Raw Fuck at the Moulin: My No-Wait First Night Hookup

Parking lot of that moulin club off the autoroute. Heart slamming chest. 11 PM, August heat still thick. Phone vibrates in my hand—his last text: ‘Black dress, bar. Ready?’ Days of chats burned me up. Pics swapped, voice notes husky. No bullshit intros. I want cock now, after screens.

Short black dress clings, no bra, 90D tits heavy, nipples hard. 1m55, curves soft from years, but wet already thinking his hands. Husband home, clueless, writing his confessions. Fuck that. I’m here for me.

The Approach

Push door. Dim lights, sauna steam wafting, moans faint from back. Spot him at bar—tall, stubble, eyes lock. Cologne hits: musky, woodsy, real after pixels. Glass in hand, smirk. ‘Anonyme?’ Voice gravel. Nod, thigh presses mine. No small talk. ‘Room?’ I whisper. His hand grips ass, pulls close. Phone buzzes again—ignore. Urgency throbs pussy. Legs shaky, lead him to cabins.

Door clicks. Tension snaps. His mouth crashes mine, tongue rough. Hands yank dress up, fingers find soaked thong. ‘Fuck, dripping already.’ Growls. Rip it off. I claw shirt, nails dig pecs. No time. ‘Bend over,’ he orders. Table edge bites hips. Smell sweat, his pre-cum. Cock out—thick, veiny, like chats promised. Rubs slit, teases clit tiny but electric.

The Explosion

His breath hot neck. ‘Beg.’ ‘Fuck me hard.’ Slam in. Stretch burns sweet—tight despite kids, wetness floods. Grunt escapes. Pounds deep, balls slap ass. ‘Dirty slut, first night?’ ‘Yes, wreck me.’ Table shakes, claps echo wet. Tits bounce free, nipples scraped wood. Fingers twist hair, arch back. ‘Take it, whore.’ Love it crude. Build fast—no foreplay bullshit, hate that. Pussy clenches, squirt sprays thighs.

Flip me. Legs wide, ankles pinned. Eyes lock wild. ‘Scream.’ Pound savage, 100kg force vibes through. Chatte—cunt—gapes, juices puddle. ‘Cum in me.’ Roars, floods hot. I shatter, walls pulse, gush again. Collapse, gasps ragged. Sweat slicks skin, his cum leaks.

Pull out. Dress down quick. No cuddles. ‘Thanks.’ Door shuts. Wipe thighs, fix hair. Perfume lingers his, mine floral faint. Bar empty now. Out to car, engine roars autoroute. Phone silent. Home by midnight. Shower steam erases. Slip into bed, husband sleeps. Stranger again. Tomorrow? Pyjamas, classe wife. Tonight’s mine. Adrenaline fades, crave next ping.