Chapter 1 — The Woman Who Hit My Car, I Hit Her Backside

I was on a business trip when suddenly, from behind my car, a loud thud snapped my head forward and then violently back. I touched my neck and glanced in the rearview mirror—sure enough, I'd been rear-ended. At least it happened while we were stopped at a light, and the driver behind me had braked slightly before impact. I didn't feel any serious injury, just a jolt to my spine.

Through the mirror, I saw a woman scrambling out of a red car behind me. I pulled over to the shoulder and got out. The damage was minor—just a scratch on the bumper.

“Oh my, I'm so sorry. I was distracted for a moment.”

She looked about thirty, flustered, her cheeks flushed as she bowed repeatedly. I'd never been in a car accident before, so I was disoriented, but relieved there was no real harm.

“It's fine. My neck's a little sore, but otherwise I'm okay. The car's not damaged badly either. You can go.”

“But still…”

She hesitated, biting her lip, clearly troubled.

“Could I have your business card? I'll give you my number too. After work, I'd like to check if you're feeling any pain, maybe make sure you don't need to go to the hospital…”

Eventually, we met at a coffee shop around 6 p.m. She wore a beige business suit—professional, polished, the kind of woman who belonged in a corporate office. Her face was plain, unassuming.

“Maybe you should go to the hospital and file an insurance claim? I'd feel better that way. It's my first time causing an accident—I don't really know what to do…”

“I'm fine, and the car's barely scratched. Honestly, I don't care much about the car. It's just a machine. If I obsess over every little thing, I'd go crazy driving. As long as it runs, I'm good. It'll turn into a piece of junk eventually anyway… haha.”

“But still…”

She was clearly uneasy, watching me like I might pull some trick later. Maybe she thought I was faking the injury, planning to sue. Despite my kindness, she saw me as a potential fraud.

I almost considered going to the hospital just to be safe, but looking at her innocent expression, I decided against it. There was no point. A healthy man getting checked for nothing would only register a claim and raise her insurance premium.

“I'm not a bad person. I'm just saying it's not a big deal. But if it'll ease your mind, I can write you a letter stating I won't hold you responsible.”

“No, no, that's not necessary.”

“How about dinner? I'm on a trip, don't even know where to eat.”

And just like that, our night began.

Over dinner, we talked a lot. She seemed to understand who I was—or at least, she stopped looking at me like I was dangerous.

I ordered alcohol with the meal. To my surprise, she followed suit. She drank well, more than I expected. What struck me was how conservative she seemed for her age—like someone raised to be cautious, restrained.

As the alcohol warmed us, our conversation grew easier. I started asking about her. She had asked about me first, so it felt natural.

She was 33. I was 37. She'd married through an arranged match, but the marriage hadn't worked out. She'd divorced recently.

Most divorced women I knew trashed their ex-husbands—cheaters, abusers, monsters. But she said nothing bad about him. Only that she'd felt inadequate, and they'd mutually agreed to part ways.

Listening to her, I felt a pang of sympathy. In return, I shared my own life story—from childhood to marriage. Our drinking session turned into something deeper: an exchange of lives, vulnerabilities, quiet regrets.

“I owe you dinner. Let me buy you a drink.”

When I insisted I couldn't stand owing anyone, she followed me to a bar as if leaving would be rude.

“Can I call you big brother?”

“Of course! I've always wished I had a younger sister…”

We grew closer, bottle by bottle.

By 11 p.m., we stepped outside. The air was crisp, the cool wind clearing some of the alcohol haze.

“Want to sing a song or two until we sober up?”

She hesitated. We'd connected quickly, called each other big brother, but I could see the conflict in her—her conservative values warring with sudden attraction.

I took her hand, gently, and led her into a karaoke room.

We started with upbeat songs, laughing at our terrible singing. But neither of us was good, so we drifted into soft ballads.

The mood shifted. Watching her from behind as she sang quietly, I felt a deep pull—feminine, tender, desirable. Drunk and bold, I stepped behind her and wrapped my arms around her waist.

She flinched slightly at my touch—but didn't pull away. Just kept singing.

I breathed in the scent of her hair. Her voice, close to my ear, was vivid, intoxicating. My arms tightened around her shoulders, and my hardening cock pressed against her ass. I shifted awkwardly, trying to hide it, but the bulge in my pants was unmistakable.

When one song ended, she started another—still letting me hold her. If she'd hated it, she would've stopped after the first.

Gathering courage, I slid my hands down from her shoulders to her sides, then gently around her waist. Her skin was warm. Her stomach was smooth, no extra fat.

She placed one hand over mine. I felt sweat on her palm.

Nervous?

My chest pressed fully against her back. My cock, fully erect, now rested firmly between her ass cheeks. I tested her—lightly poking her ass with my hard shaft. She didn't react.

I pushed slightly, letting the tip slip between her cheeks. Still, she sang on.

I couldn't hold back. After this much, what was the point of stopping? I braced for a slap, then moved the mic aside, turned her face toward me, and kissed her.

Surprisingly, she didn't resist. Her lips parted, and her tongue slid into my mouth—soft, eager, hungry. It was a deep, wet kiss, her tongue swirling inside me.

I sucked her lips hard, then pushed my tongue in, exploring the roof of her mouth, her teeth, the underside of her tongue. She moaned into me, breathless.

“Ah… mm…”

I finally broke the kiss, pulling her close, grinding my hard cock against her. One hand grabbed her breast. It was fuller than I expected—plump, firm, more generous than her slim frame suggested.

I massaged it gently through her clothes. Then I unbuttoned two buttons. Her bra peeked through, and the pale curve of her breast spilled out.

I slipped a hand under her bra. Her skin was warm. Her nipple pressed into my palm—perfectly round, sensitive. The sensation was dizzying.

“Ah…”

While kissing her neck, I breathed into her ear, nibbled her lobe. The scent of her skin—fresh, alive—filled my nose.

With my right hand, I lifted her skirt. She grabbed my wrist, stopping me. I froze, waiting.

Then, slowly, she let go.

I pushed higher. Felt her panties. Soaked.

I slipped a finger under the fabric, along the side. Wetness coated my skin. I rubbed gently over the fabric, then pushed my middle finger inside. It slid in easily—slick, warm.

I didn't rush. I smeared her juices over her outer lips, stroking slowly. Her breathing grew heavier.

Then I pushed my finger deeper, into her folds. Her inner flesh was soft, complex. I stirred gently. Felt ridges, folds—tight, untouched. I'd heard experienced women had smoother walls, but hers felt no different. Like a virgin's.

The music played on. Her moans were swallowed by the melody.

I couldn't wait. I pulled my hand out and dropped to my knees behind her, hands on her thighs.

My lips and tongue traced her calves, moving upward. I kissed her knees, then her inner thighs. She gripped the table, unable to stand.

I slid one hand under her panties, cupping her bare ass, the other circling the front, teasing her clit. My mouth moved higher, closer to her heat.

“Ah… no, not there… I haven't even washed…”

I ignored her, pulling her panties down. Her legs trembled. I dropped to my knees, staring at her ass for a moment before pressing my lips to it.

I bit her softly, then licked. I used both hands to spread her cheeks, tongue tracing the curve of her ass.

“No… don't do that…”

She tensed, but her moans rose. More wetness dripped.

I turned her around, gripped her ass with both hands, and buried my face between her legs.

The coarse hair brushed my lips. I didn't care. I licked her clit—hard, fast—like sucking an ice cream cone.

“Hah!”

She winced, but kept moaning. Her body was sensitive—she clearly enjoyed sex, but hadn't had much of it. She'd told me earlier she'd only had sex about ten times with her ex-husband. Ten times? Less than most virgins have before marriage these days. For all she was divorced, her experience was no different from a sheltered girl.

I lowered my head. Her red lips glistened. I pressed my tongue to her center, licking wide, pressing my nose against her. Her juices mixed with my saliva, glistening in the dim light. I curled my tongue, poking her entrance. I couldn't go deep, but each thrust made her jerk her hips and moan.

“Mmm… yes… spread wider…”

She spread her legs further, grabbing my head, grinding her pussy against my mouth. I could barely breathe, but I kept licking, thrusting my tongue inside.

“big brother… hah… hah… hah…”

She was lost in it—only moans, no words.

I stood, pulled my pants down. My cock stood straight, dripping at the tip.

I took her hand and placed it on my shaft.

She knelt, both hands cradling my cock. She stared at it, fascinated. She squeezed gently, then made a ring with her fingers and started stroking. One hand reached down, carefully cupping my balls.

Where had she learned this? Had her ex taught her?

“big brother… I've never done this much… I watched a few pornos with my ex-husband… but he never did things like this. He couldn't get hard easily. He'd watch porn on his phone, get excited, then just shove it in me and pound away. This is the first time I've seen a man's cock like this… up close… big brother…”