My First Raw Fuck in the Devil’s Alpine Village

Rain finally stopped. Dumped my backpack at the old inn, same one from the legend. Heart pounding from that old man’s tale. Demons Gautier and Blanche, turning love to stone. Fuck, it turned me on. Phone vibrates. Tinder match: him. Local hiker, rugged jaw, eyes like Gautier’s statue. ‘Meet now? Square by the lovers’ stone.’ No bullshit. Been chatting three days, pics of his thick cock had me wet on the trail.

Village square empty, moon lighting the statue. Him there, leaning on his pack. Tall, wet hair, smells like pine and sweat. ‘Anonyme?’ Grins. I nod, pulse racing. No small talk. Grab his hand, pull to the shadows behind the mairie. Adrenaline surges. ‘Want you now,’ I whisper. His breath hot on my neck. Fingers trace my thigh under skirt. ‘Been hard thinking of this pussy.’ Phone buzzes again – ignored. Urgency hits. Days of teasing texts, now real. Lips crash. Tongue deep, tasting beer and him. Hands everywhere. Skirt up, panties yanked. His bulge grinds my clit. ‘Fuck me here,’ I gasp. Risky, but that’s the thrill.

The Approach

He spins me against the stone wall. Cold rock bites my palms. Jeans down, cock springs free. Thick, veined, precum dripping. I drop, suck hard. Salty, throbbing. Gags me deep. ‘Dirty slut,’ he growls. Love it. Stand, bend over bench. He spits on my slit. Fingers plunge, curling my G. Soaked sounds echo. ‘Wet for stranger dick?’ ‘Yes, fuck me raw.’ No condom bullshit tonight. Demon vibe fuels it.

The Explosion

Thrusts in savage. Stretches me wide. Balls slap ass. Grunts mix with my moans. ‘Tight cunt, take it.’ Pound harder. Nipples pinched raw. Hair pulled, arch back. Statue watches – eternal lovers, our heartbeats sync. Sweat drips, mixes with fountain trickle nearby. Legs shake. ‘Cum inside?’ ‘Beg.’ ‘Please, fill me.’ Claws his back. Orgasms crash. Walls pulse, milk him. Hot spurts deep. Collapses on me, panting.

Pulls out, cum leaks down thigh. Zips up. Lights cig. ‘That was intense.’ No cuddles. Wipe with tissue from purse. Skirt down. Phone dead now. ‘See ya.’ Walk away, legs jelly. Inn room cold, alone. Shower washes him off. Block number. Stranger again. Village curse? Nah, just my rush. Phone silent. Tomorrow, new swipes. Heart still races.