Anonymous: Raw Fuck After Rêvebébé Chats

The bar door swings shut behind me, neon buzzing like my clit after three days of filthy chats on Rêvebébé. Heart hammers. Phone vibrates in my tight jeans pocket – his text: “Black shirt, corner booth. Hard already.” I scan the dim room, smoke and cheap whiskey hanging thick. There he is. Tall, stubble sharp, eyes locking mine like he owns me already. No bullshit small talk. I’ve waited too long for screens. Adrenaline surges, pussy throbbing wet.

I slide into the booth, thigh brushing his. His cologne hits – musky, real, not pixels. Fingers graze my knee under the table. “No drinks,” I whisper, voice husky. “Fuck me now.” He grins, dirty promise. Grabs my hand, drags me out. Street noise swallows us. Cab? Fuck that. His apartment’s two blocks. We stumble, lips crashing, tongues hungry. My nipples harden against lace bra, his cock bulging through pants. Urgency burns – days of sexts exploding real.

The Approach

Door slams. No lights. Hands rip my top, bra snaps free. Tits bounce out, he growls, sucks hard. Bite marks sting sweet. I yank his belt, zipper rasps. Cock springs thick, veiny, pre-cum slick. “Suck it,” he grunts. On knees, I devour – salty, pulsing down throat. Gags echo, spit drips. He fists my hair, fucks face brutal.

Bedroom? Floor works. Jeans off, legs spread wide. Pussy glistens, shaved smooth. He dives, tongue lashes clit, fingers plunge deep. I buck, moan loud – neighbors hear, fuck ’em. “Your cunt’s soaked,” he rasps. “Beg for dick.” “Fuck me raw! Pound this slut hole!” I scream. He slams in, balls-deep thrust. Stretches me full, walls clench greedy. Rhythm savage – slap-slap-slap skin, bedframe? No, carpet burns knees.

The Explosion

Sweat slicks us. Flip me doggy, ass up. Spanks sting red, I push back. “Harder, wreck me!” Dirty snarls mix gasps. His thumb circles asshole, teases in. Double fire. Cock throbs, swells. “Gonna fill you,” he pants. Orgasm rips me – waves crash, squirt soaks thighs. He roars, pumps hot cum deep, overflowing sticky.

Panting slows. Cum drips down legs. I stand, grab clothes. No cuddles. Wipe with his shirt, smirk. “Thanks for the fuck.” Door clicks shut. Phone silences – block done. Back to streets, anonymous again. Pulse fades, thrill lingers. Next chat waits.