Fountain Heat: My Raw Craving Unleashed on Him

It’s Friday, 7:55 PM. The little square by the fountain with the four bronze nymphs glows under the soft April sun. I’ve been thinking about him non-stop since Wednesday – those quick, hungry kisses at work, his hands grabbing me like he owned me already. No chit-chat bullshit; I want his cock tonight, raw and now. My white summer dress clings light, thin straps crossing my bra, V-neck plunging just enough to tease. No panties? Nah, white thong underneath, barely there. Heels clicking, big white bag slung over shoulder with my cardigan and secrets.

Phone buzzes in my hand – sister’s borrowed the car, five minutes late. I text him quick, heart racing. Spot him by the fountain, eyes locked on the nymphs, but really on me as I approach. Fuck, he’s hot, smiling wide. No hello games. I crash into him, body molding tight, lips smashing his. His hands roam wild – shoulders, back, grabbing my ass through the flimsy fabric. My perfume hits him hard, that musky vanilla he inhales deep. Tongues tangle urgent, his mouth devours my neck. Public? Who cares. My pussy throbs already.

The Approach

We stumble to the bar we picked Wednesday. Polite talk, but my hand squeezes his, thigh pressing his under the table. Eyes green today, locked on his. Drink? Whatever. I want out, back to the square. Air’s cooling, but heat builds inside me. Fountain water splashes. I sip from my palm, spill on chin. He licks it off, kisses everywhere. ‘You’re gonna wear me out,’ I tease. ‘Nah, I wanna abuse you,’ he growls. Fuck yes. Lips lock long, hands everywhere.

Benches by the fountain. I straddle half on him, back to his chest, legs stretched. His view down my V-neck? Perfect. Sees my small pear tits straining white lace. Chills hit; he grabs my cardigan from the bag, drapes it, but his left hand cups my right tit firm. I arch into it, silent yes. Fingers knead, find nipple hardening fast. Right hand strokes my neck, chin up for deep kiss. Tongues battle hot.

The Explosion

His hand slips under bra strap, dives in. Skin velvet, tit swelling in his palm. Fingers pinch nipple stiff. I breathe ragged. ‘It unhooks in front,’ I whisper dirty. Click. Bra pops open, tits free under dress and cardigan. He gropes both now, thumbs rolling peaks, squeezing flesh. Kisses turn savage, my moans escape. Pussy aches soaked. Hand dives between my thighs, thong shoved aside. Fingers circle clit frantic, two plunge deep. Legs jerk, cross, uncross. ‘Fuck me with your fingers,’ I hiss. He pumps hard, thumb grinds clit. Tits mauled, nipples twisted. Body tenses, waves crash – I cum shaking, gushing on his hand, biting his shoulder to muffle screams.

He calms me, hands gentle now, tits still in palms. Breath slows. Bliss hits. But night’s young? Nah, I need control. ‘Gotta go,’ I murmur. He protests. I fix dress, bra stuffed in bag. Walk to my Seat, parked nearby. Kiss him deep, then: ‘Turn around.’ He does. I strip thong off, wet and hot, tuck it with bra in paper sack. Hand it over. ‘Open when I’m gone.’ One last neck stretch kiss. Engine hums, I peel out. Rearview: him stunned, sniffing my scent. Tuesday, 6:55 PM, Sortilèges on Rue de Paris. Come give it back… and more. Phone on silent till then. Stranger again.