn't trade her for ten sons. She was more than enough.

But my parents didn't seem to feel the same.

I knew the saying—don't discriminate between sons and daughters—but deep down, I could sense their quiet longing for a grandson. That unspoken desire began to weigh on us, nudging us toward thoughts of another child.

I understood their hopes, but for us, the happiness we found in our daughter was complete. We had no plans for more children.

Besides, my wife had endured a difficult birth with our first. The memory of that pain lingered, and the idea of going through it again filled her with silent fear.

Personally, I wrestled with the decision. But more than that, I couldn't ignore how our marriage—our intimacy—had changed.

After our daughter was born, we hadn't had sex for nearly two months. Or perhaps I had unconsciously avoided it.

In my mind, my wife's postpartum belly was sacred, beautiful—a symbol of motherhood. But in truth, when I looked at her body, all I saw was the stretch, the softness, the change. I felt guilty for that, but my body betrayed my thoughts.

Slowly, that guilt and distance drove me away from her in bed. Without realizing it, I began to notice other women—the pretty young colleague at work, the barista at the café we frequented after work, the stylish women passing by on the street.

I buried those thoughts, ashamed. I loved my wife. I didn't want to hurt her.

But after five years, I could no longer deny it: the desire for someone else had taken root inside me.

It was buried beneath layers of guilt, yes—but it was there.

And of course, the women I fantasized about were young, untouched, full of life.

Yet the first time I acted on that desire, it wasn't with any of them.

It was with someone entirely unexpected.

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Our daughter was five now. She understood our words, mimicked our actions, and began to express her will clearly.

We accepted all of this as natural.

The problem was her fear of sleeping alone.

More than any other child, she was terrified of being by herself at night.

We lived in a three-bedroom apartment and had lovingly prepared one room just for her. But she refused to sleep in it.

"It's too scary," she'd say.

So she always ended up in our bed.

At first, we didn't mind. But as days passed, our growing sexual desire made her presence a burden.

Any parent with a young child knows the frustration: the desperate need for intimacy, only to have your child slip into your room just as you begin—or worse, burst in while you're in the middle of it.

Or worse still, waking up naked and spent, only to hear the door creak open as your child runs in and crawls between you, completely unaware.

We knew that fear all too well.

We longed for each other, but with our daughter nestled between us every night, opportunities were rare.

One evening, we thought she had finally fallen asleep.

Carefully, I shifted her to one side of the bed and lay down beside my wife, sliding behind her.

I began to gently caress her breasts.

"Ah… honey. The baby."

"I know. She's asleep. Let's just do it once. Quickly."

"But still…"

At that point, resistance was nearly gone.

I slowly lifted her shirt, unhooked her bra from behind.

After childbirth, her breasts had grown fuller, and even now, five years later, they were larger than before. I liked it. I liked it more than I admitted.

I'd even seen her doing exercises—swinging her arms, stretching—trying to make them bigger.

I cupped her breasts from behind, squeezing gently.

I pressed her nipples, then rolled them between my fingers.

They hardened quickly, as they always did. And when her nipples rose, I knew her core was already wet.

I slid my hand down her stomach, slipping it beneath the waistband of her shorts.

She pretended to resist, but her hips pressed back toward me, helping my hand slip inside.

I pulled her panties aside and slowly inserted my middle finger, pressing deep—past her folds, all the way to her tight back entrance.

"Ah."

There it was—the soft moan I'd been waiting for.

I withdrew, then slowly brought my index finger to her opening.

Just as I expected, her petals were slick with desire.

But I knew she didn't like it when I pushed deep inside her. She never had.

So instead, I circled her folds, smearing her wetness around, teasing the sensitive skin.

"Ah… honey. Let's just do it now."

"Wait a little more."

"No… I can't. I want it now."

"Alright."

I began pulling down her shorts from behind.

She lifted her hips to help me, eager.

I quickly stripped off my own pants and underwear.

My cock was already hard, throbbing, pointing straight up.

I pressed it gently against the cleft of her ass, letting her feel the heat.

"Mmm…………"

She let out a soft whimper, unable to resist.

From behind, I searched for her entrance.

Even after five years, this was always the hardest part—finding her hole from behind.

I guided myself with my right hand, rubbing the tip against her wet folds, sliding back and forth, searching.

Her juices and mine mixed, soaking her inner lips.

And then, suddenly, without realizing it, the head of my cock slipped in—like falling into warm water.

"Ah… honey,"

"Mmm……"

I stayed still for a moment, just barely inside, and reached around to fondle her breasts.

She was desperate, pushing her hips back, trying to take me deeper.

But I knew better. If I held back just a little, the pleasure later would be greater.

So when she pushed back, I pulled back slightly too, keeping only the tip caught inside.

"Ah… honey. Please, faster."

"…"

"Ah……"

"What should I do to you?"

It's strange—men want to feel strong. We want our wives, our lovers, to acknowledge it.

I was no different.

Hearing her say, "Put it deep," or "Do it fast," made the orgasm sharper, more intense.

And so I asked—not because I didn't know, but because I wanted to hear her say it.

"…………"

"Say it. Don't be shy…"

"Mmm… do it fast."

Even after all these years of marriage, she still blushed at those words.

This woman, so passionate in bed, so tight and responsive—yet saying those simple words filled her with unbearable shyness.

And that shyness only turned me on more.

The moment the words left her lips, I lowered my body, lifted her hips from beneath, and thrust forward—burying myself to the root.

"Ah… honey… mmm."

"Uhh…"

That first deep penetration.

I began to move slowly, then faster, increasing the force.

When we lay side by side, I often lifted my body slightly to rub against her inner front wall—a spot that didn't get much stimulation, and one that made her extremely sensitive.

This position had other advantages too—easy access to her breasts, simple reach to her clit.

And most of all, holding her tightly from behind made the intimacy deeper, more emotional.

We were both racing toward the peak.

"Ah… honey, I'm… I'm close… ahh."

"Me too… just a little more…"

"Ah!"

"Uhhhh…"

My body convulsed.

She felt every spasm, her own climax crashing over her in waves.

Even after I came, I kept moving gently, savoring the aftershocks.

And she—still trembling in the grip of her own release—shivered against me, giving herself completely.

When it was over, I reached around, searching for tissues.

But then—

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