Chapter 1

Breaking up is never easy, but sometimes it’s inevitable—and absolutely necessary. I wasn’t happy when Brit and I ended things, but I think we were both relieved. Our relationship had run its course. We were still young, and maybe we’d each go find what we were really looking for. In her case, maybe that was a mature guy, someone who wanted to settle down, start a family—then probably divorce a couple of years later.

Me? I was extremely young. Eighteen. Inexperienced, full of wild fantasies—hot, dirty, sweaty sex. I wasn’t looking for someone to boss me around or nag me into monogamy. I just wanted to live my fantasies before I got too old or too tied down.

Sex with Brit had been nice at first. But pretty early on, she let it slip that she wasn’t into trying new things. Not into anything “unusual.” Meanwhile, I was—and still am—a bit of a freak. Always open to exploring. Always curious. I like pushing boundaries and widening already wide horizons.

Brit was my first. We had sex just a few days after my eighteenth birthday. Only one month later I moved in with her. I fell in love, sure—but I quickly realized that she’d never give me a blowjob or a handjob, and she sure as hell would never rim me, finger me, or peg me with a strap-on.

Yep. Even at eighteen, that was the sort of stuff I was into. I’ll explain more later. But back then, I already knew our

compatibility—both romantic and sexual—was off. And when she started complaining that I took “too long” to climax, even when I was only two minutes in? Yeah. That hit hard.

She’d say things like:

“Are you done yet?”

That one sentence shattered my confidence. Four simple words that made me feel inadequate, incompetent ... impotent.

Brit was ten years older than me. Already been married. Already divorced. Her ex-husband had been emotionally abusive and cheated on her with one of her best friends. Looking back, I realize I was the rebound. And if I’m being honest, she was too young for me. Because the truth is ... I like older women. And older men. Always have. Always will.

My obsession with MILFs and FILFs probably comes from growing up without affection. Even as a kid, I had crushes on my teachers—both male and female. And that’s how I met Brit. She was my English teacher my last year of high school.

I admit it—I’m a little messed up. But Brit? She was messed up too—in a bitter, angry way. She needed someone older, someone just as jaded. Someone who matched her energy. Preferably a bitter, prematurely ejaculating cynic.

Okay, I’m being mean now. The truth is: Brit was a good woman. Just not the right one for me.

So why was I with her? Easy. She was crazy. And hot. And crazy hot drama? That’s the best kind. You know what I mean? Some of you definitely know what I mean.

Close your eyes. Picture the hottest Nordic blonde you can imagine. Did you do it? Good. Now, Brit is that girl’s much hotter older sister.

The night we broke up, I was fingering her while whispering one of my impromptu erotic bedtime stories into her ear. She loved those. Always creamed all over my fingers when I told them. Most of the stories involved a big black guy with a huge dick, and a hot blonde with big tits fucking her in a threesome.

Sometimes it was a full-blown orgy—sweaty, rough, and raw. But even in my own fantasies, Brit never let me participate. I was just there, watching, while she got railed.

“You’re such a good storyteller,” she used to say, breathless and soaked. “I can feel that big black dick fucking me. Please, make him fuck me harder...”

That night, I held her tight, whispering about how this godlike black stud was pounding her pussy. One arm wrapped around her, my fingers working her hard, my thumb on her clit. I even grabbed a big black rubber dildo from the bedside table and slapped her cheek gently before sliding it into her.

She moaned and writhed, lost in the scene I painted with words and touch.

And then she said something new:

“Is one of them Ellie?”

That caught me off guard. It was the first time she’d brought a real person into our stories. Ellie—her best friend. Exotic. Devastatingly hot. Of course she deserved a place in our fantasies.

“Yes,” I whispered. “She’s sucking your nipple right now. Do you like that?”

“Oh, fuck yes...”

Brit came hard.

Afterward, as she caught her breath, she surprised me. She said she wouldn’t mind trying it for real—being with a black guy and another girl, with me watching.

Turned on, I said I’d love that. But then I added that I also wanted to join in—with the guy. That I wanted to touch his dick, maybe even get fucked by him right in front of her.

She exploded.

“You’re kidding, right?”

“Nope.”

“You like dicks?”

“Yep.”

“Not funny.”

“I’m serious.”

She lost it. Called me names. Flung the dildo at me—hard. Told me it was over.

Looking back, I don’t blame her. I probably should’ve had the talk earlier. You know, the whole “sometimes a bird wants to do it with a bird instead of a bee” kind of thing. Not that that makes any sense. It’s hard enough explaining sex to a child, let alone to a furious woman wielding a dildo like a weapon.