Jogger’s Crash: My Raw Fuck with the Young Carpenter in the Italian Hills

I’ve been watching him for days. That young stud, Alessandro, pounding the road past my rented villa. Twenty-three, sweaty from his run, muscles rippling under tanned skin. Carpenter from the valley, starts work at dawn. Me? Forty-ish French translator, crashing here before Genoa and Paris pull me back. Hubby waiting at the airport, oblivious. But fuck that. I crave the rush—the first touch after screens of fantasy, but here it’s real, eyes locking mid-stride.

I pose for him. Bikini white against caramel skin. On my back, tits up. Prone, ass cheeks spilling out blue thong. Showering, arching like a porn star. Sunglasses hide my stare, but I feel his gaze burn. Phone buzzes in my bag—hubby’s text, ignored. Heart races. Days of this tease. Today, he trips in a pothole, sprawled like an idiot. I wave, he waves back, crashes hard. Blood on knees, elbows shredded.

The Approach

I rush to the gate. ‘You okay?’ He stammers yes. I drag him in, clean him up. Alcohol stings, our faces inches apart. French accent slips—’You run every day?’ He nods, eyes on my cleavage. Talks wood shavings, morning runs. I spill on Stendhal, Genoa’s gritty streets. Sweat beads on my shoulder, his breath quickens. I want to grab his cock right there, but play it slow. Tomorrow, I think. He leaves, promises to pass by.

Next day, I wait on the road. Yellow sundress, cork heels arching my feet. ‘How’s the scrape?’ Picnic ready: white cloth, Albarosa chilling, salumi, cheese. ‘Forgive me for your fall?’ Giggle, accent thick. We eat, chat flows. Silence hits. Eyes fuck first. Wind lifts my dress—bare pussy flashes. His hand lands on my thigh, slides up. No panties. I spread slow, lips parting like Venus. Clean-shaven, pale slit glistening.

The Explosion

He stares, hungry. I climb his chest, tits in his face—full, pink nipples hard. Kiss deep, tongues battle. Salt from his run tastes like sin. Strip his shirt, lick sweat off abs, chest. Bite nipples. His cock tents the shorts. I yank them down, stroke firm. Mouth on it—slow sucks, balls cupped. He groans, hips buck. Clouds hide the sun, perfect.

Condom from my bag—always ready. Sheathe him, straddle his face. Tongue dives in, clit throbs under flicks. I’m soaked, grinding. Jerk him behind my back. Then sink down. ‘Baise-moi fort,’ I whisper—fuck me hard. He doesn’t get French, but thrusts up savage. Tits bounce, I ride wild, clit grinding pubes. ‘Your cock’s huge, fill me!’ I scream. Cum crashes—head back, walls pulse. He grips hips, explodes with a roar.

We collapse, slick skins glued. Pool splash later, strawberries, wine. Questions fly—his lonely kid days, village flings. Fake pout from me. Night falls, bed under linen sheets. Slow fuck, eternal grind. Dawn breaks. He runs off to work, clueless. I pack. Phone vibrates—hubby: ‘Pick you up at 8.’ No goodbye. Car to Genoa, flight at 8:14. Alessandro? Just a ghost now. Adrenaline faded, back to life. But that fuck? Burned in.