[With Ping, a beautiful 45-year-old mature woman] (01-06) Author: beingtempt

Author: beingtempt
Word Count: 17213

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(Part 1) The first time

was 5 years ago. I was 23 years old and she was 45.

I was an intern at a company, and she was a lawyer. She was very busy with work.

Meeting her was purely accidental. She added me on QQ. My QQ name at the time was quite artistic, called
"Luo Luo Zi Jin". Her verification message when she added me was "Dan Dan Qing Shan".

I thought she was a friend, so I accepted. After adding her, I realized that we didn't know each other, but I
didn't feel uncomfortable chatting with her at all, so we continued chatting.

At that time, I was interning at a company. I wasn't busy with work. Our office was full of interns, and
there was no supervision, so it was easy to chat.

She said that she found me by searching based on the region. She thought my name was nice, so she added me to chat. Her name
had the character "Ping" in it, so I always called her Sister Ping.

Later, I learned that Sister Ping was divorced and had an 18-year-old son who was about to take the college entrance exam. We talked a lot
about her son, and she even asked me how I prepared for the college entrance exam, hoping to learn from my experience.

Ping is very insightful, and her troubled love life adds a unique charm to her words.

Gradually, Ping really enjoyed chatting with me and often initiated conversations. But Ping is clever; she always manages to start a conversation with
a clever opening line, like, "I saw a quote today that really resonated with me..." A mature woman's gentleness permeates
her words.

My internship company was in a southern city, where summers were incredibly hot and humid. Our accommodations were also poor,
making it difficult . I invited Ping for a voice chat, and she agreed.

Ping's voice was soft and gentle, a little weathered, but full of depth—perfectly described as tender and lingering.
We talked a lot, and Ping said she especially enjoyed chatting with me, as it made her feel younger. However,
Ping didn't agree to show me her photo, always saying she'd get to know me better first.

After about half a month of chatting, Ping finally agreed to send me a photo, but on the condition that she see me first. I suggested a video
call , and we connected, but it was dark on Ping's end, and she wouldn't let me see her video.

I swim every day and play tennis and basketball on weekends, so I'm in pretty good shape, with my six-pack abs starting to show. Ping
was pleasantly surprised, saying she hadn't expected me to be such a handsome young man.

The lighting on my end wasn't good, so after we ended the video call, Ping sent me a photo. She was a very sophisticated
middle-aged woman. She wore a crimson work skirt, knee-length, dark high heels, and flesh-colored stockings. She had a
mole on her forehead, like Xi Meijuan. Her smile was slightly pursed, which was particularly beautiful.

Later, after seeing more photos of Ping, I noticed that she mostly wore suits, all of which fit her perfectly.
Although was already 45, she practiced yoga regularly, resulting in a fantastic figure. Combined with her elegant demeanor, she was simply stunning.

Her hair was always styled in a neat bun, clean and professional, befitting her work.

Ping had been divorced for almost a year. To escape the emotional void, she threw herself into work, but this didn't
alleviate her inner turmoil. Not wanting too many people to know, she started chatting online, and by chance,
she met me.

We hit it off immediately, quickly moving on to sex. Ping went from initial shyness and reluctance to
gradually opening up. Her voice often trembled; I could almost hear the moisture on the other end of the line.

At that time, I was inexperienced, only having longing for my girlfriend in another city over the phone. With Ping, I was undoubtedly entering
a completely different world; her mature womanly charm made my girlfriend pale in comparison.

After my internship ended, I was going home to rest for a while.

Ping's home was in the provincial capital, not far from mine. When Ping learned I was coming back, her voice brimmed with
undisguised joy. On the train back, we texted each other for most of the night.

After arriving in the provincial capital, I found a hotel, settled in, and told Ping I had arrived.

It was a Saturday afternoon, and Ping called to tell me to meet her at a coffee shop near the city center.

I was a little late on the way, and Ping was already there when I arrived.

She was wearing a denim skirt and her hair was still in a bun. She smiled gently at me, without the slightest
shyness, like an old friend. The feeling of an intellectual woman is just different.

Ping had also brought a box of freshly made pastries, and we chatted in the coffee shop.

I kept praising Ping's beauty; women all fall for that, and Ping laughed heartily, making us feel
much closer.

I kept glancing at Ping's beautiful legs; she was wearing flat sandals, her fair feet peeking out,
looking particularly sexy. My legs kept brushing against Ping's, and she must have felt it, but she didn't pull away, so
I rubbed her legs even more freely. She kept smiling at me, her speech unchanged.

Later, I rubbed her legs together and also grabbed her hand. Her hands were still soft;
it's so rare for a woman her age to maintain that.

Ping scolded me playfully, "Aren't you afraid others will see?"

I replied, "I look mature, and you look so young. To others, we'll look like a young
couple ."

Ping seemed pleased with this, playfully slapping me and saying, "You're so disrespectful."

Later, I sat down next to Ping, put my arm around her slender waist, and whispered in her ear.

Our seats were in a corner, next to several large potted plants, making it impossible to see
what was happening inside from the outside.

Ping's body was very supple, like a young girl's. She was carrying a newly published yoga magazine
, so it seems yoga really works. Although our actions were quite intimate, Ping was still shy about talking
.

I whispered in her ear how long it had been since we had sex, and Ping blushed. When I asked her how she usually satisfied her desires
, she told me not to be so direct. I asked Ping what color her underwear was, but she wouldn't answer. As I
spoke, my right hand slipped under the hem of her skirt, touching her soft waist and buttocks.

Ping was practically slumped in the booth, looking at me with soft, alluring eyes. My left hand caressed between her
legs , reaching her labia; a warm, moist sensation filled the air. Ping had been wanting this for a long time.

Our lips quickly met in a light kiss. I kissed Ping passionately, feeling like she was my
girlfriend . The allure of a mature, beautiful woman was something a naive young girl could never compare to.

Not long after, a few men came in, ordered some drinks at the table next to us, and started playing
cards loudly. The people in the cafe were annoyed but helpless; that's just how Chinese people are—they don't really consider other people's
feelings . Ping and I left the cafe.

I suggested going to my hotel, but Ping didn't object, only saying, "It's not dinner time yet, let's talk
about it after dinner."

There was a nicely maintained botanical garden near the cafe, so we snuggled up and chatted on a bench.

There weren't many people there, and we were very close.

Ping grabbed my arm and said I was really strong, then gave me a light kiss on the cheek. I put my arm around her and
gently squeezed her breasts through her denim jacket.

Ping's breasts were still very firm; she was a mature woman after all. She turned her body slightly towards me
so I could squeeze them more fully. I squeezed and released them, while my other hand caressed her
labia , which were already wet.

Suddenly, it started to drizzle, but luckily I had brought an umbrella, and we became even more unrestrained under it. We kissed and caressed each other.

Ping gently placed her hand on my pants and asked, "Is it okay?"

I said, "Of course."

Ping then stroked my penis through my pants. I released my penis from my underwear myself, and Ping
caressed me with alternating pressure.

This was my first intimate contact with a mature woman, and I suddenly ejaculated. Ping laughed at me, calling me a silly boy, and took out a tissue
to wipe me clean.

The rain was getting heavier, so we quickly went to a circular corridor nearby to take shelter. There weren't many people there. I
started getting hard again, so I hugged Ping from behind and rubbed her plump buttocks. Ping knowingly and gently rotated her hips, sending
a shiver down my spine, almost making me ejaculate again.

At this moment, I was burning with desire and whispered in her ear, "Sister, I want it."

Unexpectedly, Ping smiled gently and slightly raised her buttocks. This was clearly an indication that it
was okay here too. I really didn't expect such a gentle and intellectual woman to be so wild as to agree to have sex with me in the park at dusk
.

I pulled up her denim midi skirt, pulled her white panties down to her knees, and then
penetrated .

Ping's lower body was warm and moist, her grip was tight, and it felt like heaven inside.

I thrust violently, and Ping bit her lip hard to keep quiet. Watching the occasional
passerby in the distance was incredibly stimulating.

After a while, I felt like I was about to climax. I said, "Sister, I'm going to cum, can I cum inside?"

Ping turned her head and looked at me with seductive eyes, saying, "Cum, silly boy, it's okay."

What man could resist such stimulation? I climaxed quickly. I pulled out, watching the thick semen slowly flow from Ping's
beautiful little hole. She wiped me clean with a tissue first, then wiped herself.

Ping lowered her skirt, revealing herself as a dignified, beautiful, and mature career woman. Women, when they want to be
two-faced, are truly unmatched by men.

That night, Ping had something to do, so she didn't go to the hotel with me. Before leaving, I coaxed and pleaded for Ping's white, soaking
wet lace panties. Ping scolded me for being a troublesome little devil and silly boy.

When a beautiful woman stands up, lifts one leg, and takes off her underwear, the sensuality makes me dizzy.

Our relationship continues to this day.

(II) Beautiful Nostalgia

Regardless, having a place to vent and share one's private matters is always a
good thing .

In reality, we wear too many layers of armor and have too many identities. Only online can we quietly
find ourselves again. Although this is a place to discuss eroticism, it speaks to the most authentic
things deep within our hearts. Rousseau said, "Only when I am alone at night can I repent for the sins I committed during the day."

I am not a Christian and do not have the habit of repentance, but only when I am alone at night can I
peel back the layers of myself, observe, reflect, and even dissect the most fundamental content of my subconscious.

Here, there are many experts, many brothers who have slept with countless women with ease. I am not that good, and most importantly,
I am not that eager to try new things.

I am simply seeking someone who allows me to be quiet and appreciate, seeking the feeling of being able to calm down and slowly appreciate
.

Ping was undoubtedly such a woman: elegant, serene, gentle, and charming.

She was exceptionally well-mannered, never losing her composure in anger or joy. That such a woman could be
abandoned shows how short-sighted we men are: driven by novelty, we excessively ignore
the already beautiful scenery around us.

Of course, her ex-husband deeply regretted it, but I won't go into that here.

After a short period of moving around, I finally settled on a job in another city not far from the provincial capital.

With today's advanced high-speed rail, it's a quick trip. In the first year I knew Ping, I
took , and she would try her best to make time for our rendezvous.

I was also very familiar with the provincial capital, and we explored many places together.

After knowing Ping for a long time, I learned that her family background was quite good. Before liberation, the largest silk shop in the province
was her family business. After liberation, her grandfather was quite insightful and was among the first to welcome the government's public-private partnership
policy, thus allowing their illustrious family fortune to continue, albeit in a different form—no longer a large-scale merchant.

Ping has over ten cheongsams, in long, medium, and short styles.

My love for cheongsams began with Ping. Ping has a slender waist and full hips, an excellent waist-to-hip ratio,
high , and fair skin. When she wears a cheongsam, she looks like a beauty straight out of a Shanghai 1949 magazine. In
an era when many people wore cheongsams like simple jackets, Ping already knew how to style them perfectly.

The first time Ping wore a cheongsam was when we went to a Western restaurant. I know a bit about Western food, and seeing a newly opened
restaurant, I invited Ping to join me.

That evening, I wore a brown plaid casual suit. I spent half of my university years
abroad as an exchange student and quite admired the sophisticated style of Europeans.

On the phone, I suggested Ping dress more femininely. After making a reservation at the restaurant, I
took taxi there. Soon after, I saw Ping's car slowly pull up.

The moment she opened the car door after parking, I was immediately captivated. She wore a dark green long
cheongsam , a milky white pearl necklace, and light makeup, with her familiar high bun hairstyle.

Seeing Ping's long, slender legs beneath the high slit of her cheongsam, even the waiters at the door bent over thirty degrees more than usual,
eagerly leading her into the restaurant.

We chose a booth by the window on the second floor.

As soon as we sat down, I said, "Sister, you look so beautiful today, you've completely captivated me."

Ping said, "Wasn't I beautiful before?"

I said, "You're beautiful every day, but especially beautiful today."

We each ordered a steak, which we placed under the long tablecloth. My legs rubbed against Ping's
thighs .

Ping kicked off one of her high heels and playfully teased between my legs. I was so
aroused that I lost all interest in the meal; all I wanted was to finish quickly and get back to the hotel to take Ping right there and then.

There weren't many customers on the second floor, and the waiters were all idling on the first floor. I grabbed Ping's foot and pressed it between my
legs, my lower body throbbing uncontrollably, letting Ping feel my warmth and passion.

Ping had been smirking just moments before, but when her small feet gently pressed against my penis, her expression
changed, her face flushing red. Clearly, she was aroused too.

Her toes twitched, fiddling with my thin pants. She started by leaning forward to eat, but later
put down her knife and fork, leaning back in her chair to easily stretch her legs under the table for a luxurious foot massage.

I was already rock hard and asked her, "Sister, are you leaking?"

Ping was very sensitive, a woman made of water, her vagina overflowing when aroused. Ping

smiled mysteriously, found a napkin on the table, and then fiddled with it under her cheongsam
for a while. When she put her hand back on the table, the napkin was covered in a glistening liquid, even stringy –
clearly Ping's love juice.

I took the napkin and wickedly licked it; the strong, feminine scent was intoxicating.

Suddenly, Ping told me to open my mouth, cut a piece of beef, and fed it to me with her fork. Before I could even react,
Sister Ping grinned mischievously and asked, "Is the honey-glazed meat delicious?"

I was truly impressed by Sister Ping's creativity in calling a mixture of love juice and beef "honey-glazed meat."
Sister Ping's understanding of romance only fueled my arousal, making my lower body throb.

From then on, whenever I saw honey-glazed meat, I would think of Sister Ping and that languid, ambiguous Western restaurant.

The meal was ruined; even the most delicious leftovers tasted bland. I quickly finished a portion and
drove with Sister Ping to my hotel.

As soon as we entered the room, I hugged Sister Ping tightly and kissed her passionately until she slapped my back.

After catching her breath, Sister Ping scolded me playfully, "You little rascal, you almost suffocated me."

Her lipstick smudged on my lips, feeling slightly gritty, but quickly melted away when I licked it off
.

Wearing a cheongsam, Ping's breasts and slender waist were incredibly beautiful. I pressed her down in front of the large writing desk,
making her bend over and lean against it. I lifted her cheongsam and kissed her beautiful legs and full buttocks from behind.

Ping enjoyed all of this, but she didn't like me kissing her vulva or giving her oral sex. After asking me, I learned that
Ping believed men should be upright and that licking a woman's vulva was a sign of weakness. Of course, I
corrected her thinking, and I teased her about it quite a bit afterward. We enjoyed our time together for a long time before going to bed.

I didn't let Ping take off her cheongsam; instead, I lay down and had her take off her underwear and straddle my face. Ping blushed
, spread her legs, straddled my face, and lifted her cheongsam with her hands. Before me, a bright red
rose bloomed…

What followed was an earth-shattering battle. We did it countless times, and Ping was starting to feel overwhelmed.

My favorite position was with Ping lying on her side, and me holding her from behind, my penis thrusting in and out.
One hand caressed Ping's full breasts, which were a little soft but still very elastic, while the other hand stroked her beautiful buttocks. This
was the most attractive part of Ping.

I said, "Sister, I love this position. I feel like you're finally in my arms."

Ping turned her face and kissed me, "Silly boy, haven't I always been in your arms?"

Ping's tightly closed legs made her wet little hole grip even more noticeably. We both loved this. Ping
reached the peak of orgasm again and again amidst moans of varying lengths.

When Ping called me, she always added a "little o" to her name: Little silly boy, little rascal, little rascal, or she would
add "little" before the last character of my name.

I loved the faint wrinkles at the corners of Ping's eyes that she could no longer hide, and I kissed them gently again and again. When you fall in love with someone
, everything about them is perfect.

Ping would sometimes travel to my city for work. I also went to university here.

Once, she asked me to ride my bicycle with her on the back of the bike around campus. Our school was very big.
Ping hugged my waist and said she liked this feeling, as if she had returned to her student days. She said if anyone you know
saw me, just say I'm your relative. It felt wonderful to be hugged by Sister Ping, like having my girlfriend.

When I stopped my bike, I found Sister Ping in tears. I asked her what was wrong, but she wouldn't say, just
shook head. Maybe she was thinking about her university days, those bygone youthful years.

Sister Ping's calligraphy is beautiful. On my birthday, she gave me a calligraphy scroll: "A Bright Future Ahead." On her
birthday , I reciprocated with a scroll: "A Heart Like a Duckweed."

Sister Ping, who practiced for a long time before daring to present it, is as meticulous as dust. While looking at my photos, she noticed I always wore the same tie with my suits, so she gave me an
Armani tie, a belt, and a pair of cufflinks.

When I was on a business trip in Europe, I also bought Ping a watch, which she loved and still
wears every day.

To me, Ping is like a mother, a wife, a mentor, a girlfriend, and a
lover .

Once, I encountered a major setback and felt incredibly wronged. Although men don't easily shed tears,
I couldn't help but burst into tears in front of Ping.

Ping didn't say anything, but simply held me in her arms. We just kept holding each other like that. I was particularly drawn to the warmth of Ping's
breasts ; they calmed me. This feeling, like I wrote in the title, was a kind of beautiful nostalgia.

Ping also liked to snuggle in my arms, saying she loved listening to my heartbeat.

I once asked Ping why she liked me, and she said she liked my calmness, my sunny disposition, and my simplicity—qualities that the slick, oily older men
around lacked.

Of course, I also loved Ping's gentle charm and mature beauty.

A mature woman and a young man—the most exciting combination, and also the most fitting. This is a little part of Ping and my love story.
There are many small details worth remembering. If you like it, please write down your
feelings . This is a sign of respect for the author and also a motivation for me to continue writing. If you don't like it, please just
laugh it off; it's just one person's memory. Only the person drinking the water knows whether it's hot or cold.

(III) A Sensual

Journey Human nature is like a seed; the harder the shell in reality, the stronger the desire to break through.
In reality, I have no way to write about these feelings, no one understands, and I can't express my feelings. Knowing about this forum, I found
an outlet for my emotions, so I used my clumsy writing to record my feelings, so that when I look back on them in the future, they will have a
place to rest my memories. I carefully crafted every word so that you wouldn't waste your time reading it.

No matter what kind of writing it is, only when you have a deep accumulation of your own feelings can it have charm and lasting fragrance.

Just like Dream of the Red Chamber, it can be read a hundred times without getting tired of it. As for the popular online time-travel novels nowadays, you may feel
fresh when you read them for the first time, but after putting them down, you will never want to open them again, and at most you will remember the name of the protagonist.

My feelings for Ping were complex, and Ping felt the same way about me—a mixture of maternal love,
sibling affection, and romantic love.

Ping once told me that she was always overflowing with maternal love when she was with me, unable to refuse any of my requests.

I reciprocated, and we tried new and exciting things together time and time again, enjoying it immensely.

I'd seen photos of Ping's son; he was strikingly handsome. I guessed his personality might be somewhat
similar , which was one of the reasons Ping couldn't bear to part with me.

No matter what I said—cynical or joking—Ping never interrupted, always listening quietly.

I asked Ping why she was so patient, and she said, "I like you talking." She offered no further
explanation .

Our mutual care quickly deepened. For a while, Ping's firm took on a very
complex case, and she was busy investigating and gathering evidence every day; she looked exhausted.

I felt sorry for her, but besides advising her not to bring work home and not to put too much pressure on herself, I had no other
good advice . Ping smiled and touched my face, saying, "Don't you still care about me?"

For a while, I was so busy I could barely breathe, my eating habits were irregular, and my gastroenteritis flared up again, causing frequent cramps.

I told Ping I wasn't feeling well during our phone call.

Ping spoke calmly, telling me to eat and take my medicine on time. But suddenly there was silence.
I called her a few times, and then I heard crying on the other end of the line.

I quickly asked what was wrong, and Ping sobbed for a while before telling me she felt sorry for me, working hard alone out there,
and having to tough it out even when I was sick. I don't know if her feelings were more for my son or for a
lover . But I was deeply moved and have remembered it ever since.

One day I received a text message from Ping: "How wonderful it would be if I could live to 122!"

I replied, "Great! Keep it up! You should break the world record! But why 122?"

Ping immediately replied, "That way, I can see you live to 100."

My nose tingled, and I almost burst into tears. This silly, thoughtful woman!

Once, Ping and I went to the mountains outside the provincial capital for a weekend getaway. It was already late when we arrived, and I
was tired from the train journey to the capital, so I just wanted to sleep.

This time, Ping wouldn't let me off the hook. She said in a sickeningly sweet voice, "Little darling, really want to sleep
?"

She kissed my ears and lips, gently stroking my shoulders and chest. Then she pulled out her
secret weapon : standing up with her back to me, swaying her beautiful, full hips in front of me.

I can't resist Ping's buttocks—slim waist, plump hips, fair and moist—I
can never get enough of touching and kissing them.

This time, Ping was wearing casual shorts, and lying on the bed, I could see the firm flesh of her thighs jiggling and
her buttocks swaying. My hormones surged, and I grabbed Ping, pushed her onto
the bed, kissed her passionately, and started undressing her.

Ping gently resisted me, afraid I'd tear her clothes, and slapped my face: "Silly boy, don't
move, I'll do it myself."

When Ping stripped naked and lay on the bed with her big buttocks sticking out, those few dozen seconds felt like an
eternity .

Ping's buttocks were full and round, with a plump curve, her dark labia hidden among the soft, lush pubic hair
. I couldn't wait to climb on top of her and kiss her delicate vulva.

Ping knew I loved her buttocks, and she always let me kiss them thoroughly before we made love.

After kissing for a while, Ping's pubic hair was soaked with her juices, and I licked my lips. She was also grasping her breasts
with her hands , softly moaning.

I guided my rock-hard penis into Ping's paradise, all the way in. Her juices flowed freely, a muddy, swampy
mess .

Ping gripped the sheets tightly, burying her head in the pillow, her body arched into a triangle like a female animal with her back
arched , even her toes were tense. I could only hear muffled moans.

This time, it didn't last long because I was too excited and ejaculated quickly.

I always ejaculated inside Ping, and she liked the feeling, saying it was warm and comfortable. We cuddled together
for a while, then showered and went to sleep.

The next day, we went hiking and swimming at the scenic area.

Ping simply tied her hair up, wore the Prada sunglasses I gave her, a white tennis cap,
a small crossbody bag, and casual outdoor sportswear—light and simple, her shorts barely reaching her buttocks.

From behind, her slender waist was incredibly alluring. Who says only the King of Chu liked slender waists? Men like slender waists, okay?

The mountain wasn't high, but the scenery was beautiful, lush and green.

The day was relatively simple. I told Ping about the origins of basalt and granite, and Ping, as
always, listened attentively to everything I said.

In the evening, we ate at a farmhouse restaurant near a hotel. There was a very unique local grass carp there, cooked deliciously,
melting in your mouth, almost like it was made of water.

After dinner, we strolled back to our accommodation. Although the scenic area had just opened, the facilities were quite good, with winding but
flat tree-lined paths leading to the entrance of each hotel.

I pulled Ping to sit on a bench behind a willow tree. Ping knew I had ulterior motives, but
she was helpless .

Night had fallen, and the tourists were dwindling. Nestled against the mountains and facing the river, it was a perfect place for intimacy.

I love kissing, and I had kissed Ping's soft lips for countless hours. Ping's body gradually...
She slumped into my arms, a low moan escaping her throat, which I silenced with my lips, her beautiful
breasts rising and falling. We held each other tightly for a long time before finally separating.

I gently brushed Ping's hair aside and pressed her head down. Ping immediately knew what I was about to do,
playfully scolding me as a little rascal, then leaned down, untied the elastic band, pulled down my shorts, and took my engorged
penis into her mouth.

Ping's oral skills were superb, her tongue delicate and her lips fiery red. Her saliva lubricated my penis perfectly, making
my movements in and out of her mouth effortless and without any teeth-like sensation.

I loved Ping's hair, the ends curled in large waves, the top straight, slightly dyed burgundy.

I stroked Ping's hair back and forth, my mind filled with waves of pleasure.

This time, Ping kept me in her mouth for quite a while before I finally ejaculated, filling her mouth with my semen.

Ping was about to spit it onto the tissue in her hand when I stopped her. Then I did something surprising and
kissed Ping's lips directly.

Ping's mouth was full of my semen, and she was at a loss. I sucked on Ping's tongue, our tongues intertwined
, and my semen was exchanged between our tightly kissed mouths.

I could feel the foam overflowing to the corners of my mouth, but I didn't care. We
kissed like we were in a pile of melting ice cream, of course, there was a fishy smell, and it was the first time I knew what my semen tasted like.

Ping hugged me tightly, her body trembling. I knew it was because of excitement, this was
a new feeling that Ping had never experienced before. We tacitly swallowed the semen and kissed the stains on the corners of our mouths clean.

This trip made Ping like me even more. Because I made her feel pampered with my actions.

(IV) A Feast of Romance

Love is like a homesick impulse to find a peaceful home. No matter what kind of feelings, we always
hope to find a calm harbor for our hearts.

When we are young, no matter how strong we are, there will always be times when we are lost during the transition period of our lives. At this time, if
someone can guide us to the future, we will be grateful for life.

Pingjie was the one who gently guided me through a crucial period of my growth. Maslow's hierarchy of needs
theory states that the lowest level is physiological needs, and the next level is safety needs. Pingjie provided me with abundant
love and security at both levels. At the same time, her dedication, respect, and guidance helped me grow and learn a great deal.

I appreciate fine things. When recalling my past with Pingjie, I always describe a detail or scene
with remarkable precision. I'm naturally a meticulous person, and when I close my eyes and recall those simple yet profound details, I
often feel a sense of quiet contemplation.

Once, while on a business trip abroad, I saw a nude-colored diamond ring on sale. After calculating the costs and getting the tax refund,
it wasn't too expensive , so I bought it and placed it in a pretty little red heart-shaped box. After buying it, I kept thinking about
how to surprise Pingjie. On the plane back home, I came up with a plan.
Although and jet lag, I only slept one night in my rented apartment before heading to Pingjie's city.

Ping said she wanted to give me a welcome-back dinner and would pick me up directly from the train station.

When I came out of the high-speed rail station, Ping was waiting for me at the exit,
standing with her arms crossed and legs slightly crossed, looking very charming.

That day, Ping wore a simple-colored dress and peep-toe high heels, elegant and sexy. If young
girls are graceful and poised, then Ping is a rare and beautiful orchid in a secluded valley.

I went up and gave Ping a firm hug, and she was overjoyed. We went to the parking lot together to get
the car. Even on that short drive, I secretly held Ping's hand a few times, but she playfully pushed it away each time: "You little
rascal, there are a lot of people here, be careful."

After arriving at the parking lot, we shared a deep kiss in the car, relieving our longing.

Ping's gentleness always melts my heart, freeing me from any kind of fatigue and making me feel energetic
and vigorous.

In the back seat, Ping held me in her arms like a mother holding a baby. I lay on my back, my face tilted upwards, and
Ping leaned down to kiss me. Ping's hair fell obediently from her temples, covering my forehead. Her eyes were
gently closed, her eyelashes trembling slightly, her beauty beyond compare.

We kissed for a long time, then Ping patted me and said, "Okay, let's go eat."

I reluctantly pulled away, and Ping took out a small mirror from her bag to touch up her makeup. From the side, Ping's
face was gentle and elegant. I said, "Sister, you remind me of a poem."

She asked, "What poem?"

I said, "A delicate bun, tinkling jade pendants, pomegranate blossoms reflecting rosy cheeks."

Ping laughed heartily, "I'm not that good."

I said, "Sister, you've always been this good in my heart."

We returned to the front seat and slowly drove out of the parking lot to the restaurant. Ping had already made a reservation.

On the way, I suddenly had another mischievous idea and asked Ping to stop at a fruit stand.

Ping said, "Want some fruit? We can buy it after we eat."

I said, "Just stop here, I want to buy it here."

Ping parked the car by the roadside, and I ran down to buy a bunch of bright red grapes. They were like agate, large
and very beautiful. Ping didn't ask any questions; it was a small matter not worth asking.

When we arrived at the restaurant parking lot, Ping turned off the engine and prepared to get out of the car.

I tugged at Ping: "Sister, wait a minute."

Ping said, "Put your bag in the trunk, you don't need to carry it."

I said, "That's not what I meant..." I mischievously took the grapes out: "I want to eat honey-glazed grapes."

Ping exclaimed and smacked my head: "What are you thinking about all day?"

I said, "Didn't you teach me? Honey-glazed meat."

Actually, I learned it from "White Deer Plain." If you don't understand, go read the book; it's also in "Ruined Capital."

Ping thought it was dirty and was also worried that the grapes wouldn't come out after being put in. I said, "When you walk, the opening faces downwards,
how could you not get them out?" After much persuasion, Ping finally agreed.

I wiped the grapes again and again with a wet wipe before I could see them disappear one by one into Sister Ping's equally delicate
labia, six in total. Sister Ping pulled her panties up again and again, afraid they would fall out on the road.

Sister Ping carefully opened the car door and took small, shuffling steps forward, as if she couldn't walk anymore. I
followed Sister Ping slowly behind, reaching out to help her when she made exaggerated movements, wanting to laugh but not daring to, afraid of
angering her.

Despite my caution, I still heard Sister Ping let out a soft cry, and one of the round grapes closest to the entrance of her vagina...
The grapes slipped out and rolled far away on the floor, thankfully no one saw.

This was also a Western restaurant, and Ping always said I was a "foreign worshipper." But every time she said that, I retorted, "
Have you ever seen someone with such a strong foundation in Chinese culture who is also so foreign worshipper?" Ping would always give me
a look that was a mixture of anger, affection, and pity. I stopped Ping from taking them out, saying I'd just put them in, no rush.

Ping ate the meal nervously; I finished mine while she only ate a small portion, then pushed her knife and fork away, saying
she couldn't eat anymore. I finished most of the rest for her.

Then I said, "Sister, you can take them out now." The long tablecloth became our second beautiful cover. Ping
frowned, with an incredulous expression, her hands rustling under the table as she took the remaining five
grapes out of her vagina, placed them on a small plate in front of her, and shyly pushed them towards me.

Such sexy grapes! Each grape I picked up was dripping with sticky love juice, making the glistening grapes
even more radiant, creating an unparalleled visual and psychological impact. I savored them, the faint saltiness lingering in my mouth,
reluctant to swallow. I fed the last one to Sister Ping, and although she was very unwilling, I fed her
one , which she swallowed as if it were poison.

On the way back to the car, Sister Ping pouted, like an angry little girl, which was incredibly cute.

When we were almost at Sister Ping's community, she let me out of the car because the security guard there knew her well. She drove in
first , and I went in myself. To a young man like me with a backpack, so ordinary, the security guard
didn't even bother to give me a second glance.

Arriving at Sister Ping's detached house, I knocked on the door, and she opened it to let me in. In the porch, there was
another bear hug and a long, deep kiss.

Sister Ping's son had already started university, and she lived alone now.

I hugged Sister Ping, kissing her all the way to the bedroom, threw her on the bed, and stripped her naked. As I parted Ping
's legs and penetrated her, Ping let out a long moan. Her legs were crossed and wrapped around my waist,
holding me tightly, enduring my repeated, forceful thrusts.

Soon, Ping climaxed, her lower body contracting in waves of sweat, gripping me tightly.

I have great stamina. I didn't let Ping go. I stood up, letting Ping hook her arms around my neck, her legs wrapped around
my waist. I lifted Ping's large buttocks, raising her body in the air,
making love in a position she had never used before.

Each time she fell, she slammed hard against my penis, penetrating it completely. Ping's entire weight was
slammed into the depths of her vagina. Ping's cries were incoherent, her seemingly weak arms gripping my arms
tightly.

My rhythm wasn't too fast. Each time I lifted her up, Ping would bite her lip and let out
a soft , but when her body landed on my penis, that sound would immediately turn into a soul-stirring "Ah!"

Ping kissed me frantically.

Not long after, I put Ping back on the bed. I turned her beautiful, full buttocks over and used a rear-entry
position to fill her with my semen.

Afterwards, we took a shower, and I dressed Ping in a long chiffon dress, the kind with a bohemian style,
very elegant, somewhat like a wedding dress.

I led Ping to the living room, knelt on one knee, took out a ring, and said to Ping, "Sister, marry me."

Ping knew this was just a game I was playing, and she covered her mouth and laughed, her body shaking with laughter. But after
a while, her laughter turned into crying, and she covered her face with her hands, sobbing uncontrollably, her body trembling.

I helped Ping sit on the sofa, put my arm around her, and comforted her. Ping cried and called my
name , "You can't do this! You can't do this!"

I knew Ping was deeply moved; she remembered her unhappy past, and the contrast was too
painful . I apologized and gently kissed her forehead and face.

After a long time, Ping finally stopped sobbing, lay on her side on the sofa, saying nothing, her head resting on my chest.

Straightforward longing is futile, so why not indulge in melancholy as a form of pure madness?

(V) A graceful journey with a 45-year-old mature woman .

Time is a one-way flowing river; stepping into it leaves footprints. Whether you've cried or laughed, hated or
loved , your past has shaped who you are today. In the swamp of youth, the depths are unclear, but Sister Ping is a gentle guide, soothing my wounds

with her tenderness . Falling in love with this mature woman was my own choice. A man's preference for mature or obedient women is determined by his genes and upbringing, and has nothing to do with others. Sister Ping is a bright person, always smiling gently when talking to people. Unlike other aloof office ladies , Sister Ping has always had a sweet image. She often says she wants to be a bright woman, aging gracefully. This is even more apt in English: iamaginggraceful. People with bright personalities are usually kind as well. One rainy day, we were taking a walk in another city when we encountered a motorcyclist who had slipped and fallen, his head broken, lying on the ground groaning in pain. Passersby all shunned him; these days, meddling in other people's business isn't wise. Ping went over to him, and I couldn't pull her away. Ping dialed 120 (emergency services), held an umbrella for the motorcyclist, and waited until the ambulance arrived. Later, I asked her if she wasn't afraid the motorcyclist would try to extort money from her, and Ping just smiled faintly: "What's there to be afraid of? I'm a lawyer." I once gave Ping a pair of earrings, along with a handwritten copy of Yu Guangzhong's poem: "I will give you silver earrings, dangling on your delicate little earlobes. Guarding your precious rosy dimples, like little guardians protecting you from evil. Guarding the faint smile on your lips, and the beautiful scenery beneath your brows. Not allowing the spies of time to lay down fine crow's feet. Or the hidden lines on your forehead, secretly stealing your charm. Oh, I will give you silver earrings." Ping loved them. From then on, these earrings often dangled from her earlobes, replacing her pearl earrings and preserving her charm for me. She said, "Little lad, you're really good at charming women. With your talent, you're sure to win over woman you like." We often went on road trips, and every time we went out, I would ask Ping to bring at least one cheongsam. A simple white dress, delicately drawn eyebrows, a slender waist, high breasts, jade arms, and shapely hips—her elegant style seemed to blend into the scenery. One weekend, as usual, we went out together, spending the night together. Near the hotel was a large park with an artificial lake and rockery, and Chinese-style lampposts lining both sides— very beautiful. After dinner, we went for a walk. Ping wore a pink cheongsam and mid-heeled sandals, very…

Alluring. We walked to a pavilion on a small hill, overlooking most of the park, with the park
wall behind it, and few pedestrians around. People strolled around the lake in twos and threes after dinner.

Only the two of us were in the pavilion. I looked at Ping's beautiful figure from behind and thought this was a great
place for some outdoor fun. I pulled Ping close, and she cried out, her plump bottom landing on me. I whispered, "Sis,
I've thought about it, let's do it here."

Ping struggled to get out of my arms, saying, "You little rascal, no way! Aren't you afraid someone will come?"

I said, "Sis, don't worry, there aren't many people here. We did it last time when it was brighter than this. I'll keep an eye
on our surroundings."

Ping shook her head like a rattle-drum. I had to coax her, analyzing the perfect time, place, and people for us,
telling her it was an excellent location for outdoor fun. Ping finally agreed, half-heartedly.

I originally intended to push Sister Ping against the railing by the pavilion and enter from behind, but that position was too
wild ; if someone came, I wouldn't be able to stop myself. In the end, I sat on the pavilion bench, and Sister Ping pulled down her panties and put them in her bag
. She straddled my lap, facing me, and guided my penis slowly into her honeypot.
To outsiders, this action looked like a girl riding on her boyfriend, being affectionate.

Sister Ping had already become aroused during the earlier bargaining, her honeypot overflowing with moisture. Sister Ping's beautiful flesh
was always my favorite. I hugged Sister Ping's waist tightly, and she wrapped her arms around my neck, her body
moving , stroking my penis.

The night was our best cover. Thinking of a mature, beautiful woman sitting on me and fucking me, my penis swelled.
Every time Sister Ping's body fell, I pressed her body down hard, letting my glans penetrate to the deepest part of her
honeypot . When I rose, I squeezed my arms tightly, pulling Sister Ping's honeypot from my penis, and continued the next
thrust.

We weren't going very fast, and Ping was gradually enjoying herself. She went from biting her lip to soft
"Oh...oh!" Her long hair cascaded down her shoulders as she kissed me passionately. Our
bodies made soft slapping sounds and the sticky sounds of fluids mingling—it felt wonderful.

Ping's breathing was initially erratic, as she softly called out, "Little rascal...little rascal..." while moving her body
up and down , gradually reaching a climax.

My hands moved down to Ping's beautiful buttocks, kneading her soft flesh and giving her
more pressure to make the thrusting smoother.

After a while, Ping twisted her body back and forth, turning the thrusting motion of my penis into a undulating motion inside her,
grinding .

After what seemed like an eternity, my mind went blank, and my body tensed. I whispered,
"Sister, I'm going to cum!"

Ping only replied with one word: "Come...come...come..." while her hips moved rapidly.

Under the warm, moist pressure of Ping's grip, I finally ejaculated fully, filling
the depths of her vagina.

Ping's arched back seemed to have suddenly lost its spine, and she leaned on my shoulder, panting. Ping was covered in fragrant sweat,
and we held each other tightly, I could hear her still rapid heartbeat.

After a while, Ping got off me, a pool of semen mixed with her vaginal fluid dripping onto my thigh, which I
wiped with a tissue.

When Ping tried to wipe herself, I snatched the tissue away: "Sister, let's just go back to the room like this."

Ping wouldn't agree, and I wouldn't let her put on underwear, so Ping
walked along naked from the waist down, her face filled with disbelief, her legs twitching as she whispered.

Ping kept tugging at her cheongsam the whole way, afraid that others would discover she wasn't wearing underwear, and even more afraid that the semen would leak out.

But I clearly saw a trail of semen slide down the inside of her cheongsam, reflecting the light under the streetlights,
though it wasn't very noticeable unless you looked closely. I became even more excited, holding Ping's hand and
deliberately slowing her down, especially under the streetlights. And so, Ping, with our semen and vaginal fluids mixed in,
walked back to the room, both frightened and exhausted.

Back in the room, the first thing she did was go to the bathroom to wash up. When she came out, she gave me a good spanking:
"You're so bad, so bad!"

I begged for forgiveness, then seized the opportunity to lift Ping up by the waist and lay her back on the bed. After the
intense visual impact, I was rock hard again. I spread Ping's legs and kissed
the spot where we had just made love.

This time, Ping was very proactive, letting me lie down, straddling me, and bringing her round buttocks to my mouth,
licking my penis herself.

Ping is now quite used to being licked; we often do 69.

I lifted Ping's cheongsam up to her hips and kissed her entire buttocks and her already slightly darkened labia with all my heart.

I used the tip of my tongue to smear Ping's love juice onto her anus and gently pushed it with my tongue. I loved everything about Ping;
everything about her was clean.

Ping hadn't accepted anal sex yet, but she tacitly allowed me to kiss her anus and seemed to enjoy it.
Ping and I licked each other like we were in a competition, but in the end, Ping's skill was superior.
With , my semen erupted in Ping's mouth.

Ping's mouth received my ejaculation. As I slowly calmed down from the spasms, she climbed off me and
went to the bathroom to wash up.

Ping, thinking of my health, didn't allow me to do it too many times a day, and at this point, pleading and cajoling were
no longer effective . She often stroked my hair and said, "Silly boy, I'm yours now. Don't hurt yourself, or you won't be able to
come see me!"

When Ping and I went out, on rare occasions, I would persuade her to wear a very sexy bra,
the kind that supports the lower edge of the breasts but doesn't cover the nipples at all, making the breasts look perky and beautiful.

Ping would always wear sunglasses at this time, her head lowered, afraid of being seen, looking particularly shy and cute. I
would admire her beauty from her side. A good woman is like a good book; as long as you read it carefully, there will always be new
charm to be revealed.

(VI) Dancing with a 45-year-old beautiful woman

There is no absolute light in the world, nor is there absolute darkness. Everyone has secrets.

When I was with Ping, I felt like we were a pair of dancers in full regalia,
dancing freely in a place where no one could see us. Like two people walking hand in hand in brocade at night, only they knew
each other's beauty.

We could hear each other's heartbeats, feel each other's breath, and touch each other's warmth, as if we were far away.
At times, we seemed inseparable, like lips and teeth.

Ping and I often said goodnight to each other, but we didn't text each other every night. Our warm experiences were like a
gentle melody, helping me fall asleep peacefully.

Ping is a very gentle woman, always able to express her thoughts in a way I can easily understand.

For a while, I was very busy and neglected Ping. She missed me but didn't want to bother me, so she
texted me: "I've learned a few new dishes recently, and I think they're pretty good. Come and try them sometime."

I couldn't help but smile when I read it. This clever woman seemed to be saying to me, "The flowers are blooming on the path; you may slowly
return." Just a few words, yet infinitely tender.

Once, in Prague, Czech Republic, I came to the Old Town Square, the Prague
Square .

It was a winter day, and the square wasn't very big. A group of middle-aged people in long dresses and traditional clothing were slowly dancing,
while some young people were playing music nearby. It was a unique kind of gentleness under the sunlight. I went to the post office next door and bought a
postcard with a picture of the dark green old church in the square and the beautiful red-roofed houses next to it. I wrote two lines of lyrics
on it: "The flock of white doves with their backs to the setting sun, the scene is too beautiful for me to bear." I mailed it to Sister Ping.

Two weeks later, Sister Ping sent me a photo. Her slender, white fingers were holding my postcard, and next to it,
she had written another line of lyrics in pencil: "I dance and twirl alone." I immediately wanted to fly to Sister Ping's
side.

Not long after I returned to China, it was Christmas. I spent Christmas Eve with Sister Ping. Sister Ping picked
me up at the high-speed rail station. When we got home, it was still early, not yet dinner time.

I still missed Sister Ping's line, "I dance and twirl alone," and wanted to see her dance.

Sister Ping refused, saying it wasn't a performance, and it would be silly to dance only for me. No matter how much I pleaded, Sister Ping
wouldn't budge; she knew my tricks all too well. I said, "Then teach me ballroom dancing," and she finally agreed.

Ping is an excellent ballroom dancer, having started in her youth.

She specially changed into a green V-neck long dress, applied simple makeup, and wore earrings and a necklace. The dress was paired with
a gold belt, making her look stunning. She knew I loved her exquisite appearance.

Looking at Ping's shimmering lipstick and graceful figure, I began to flatter her again: "Sister, I just
remembered two more phrases to describe you."

Ping said, "What compliments do you have for me now? Tell me."

I said, enunciating each word clearly, "Cherry lips, willow waist."

Ping smiled broadly; it's a truth that women of any age love to be complimented on their beauty.

I learned ballroom dancing in my freshman year of college, but hadn't practiced in a long time and had long forgotten everything. Faced with someone like me with virtually no
experience, Ping practically had to teach me from scratch.

I held Ping's soft waist, and she held my shoulders. We
swayed . Ping kept correcting my clumsy steps, telling me not to rush, or I'd lose my footing.

Her long hair cascaded down her back, exuding charm.

As we danced, I wanted to kiss her. Ping playfully turned her head and pinched my shoulder: "Aren't you supposed to be dancing
? Getting distracted again?"

After several attempts, I finally managed to kiss her cheek. You probably
can't guess : I was wondering who coined the idiom "to kiss her sweetheart." How wonderful!

I gripped Ping's soft little hands tighter and tighter, and my embrace around her waist tightened as well.

Ping scolded me for my impulsive actions, but her slender waist was under my control. With a little effort, Ping
's lower abdomen pressed against mine. Our ballroom dance turned into friction, a grinding of our genitals, and my penis uncontrollably
hardened, pressing against my pants.

Ping smiled at me, no longer seriously teaching me to dance, and playfully scolded, "I
knew you were fickle." Then she spun around with her soft lower body, looking very uncomfortable.

My glans felt an unprecedented tingling sensation. I let go of Ping's hands and hugged her waist tightly. I loved the feeling of possessing her
completely , safe and happy. Her firm breasts pressed against my chest. I stroked her
hair, and Ping buried her head in my chest, her eyelashes trembling.

I kissed Ping's bare skin inch by inch—her forehead, the tip of her nose, her cheeks, her earlobes, her lips. Gentle
, tender kisses invaded downwards.

Because she was wearing a dress, I could only caress Ping's trembling breasts through the fabric. I slowly squatted down and lifted
Ping's skirt. Since we were at home, she wasn't wearing stockings or pantyhose.

Ping just stood there; we were perfectly in sync. I loved Ping's plump yet long thighs, and I also
loved the two blooming, moist peach blossoms beneath her black panties.

I kissed Ping's thighs, and her body swayed back and forth. I held her legs to keep her from falling, and gently
pulled her beautiful panties down from her buttocks.

When I kissed Ping's vulva, she hugged my head, letting out a deep moan from her throat, and
uttered a new word: "Little brother... little brother."

She had never called me that before; it was a novelty.

I tasted her delicious juices beneath Ping's long skirt. Ping subconsciously pressed my head against her
labia, and my licking and sucking made her unwilling to let go.

After savoring for a long time, Ping's lower body was like an inexhaustible mountain spring, the overflowing nectar making her curly
hair stick together.

Slowly, her legs began to tremble like a sieve, and the pressure on my head suddenly increased several times over. I knew
Ping was about to climax, so I wrapped my arms around her beautiful buttocks, pressing her vulva closer to my face, and
licked her clitoris even faster, quickly bringing her to orgasm. She convulsed, her body arching,
gripping , making my scalp ache. I had to keep her balanced, it hurt…

When Ping finally went limp, I pulled her to the sofa and kissed her lips.

Ping seemed completely exhausted, letting me kiss her without much reaction. I hadn't even had my fill yet, but Ping was too
lazy to pay attention to me. After a while, I realized Ping was really tired, so I carried her to the bed to lie down for a bit.

We still had to eat dinner. After resting for over an hour, I coaxed and urged the drowsy Ping out of bed, she
quickly washed up, and we went out for dinner. Before leaving, she pinched my face a few times. No wonder, going out without a good rest
is really unpleasant.

Dinner was at a nearby Western restaurant. Having studied abroad for several years, I feel that the Christmas atmosphere in China
is much stronger than abroad. However, this is all due to commercial interests. People who don't know better might think that Santa Claus is Chinese.

In front of the restaurant, I ran to a nearby shop and bought a Christmas card. Borrowing a pen from a waiter, I wrote the second half of Yan Shu's poem "
Huanxi Sha ": "I remember when I first met Xiao Ping, her double-layered robe embroidered with the character 'heart.' She spoke of longing on the pipa strings. The bright moon was there then,
shining on the returning colorful clouds." I gave it to Sister Ping.

Sister Ping smiled broadly, her eyes sparkling as she gave me a flirtatious wink: "So sweet, little
lover."

The restaurant was crowded on Christmas Eve. We sat facing each other across the table, making it inconvenient for Sister Ping to kiss me. She placed her
right hand on her lips, then gently pressed it against mine. Her soft, warm fingertips carried
a beautiful, alluring, and lonely fragrance. Even today, long after, I still cherish the sweet scent of that kiss.

We went home quickly after dinner, both quite tired.

We chatted for a while, then I went to wash up. After showering, I brushed my teeth in front of the bathroom mirror when Sister Ping came in. She
had changed into her pajamas and gently hugged me from behind. The feeling of her breasts against my back was so soft and warm. Ping's
playful hands teased my naked lower body, stroking me with her soft little hands.

I had been hard for so long, and Ping was whispering sweet nothings behind me, sucking on my earlobe—it was both incredibly
stimulating and agonizing. I didn't move after brushing my teeth, just enjoying Ping's masturbation.

Finally, unable to withstand Ping's caresses and friction, I ejaculated in her little hands.

Ping turned around coquettishly in front of me, putting the semen in her hand to her lips and taking it in right in front of me. Before

I could even feel the pleasure for three seconds, Ping suddenly kissed my lips, sharing her semen with me once again.

It's worth mentioning that I was the one who first introduced me to semen. This time I was completely unprepared, instinctively trying to pull away, but Ping
held me by the neck, preventing me from going anywhere. Only when Ping felt she had tormented me enough did she let go, giving me a quick
kiss on the cheek. I coughed a few times in the sink, while Ping laughed heartily behind me.

I'm a person who pays attention to details, and I cherish every moment with Ping. These are all little things that
happened between , but I like to write down every single moment.

[To be continued]

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[With Ping, a beautiful 45-year-old mature woman] (01-06) Author: beingtempt

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