Forest Tease to Hotel Anal: My Raw First-Time Rush

It’s 3 PM. I pull into the hotel lot after a brutal highway drive—left-lane hogs at 110 km/h, construction, sudden brakes for radars. Exhausted. But free till tomorrow. Dump bags, grab running gear. Short and sneakers on. Five minutes later, I’m parking at the forest edge. October sun filters through turning leaves—yellows, reds, crunchy paths. Ideal jog weather.

Two cars parked sparse. No plates close. I pick a trail. Run easy. Spot a 60s guy strolling. Jeans, no gear. Smiles. Then another off-path, 40s, shaved head, beige tracksuit—ugly pants, black streaks. City shoes. Not hikers. Cruising spot? My connected watch buzzes pace alerts. Ignore it. Pulse quickens. I’m straight, but this vibe? Hot. Imagine cocks out. Wetness builds. Fantasy only, right?

The Approach

Loop back. Face the older guy again. Trapu, mid-length brown hair, gray shirt. Eyes lock. I veer right, slow into bushes. Pretend seeking privacy. He follows. Adrenaline spikes. Heart hammers. Scary-hot. Push further? Nah. Speed up. He retreats. Thrill fades to frustration. What if?

Spot the 40s guy ahead. Slow. Walk past, ignore. Hear steps crunch leaves behind. Fifty meters on trail. Veer right. He tails. Breath ragged. Trail dead-ends at steep hill. Trapped. Voice close: “Hi.” “Uh, hi,” I mumble. Legs jelly.

“What you seeking here?” No answer. He grins. Steps near. Eyes scan me. Hand drops to crotch. Grips through thin fabric. Thick outline swells. 7 inches? Gland forms. Squeezes rhythmic. Hardens. Pulls waistband down. Cock springs free. Veiny, rigid. Fresh forest air perks it.

“Beautiful. Big,” I whisper. “Normal size,” he smirks. Hot. Stiff. “Touch it. No one’s around.” Fingers wrap. Warm. Rock-hard. Stroke slow. Pulsing. My pussy throbs. Phone vibrates in shorts—ignored work ping. His cheap cologne hits: musky, urgent.

“Deeper spot nearby. Private.” Nah. “Hotel room. Five k away. First time this wild. Come. Won’t regret.” Eyes light. We split. Back to cars. I fumble roads, mind racing. Park. He’s waiting, plastic bag clutched.

The Explosion

Up stairs. Door ajar. He enters, shuts. Scans room. Bathroom peek. Chatty, calm. Knows I’m green. Pushes me to bed edge. Pants mid-thigh. Cock, smooth balls at eye level. Stroke. Balls hairless. Jerk shaft. Swells.

“Suck it.” Lips part. Tongue tip gland. Salty pre. Engulf. Bob awkward. He grips shoulders. Deeper. Gagging. My shorts soaked. He strips. Muscled, shaved body. I yank clothes. Naked. He kneels. Sucks me? Wait—no. Tongue dives pussy first. Then ass. Hot breath. Rim circles. Finger spits lubed. In knuckle. Twist. Second joins. “Good? Deeper?” “Fuck yes. More.”

Near edge. Stops. Bag: condom, lube. Rolls on. Gleams. “Doggy. Ass up.” Warn: too hurt, stop. “Relaxed you good. Breathe.” Gland teases hole. Pushes. Burn. Sphincter yields. Gland pops. Gasp. Pause. More lube. Slides deep. Splits me. Fire-pleasure mix. Bottomed out. “Too much!” Caress back. Kneads cheeks. Eases. Tiny thrusts build. Full strokes. Moans escape.

Prone now. Legs clamped. Pins me. Pounds. Cock trapped under, sheets grind clit. Thrusts jerk me. Cum crashes—screaming, gushing. He ramps. Grunts. Fills rubber deep.

Ten minutes pant. Cock slips out. Void aches. Cleans. Dresses. “Number? Epic fuck.” “One-off. Tried it. Done.” Door clicks. Stranger again. Two years on, crave that cologne, that stretch. Should’ve texted.