As much as I wanted to bend this widow over right now and drive into her until she screamed, that would be a catastrophic mistake.
Her body had forgotten how to want, forgotten how to respond.
If ever it knows.
The signs were everywhere once I knew what to look for. The way she flinched at unexpected touches, like her body had forgotten that contact could be anything other than functional. How she held herself so rigidly, as if afraid to take up space or show vulnerability. Even the way she breathed—shallow, controlled, like she was rationing even that basic pleasure.
Her skin had that hypersensitive quality of someone who'd been touch-starved for too long. Every brush of my fingers made her shiver, every gentle caress drew soft gasps she tried to muffle behind pressed lips.
I needed to teach it again, slowly.
"You're so tense," I murmured against her ear, letting my breath warm the sensitive skin there. My hands moved to her shoulders, kneading the knots of stress and worry I found there. "When's the last time someone took care of you?"
She tried to answer, but I chose that moment to trail my lips down the curve of her neck, and the words dissolved into a shaky exhale.
"I... I don't..." she started, then stopped when I found that spot that made her knees buckle slightly.
"Don't think," I said, voice low and hypnotic. "Just feel. Let me handle everything."
My mouth worked its way across her collarbone while my hands mapped the territory of her neglected body. Her chest rose and fell more rapidly now, nipples staying hard despite my gentle touches. When I finally took one in my mouth, she made a sound like she'd been struck.
"Oh! That's... I can't..." Her hands flew to my hair, not to push me away but like she needed something to anchor herself to.
That must be a foreign concept to her. For what I call the old ways, the woman's duty was to care for the man, satisfy all his needs. not the other way around.
I suckled her slowly, tongue rolling over the tip until she whimpered, her thighs drawing inward like she was trying to trap the sensation in her gut. I didn't rush.
I let her feel what it was like to receive. No expectations. Just pleasure poured into her like wine down a dry throat. Her breathing turned ragged. She was clinging to my hair now, like it grounded her, a drowning woman grabbing driftwood.
I let go of her breast with a slow pull, lips dragging just enough to make her shiver. Then I kissed my way up—sternum, throat, the line beneath her jaw where the pulse beat fast. I wanted her to feel the path I took, every inch acknowledged. By the time I reached her lips, her breathing had gone quiet.
When I finally kissed her, I didn't take my time. I stole it. Let her feel what it was like to be wanted without permission.
The reaction was fascinating. Kissing seemed to short-circuit something in her brain entirely—like her body's hunger for its pleasure, but her mind couldn't process it. When I deepened our kisses, dominating her mouth with my tongue, she would go completely pliant for several seconds before stiffening again in confusion.
She kissed like a woman who'd never been taught how—like someone who'd skipped that part of life entirely. Her lips pressed in the wrong rhythm, mouth tense, chin tilted stiff like she was bracing for correction. And I gave it to her.
I took control without apology—tilted her head, bit down gently on her bottom lip until she gasped, and then slid my tongue past her teeth in one slow, claiming stroke. She froze, hands twitching like she didn't know whether to pull me closer or cover her face in shame.
Her breath hitched. I felt it in her chest. Her knees nearly buckled.
I didn't let up. I kissed her like I was trying to teach her what her mouth was for. Deep, slow, controlling. I sucked on her tongue just enough to make her moan, then pushed deeper until she gave it up entirely. She was shaking now—not from fear, but from being so fucking far out of her depth.
A grown woman. A widow. Twice married. And she kissed like a girl caught sneaking candy from a shrine.
"It's alright," I breathed between kisses, guiding her slowly toward the futon. "You don't have to do anything. Just let me..."
I sealed my mouth over hers again, swallowing her protests, and felt her resistance melt another degree. Her legs trembled as I backed her toward the sleeping area, my hands never stopping their exploration.
Her stomach was soft under my palms, no longer the taut surface of youth but with a maternal softness that made me growl. When I traced patterns around her navel, she sucked in sharply.
"Please, I... this is too much," she whispered, but her body said otherwise. Her nipples were dark and hard and more swollen now, her breathing ragged.
"Shh," I soothed, lowering her gently onto the futon. "I've got you. You can let go."
I followed her down, my mouth finding her pulse point again. The taste of her skin was addictive. When I bit gently at the junction of her neck and shoulder, she arched beneath me with a cry she quickly muffled.
"Don't hold back," I murmured, hands skimming down her sides to the flare of her hips. "I want to hear you."
Her thighs were pressed tightly together, trying to hold dear to some of her decency, but they trembled when I traced patterns along the sensitive inner skin, coming close to but never quite touching her womanhood.
I could smell her arousal now, sweet and musky.
"I don't understand what's happening to me," she whispered, voice breaking slightly.
I lifted my head to look at her, flushed and disheveled, dark hair spread across the pillow, eyes wide and confused with want.
I braced one arm above her head for support, fingers threading through her dark hair. I looked at her uncertain eyes and decided to test her readiness. I leaned down.
When my lips approached hers, she instinctively puckered—three soft pecks that she returned with increasing confidence, her mouth chasing mine when I pulled back slightly.
The smile that spread across my face was pure satisfaction. I didn't need to check between her legs to know she was soaked. The way her breathing had changed, how her body moved beneath mine—everything told me she was ready.
My approach was working perfectly.
The Neglected Woman Whisperer, I thought with dark amusement. That's what they should call me.
The slow buildup, the reassuring words, the patient touches—it was what you'd use with a nervous virgin on her first time.
But in many ways, that was exactly what Tsunami was. Her body had forgotten pleasure so completely she might as well have been untouched.
"Thank you, I do get that a lot," I bragged, and the woman had it in her to roll her eyes at me. That's rude. "Mmh. Do you hate it?" I brushed her hair back, letting my fingers drag along her scalp.
She didn't answer at first. Her lips parted, then closed again, like even the thought of saying it out loud was dangerous. Her face flushed deeper, eyes flicking away.
"...No," she whispered finally, so soft I felt it more than heard it. Then, quieter: "I just... didn't think I could feel like this."
That last line came out broken, ashamed. Not from lack of want, but from guilt at wanting at all.
My hand traced down to cup her breast, thumb circling the peaked nipple until she arched into the touch. Then lower, fingers mapping the delicate ridge of each rib. Too prominent—if she were mine, I'd make sure she ate properly. Fill out those sharp angles with the softness she deserved.
Her stomach fluttered under my palm as I traced patterns around her navel, watching her face for every reaction. The anticipation was killing me, my cock straining against my pants, but this slow torture was worth it to see her unravel.
When my fingers finally moved toward the dark patch of hair between her thighs, her hand shot out, wrapping around my wrist to stop the advance.
We both froze, looking at each other.
"Are you..." she started, then stopped, biting her lip. "You're so young. Are you certain you want this? With someone like me? I'm not... I'm older, I have a son, I've been married twice..." Her voice grew smaller with each word. "Surely there are prettier girls, younger women who would be better suited for someone like you."
Getting cold feet?
"Yes," I said simply, meeting her gaze. "There are."
The honesty seemed to surprise her more than comfort would have. Her dark eyes widened slightly, then lowered.
"I don't understand you at all," she whispered, voice barely audible. "This cursed, worn-out body..." she sighed. "If you've truly made up your mind, then I only ask that you don't come to regret this foolishness."
Her grip on my wrist loosened, falling away entirely.
I rested my palm flat on the soft skin between her navel and the dark triangle of hair below, caressing the tender flesh with deliberate slowness.
"I've never regretted anything I've wanted," I said with quiet confidence. "And now, I want you."
She turned her face away, but I caught the slight tremor in her lower lip. "If... if this old woman is truly what you desire, even for just tonight, then..."
Her voice trailed off, heavy with the assumption that this would be our only encounter. The insecurity in those words made something tighten in my chest, but I pushed it aside to focus on her body beneath my hands.
My fingers moved to the coarse hair at the apex of her thighs, threading through it slowly. It was fuller than what younger women kept, darker and thicker, completely natural and roughly trimmed. When I tugged gently, she exhaled through her nose and her hips shifted restlessly.
"So sensitive," I murmured, watching her face as I continued playing with the curls.
Once she grew accustomed to that touch, I let my fingers drift lower, seeking the space between her clenched thighs. She immediately pressed them tighter together, but I could feel the heat radiating from her core, smell the unmistakable scent of her arousal.
"Relax for me," I whispered against her ear.
With patient pressure, I worked my hand between her legs until I could feel the slick folds of her sex. She was soaked indeed.
"Oh," she breathed, eyes flying wide at the intimate contact.
I traced along her outer lips first, marveling at how swollen and hot she was. Her entrance clenched reflexively when I brushed over it, trying to draw me in, even if her thigh clenched more.
"You're so wet," I told her, voice rough with desire. "Your body knows what it wants."
She shot me a sharp glare—more reflex than resistance. The kind of look a woman gives when a man says something too vulgar in front of company, not between her legs. A faint wrinkle at the bridge of her nose, jaw tight, like she couldn't decide if she was more embarrassed by me saying it or by how true it was.
I didn't back off. I held her gaze as my fingers slid lower, slow and deliberate, letting her sit with the shame of it, letting her feel what it meant to be spoken to like that.
Then she looked away.
Not with anger. Not with defiance. Just that quiet, inevitable turn—the kind of submission that comes when pride can't keep up with arousal anymore.
I kissed her immediately. A reward and a reminder. If she couldn't find the words, I'd take her mouth until she forgot them altogether.
As she gradually relaxed under my gentle exploration, I pressed deeper, finally sliding one finger into her tight heat.
She cried out sharply, arching her back off the futon. "Ah! Not so... I can't..."
Her walls gripped like a vice, fluttering around the intrusion. Dammit, she was tight—tighter than any woman I'd been with, virgin or otherwise, years of celibacy had made her body almost virginally small again.
"Breathe," I coached softly, keeping my finger still while she adjusted. "Just breathe and let yourself feel it."
She blinked up at me, dazed and flushed, torn between resistance and shame.
And I just watched her.
Watched a lonely, overworked widow take the first stretch of surrender inside her, confused by how much she needed it, ashamed by how easy it was becoming.
It wouldn't be the last time I'd put something in her she wasn't ready for.
Some women you break.
Others, you unfold—one finger at a time.
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