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Hello, I’m Marjore, and I’ll tell you how my neighbor, Caio, showed me what feels good. My mom moved us to Boston from Brazil when I was 10—she was young when she had me, and after my dad died, she sold our house to study medicine here. Caio, 50, lived next door—a handsome ex-doctor from a wealthy American family. He became a friend over the years. As Mom got busy with med school and later residency, I saw her less—she was chasing dreams she’d paused for me. I never blamed her; Caio filled the gap.
\nI loved him from the first time I saw him—gratitude and tenderness mixed with something deeper. When he was near, my legs shook, a shiver ran through me, his cologne made my body tense, ready to melt at his touch. I felt delicious, confusing things around him—almost always. I was quiet, into music and chess, not friends my age. Caio taught me piano; we’d read, play, and hang out. He urged me to go out, offered to drive me, but I preferred home—luckily, so did he. We ran mornings and spent summers in his Paris house, my favorite place.
\nTwo years ago, Mom divorced—she’d been with a coworker for years. I feared losing Caio too, but she let me stay close to him while she moved out with her new guy. I was emancipated; Caio and I moved to Paris. Mom wrote sometimes, but we didn’t talk. At 16, hormones raging, I lived with this gorgeous man next door. I knew I loved him, craving the desire I’d always seen in his eyes—tender yet burning, held back with effort.
\nIn Paris, autumn, we were in love, hesitant but desperate. Caio, retired from medicine, wrote articles and studied again, fit at 50 with light brown hair, hints of gray, dark eyes, and lips I fantasized about. We dined out nightly—wine, talks, tension building. One night, he brought a bland French woman, calling her his girlfriend. After 4 or 5 glasses of wine—I think he had 6—I stormed out, jealous of her throwing herself at him. He chased me, leaving her behind.
\nCrying in the street, his strong, hairy arm caught my waist as I nearly tripped. Sobered by the scare, I melted in his arms, sobbing. He wiped my tears with his big hand, soothing me, saying he needed companionship—Mom didn’t work out. Drunk and horny, I shoved him against a wall, screaming I was crazy for him, always had been, that I touched myself thinking of him daily, couldn’t stand being so close without touching. He pulled me in, kissed me like I’d never dreamed—hands roaming, squeezing my ass, pressing my pussy against his hard cock. We almost made love there but stopped, got to the car. His “girlfriend” waited, fuming—he ended it, saying I was the only woman he’d ever loved.
\nSilent ride home. In the garage, he pinned me again, kissing harder. I tore off his shirt; he unzipped my dress, carried me to his room, threw me on the bed, licked me everywhere—better than my fantasies. He pulled off my panties, sucked my clit, nibbling gently—orgasms piled up. He kissed up to my breasts, lay back, grabbed a candy. I surprised him, sucking his cock. He groaned loud, begging me to keep going. New to it, my mouth knew what to do—stroking his thick length, tasting something odd but too turned on to stop. He asked me to sit on his face; I went wild, cumming again. I straddled him, rubbing my clit on his tip—he was crazed, but said he couldn’t take my virginity. Desperate, I kissed his neck, bit his ear, smelling him, his stubble driving me insane. I whispered, “Then I’ll fuck you,” and sank onto him—no pain, just heat. He guided me slow, then I rode him, cumming as he squeezed my breast and teased my ass—best feeling ever. Soon, his warm cum filled me; we bathed, exhausted, slept till afternoon, made love again. He confessed he’d always loved me but feared crossing lines—tried dating to forget me, hadn’t had sex in 4 years. Now we’re a couple, married 3 years later, still fucking like crazy.
" }Hello, I’m Marjore, and I’ll tell you how my neighbor, Caio, showed me what feels good. My mom moved us to Boston from Brazil when I was 10—she was young when she had me, and after my dad died, she sold our house to study medicine here. Caio, 50, lived next door—a handsome ex-doctor from a wealthy American family. He became a friend over the years. As Mom got busy with med school and later residency, I saw her less—she was chasing dreams she’d paused for me. I never blamed her; Caio filled the gap.
I loved him from the first time I saw him—gratitude and tenderness mixed with something deeper. When he was near, my legs shook, a shiver ran through me, his cologne made my body tense, ready to melt at his touch. I felt delicious, confusing things around him—almost always. I was quiet, into music and chess, not friends my age. Caio taught me piano; we’d read, play, and hang out. He urged me to go out, offered to drive me, but I preferred home—luckily, so did he. We ran mornings and spent summers in his Paris house, my favorite place.
Two years ago, Mom divorced—she’d been with a coworker for years. I feared losing Caio too, but she let me stay close to him while she moved out with her new guy. I was emancipated; Caio and I moved to Paris. Mom wrote sometimes, but we didn’t talk. At 16, hormones raging, I lived with this gorgeous man next door. I knew I loved him, craving the desire I’d always seen in his eyes—tender yet burning, held back with effort.
In Paris, autumn, we were in love, hesitant but desperate. Caio, retired from medicine, wrote articles and studied again, fit at 50 with light brown hair, hints of gray, dark eyes, and lips I fantasized about. We dined out nightly—wine, talks, tension building. One night, he brought a bland French woman, calling her his girlfriend. After 4 or 5 glasses of wine—I think he had 6—I stormed out, jealous of her throwing herself at him. He chased me, leaving her behind.
Crying in the street, his strong, hairy arm caught my waist as I nearly tripped. Sobered by the scare, I melted in his arms, sobbing. He wiped my tears with his big hand, soothing me, saying he needed companionship—Mom didn’t work out. Drunk and horny, I shoved him against a wall, screaming I was crazy for him, always had been, that I touched myself thinking of him daily, couldn’t stand being so close without touching. He pulled me in, kissed me like I’d never dreamed—hands roaming, squeezing my ass, pressing my pussy against his hard cock. We almost made love there but stopped, got to the car. His “girlfriend” waited, fuming—he ended it, saying I was the only woman he’d ever loved.
Silent ride home. In the garage, he pinned me again, kissing harder. I tore off his shirt; he unzipped my dress, carried me to his room, threw me on the bed, licked me everywhere—better than my fantasies. He pulled off my panties, sucked my clit, nibbling gently—orgasms piled up. He kissed up to my breasts, lay back, grabbed a candy. I surprised him, sucking his cock. He groaned loud, begging me to keep going. New to it, my mouth knew what to do—stroking his thick length, tasting something odd but too turned on to stop. He asked me to sit on his face; I went wild, cumming again. I straddled him, rubbing my clit on his tip—he was crazed, but said he couldn’t take my virginity. Desperate, I kissed his neck, bit his ear, smelling him, his stubble driving me insane. I whispered, “Then I’ll fuck you,” and sank onto him—no pain, just heat. He guided me slow, then I rode him, cumming as he squeezed my breast and teased my ass—best feeling ever. Soon, his warm cum filled me; we bathed, exhausted, slept till afternoon, made love again. He confessed he’d always loved me but feared crossing lines—tried dating to forget me, hadn’t had sex in 4 years. Now we’re a couple, married 3 years later, still fucking like crazy.