She was the kind of woman you don’t meet—you survive. Anna Kolba. Blonde. Ukrainian. Built like a sin you’d confess just to relive. We'd been dancing around each other for weeks — double taps, late-night DMs, words laced with heat. When we finally met, it didn’t feel like content. It felt like inevitability. We took some photos, sure—art, if you squint hard enough. But the moment I joined her on that bed, the roles dropped. No more flirting. Just heat. Hunger. Her lips wrapped around me like she was chasing something sacred, and when she climbed on top, it was like watching temptation ride redemption into the ground. Then came the whisper — low, filthy, “I want your cock in my ass.” That’s not a request. That’s a promise. And I kept it.
