Hilarious Classic Erotic Stories

Some moaning during sex shouldn't be eavesdropped on...
When we first got married, we lived at my mother-in-law's house for a while.
One night, I heard a woman moaning next door.
Listening closely, I realized it was my mother-in-law.
The sound was suppressed but very lewd, calling out: "Harder! Harder!
" followed by moans of "Ouch, ouch," mixed with my father-in-law's heavy breathing.
I woke my wife up so she could listen.
She listened intently for a while
, then pinched my butt hard, making me wince in pain, but I didn't dare make a sound, afraid my mother-
in-law would hear. I said, "It's your mother moaning, not me."
My wife whispered, "Come on up!"
I touched her, and she was soaking wet.
...
Later, I figured out the pattern of my mother-in-law's moaning: it mostly happened on Saturday nights.
My wife also noticed this pattern; on Saturday nights, after 10 pm, she would urge me to go to bed early.
I would say, "I'll read for a while before sleeping."
My wife would glare at me. I had no
choice but to obediently follow my wife into the bedroom. Lying on the bed, I thought about how my father-in-law, at his age, was still as virile as ever, making my mother-in-law scream with pleasure. My penis involuntarily hardened. My wife, holding it in her hand, asked, "What are you thinking about now? " I laughed and said, "Nothing." My wife said, "Nothing? Why are you so hard ?" I said, "Listen... " My mother-in-law was kind and gentle, and must have been a lady in her youth. I couldn't connect her with those wanton moans. During the day, when we ate at the same table, while others ate, I would glance at my mother-in-law. I always wondered if I had hearing problems. But after a while, the moaning sounds would still come through at night. This often made me stare at my mother-in-law in a daze, like Newton staring at a falling apple. Once, I was so engrossed in watching that I forgot someone was beside me. My wife, under the table, stomped on my foot. It hurt so much I almost dropped my bowl and cried out. Everyone at the table looked at me. I quickly clutched my stomach, saying it hurt. My mother-in-law, thinking I had indigestion, after dinner, concernedly fetched me some steroids. I took the steroids from her, looked at my wife, and wondered where she'd pinch me again tonight. ... It's bound to be troublesome with my mother-in-law. I always come home late to avoid being alone and having nothing to say to my father-in-law or mother-in-law, which would be awkward. I usually go home after my wife. That afternoon, I went out to run errands, and it was late getting back to work. I couldn't just sit on the roadside until dark, so I decided to go home anyway. I unlocked the door, pushed it open, and almost scared me to death. My mother-in-law had just finished showering and was standing naked in the living room, drying herself. A woman in her forties, with fair, slightly sagging skin. She was a bit plump, and her breasts were naturally large, though somewhat droopy. In the center of her deep red areolas stood prominent, bright nipples, and most importantly, they were huge, like dates—it seemed my father-in-law had been quite fond of them. I was stunned, standing dumbfounded at the doorway, forgetting to dodge. "Quick, close the door!" My mother-in-law panicked. I'd forgotten to close the door; if anyone was in the hallway, they could see my naked mother-in-law. Luckily, no one was passing by. I turned around and closed the door. Only then did my mother-in-law react, turning and running into the nearest room, her round buttocks bouncing back and forth—damn it. Then, she slammed the door shut. My heart skipped a beat, thinking, "I'm innocent! This isn't my fault." I didn't know whether to go out or stay home. Just as I was at a loss, the door opened again. My mother-in-law, covering her breasts with a bath towel, ran out to grab her bra and top from the sofa. In her panic, she ran into my wife's and my room; her clothes weren't there. I lowered my head, not daring to look at her, but I noticed a few glistening water droplets clinging to her pubic hair. There wasn't much pubic hair, not as thick as my wife's; maybe it's due to age and shedding, but I preferred to believe it was from my father-in-law rubbing it all down. My mother-in-law took her bra and top, then ran back to her room, slamming the door shut with a loud bang. I stood in the living room, my mind blank. My mother-in-law's underwear lay on the sofa—the kind made of floral fabric, boxer-legged, very loose. It was wrinkled, already worn, and the area near her private parts was worn and damp. My mother-in-law must have been terrified; she'd lost things like that. I hesitated whether to take it inside for her or wait for her to come and get it herself… In a moment of inspiration, I quickly hid in the kitchen. When I came out, the underwear was gone. Dinner was extremely somber. My mother-in-law ate with a long face, not saying a word, her head down. My father-in-law, seeing his wife's expression, also remained silent. My wife asked me quietly, "What's wrong?" I said, "I don't know!" I ate my food in silence, my heart pounding. If my mother-in-law told my father-in-law I did it on purpose, I'd be in big trouble; I wouldn't be able to explain myself no matter how hard I tried. Seeing my mother-in-law's silence, as if she had really been wronged, made the whole family feel sullen. I really wanted to strip naked and let my mother-in-law see me, just to even things out. My mother-in-law didn't eat much, saying her stomach wasn't feeling well, and went back to her room to rest. Now it was my turn to find some steroids for her. But looking at my father-in-law sitting on my left and my wife on my right, I felt this wasn't the time for me to be attentive. It seemed natural for a mother-in-law to care for her son-in-law, but what were my intentions in caring for my mother-in-law? My father-in-law was still very energetic at night. My wife was also at an age where she was prone to jealousy. If I tried to be attentive between these two, it would be like going over their heads and violating organizational discipline. Dinner ended in a sullen mood, and everyone left on bad terms. My mother-in-law locked herself in her room. I don't know if she was genuinely embarrassed by my presence or simply annoyed. She even stopped watching her Korean drama. My father-in-law went out for a walk alone, and my wife went back to her room to play on the computer. I sat alone on the sofa in the living room watching TV, thinking about what happened this afternoon. The more I thought about it, the more frightened I became. I was afraid my mother-in-law might do something rash, or that she might suddenly decide to kill herself. I was also afraid she might come out and stab me. Either way, it would kill me. I turned the TV volume down very low and strained my ears to listen to any sounds coming from my mother-in-law's room, like listening to her moaning in the middle of the night. But my mood was nowhere near as pleasant as listening to her moaning.

Beneath the seemingly calm surface, an earthquake could erupt at any moment.
The sofa beneath me felt like a volcano, ready to erupt at any instant.
Tonight was dragging on so slowly; I felt suffocated.
My mother-in-law's door opened, and my heart pounded with tension.
She went to the kitchen to get something, and I glanced at her out of the corner of my eye, wondering if she was going to take a knife.
As she passed me, she whispered, "Don't tell Xiaoli."
Xiaoli is my wife. I knew my mother-in-law wasn't stupid; she knew to keep secrets.
I smiled at her.
She ignored me and went back to her room.
Having this personal secret with my mother-in-law suddenly made me feel like we were on the same side.
...

At least she wouldn't do anything drastic.
I breathed a sigh of relief. I dreaded funerals; I couldn't smile for two weeks.
My mother-in-law wouldn't try to kill me; my life wasn't in immediate danger.
It felt like I'd been given a second chance at life. I could finally watch TV easily—it was so damn good.
I frantically pressed the remote, flipping through what I think are ten thousand channels nationwide.
It wasn't my wife's horny day, so she didn't urge me to sleep.
When she's in heat, she'll call me repeatedly, "Go to sleep, you have to go to work tomorrow." When a
woman tells a man to sleep, it's definitely a verb, not a noun; the earlier you go to sleep, the more tiring it is.
I saw my mother-in-law's naked bottom today, and she's been sullen all night. Even with my wife's strong libido, she's not in the mood for anything.
I can finally lie on the sofa and play with the remote in peace.
I flipped through over ten thousand channels, and Wang Xiaoya was still enthusiastically asking a man, "Are you sure?" The other channels were mostly selling kidney pills and breast enhancement products—it was all so boring. I had no choice
but to go back to the room to sleep.
My wife was lying in bed, and I thought she was asleep.
But as soon as I lay down, she snuggled into my arms like a little sow and asked, "What's wrong with my mom?"
I thought to myself, "Why are you so persistent? You're even more persistent than Wang Xiaoya.
" "How would I know what's wrong with your mom?" I said.
"No, you came back first. My dad came back after me, and when I got back, I saw my mom was unhappy."
"Really?" I said. "I didn't notice."
I don't know who taught women to reason, to infer trouble even when there isn't any.
My wife insisted I ask her what was wrong with her mother.
I kept saying I didn't know, as steadfast as a captured underground party member.
If I told her, she'd beat me up.
Thinking about it, I'm really unlucky. My mother-in-law came to the living room naked after taking a shower.
It's like I'm going to die either at my mother-in-law's hands or at my wife's. And there's this old guy too; if he finds out, I'll be in serious trouble.
"Hmph!" She angrily pushed me away. "You must have done something to my mom!"
When I heard that, I knew I was doomed. I was going to be a wronged ghost today.
I had to help her analyze the situation; men's IQs are definitely higher than women's, right?
"Is your mom on her period?" I said.
She said, "My mom went through menopause a long time ago."
I tried to think with a man's intelligence, saying, "Could she be pregnant?"
She kicked me, "Your mom's the one who's pregnant!"
My logic was a bit muddled; menopause means she can't get pregnant.
I thought to myself, let Sherlock Holmes analyze this for your mom, but even if Holmes tried to figure me out, he'd be doomed.
My mind raced, and the phrase "unplanned pregnancy" came to mind. I muttered to myself, "Could it be an unplanned pregnancy?"
"An unplanned pregnancy only happens when the condom breaks," my wife explained impatiently, her tone incredibly professional. Then she kicked me again, harder than the first time.
I winced in pain, cursing my mother-in-law in my heart: It's all because you were naked!
Looks like I underestimated my wife's intelligence. I had to take this seriously, or I'd be in full casts by dawn.
I said, "When I came back, your mom was on the sofa, looking at something."
"What?" my wife perked up.
"A letter, I guess," I said, thinking.
"Where did the letter come from?" my wife pressed.
"I didn't notice. Your mom went back to her room when she saw me come in,"
my wife said, leaning against the pillow, thinking about what I had said.
Seeing her doubtful expression, I thought, "Since I'm making this up, I might as well go all the way.
" She continued, "Your mom forgot the envelope on the sofa." The
mention of the sofa suddenly made sense to me. Your mom had indeed left something on the sofa—a pair of floral underwear with a water stain.
"An envelope?" My wife took this clue very seriously. "Didn't you see where the envelope came from?"
Thinking of my mother-in-law's floral underwear, the rest of the story fell into place.
I said, "I glanced at it when your mom came out to get it."
I did indeed glance at it; I saw your mom's pubic hair, and water droplets on it, shimmering.
"What did you see?" my wife pressed. If my wife were in the Central Commission for Discipline Inspection, she'd definitely be a master investigator, but unfortunately, I ruined her.
"The signature seemed to be from Beijing, but I didn't see it clearly," I said casually.
Actually, what I saw was the place where you were born and raised.
"My mother's lover!" my wife muttered to herself.
I was startled, unable to believe my ears, and repeated, "Whose lover?"
"My mom's," my wife said irritably.
I hadn't quite grasped it yet; after all that questioning, I'd gotten the answer to my mother-in-law's lover.
Who cares whose lover it is, as long as she doesn't think I'll do anything to your mom.
It took me a while to recover. "How old is your mom? She still has a lover?"
"She can't have one when she's young!" Her tone was even more arrogant than if her mom didn't have one, leaving me speechless.
"Wait a minute!" Before I could speak, my wife added, "The lover in Beijing is my dad's."
Ugh!
Had I been having nightmares all day?
Date-sized nipples, water droplets on pubic hair, water stains inside my underwear, my mother-in-law's lover—it was giving me severe oxygen deprivation.
I was about to collapse.
Let me wake up first.
My wife, however, was in the middle of it all, not willing to give up. Staring at the ceiling, she wondered, was it her mother's lover or her father's?
She's a real model of a discipline inspection official.
...
I drank too much last night, I got completely drunk.
A woman whose husband was away on a business trip took me to her house, and while I was drunk, she tried to rape me.
I ended up throwing up everywhere in her house, the smell was unbearable.
It took her ages to clean it up.
And in this freezing weather, she had to keep the windows open for ventilation.
After finishing her work, she came to bed with me.
First, she stripped me naked, then she stripped herself naked too.
She was ready to enjoy
her manhood, fiddling with it for most of the night, her foreskin swollen from being pulled back, but it was still limp .
Frustrated, she threw down my things, saying, "I can't be bothered with you."
She pulled a dildo from the bedside table and went to play with it herself.
I stared at a naked woman on the bed, unable to get an erection.
Thinking about how this "steel gun," after all these years, could actually be impotent, it was really not like me.
I tried to persuade my wife to go to sleep.
My wife was still bothered by whether the letter was written by her mother or her father's lover, and
I figured today was the day my mother-in-law would call me in bed.
So I said, "Wait a bit, when your dad and mom have sex, your mom will be happy."
My wife thought about it and said, "That's true. Let's sleep."
She reached down to my penis, surprised, "Still so hard today!"
I thought: Of course, my mind is full of your mother's pubic hair, how could I not be hard?

I was exhausted by my mother-in-law's lover's letter.
I was sleepy and wanted to go to bed.
However, my mother-in-law's pubic hair, glistening with moisture, swirled in my mind.
It caused fatal damage to a certain area of my brain, causing a nerve to run directly to my penis, resulting in my penis remaining erect.
My mother-in-law's sparse pubic hair became my mental bullwhip.
If it didn't go down before dawn, I'd have to chop it off.
My wife, holding this hard thing, was quite happy.
She lifted her leg and pulled down her underwear.
Since we got married, my wife has gained weight. Her movements aren't as nimble
as when she was a young girl. But, ironically, the action of taking off underwear requires bending the knees, arching the back, and reaching the feet with both hands—such a difficult movement—she still did it with such dexterity and elegance. She took my hand and guided it to her pubic hair, saying, "Come on! It's wet." It seems her mother's lover's letter hadn't affected her hormones. I truly admire my wife; she's practically a sex machine. No matter how big the problem, it doesn't affect this machine's operation. How wonderful. I didn't want to touch her genitals, so I pulled my hand back and said, "Tomorrow's Saturday, I'm playing cards with my friends!" I've always had this impression that touching a woman's private parts will ruin your luck the next day. So, for important events, like meeting an important leader or buying lottery tickets, I absolutely can't touch my wife's genitals the night before. And definitely not when playing cards; if I do, my hand will be unplayable the next day. My wife didn't care about any of that, pulling my hand and rubbing it against her genitals. After a few rubs, she started moaning softly. Damn! This machine is too good. I thought, "Oh no, I'm doomed. Tomorrow's cards are going to be a disaster. " ... My wife took my hand and vigorously rubbed it against her pubic hair, looking very pleased. My hand got wet, but I didn't say anything. My wife's pubic hair is indeed thick, black, soft, and shiny. Flat, naturally curly. If she were a spokesperson for a shampoo brand, she'd definitely create a world-famous brand. Logically, my mother-in-law's pubic hair should also be very thick, to conform to the laws of genetics. However, my mother-in-law's pubic hair was not only sparse but also yellowish, barely covering the slightly reddish skin underneath. It was practically turned into a wasteland by my father-in-law. If I wanted to be a spokesperson, I'd have to be a spokesperson for those newly opened hair regrowth factories. Only naturally curly hair is like my wife's. At first glance, I couldn't believe my wife didn't seem to have been born from this vagina. ... My wife was masturbating with my hand, making it all wet. I lay beside her, doing nothing, thinking about my mother-in-law's naked body, my penis hardening. In a short while, my wife was dazed and moaning. I didn't want to get up, thinking, "Wait a while, she'll bring herself to orgasm, then I can go to sleep." Think about it. Her breasts are still the same breasts, massaged for so many years. Massaging them again, they're still the same size. Her lips are still the same lips, kissed for so many years. Kissing them again, they still taste the same. Her vulva is still the same vulva, played with for so many years. Playing with it again, it's still the same tightness. Same movements, same amplitude, same tightness. Even when to get on and when to get off, I know in advance. It's utterly boring. Unlike a newly acquired lover, whose weight and tightness are always new sensations. With my wife, it's all so mundane. When we first got married, it was fine; I bought countless pornographic films like treasures, learning and inventing new techniques on her. But after a while, the creativity faded. Every day, sex became monotonous, like a machine: erection, on, ejaculation, off. Like a wind-up doll, once the spring is wound up, it's time to sleep. Repeating the same action day after day, it became increasingly tedious. Slowly, I learned to be lazy, avoiding going on whenever possible. I closed my eyes and thought about my mother-in-law, her pubic hair worn thin, yet still attracting my father-in-law to climb on and play with her. There must be some secret treasure hidden in that old well. Suddenly, a thought popped into my head: what secret treasure was hidden in my mother-in-law's old well? I was startled by my own thought; if I kept thinking about it, one day I'd definitely kill my mother-in-law. ... I quickly looked at my wife beside me. She was gripping my hand, making her final push, her legs pressed together, her body tense, squeezing my hand so tightly it hurt. Clearly, she had reached orgasm. I breathed a sigh of relief, just about to go to sleep. My wife said, "It's your turn." "Didn't you already orgasm?" I said. "That was just the prelude, a little climax first." Damn, so it was just a warm-up, her crotch is an engine! I said I was tired and wanted to sleep. My wife grabbed my swollen penis and said, "As long as you're tired, it's fine." Saying that, she pulled my penis onto her. I had no choice but to climb on top; if I didn't, she could pull my penis off. My wife skillfully spread her legs, saying, "I have to soften you up, so you won't be unruly when you see some slut during the day." Saying that, she squeezed me with her crotch. It seems she needs to put me in the washing machine to spin-dry me every day before she's satisfied. How vicious. ...

There are four reasons why you haven't heard it:
1. Your father-in-law doesn't have sex;
2. Your father-in-law has sex, but your mother-in-law doesn't moan;
3. The wall is too thick;
4. You have poor hearing. The
first two reasons are hopeless; if they don't have sex or moan, how can you hear them?
For the third reason, you could thin the wall, but that's too much work—not worth it just to hear moaning.
For the fourth reason, I suggest trying a hearing aid at night.
.............................

Extra! Extra!
I'd like to ask you experts a question.
Yesterday, I accidentally used my secretary's computer to look something up and found a downloaded post about the boss and his female secretary's affair.
There was also a rather erotic post.
Is the female secretary also hoping for an affair with the boss?
Experts, please give me some advice: should I make a move and take advantage of this secretary?
Let me introduce my female secretary: 24 years old, single, bachelor's degree, 1.65 meters tall, weighs approximately 95 kg, bra size C (estimated, haven't touched her yet), long hair, fair skin.
I don't expect her to be a virgin; finding someone who hasn't been pregnant is already difficult these days.
Our current contact is limited to patting her on the shoulder and encouraging her to do her job well. When she delivers documents to me, I touch her hair and compliment her intelligence.
I'm itching to get her, but I'm afraid of rejection if I don't succeed.
Please give me some advice.
...................

Tell my wife, and I'll accept it.
Her breasts are too big, a C cup! My wife's breasts are bigger than an A cup but smaller than a B cup.
Touching someone else's breasts once is equivalent to touching my wife's breasts twice.
When I was looking for a wife, I made a hasty decision too early, not understanding that breast size is a criterion, and I slept with someone with A+ breasts.
After marriage, seeing other women with big breasts everywhere... Although it doesn't affect intimacy, the stimulation to the cerebral cortex is definitely different.
A study suggests that men ejaculate farther when ejaculating on women with large breasts compared to those with small breasts. So, when I see women with large breasts on the street, I often wonder, "How far can I ejaculate?"
A while ago, in the summer, when I wore a skirt, I loved watching my secretary mop the floor in my office. When she bent over, her cleavage was completely exposed, so deep it made me want to jump in. Seeing the different colored bras every day made me feel particularly good at work. If I didn't see my secretary mopping the floor one day, I'd be listless all day.
My secretary's breasts have an invigorating effect—a discovery I made while mopping the floor. I suggest adding a herb called "secret breast" to the *Compendium of Materia Medica*—the dosage shouldn't be measured in coins or grams, but in "glances," just a quick glance each day. Some symptoms can be measured in "rubbing."
I belong to the category of insufficient milk production, so I should probably measure it in "rubbing. "
.................

Speaking of my secretary's C-cup, I forgot what I wrote earlier; I have to look back where I left off.
It seemed my wife had already had a mini-climax in the prelude, and now it was my turn to perform.
My wife was already wet and slippery, and I plunged in effortlessly.
It was a perfect move; my wife gasped, saying, "At crucial moments, a man's thing is still the most comfortable."
Praised by my wife, I felt a great sense of accomplishment, and instantly felt like I'd grown half an inch. "
You won't let me sleep, I'll give you a good beating tonight."
I grabbed my wife's legs, hoisted them onto my shoulders, and folded her into a W shape.
Ready to take her from behind.
Last time I did this, my wife took the morning off work the next day—it was too exciting.
Just as I was about to get started
, there was a noise next door; my father-in-law was about to get started too.
I was excited, and so was my wife.
Soon, the sounds changed.
It sounded like an argument; my mother-in-law's voice was low: "Don't take off my clothes!"
"Why not?" came my father-in-law's voice.
Then came the rustling sound of clothes being pulled apart.
My mother-in-law said, "No means no!"
Then it sounded like the two of them were lightly wrestling.
My wife lost interest and said, "Don't move!"
I was still hard, and stopping was painful, so I reduced the intensity.
My wife pinched me.
I stopped in pain.
"It must be my mom who saw the lover's letter and won't let my dad have sex with me," my wife analyzed.
"Definitely," I agreed.
I thought to myself, "Mother-in-law, I didn't mean to frame you. If I don't sell you off, I'm finished.
" "Get off!" my wife said.
Damn it,
that's inhumane. If you're in the mood, let me on, if you're not, let me off. I obediently got off.
This time, I masturbated.
I obediently pulled out of my wife and rolled off.
The sounds in my mother-in-law's room gradually subsided. My wife got tired and started snoring softly.
My penis wasn't so obedient; still controlled by the nerve damaged by my mother-in-law's pubic hair, it stood there, head held high, refusing to sleep.
When I'm not with my wife, I can fall asleep with an erection.
But after getting off my wife, still hard, I can't fall asleep.
In the dead of night, I held myself, slowly stroking myself up and down.
After years of masturbation, my technique had reached a very high level. If there were a ranking system, I'd be at least a ninth-dan masturbation master.
I could easily make those clumsy sperm in my testicles struggle to burst out of my prostate without a woman.
Of course, once they were out, they would find that what awaited them was not, as I fantasized, some female celebrity's egg.
Not even my wife's egg.
Not to mention my secretary's egg, or my mother-in-law's egg.
My mother-in-law is menopausal, I forget.
Most of them either bumped into crumpled toilet paper or smelly underwear.
Occasionally
, they bumped into a rubber condom. The unlucky ones would bump into a wall or into the toilet.
It was too tragic.
All because of men's deception.
Once, I went on a business trip to Shenzhen, and the host didn't arrange any prostitutes. Enraged, I indulged in a wild fantasy. I stood defiantly on the 20th-floor window of a hotel, masturbating while gazing at the brightly lit skyscrapers. I imagined a young woman in a nightgown behind each lit apartment.
As a result, I ejaculated a series of ejaculations.
My wife was asleep, and I continued stroking my penis with both hands.
First, I thought of my wife, then my female secretary, and then several women I'd known in the past—some I'd slept with, some I hadn't.
Some women are beautiful, some are ugly; some have large breasts, some have small breasts.
I imagined what kind of sounds they would make if I pinned them down. But
what I thought about most wasn't necessarily the most beautiful or the one with the largest breasts.
My aesthetic sense might have been distorted by my mother-in-law's pubic hair.
Finally, my thoughts settled on a pair of sagging breasts, the pubic hair below sparse and yellowed from being rubbed. My mind was filled with how to ravage those breasts, how to pound that patch of pubic hair.
I didn't care who the woman was, only the pleasure of pounding into her.
My nerves were taut, my legs raised high.
Finally, a stream of semen burst forth,
tracing a beautiful arc in the air.
...
Recently, I've had a rather big project.
It's about getting my secretary.
A few days ago, I saw on her computer a post about a female secretary and her boss having an affair, and another pornographic post.
The secretary seems quiet and reserved; apart from her large breasts, her manners are impeccable.
I never expected her to enjoy reading pornographic articles in private.
After all, she's 24.
Girls at this age are bound to be sexually active.
I've had some reckless experiences seducing young girls in the past, almost getting reported.
This time I need to be more careful.
I can't do it like seduction, that's pointless.
And I can't just impulsively rape her.
There was this girl I seduced for two months, but I hadn't succeeded. She pretended to be innocent, which annoyed me, so I raped her.
Afterwards, I felt completely unsatisfied, like a good pot of meat that's been overcooked—a waste.
I'm a man of taste, I can't keep playing the game of overcooking meat.
I've thought about this for days.
Girls like things to happen naturally, smoothly. They like men to play with romance.
That's not difficult.
I spent three-quarters of my university years pursuing girls, so I still have some tricks up my sleeve.
I need to test the waters.
I remembered a while ago, there was a post about sexual harassment that made people's hearts flutter and they couldn't control themselves.
I completely deleted everything from my USB drive, but put that sexual harassment post and a trivial company document inside.
I told her there was a company document on my USB drive and asked her to take it home and edit it for me that night.
When the secretary opens my USB drive, she definitely won't just look at that one file.
In the quiet of the night, I'll let that sexually harassing post keep her company.
Let her feel a little flutter in her heart first.
...

Oh no, oh no!
I remembered that harassing post; several women commented, saying they wanted to find men after reading it.
I gave that post to the secretary.
What if she reads it tonight and can't resist going to find other men?
What a clever move!
Isn't this just making a mess of things for some bastard?
When I was hiring the female secretary, I specifically asked if she had a boyfriend.
The secretary said no.
That's why I finally hired her.
Who knew that after she arrived, I'd find out she had a boyfriend?
It's not easy to fire her now.
Luckily, her boyfriend lives in another city, so I still have some space and have to put up with it.
Damn it, if you read that harassing post and then go to find other men,
I'll fire you without hesitation!
I've been thinking about this for days, and this is the crazy idea I came up with.
Who knows, maybe the secretary's been reading posts tonight and got all worked up down there, and then she'll fall for someone else's trap.
The more I think about it, the more I feel like I'm going crazy. This secretary's got a C-cup!
I can only pray silently—women, be respectable! Men are all bad!
It's not as clean and efficient as my first time seducing a secretary.
It was old-fashioned, but it worked.
Back then, the company was starting to do well.
The first thing I did was get myself a secretary.
That secretary wasn't very bright; she just did whatever I asked .
One afternoon, everyone had left.
I said, "Let's watch a DVD for a bit.
" She asked, "What DVD?"
I said, "Porn."
She said, "I've never seen porn before."
So silly.
I put the disc I'd prepared into the drive.
A European man's thing completely covered the screen.
The secretary was too close to the screen to see what it was, muttering to herself, "What is this? It's so unclear."
When she finally saw it was a man's thing, she was startled and instinctively leaned back.
She bumped right into my arms.
The silly girl twisted and turned, yelling, "I don't want to see! I don't want to see!" I trapped her
behind the desk.
The secretary, with her eyes closed, said, "I don't want to see."
I said, "If you don't want to see, I will."
So I squeezed into a chair with her.
The sounds on the screen made her open her eyes.
Her face was flushed, her eyes staring blankly at the screen. I
never imagined that porn, which was everywhere, could stimulate a young girl like this.
I thought to myself, "Please don't have a stroke and die on my desk."
A few minutes later, the little bird slumped softly into my arms.
When I carried her to the sofa and took off her jeans,
she said, "No, no," but didn't resist at all.
At this moment, I made the biggest mistake of my life.
I leaned over, parted her labia, and licked them.
She probably hadn't washed her bottom for half a month; white urine crystals had gathered in the folds, mixed with the freshly discharged mucus—it smelled incredibly foul.
Mainly foul, a pungent foul.
Like squatting in a stable watching a mare's genitals, and then being peed on by a mare.
Like being hit by a Japanese mustard bullet, I was instantly disoriented.
Luckily, I used to run long distances often in school, otherwise I would have been suffocated
by the fumes. I never imagined that a young girl wouldn't suffer a stroke from porn, while I, a seasoned veteran, almost got polio from the fumes.
It would be a laughingstock if word got out.
I was so terrified by the fumes that my brain went haywire; only my manhood remained stubbornly erect.
I have no recollection of how I got on her or how I entered her.
Only the last bit of oxygen in my lungs kept the remaining mating mechanisms in my genes functioning properly, allowing me to mate with my secretary.
When I pulled out, the girl frowned, feigning pain.
She definitely wasn't pretending to be a virgin; these days, nobody believes a real virgin.
She probably wanted me to know she rarely had sex and was very tight.
None of that mattered anymore; what mattered was that I was done, and a weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
But the fact that I'd taken her so easily made me forget about giving her a raise for a long time.
She kept wiping away the semen with a napkin.
"Don't just wipe yourself, it's spilling on the sofa," I reminded her, more concerned about my sofa.
She rubbed another napkin and threw it at my face.
Girls, once they're taken, can't be controlled.
Immediately riding on their boss's head—what kind of world is this?
"Aren't you afraid I'll get pregnant?" she complained as she pulled up her pants, "You didn't even use a condom!"
I looked at her, thinking, you know a lot, and you even use condoms!
I should wear a gas mask.
...
The next morning, the secretary dutifully handed me the USB drive. "The documents are revised," she said.
I took the USB drive and gestured for the secretary to sit down opposite my boss at my desk.
I plugged the USB drive into the USB port, so the secretary couldn't see the computer screen.
My first action wasn't to check the revised file—which was essentially useless anyway—
but to check the properties of the pornographic post to see if it had been opened.
The post's properties showed it was accessed last night.
I thought to myself, "So she's a secretly horny girl, secretly reading my pornographic posts."
I praised her for the revised file, saying it was good. But
in my mind, I was thinking about how to proceed.
The secretary, perhaps feeling guilty, immediately blushed and avoided my gaze.
Her delicate face, radiating shyness, also revealed her beauty.
I looked at her, imagining the feeling of kissing her, imagining her breasts, three times the size of my wife's.
Unfortunately, my penis remained completely still.
Before marriage, seeing a pretty girl would often make my penis throb uncontrollably. After marriage
, my wife wouldn't allow me to sleep with an erection; if I even had a slight erection at night, she would force me to ejaculate before letting me go.
As a result, even seeing a pretty girl during the day leaves me completely unresponsive.
I was inwardly cursing my wife for being a jerk; she'd trained me to only get an erection after 10 PM every night.
At the same time, I was secretly groaning; I couldn't flirt with my secretary during the day, lest I be unable to get an erection and embarrass myself.
I planned to seduce her tonight.
If I didn't, I wouldn't be able to get an
erection. If I missed tonight, I was afraid my secretary wouldn't be able to resist, and some scumbag would get her.
So, I picked up the phone and told my wife, "I'm going out of town for a while, I won't be back tonight."
My wife was used to my sudden business trips, told me to drive carefully, and hung up.
I thought to myself, if I can't handle my secretary, I might just sneak home to sleep again.
...
Today I was illegally detained by a young woman.
I drank a bit too much soy milk this morning, and around 10 AM, I needed to pee a lot.
On my way to the toilet, I made a fatal mistake.
Passing by the main office, I looked at a young woman's computer, where she was working on a tender document.
She came over and cornered me in my seat, asking me for some data.
I told her while trying to leave.
She typed on her computer, telling me not to rush and to finish before leaving.
There was a lot of content, and I urgently needed to pee.
I just wanted to finish quickly and leave.
She said, "If you leave, I'll have to check everyone's information."
I really couldn't hold it in anymore.
I had no choice but to honestly tell her in a low voice, "I can't hold it in anymore."
She smiled, her face flushed, but she wouldn't let me pass.
There were so many people in the office, I couldn't just push her away.
I said, "If you don't let me leave, I'll wet my pants."
She didn't answer, and kept typing on the keyboard.
I was so anxious that I kept stomping my feet.
With each stomp, my bladder hurt terribly.
Does this woman have a problem with her IQ? Does she not know what wetting her pants means?
I saw her biting her lower lip, trying not to laugh.
I was so angry that I had no choice but to bend over and beg her in a low voice.
Damn it, a female employee not letting the boss pee, what kind of behavior is this!
The other colleagues thought I was giving instructions, but actually, my bladder was hurting.
Being a boss isn't easy these days!
By the time she stood up and let me out, the pain in my bladder had already started radiating to my legs.
"Young lady! You've almost made your boss pee!"
I pretended to be nonchalant as I walked out of the office, then dashed straight to the toilet.
Luckily, I managed to hold the liquid in my prostate with both hands, preventing it from flailing around like a rubber tube.
The pleasure of relieving myself made me forget the pain of being imprisoned by this young woman, and instead, I thought of her flushed face.
I almost wet my pants today;
I'll definitely take her with me on my next business trip. I need to get my revenge.
...
This week is women's week; I've been put through the wringer by women all week.
This morning, a female colleague was processing an authorization document, and under my name, the word "woman" was prominently displayed.
I said, "Did you think it was easy to change my name to 'woman'?"
She pinched me under the table.
It hurt so much I gasped, but I didn't dare retaliate.
Every woman bullies me; it's infuriating!
I'll continue writing later.
Please forgive me, friends.
...
Your words are so disgraceful to men!
What does it mean to have the desire but not the courage?
A few years ago, I was too lazy to drive, so I hired a young man to drive.
This rascal couldn't stand seeing a car in front of him; if there was one, he'd overtake it immediately—he was incredibly reckless!
It felt like I was risking my life riding in his car.
Later, I lectured him:
driving and chasing women are different.
Driving is about knowing whether you can overtake or not.
Chasing women is about knowing whether you can do it or not—you do it first and think about it later.
He remembered my words and went back to sleep with one of his wife's female classmates.
As a result, he got beaten half to death by his wife's brother.
I criticized him: "How could you do such a thing?"
He pouted his swollen lips and said, "Didn't you tell me to do it first and think about it later?"
I said, "I said I'd do it first, and you're going to follow suit? Aren't you asking for trouble?"
He swore he'd divorce his wife.
I said, "Come on! Your wife is so beautiful, where else can you find someone like her?"
His wife was indeed very beautiful, more voluptuous than my wife, her breasts were 1.5 times the size of mine—when I measure women, I usually use my wife's breasts as a unit of measurement, calling it one standard international unit of breast.
I hadn't really paid attention to this woman with 1.5 international units of breast.
I need to give her a talking-to sometime.
We can't let her brother treat his brother-in-law so roughly; it's just that he inserted it in the wrong place, isn't it?
...
In my mind, the prostate is like a three-way junction; when urinating, it blocks the vas deferens; when ejaculating, it blocks the urethra.
Am I misunderstanding something?
I learn to urinate before I'm even a month old, and I learn to ejaculate around the time I'm almost graduating from elementary school—actually, it's nocturnal emission.
The strange thing is, almost all the boys in my class learned to ejaculate within those one or two years.
One of them had already practiced on an older female neighbor.
She was our leader.
He was very creative, saying he really wanted to pee inside a woman.
We all admired him and wanted to do it when we grew up.
By junior high, none of us had accomplished this feat.
The eldest brother scolded us, "What do you know! When you're erect, your urethra is blocked."
He had elevated our numerous failures to a theoretical level.
We were still hoping for such a miracle.
After a little guidance from the eldest brother, we realized that no woman could possibly be my chamber pot.
This was the only sex education lesson I ever had in my life.
Apart from that, through long-term masturbation and helping my wife masturbate, I could only explore the surface, so I only accumulated rich manual dexterity; since I couldn't use knives or scissors, my anatomical knowledge was blank.
If I'm right, it's a guess; if I'm wrong, please don't laugh.
However, I'm still determined to work hard and understand the function of the prostate.
The shop owner's wife smiled broadly when she saw me come in.
She thought I came to see her.
Knowing I came to buy toys, she wasn't angry.
It seems she doesn't lack men.
Women like that are easier to get along with peacefully.
A man's biggest fear in this world is encountering a stubborn woman.
If you have sex with her once or twice, she won't let you go, clinging to you relentlessly, treating herself like your everything.
I have experience with this now.
Before sleeping with her, you can say anything nice.
Buy a car, buy a house.
It doesn't matter, say whatever you want to hear.
After sleeping with her, you must let her know that you're a scoundrel.
Where would you get the money to buy a car or a house?
If you don't say these nice things,
you won't get any decent young women.
If you take what you said before sleeping with her seriously
, you can forget about ever achieving much in your life.
Don't worry about women not sleeping with you.
As long as you're healthy and strong, even if a woman realizes she's been tricked, she won't leave you.
The key is to arouse her wanton desires.
Women all want to be wild, they just don't have the opportunity to be.
It's not easy for a woman to find a man who appreciates her wildness.
Let her be wild to her heart's content.
In their eyes, you're the only man who can be wild, and you can't get rid of him. A woman's IQ is inversely proportional to the amount of sex she has; the more she does ,
the lower it gets. The more she's obsessed with sex, the more likely it is to turn into a battle of wits. She might even buy you a car and a house afterward. A man's IQ, on the other hand , should be directly proportional to the amount of sex he has; the more he does, the higher it gets. Never let them sleep with you and still feel like a lady. That means they haven't been fully developed. You're doomed. Even if you have kidney problems, it doesn't matter. You can still be romantic, right? Women love that. Playing with romance lowers a woman's IQ even further. At the very least, just keep calling her "baby" or "darling. " "I'll buy you this in the future." "I'll buy you that in the future." Have you ever been convicted of fraud for promising the moon? Promising a woman isn't fraud. Make bold promises and calls until she's dizzy. In short, don't let them regain their senses. Just make them feel a little uncomfortable. Let them see you as a potential stock, cherish you, and count on you to make a fortune. Haven't you seen so many people in the stock market who get stuck with a losing position for years? You should lock her in first . By the time they realize what's happening, we might not be tired of it, but we 'll at least be aesthetically fatigued. It'll be time for you to change your taste. ... Ever since I was twelve and grew my first pubic hair, I've been self-taught in fantasizing about women. My sexual orientation, however, has always been unstable, like a mobile phone signal. One moment I like young girls, the next I like older women. Sometimes I like fat women with big breasts, sometimes I like thin women with small breasts. Or women with lots of hair, or little hair, or even no hair. My targets are ever-changing, completely unpredictable. Like a weather forecast, it's unreliable. I once used my wife's ovulation period as a reference point to see if I liked fat women during my safe period or my fertile period. It turned out that my sexual orientation had nothing to do with my wife's ovulation period. I would be obsessed with one type of woman during both my safe and fertile periods. For a while, I was obsessed with middle-aged women. The owner of the sex shop was my creation back then. She was delighted to see her former bedmate. She asked, "Why haven't you come in so long?" I said, "I'm impotent." She chuckled, "You should have been impotent a long time ago." I browsed through the rubber rods on the counter and asked, "What's new?" She said, "The new thing is putting you in there." Then she started touching me. I knew this wasn't a place to linger. Staying any longer would only delay my important business.

My current sexual orientation is C-cup girls, I don't have time for your nonsense.
I remembered a tactic called "Empty City Strategy," which I'd tried on my wife a few times, but never dared to ask.
My wife knows, she'd dare peel off my foreskin.
Why not try it on my secretary?
I asked the shop owner for a "vibrating bullet."
I pocketed it and hurriedly left the store.
My secretary was still waiting in the car.
...
When I came out of the sex shop, my secretary was already waiting for me in the car; she had the keys.
Seeing me get in, the first thing she asked was, "Where did you go?"
I said, "I went to the bookstall to see what new books they had."
I didn't tell her I went to buy a "vibrating bullet."
I like to present myself as a book lover.
I firmly believe that uncultured people can't pick up good girls.
Bookstores are also good places to pick up girls.
There are beauties in books!
Ninety percent of the time, I buy a book, read the synopsis, and consider it done.
"Why did you wait so long to come?" I asked.
"I have to wait until everyone else leaves before I come over!"
She did a good job keeping things secret; quite shrewd.
She was willing to go out with me privately and knew to avoid colleagues, which pleased me greatly.
She's a promising talent.
I felt like a Red Army cadre who had just attended the Zunyi Conference, feeling like I'd found the direction of the revolution.
...
Continuing with the secretary's story.
I drove to a restaurant far from the city center.
We found a relatively quiet booth.
Everything was for the sake of convenience.
I ordered two cold dishes and four hot dishes.
I knew I couldn't finish them, but I insisted on ordering so much.
When picking up a girl, don't be careless about ordering.
This is the wisdom a girl I once picked up told me personally.
She said that when a girl goes out to eat with a guy she's just met, the quality of the food she orders shows her importance in the man's heart. If
a man is stingy about ordering food while eating with a girl, and then sleeps with her, that girl will never be pampered.
It has nothing to do with whether she can eat it or not.
For the cold dish, we ordered honey-glazed yam; the girl likes sweets.
I ordered a braised black-boned chicken with ginseng for hot dishes, supposedly good for nourishing yin and complexion.
Damn, I'm not even this filial to my mother.
Picking up girls has completely robbed me of my dignity.
Once I'm impotent, no matter how big a woman's breasts are, even if she begs me to touch them, I won't.
I'm determined to reclaim my dignity.
...
Sitting in a booth at the restaurant.
A barmaid, wearing a sash, came in to promote drinks.
Her full buttocks were sticking out from under her miniskirt.
She was so close I could feel her hot, pungent scent.
What a lovely girl!
I really wanted to reach out and touch her.
My secretary was there, so I didn't dare to be presumptuous.
Today's target was a respectable woman; it wasn't appropriate to indulge in such things.
I ordered a local 53-proof liquor.
I hate drinking dry red or dry white with girls.
They don't get drunk easily, so I can't make a move.
A few glasses of baijiu and the girl is dizzy. Then it's
easy to flirt with her.
This secretary's alcohol tolerance is still an unknown quantity.
When she first joined the company, she once entertained a client...
I'd had enough to drink.
The clients kept urging me to drink more.
My secretary picked up my glass, tilted her head back, and downed it in
one gulp. Everyone at the table was stunned.
That glass of wine must have been at least two or three ounces.
Then, she challenged everyone to a drinking contest.
The clients, all of them quite heavy drinkers, didn't know her limits and
dared not make a move.
On the way back, I asked her how she was.
She waved her hand and said, "I'm fine, these guys are no match for me."
Her speech was slurred, her tongue a little weak.
I knew she was getting drunk, but I didn't know her exact capacity.
That night, I drank too much and experienced erectile dysfunction.
Otherwise, she wouldn't be here today.
…
I stared intently at the secretary across the table.
A spotlight above the booth shone on the tableware and also on the secretary's face.
Her face was striking, her skin fair and delicate,
radiating youthful vitality.
As for how beautiful she was, you can refer to the only phrase Wei Xiaobao ever uttered when he saw a beautiful woman.
—A beauty that could make fish sink and geese fall
from the sky, a beauty that could shame the moon and flowers. Seeing such a sight is a pleasure.
No wonder men like to pursue beautiful women; there's a saying, "pleasing to the eye."
It's true.
After watching her all night, my eyesight might improve by 0.2
. I'm a person of the world,
I've seen it all. At this moment, the secretary's appearance has me speechless. I
'm usually captivated by her beauty,
but under the spotlight, she's even more alluring.
When she looks down at the menu,
I can boldly look at her breasts .
Under the spotlight, the two curved edges of her breasts are faintly visible, delicate, full, and the cleavage is clearly visible.
I feel a little dizzy, like I'm standing on a high place looking down, about to fall into her cleavage.
When the young woman looks up, I look down at the menu,
savoring her cleavage in my mind.
I admire my own decision.
Who says rabbits don't eat the grass near their burrows?
Such good grass near the burrow is fattening up someone else's rabbit.
It pains me to see it like this
… That's
how grass near the burrow is.
Sometimes, I think about how I shouldn't eat the grass near my burrow.
As a result, I ended up feeding someone else's rabbit.
I was filled with remorse.
I thought back on all the women in my life. All those women
I should have taken advantage of, those who
ended up in someone else's bed years later.
All that was left was a friendship thinner than air, barely there, floating in the air.
I was filled with a thousand regrets.
What kind of friendship is there between men and women?
In a man's eyes, there are only two kinds of women:
those he's slept with and those he hasn't.
To describe a woman he hasn't slept with as a friend
is the theory of a defeated monkey, deprived of mating rights.
In a troop of monkeys, a male monkey driven away by the alpha male, watching the multitude of females, unable to mate, repeatedly chants in his mind, "I have a pure friendship with so-and-so female monkey."
He tirelessly explains to the other monkeys, "A rabbit doesn't eat the grass near its burrow."
...
My secretary, seeing I'd ordered baijiu (Chinese liquor), pretended to be innocent and said in a coquettish voice, "..."

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