TGV Temptation: My Raw Fuck with a Married Stranger

Heart slamming like a drum. Gare de Lyon station, September 2000. I’m ‘Julie’ today, twenty-three, skirt flipping in the breeze, deep pink bustier hugging my tits, sheer white blouse half-unbuttoned. Legs sheathed in sheer gray nylons—stockings, not pantyhose, the kind that scream ‘fuck me’. Little roller suitcase at my feet. I spot the cafétéria terrace, guys already eye-fucking me over their coffees. My phone buzzes in my bag—his number. I fish it out, answer.

“Allô?” His voice, low, hungry. “I’m here, watching you.” I spin slow, playing coy, feeling eyes on my ass. “Like what you see?” I purr. He chuckles. “Banding hard already. Those guys too. Sit on your suitcase, cross those legs high. Show if it’s stockings.” Heat floods my pussy. Days jerking off to that party blowjob, his cum down my throat. No time for games now. I drop onto the case, legs crossing sharp—skirt hikes, lace tops flash. Guys squirm, cocks twitching in their pants. I ditch the blouse, massage my foot slow, tits heaving in the bustier. Bretelles slip just so. Pyromaniac slut mode on.

The Approach

He emerges, bulge obvious. “More than I asked,” he grins. I smirk up, face level with his crotch. “You love it, perv.” Hand to my cheek, he throbs. “Cross ’em again. Panties?” I uncross slow, flash white lace tanga—wet already. His eyes devour. We bolt for the platform, his hand groping my ass crack through the skirt. Mine squeezes his. In the compartment—first class, empty bliss. I lean on the window, he grinds hard against me. Neck kisses, shivers down my spine. That silver fox from the terrace stares. “Wave bye, slut.” I blow a kiss. He slides straps down, tits spill free. Fingers pinch nipples, hand dives under skirt, rubs my soaked clit through lace. “Cum for him.” Train whistle— I shatter, pussy clenching, juices soaking thighs.

Train lurches forward. Door locked. His mouth crashes mine—tongue fuck, tasting coffee and lust. Cologne hits: musky, woody, mixed with my vanilla perfume. Days of phone filth replay: “Did you cum thinking of my cock?” Now real. I yank his belt, zipper down—cock springs, thick, veiny, pre-cum beading. “Suck it, whore.” On knees, I devour—gag deep, spit drooling, balls cupped. He groans, fists my hair. “Fuck your throat.” Slurps echo over train rumble.

The Explosion

He hauls me up, bends me over seats. Skirt flips, tanga ripped aside. Fingers probe ass, then slam pussy—three deep, curling my G. “Dripping slut. Want this cock?” “Fuck yes, breed me!” He thrusts in—raw, balls-deep. Stretch burns sweet. Pounds savage, hips slapping ass. “Tight little cunt, gripping me.” I buck back, clit grinding seat. Tits bounce wild, nipples scrape fabric. Sweat-slick skin slaps wet. “Harder, make me scream!” Train sways, we fuck like animals—his grunts, my moans, metal creaks. He spins me, legs over shoulders—piles in deep, hits cervix. Fingers circle clit. “Cum on my dick, bitch.” Explosion rips me—walls pulse, squirt sprays. He roars, floods me—hot ropes painting womb. Collapse, panting, cum leaking down thighs.

Pull apart slow. Wipe sweat, fix clothes. He zips up, I smooth skirt—tanga ruined, pussy throbbing. Sit opposite, strangers again. Eyes lock, smirks hint at hotel filth ahead. Till Lyon, silence hums electric. Just bodies cooling, masks on. But inside? Already craving round two. Adrenaline queen, signing off till Paris.