I remember the day my wife and I picked her up at the dorm where she lived,
where she was so unhappy, ten years ago. She'd come to the United States to
study English and learn the language. She'd also learned about American rudeness
and bad treatment of Hispanics.

But we loved her. We invited her into our home. Her room was just down the hall
from ours. She was so innocent, back then, in those earliest days.

It was by pure accident that I walked in on her in the bathroom. I'd been
outside cutting the grass. But I needed to piss so bad I had my dick out on the
way, running down the hall, needing the pot. She'd been on that pot. She'd been
pissing. And she was shaving her pussy with MY razor.

I pissed right there on the floor. Right there in front of her. And she was so
shocked, so embarrassed, that she also pissed again into the bowl, splashing
deliciously as I watched the golden fluids flow from her bare pussy gleaming in
the afternoon light.

I guess I jacked off a hundred times to the memory of that piss-off. But we
never talked of it. I don't know if she ever wished for another adventure. I
certainly did. But nothing happened.

She went back to her country. We lost contact. My wife, who had been getting
jealous without knowing quite why, relaxed.

Then e-mail happened. She and I began writing. Every day. Suggestively. We both
remembered the afternoon in the sun-drenched, piss-drenched bathroom. We'd both
treasured the memories.

Then, last week, she e-mailed that she was coming back to the US for a visit.
She'd come, if she were welcome, to stay a week or so with us. I couldn't
contain myself. I SHOUTED to her, "Come on. Please hurry. I need you."

I paced the floor at the airport like an anxious father, scanning the skies,
searching for her plane, seeking her presence. When she came, finally, at last,
through the walkway we met. There were no words. My mouth was on her lips, my
hands against her wonderful ass, my straining cock pushing against her tummy.

In the car, driving home, bags in the rear, wishing, dreaming, plotting,
scheming, devising - how far could we, would we let this passion go? My wife
would detect the scents. I had a marriage to preserve.

But I am a fool. When she lifted the folds of her skirt, letting it ride up the
shapely legs I'd seen only that one time before, up, up to the edge of those
bold red panties, up to where the black hairs peeked out from the lace, up to
where my fantasies had rested so long, I could not help myself. My hand thrust
itself out, forward, strongly, questing, seeking, searching, searing, and those
lips parted willingly. Those juices flowed, sweet young juices, Latin hot
juices, Spanish ripe fragrant juices.

The car found its own way to the side of the road and we fucked like rabbits the
spring. She grasped my dick, yanked it like a gear shift and aimed it like the
battering ram it was toward the glistening, gleaming glory of her open pussy.
Together we pushed panties aside, inhibitions aside, discomforts of bucket seats
aside, fears of the watching public aside as my pole vaulted into the sweetness
of her core.

It was as if I tasted her every cell. It was as if I held her beating heart in
my hands and caressed it. It was as if every inch of her yielded to me. I put a
finger into her mouth and she sucked it. I put another finger into her asshole
and she clinched it. I pressed my cock up against the upward arch of her pubic
and she pushed against it. I bit her nipple through the blouse so carelessly
left intact and she sucked air and moved upward against me. I encircled her eye
with my mouth and tasted the intimacy of her eyeball on my tongue and we were
one.

When she began cumming, cumming and cumming, heaving and bucking, like a snake
she writhed and fucked, like a fish on a hook she wriggled - for the pleasure
not the pain, for the lust not the love, for the passion not the prudence I also
gave into her everything that is me. Not only my cum but my blood, my waters, my
being.

An hour later we drove slowly into my drive. My wife met us at the door. And she
KNEW.