Cheating [MF] with my tiny, snarky Asian FWB

Some years back, I had a sort-of-FWB arrangement with a woman I'll call Carrie Lee. I say sort-of, because we weren't really friends, and also we were both cheating. Basically, every few weeks when her boyfriend was out of town I'd get a text: "you busy?" And then in the very near future I'd be knocking on her apartment door. If I had another engagement? Yeah no. Anything short of a dying family member, I'd make excuses.

Carrie was Chinese, from some city in the south. She was in her late twenties. Her family had money and owned a bunch of properties in our city. She was there to manage those properties. I think she was good at her job. I also think her family sent her abroad because she was kind of a pain in the ass. We'll get to that.

She was little. Petite. Tiny, even. She was about four foot ten and skinny. Her chest was flat, with hardly any breasts at all. She did have a nice little ass, but emphasis again on "little". I could put both hands around her waist. I don't think she weighed eighty pounds.

Once you got past the smallness of her, the next thing you noticed was the nervous energy. She was almost always tense and in motion. She smoked. Her nails were chewed short and ragged. She had thick black hair cut in a bob, which she would toss when she was annoyed, which was often. She always wore the same outfit – platform shoes, tight jeans with a button fly, a black silk blouse. (Yeah, she had like ten identical black silk blouses hanging in her closet.) Oh, and red red lipstick, lots of eyeshadow, and big bangly earrings. She was dark for a Chinese person, more brown than gold. If you only saw her body, you might think she was Mexican or South Asian. A very small, thin Mexican or South Asian.

She spoke English pretty well, but her grammar was bad. I'll try to write what she said as she said it. If it comes across as a stereotyped Chinese accent, well, don't @ me, that was how she talked.

Me? Thirty years old, six foot nothing, brown blue, generic suburban white guy. I was in pretty good shape, but it was running / biking / swimming shape. So, slim, trim, and plenty of stamina, but no rippling biceps or six-pack.

We met at a work event. We hit it off right away, in a weird way. She was one of those people who really liked to snipe – standing on the edge of an event making perceptive and nasty comments about everyone else. Talking to her was constant verbal fencing. She could come up with a cutting comment faster than anyone I knew, and in all the time I knew her I don't think she had three nice things to say about anyone. Snark was like breathing to her. Honestly, she was kind of an asshole. But she was smart and funny and the chemistry was instant.

Which brings us to the cheating thing. Carrie had a boyfriend named Dave, who was some sort of serious business guy. I met him a couple of times. He seemed kind of surly. Of course, Carrie wasn't exactly a fragrant breath of spring either. I never really understood the dynamic between them. From my point of view the important fact about Dave was, he travelled a lot.

I had a girlfriend who I'll call Nancy. Nancy was pretty and super nice. I really liked her. We had sex a lot, and the sex was good. Wholesome, cheerful, fun. If one of us hadn't moved several time zones away, I might have married Nancy. Nancy was great.

But as soon as I got that text, Nancy was, whoop, forgotten. I'm not proud of this, but there it was.

Why? I don't know. I can tell you what it /wasn't/. I wasn't a habitual cheater. Before Carrie crossed my path, I was fine with Nancy, not even looking. It wasn't yellow fever. Asian, Caucasian, Hispanic; I'd been with a bunch of women, and I never had any particular preference. Like the saying goes, at night all cats are grey, yeah? And it wasn't her size either. If anything, I was slightly weirded out by her tiny-ness. And again, petite, tall, flat, curvy, I didn't have a type that way.

It was something else – the constant snark, her edginess, the close-bitten fingernails, I don't know. The way she smelled? I really don't know! All I can say is, from the first time we fucked, I was hooked. And I think she was too.

So now and then, maybe once or twice in a month, I would get this text, and…

* * *

Just reading the text made me instantly hard. I was non-stop hard in the car driving over. And by the time I reached her apartment, my erection was almost painful.

She answered the door wearing her default outfit: tight button jeans, black blouse, red lipstick with dark eyeshadow, bangly earrings. The only difference from work was that she was barefoot. Without her platform shoes, she didn't come up to my shoulder.

"Yeah, come in. You want some wine?"

This was part of the ritual. We would sit on her couch and have a glass of wine and talk a little. I don't even know why we did that. She would be snarky and cutting about her work, I would comment on that, she'd snark at me… verbal fencing, yeah? Like I said, she was smart and funny. It was fun. But we both knew it wasn't why we were here. I mean, I was sitting there with an obvious, tent-in-my-pants boner the whole time, you know? Before long – fifteen minutes, usually less – the wine would be drunk. We would sit for a moment, looking at each other, her with a knowing smirk. And then I would go in for the kiss.

Her tongue was small and sharp. She pushed it into my mouth eagerly, almost stabbing. The kissing was instantly intense, messy and harsh, teeth clicking together. She tasted like cigarette smoke, which should have been gross but was somehow arousing instead. I reached out to her black silk blouse and began undoing the buttons, one two three four. Below it she wore a black bra. I broke the kiss and began kissing and licking my way down her collarbone. She shrugged out of the blouse. I reached around behind her and unhooked the bra. It fell off, showing that it contained a pair of falsies. Below them, she had hardly any breasts at all.

But here's a thing: for a woman with almost no breasts? The breasts she didn't have were /incredibly/ sensitive. As I worked my way down her collarbone towards her nipples, her breath began to go ragged. Her nipples were small and brown and I could see them standing up and crinkling in real time. The skin for a few inches around them was a hot zone. Her chest might be almost entirely flat, but licking and kissing and sucking that area drove her wild.

Somebody once said foreplay is an investment. Well, I was here to make a deposit, you know? So I licked and sucked and kissed and nibbled, and then I moved back up into a kiss while I kneaded and caressed her nipples, and then I went back down and licked and sucked some more. And first she sighed, and then she gasped, and then she began to sweat – a fine beading on her forehead and shoulders. Her nipples were as hard as pencil erasers. I took one into my mouth, tonguing it. She gasped, then hugged my head against her, pushing my face into her chest.

And then suddenly she broke the clinch and, without another word, went for my belt buckle. Unbuckle, unzip, pull. Down went my pants and my boxers. My cock sprang free, bouncing up to greet her.

"Hah!" she said. She grabbed me firmly. (God, that felt good.) She looked me in the eye, hand wrapped around my cock. "Pretty big."

"You make it big," I said, my mouth going dry.

"Yeahhh. You come here." She stood up off the couch and walked to the bedroom – without letting go of my dick. Believe me, I got up and moved right with her. She was literally leading me by the penis like a dog on a leash. I was fine with that.

And then we were on the bed. I was naked now from the waist down, pants forgotten. She was naked from the waist up. I was straddling her midriff, my balls on her belly, the head of my cock between her nipples. (I can't even describe how my cock felt at this point. Best I can say is, like an overinflated tire.) She was still holding it firmly. She moved it back and forth, examining it clinically.

"Huh! Pretty big," she said again. Well, it's always nice when a woman says that. But this wasn't like, woo, you're so huge. More like a simple statement of fact. Somehow that made it better.

"You make me big," I repeated.

"Huh," she replied, "I make you small again."

-- So here's another thing about Carrie: she had zero interest in blowjobs. She made that clear on day one. For whatever reason, they were Not Her Thing. But that was okay, because she had something just as good, maybe better. Without any further discussion, she spit in her hand, grabbed my dick and got to work.

I never knew a woman who gave handjobs like her. She used both hands – her hands were small enough – and she jerked /hard/. She worked my dick like she was churning butter. It was rough. It was right on the edge of painful. But it felt amazing. And she was making these little grunts of effort – huh huh huh. No "mmms" or "you like that, baby?" She was there to do something and she was doing it, hard and fast.

Oh, and there was the spitting. Every few dozen strokes, her hands would start to dry. So she'd bring one hand up to her face and – whock, ptoo – spit in it, and then put her hand back, smear the spit on my dick and keep jerking, all without missing a beat. It was gross. It was also very hot.

The tight hard strokes, her little gasps of effort, the spitting – it didn't take long. Within a minute or two I could feel the first tingle of orgasm rising up my spine. "I'm… coming…"

"Yeah, you come. You come for me." As I arched my spine and my dick began to swell that impossible extra little bit, she suddenly reached under me and put one little hand around my balls. Her other hand kept jerking even harder. "Empty you balls."

Tell you no lie, I never came like I came with Carrie. Four spasms? Five? More? Great long ropes of cum pulsed violently out on her little flat chest. She guided it with one hand, like a woman spraying a lawn, first this way, then that. With her other hand she gently squeezed my balls. Spurt. Spurt. It went on for a while. Spots bloomed in my vision. I just kept coming.

But finally, finally, I was spent. She gave my balls a slightly harder squeeze, almost uncomfortable.

"All empty?" she smirked

"All empty… for now," I gasped.

She let go of my dick and put her hands on her chest. She rubbed circles a few times, working my cum into her little tits. Then she suddenly went back to my cock. She squeezed it and pulled, almost painfully. She was milking the last drop of cum. It dribbled out of my softening penis, into the pink palm of her little brown hand. She lifted that hand, with a single silver-grey droplet in the center of her palm, to my face. "Lick it."

Damn right I licked it. Was she a bit of a dom? Maybe? Probably? I had just gotten the hand job of my life from this hot little Chinese woman. I lowered my head and very gently ran the tip of my tongue across her palm, tasting my own sticky-bitter-salt cum. "I lick me," I said. Then I looked her in the eye. "I lick you."

Her eyes were shining. I felt her shudder a little under me with desire. Slowly I brought my face down to her breasts and began to lick my cum off them. She grabbed a handful of my hair and moaned softly.

I took my time licking her clean. Her breath had gone deep and ragged, and she was sweating strongly now. I could see a thin sheen of moisture all across her torso.

And as I licked, I shifted my weight backwards, scooching off her hips. She was still wearing the tight little jeans with a black leather belt and a button fly. One breast was licked clean now. I sucked hard on the nipple as I undid her belt with one hand, then the buttons – one, two, three. She arched her back, pressing her nipple into my mouth, and moaned. I slid her jeans down around her knees. She was wearing simple black cotton panties. I slid my hand into them and probed gently with my middle finger, touching wetness. She gasped.

Both breasts were licked thoroughly now: all clean. I shoved myself back off the bed, stood up, and unbuttoned my shirt. She lay sprawled on the bed in front of me. I reached down and pulled her jeans off, tossed them to one side. Now she was wearing only those black cotton panties, with a little dark wet spot, right in the center. I reached out, lifted up her legs, slowly pulled them off, flicked them away. Now she was naked except for those bangly earrings.

Carrie was one of those women who didn't shave or trim, because she didn't need to. Her bush was naturally neat, a perfect little triangle of brown hair lying flat like the back of a cat. Below it, her pussy lips were unfolding, bigger and thicker than you might think.

I kneeled down, ran my hands along the inside of her thighs. She shuddered. I looked her in the eyes. "I lick you," I said, and bent my face down to her damp and waiting pussy.

Pretty much everything about Carrie was small or tiny: flat breasts, small ass, little hands. Her pussy lips were the one exception. They were solid, slightly protruding, almost meaty. Early on, I realized that she was a little self-conscious about this. Like, the first couple of times we were together, she wanted the lights off. So I made a point of praising it. "Pretty pussy," I said, and ran the tip of my tongue along one lip. She shuddered. "/Beautiful/ pussy. I like this pussy."

"Shut up," she said. She turned her face away and mumbled something sideways into the pillow – English or Chinese, I couldn't make out. But then a moment later she raised her hips and nudged her crotch forward, offering herself.

Yeah, I got the message. I gave her damp lips a more solid lick, then moved my tongue up a bit. There: her clit was ready for me, raised and swollen. There was none of this "where's the magic button" with Carrie. Her clitoris sat right up and said hello. I kissed it, very gently, and then began to tongue it with long, slow strokes.

Carrie didn't like to give head. But getting it? Oh yeah. She wasn't shy about it either. She pushed her pussy right into my face. She grabbed my head. She arched her back and moaned.

(Can I describe how she smelled and tasted? Not easily. Everyone is salty-briny, but Carrie had… a hint of smokiness? and a hint of fruit, syrupy, a slightly acidic sweetness? Maybe like a bit of pineapple? I know "pineapple" doesn't sound very erotic. But she tasted special, and it was pretty great. Also, when she was aroused she started to sweat, and that smelled… well, like clean fresh sweat, which is actually a pretty good smell.)

After a minute or two of this, I very carefully slid one finger into her. She was so small and so tight! It was just barely possible! She twitched and gasped, and I withdrew, and then gently and carefully slid it in again a moment later. Once I had it in, I began to very gently curl and uncurl it. She hissed sharply, tensed, then relaxed.

"You like that?"

"Shut up."

Well. My head was much gentler than her hand job, but I was nearly as methodical and relentless. At first I swapped back and forth from clit to pussy lips and back, but after a while I just focused on the clit while gently moving that finger around. Lick, lick, a sudden rapid flicking butterfly – that one made her wriggle all over – then lick again. It wasn't long before her breathing began to change. "Huh," she said. "Huh… Huhhh…" She was writhing, grinding her crotch into my face.

"Mm hm," I replied. Yeah, I couldn't say anything more than that. My mouth was full. "Mm hm, mm hm."

There was never any question whether Carrie had an orgasm. Her legs pulled up. Her toes curled. I felt her entire body tense up as her pussy clenched down on my finger, once, twice, again. She grabbed the edge of the bed with one hand; with the other, she grabbed a fistful of my hair, clenching painfully hard. She yelled something in Chinese. The taste of her grew intense.

And then – yoink! When she was done, she was /done/. She pulled herself away from me, suddenly sensitive.

There was a pause.

More in a bit, if there's interest.