Sometimes All We Are Left With Is The Memory

I have to admit that sometimes I relive the day I found out that being a woman meant a man made you one. I was 35, it was between Thanksgiving and Christmas. I was not a virgin, but I wasn't that kind of woman. I got home late, after dark. I parked and walked to my apartment on the second floor. I pushed the door shut it behind me, took off my shoes, put my purse down and turned around.

The man was standing there. He pointed at my blouse, then "Quiteselo". I took my blouse off, and when he pointed at my skirt I took that off to. He told me to sit on the couch and take off my panties. I leaned back and opened my legs and waited. Nothing happened, I opened my eyes and he was standing there. "A la cama". So I walked to the bed, laid back, opened my legs, and he put his head between my legs. After a few moment she stood up, took his shirt off and lowered his pants and I was his for the next few minutes.

He said "gracias" and left. I never saw him again, but I like to remember.