The Night I Dumped My Loser BF and Taught My Crush to Fuck Me Right

His door buzzes. I step in, heart racing from our flirty texts all week since the pub. Antoine’s apartment smells like garlic and herbs—dinner simmering. No time for bullshit. I slam into him, lips crushing his, tongue diving deep. My tight dress hugs my curves, nipples hard against silk. He groans, cock twitching through his jeans. ‘Fuck dinner,’ I whisper, grinding my hips. Champagne pops open. Bubbles fizz on my tongue as I down it fast. ‘This shit makes me wet,’ I say, eyes locked. His hands shake pouring more. Phone vibrates in my purse—app notifications from other matches, but he’s the one tonight. I grab his shirt, pull him to the bedroom. Clothes rip off. Naked, his eyes devour my perky tits, shaved pussy lips glistening already. But he’s clueless. I push him down. ‘Listen up, stud. Pussy ain’t for diving into dry.’ I spill it all—tease the brain first, build tension, never rush a dry slit. He nods, eager puppy. ‘Now make me cum.’ Urgency burns. Days of screens, now flesh. His cologne hits me—musky, intoxicating. I spread wide, waiting.