The wait - Ukrainian wife
When I matched with Dahlia (not her real name) on Bumble, her profile said "not looking for anything serious." Mine said the same. She’s a Ukrainian, newly in Kuala Lumpur for a work contract. Married. 1 kid. Husband is an American Chinese, based in Houston. I a Malaysian, LDR for a year, and tired of pretending I wanted romance.
We messaged for a week – witty, flirty, increasingly bold. Then she sent a voice note: "I don't sleep with strangers. But I'll sleep with you after I'm not a stranger anymore."
So we met.
First meeting: Coffee at a quiet café near TTDI. She arrived in a white linen dress, minimal makeup, her long ash-blonde hair pulled back. I noticed everything: the way she laughed with her whole body, the directness of her gaze, the subtle strength in her shoulders. No kiss. Just a handshake that lasted a beat too long.
Second: A sunset drink at Marini's KLCC – the rooftop bar with the Petronas Towers glittering through floor-to-ceiling windows. She wore dark jeans and a sleeveless top. I learned she was a former gymnast, now a remote consultant. She learned I played guitar badly but sang well enough. Her hand found my knee under the table. I didn't move it.
Third: A food court dinner at a busy mall, then a walk through an outdoor night market. She stole a bite of my noodles. I wiped chili from the corner of her mouth with my thumb. We stood inches apart. I almost kissed her. She whispered, "Not yet."
Fourth: A cinema where we didn't watch a single frame. Instead, we sat in the back row, her thigh pressed against mine, my arm around her shoulder. She traced the inside of my palm with one fingertip. I felt my pulse in my throat.
Fifth: A long Sunday afternoon walk at The Gardens Mall – through the polished marble corridors, past the high-end boutiques, up to the quieter levels near the cineplex. We stopped at a railing overlooking the lower floor. She leaned beside me, her shoulder brushing mine. Then she turned to face me, placed a hand flat on my chest, and said: "I'm tired of waiting. Come home with me."
I shook my head. "My place. Tomorrow night."
---
The Night
She arrived at my apartment at nine o'clock, wearing simple office wear – a crisp white blouse, a dark pencil skirt, and low heels. Her hair was slightly tousled, and she carried a leather tote bag over one shoulder.
"Sorry," she said, stepping inside. "I just got off a meeting. Didn't have time to change."
"You look perfect," I said.
She set down her bag, turned to face me, and unbuttoned the top button of her blouse. Then the second.
I had imagined her body a hundred times. The reality was better.
Dahlia was built like a dancer – long limbs, compact muscle, a waist that curved inward just above hips that flared wide. Her br*asts were full and natural, pale as cream, with n*pples the color of pale rose. Her stomach was flat, with a faint line of muscle down the center. Her legs were strong, the kind made for climbing.
And between her thighs – just as she'd teased in a late-night message weeks ago – she kept a natural blonde bush. It was soft, trimmed but untamed, a pale gold that matched the hair on her head. Against the fair skin of her inner thighs, it looked almost luminous.
"Stop staring," she said, but she was smiling.
"No," I said.
I crossed the room, took her face in both hands, and kissed her – not gently. Three months of wanting collapsed into a single, hungry press of lips and tongue. She met me with equal force, her fingers digging into my hips, pulling me against her.
We didn't make it to the bedroom.
I lifted her onto the kitchen counter. She wrapped those gymnast legs around my waist. I buried my face in her neck, then lower – her collarbone, her sternum, her breasts. She arched back, knocking over a salt shaker, neither of us caring.
Then I dropped to my knees.
I pushed her skirt up around her hips and pulled her to the edge of the counter. I parted the soft blonde hair with my thumbs and pressed my mouth to her. I gobbled her p*ssy like a starving man – tongue flat against her clit, then pointed and flicking, then sucking gently while my fingers spread her open. She gasped, then moaned, then stopped trying to be quiet. "F*ck – Fred – Argghhh"
I didn't. I buried my face deeper, licking and sucking until she was soaking wet, her juices mixing with my saliva, her moans bouncing off the kitchen walls. She tried to grab my hair, unfortunately I’m bald, and instead she pulled my head hard, grinding against my mouth. When she came, she clamped her thighs around my ears and let out a long, throaty cry, while my tongue still continue exploring this rare opportunity. “Stop – Please – Stop” she cried due to the sensitivity she felt after.
She pulled me up by the hair.
"Your turn," she breathed.
I stood. She pulled down my boxers, and let it fall.
My c*ck sprang free. Seven inches – not the longest, but thick. Crooked, curving slightly to the left. The girth was like a tissue paper roll – hard, wet and ready for action.
Dahlia looked at it, then up at me. Her eyes went dark.
"$%£@," she whispered in a language so foreign to me.
She didn't wait. She took me in both hands, licked a slow stripe from base to tip, then opened her mouth wide and greedily sucked me down. The heat of her mouth, the wetness, the deliberate slowness – she took her time, letting saliva drip down her chin, coating every inch of that crooked shaft. She hummed around me, sending vibrations straight up my spine. Her tongue traced the curve, finding every ridge.
I gripped the kitchen counter to keep from collapsing.
After what felt like an eternity of bliss, she pulled off with a wet pop, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, and looked up at me.
"Now f*ck me," she said. "Right here. On this counter. I want to feel that crooked thing inside me."
---
Later – much later – we made it to the bedroom. Then the shower. Then the bed again, sheets tangled and ruined.
By three in the morning, we lay side by side, her head on my chest, my hand resting on the soft curve of her belly.
"Worth the wait?" I asked.
She tilted her head up, kissed the underside of my jaw, and whispered: "Ask me again in an hour."