Malaga Heat: Raw Fuck with the Windsurf Instructor

The villa pool shimmers under the late sun. Tom’s passed out on the bed after our wild fuck. My pussy still throbs from his tongue. Phone buzzes on the nightstand. Lucas. Heart races. He has Tom’s ID, says he’s dropping it off. I text back quick: Come now. Door’s open. No time for games.

I’ve been wet since the beach. That transparent bikini gave him a full view of my shaved lips, swollen and ready. He stared, hungry. Now, days of sneaky DMs on Insta—his bronzed abs, my topless tease pics. ‘Your pussy looked perfect,’ he messaged. ‘Wanna taste?’ Urgency hits. No dinner chit-chat. Straight to it.

The Approach

Door creaks. He’s here. Tall, tanned, cap backwards, board shorts low on hips. Smells like salt, sunscreen, and that musky cologne hitting me hard. ‘Hey, Charlotte,’ he grins, eyes devouring my tiny robe. No bra, no panties. Nipples poke through. I grab his wrist, pull him in. ‘ID on table. Fuck me now.’ His laugh low, hands on my ass already.

Tension snaps. I shove him against the wall. Lips crash. Tongue deep, tasting beer and sea. His cock hard against my thigh. ‘Been dreaming of this cunt,’ he growls. Fingers rip robe open. Tits bounce free. He sucks one nipple hard, bites. I moan, grind on him. Poolside lounge in sight—perfect spot. No words wasted.

He spins me, bends me over the chair. Shorts drop. His dick springs out—thick, veined, uncut. Pre-cum glistens. ‘Spread those cheeks.’ I do, ass up, pussy dripping. He spits on it, rubs head along my slit. ‘So fucking wet for stranger cock.’ Slams in. One thrust, balls deep. I gasp, stretch full. Raw, no rubber. Adrenaline spikes.

The Explosion

Pounding starts. Savage. Chair rocks. Skin slaps loud. ‘Take it, puta,’ he grunts, Spanish accent thick. Hair gripped, head yanked back. ‘Your hubby’s asleep? Good. This pussy mine now.’ I buck back, clit throbbing. ‘Harder, fuck my married hole.’ Sweat mixes, his on my back. Balls smack clit. Orgasm builds fast—waves crash.

He flips me, legs over shoulders. Eyes lock. ‘Cum on my cock.’ I do—squirting mess, thighs quake. He roars, pulls out. Hot ropes paint my tits, belly. We pant, sticky. Five minutes tops. Pure explosion.

He zips up, grabs Tom’s ID. ‘Text me tomorrow?’ I nod, wipe cum with robe. Door clicks shut. Silence. I shower quick—scent gone, evidence down drain. Slip into bed beside snoring Tom. Heart slows. Just another thrill. Back to wife mode. He’s none the wiser.