This is the tale of my night with two of my exes. Let’s call them Si and Ri.

Si was my girlfriend from college, my first love, the one who taught me the intoxicating language of touch.

Ri came into my life in my late twenties, a tempest of passion and desire, a woman who redefined what it meant to lose yourself in someone.

I have no idea how we got there, but there I was, tangled in the sheets with Si. Time had been kind to her, leaving no trace of its passage on her body. Her beauty was untouched, her form as flawless as the day I first laid eyes on her. Her skin, fair as porcelain, glowed faintly in the dim light, and her figure—slender, delicate, and achingly familiar—was exactly as I remembered. The years had only added a subtle maturity to her allure, a quiet confidence that made her even more irresistible.

My mouth was on her B-cup breasts, hungrily reclaiming what I had lost decades ago. The taste of her skin was intoxicating, a blend of salt and sweetness that sent a jolt of electricity through me. Motherhood had gently reshaped her, lifting her from a flat A-cup to a firm, perfect B-cup. It was a change for the better, a subtle enhancement to her already exquisite form. Her stomach was still flat, her waist narrow, her legs long and smooth. She was, in every way, the girl I had fallen for all those years ago.

My hand slid down her body, tracing the curve of her hip before slipping between her thighs. She was wearing jeans, the fabric rough against my palm as I pressed against her. I expected her to stop me, to pull away, but instead, she arched into my touch, her breath hitching in a way that sent a thrill through me. Emboldened, I unbuttoned her jeans, my fingers trembling with anticipation as I tugged them down, along with the soaked thong beneath.

She was bare, just as she had always been. Si had always gone the extra mile to keep herself shaved, and I was relieved to see she had maintained her meticulous grooming habits. But as my fingers explored her, I noticed something different. The tightness I remembered was gone, replaced by a softer, more yielding warmth. The folds of her skin were more pronounced now, a testament to the passage of time and the life she had lived. Yet, the scent of her—musky, earthy, and unmistakably hers—was exactly the same. The taste of her, too, was unchanged, a heady reminder of the nights we had spent together.

That’s when Ri spoke. Her voice, low and sultry, cut through the haze of desire. “She’s lost in it,” she said, her tone teasing. I turned to look at her for the first time that night, and the sight of her took my breath away.

Ri was Si’s opposite in every way. Where Si was fair and delicate, Ri was dusky and voluptuous. Her skin, a deep, rich brown, seemed to glow in the faint light filtering through the curtains. Her body was a celebration of curves, soft and inviting. Her breasts were massive, a 38 double D at least, maybe even bigger. They spilled into my hands as I reached for her, her areolas dark and wide against the expanse of her heavy bosom. Stretch marks adorned her belly, and her thighs were thick, powerful, and impossibly alluring.

Ri had always kept her bush, a wild, untamed tangle that she wore like a badge of honor. It framed her plump pussy, hiding the treasure beneath. Her clit, peeking out from its hood, was like a tiny, sensitive pearl, and I had always loved sucking on it, feeling her tremble beneath me as my fingers explored her dripping depths.

I was in heaven, caught between two women who had shaped me in ways I could never fully articulate. The contrast between them—Si’s delicate perfection and Ri’s raw, unapologetic sensuality—was intoxicating. I lost myself in them, in the heat of their bodies, the sounds of their pleasure, the way they moved against me.

And then I woke up.

The room was dark, the only sound the monotonous hum of the ceiling fan, punctuated by the occasional creak. The smell of mosquito repellent filled the air, sharp and chemical, a stark contrast to the heady scents of my dream. My family lay asleep beside me, their breathing steady and calm.

I couldn’t go back to sleep after that. The dream had been too vivid, too real. Even now, 12 hours later, I can still feel the weight of their bodies, the taste of their skin, the sound of their voices. It was a dream, yes, but it felt like something more—a reminder of the women who had shaped me, the desires that still lingered, and the life I had chosen.

And here I am, still thinking about it.