It was a warm Saturday night in September, and my husband had invited his old college buddy, Can, over for drinks and to watch the game. They’d been close for years Can was the best man at our wedding, always around for barbecues and holidays. He’s 36, tall, ruggedly handsome with a thick beard, broad shoulders, and that easy confidence that made me notice him more than I should have. My husband, Emre, is great, but lately our sex life had been routine, and I’d been feeling neglected, horny in ways I couldn’t shake.
I’d been in the private hospital for two days after a minor surgery, bored out of my mind and stuck in a single room. The painkillers made me sleepy, but they also made me constantly horny, my yarak half-hard under the thin hospital gown every time someone walked in. On the third night, around 11 p.m., the door opened quietly and Nurse Elif slipped in to check my vitals. She was 29, long black hair tied in a ponytail, full lips, and curves that her tight white uniform couldn’t hide—big tits straining against the buttons, round ass swaying as she moved.
It was a crowded Saturday night in a popular downtown bar last summer, the music loud, lights flashing, everyone half-drunk and loose. I’d gone out with a couple of girlfriends to blow off steam after a rough week at work. I’m 25, wearing a tight black mini dress that hugged my curves, no bra, heels high enough to make my legs look endless. I felt sexy, confident, ready for anything.