Snoopy’s Sweat: Eight Days Later, Raw Fuck on My Terrace

The phone buzzes at 2 AM. Forty-nine hours exactly. ‘Here. Terrace?’ My heart slams. I fling open the door. Berlin’s distant lights flicker below, full moon orange and heavy. He’s there, backpack slung, smelling of trail dust and faint cologne – woody, sharp, finally real after screens. Snoopy. Short damp hair, powerful shoulders under a loose tee. No harness tonight, but those hips in tight jeans scream memory.

No hello. Tension crackles like the club’s techno drops. We’ve chatted scraps – his climbing scars, Buddhist vibes, living present. Me: straight fire, ‘Come fuck me senseless.’ He grins that earth-swallowing smile. Hands me a beer, thumb strokes my palm like at the bar. ‘Absurd, right? Screens to this.’ Ecstasy lingers in his eyes, pupils wide. I grab his hand, pull him close. Sweat already beads. No dinner. No bullshit. ‘Bedroom’s that way. Or here, under stars.’ His breath hitches. I feel his cock twitch against my thigh.

The Approach

We stumble to the terrace blanket. Moonlight slicks his skin. I yank his shirt off, trace that smooth chest. ‘Missed this.’ He whispers, ‘Present moment only.’ Bullshit philosophy. My fingers dive to his belt. Urgency burns – days of turning in sheets, vibrator failing. He cups my face, kisses slow at first, tongue teasing. Then hungry. Hands roam my tits, pinching nipples through silk. ‘Fuck, you’re soaked already.’ Phone vibrates again – ignored. Clothes scatter. His scent floods me: musk, salt, adventure.

He pins me down. Cock hard, thick, veined from trails. ‘Want you raw.’ I nod, legs spread. No condoms in fantasies. He slides in slow, eyes locked. ‘Breathe,’ he murmurs, Buddhist calm cracking. I claw his back. Thrusts build – deep, pounding. ‘Harder, Snoopy. Fuck me like the club.’ Grunts escape him. Skin slaps wet. Sweat drips, mixes. I taste it on his neck. His hands grip my ass, lifting, slamming. ‘Your pussy’s gripping me tight. Gonna make you scream.’ I do. Fingers in his hair, pulling. He flips me, doggy under stars. Balls slap my clit. ‘Cum for me, now.’ Orgasm rips – waves, clenching, vision stars blurring real ones.

The Explosion

He pulls out, strokes furious. ‘Mouth.’ I suck greedy, tongue swirling, gagging deep. Salty pre-cum. He groans rauque, hips buck. ‘Fuck yes.’ Explodes hot ropes down my throat. I swallow, lick clean. We collapse, panting. Bodies slick, tangled.

Dawn creeps red. He stirs first. Kisses forehead. ‘Present moment passed.’ Packs quiet. No numbers swapped again. ‘Trail calls.’ Door clicks. Gone. Terrace empty, blanket rumpled, his scent fading. Phone silent. I smile, marked – bites on neck, ache between legs. Craving sated. Until next buzz.