Young Asian MILF is coerced by son’s arrogant white friend

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“We better hurry up,” he said. “The 4×4 begins in a few minutes.”

With Johan’s cum sloshing around in my stomach, I made it back just in time to send Danny off for the 4×4 final. I watched from the front row as he repeated as 4×4 world champion and set a new record time. And there, a few rows behind me, was Johan, clapping wildly as if he himself had just won the 4×4 title.

Later, finally back in the room, I had a moment to think, and the gravity of what had happened began to sink in.

I had cheated on Steve. Maybe I’d been forced into it, but that kind of rationalization did nothing to assuage my feelings of guilt. I was a 34-year-old woman, a wife and a mother, and I’d somehow let this 19-year-old boy put me on my knees.

Johan had violated both my body and my marriage, and I felt sick with shame over the fact that I hadn’t done more to stop him. He was much bigger than me, and I could reason that he’d overpowered me, and perhaps that was true. But why had I let him lead me into that room all alone? Why had I followed this young man, blindly letting him take me by the hand? Maybe I couldn’t have anticipated how aggressive he would become, but after what he’d used my photos to exploit me, I should have known that Johan would not respect my boundaries.

But I had no experience dealing with something like this, because no man had ever treated me like this before. Even back when we were dating, Steve had never been like this towards me, ever. And since then, strange men had flirted with me on occasion, but I was so rarely out of the house on my own that I’d almost forgotten what it was like to be pursued.

Now, suddenly, this young German college boy from South Africa was pushing me around, telling me what he wanted, and making me do it. He was calling me Nikki, like we were peers, but he also kept calling me MILF, like I was his personal pornstar. He wasn’t intimidated by the age difference between us, didn’t care that I was married, and didn’t seem to give a damn that he was friends with my son. He’d handled me so roughly, even when I’d told him no.

This must be why my father had warned me not to trust white boys back when I was a teenager myself. Because they’ll say or do whatever it takes to get what they want. And now I knew what that was.

Still, despite what had happened, I held out hope that he’d been chastened by my words, and that he might finally be feeling some shame over what he’d been doing to me. Tomorrow was the final day of the tournament, and if I could just avoid being alone with him until then, Danny and I would be able to get on a plane back to LA and leave this whole episode behind.

But that’s not what happened.

Danny needs routines, especially at a tournament like this, where so many things are already different and disorienting. So I decided, perhaps unwisely, to go back to the same pizza place for the third straight night.

Obviously, I didn’t tell Johan what we were doing. But evidently, I didn’t have to, because as we were sitting down, he walked though the door, plopping down next to me in the booth as if he’d been invited.

“Hey Danny,” he smiled, giving my son a high five. “Great work on the 4×4 today!”

“What are you doing?” I hissed, turning my face so that Danny wouldn’t see my reaction. “I didn’t ask you to be here…”

“We’ve been eating dinner together here every night,” he smiled. “I just assumed we’d do the same thing tonight.”

I looked over at Danny, who was already brightening up noticeably in Johan’s presence.

“Two beers,” Johan called out to the server. “And a Coke.”

Just like the night before, Johan was charming and engaging at dinner, building Danny’s confidence and getting him talking. In spite of everything, I have to admit that seeing Danny open up like this and have a real conversation was still a pretty magical thing for me, so much so that I was almost able to forget what his friend had done to me earlier that day.

Then, midway through pizza, Danny got up and went to the bathroom, leaving me alone with Johan.

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