Rain-Drenched Hookup: My Raw Fuck with a Viking Stranger in Somme Bay

Rain hammers the windshield. Visibility zero. I’m gripping the wheel, nose inches from the glass, crawling along this godforsaken coastal road in Baie de Somme. No houses for ten klicks. My phone buzzes in the passenger seat—Stéphane’s latest text: ‘Door’s open. Hurry.’ We’ve been chatting dirty for days since my boss hooked us up for ‘work papers.’ Fuck work. I want that Viking cock now.

Finally, lights ahead. I honk, slam the door, sprint thirty meters through the deluge. Soaked to the bone. Burst in, slip on tiles. Strong arms catch me. Face smooshes into woolly sweater. Heat radiates off him. I jerk back, teeter on heels, grab coatrack.

The Approach

“Do it again,” he growls, voice deep.

Nose in a jacket, I snap, but then—bam. Towering frame, broad shoulders, chiseled face, short beard, piercing blue eyes. Smiling like he owns me. Two meters of Nordic god lost in France.

“Chantal Mazurie.”

“Tonton Olivier sent you. I’m Stéphane Desfontaines.”

Weird family ties explained. He eyes my wet clothes. “You’re staying. Storm all night. Shower’s that way. Clothes behind panels.”

He vanishes. I strip. Lingerie on radiator. Step into his jet shower—German model, buttons galore. Figure it out. Jets blast everywhere. Massaging tits, ass, pussy. God, perfect. Foam slides down. Nipples harden. His face flashes. Hand on breast, tweaking. Fingers dip to clit. Buzzing phone echoes—his message? Fuck it. I rub faster, picturing his thick body pinning me. Orgasm hits hard, legs buckle. Water rinses me clean.

Towel dry. Raid shelves: oversized black T-shirt to knees, no bra, panties back on. Belt cinched twice. Hair wavy, blonde hints emerging.

He waits with hot chocolate. Eyes lock over mugs. Silence thick. Chocolate smear on my lip. He leans in, thumb wipes it. Sparks fly. Fingers trace lips. Kiss soft, electric. Deepens. His hand cups cheek, then neck.

The Explosion

Can’t resist. Neck kisses. Shoulder bare. Tits free—no bra secret out. He gropes gently, huge palm owning one. I melt.

Lifts me like nothing. Sofa. Kisses trail down. Tongue under shirt, finds nipple. Sucks, bites. I moan. Guide him lower.

Feet, calves, thighs. Shirt up. Bush exposed. He dives in. Tongue laps slit, circles clit. Fingers part lips. I buck, gasp. “Yes, eat my pussy.” Salty taste drives him wild. I cum screaming, thighs clamp his head.

The Disparition

He rises, pants off. Cock springs—thick, veined, Viking pride. I drop to knees. Suck greedy, balls deep. He groans, fists hair. “Fuck, your mouth…” Up, bend me over couch. Slams in raw. No condom—heat of moment. “Harder, fuck me like a slut!” Pounds relentless. Slaps ass. Tits bounce. Sweat mixes with rain scent. His cologne hits—musky, woodsy, intoxicating finally up close.

Flip. I ride savage, grinding clit on him. Nails rake chest. “Cum in me, fill this wet cunt.” He roars, floods me. I shatter again.

Collapse, panting. Storm eases. Clock ticks 8 PM. Dress quick—dry clothes now. “Gotta go. Road clear?”

“Stay.”

Phone vibrates—his text already: ‘Round two?’ Kiss cheek. Slip out. Door shuts. Engine roars. Back to Paris. Stranger again. Adrenaline fades. Just memories and sticky thighs.