Late 90s Paris. Sunday afternoon near Place de la Madeleine. I spot them. Fifty-something cougars lined up outside a dancing hall. Sky-high heels. Black stockings. Short slutty dresses. Bleached blondes, fiery redheads. Long nails. Dripping in jewelry. Overdone makeup, reeking of cheap perfume and raw horniness. Fantasizing they’d fuck anything with a pulse. Perfect easy prey. No internet dating yet. This was my hack.
Guys looked like retired mobsters. Potbellies, flushed faces. No real competition. Next Sunday, I suit up. Best costume, black shirt, dark tie. Arrive mid-afternoon. Place buzzing. Winter chill, but my throat’s dry. Heart pounding. Feels like sneaking into hell for sin. Steps quicken as I near.
The Awakening: Spotting the Prey
Cashier barely glances. Young gigolo? Routine. Drop coat at vestiaire. Descend to the arena. Retro tango blasts. Dim lights. Eyes scan me. Women in full glam. Like New Year’s sluts. Bourgeoises starving for cock. My dick twitches. Vodka at bar for courage. Scope the room. First brunette in thigh boots. Awkward chat drowned by noise. Her ‘friend’ returns with champagne. Strike out.
Disco track hits. Floor floods. I dance wild. No arthritis here. Tease eye contact. Grind hips. These divorced, neglected whores eye me hungry. Hot bitches in need. Musette starts. I sit. Spot Brigitte. Platinum blonde, mid-50s. Tight black dress hugging torpedo tits. Couture stockings. Varnished stilettos, 15cm spikes. Gold ankle chain. Rings galore. Cigarette dangling. Femme fatale slut.
Eyes lock. I slide next. Compliment her outfit, that intoxicating scent. Names exchanged. Champagne offered. Accepted. Legs cross, brushing mine. Cock hardens. Alcohol loosens. Hand on shoulder. She yields. Teasing game. Bulge strains pants.
The Act: From Dancefloor to Car Cock Worship
Slow dance. Towering heels level us. Press close. Perfume overwhelms. Hands on hips, slide to ass, thighs. Feel garters. ‘You like that,’ she whispers. Dick throbs. Tits crush my chest. Head on shoulder. Neck lick, kiss. Shivers explode. Back to dark corner. Hands roam. Stroke silk stockings. Fingers hit lacy tops. She gropes my bulge. Licks lips.
Heaven. Time flies. Closing. Offer ride. She slips off stiletto, retrieves ticket. I massage nylon foot. Eyes close in bliss. Exit kiss devours. Grabs my ass. Hungry. Car nearby, quiet street. Door opens. Skirt hikes teasingly. Inside, tongues battle. Hand on crotch. ‘Want me to suck you.’ Zipper down. Mouth engulfs.
Tongue swirls glans. Slurping up down. Spit on shaft, licks like popsicle. Street dim, late hour. Risk amps thrill. Grip head, thrust. Expert throat. Swallowed countless cocks. Moans vibrate. Can’t hold. Groan, explode. Gulps every drop.
Lips glossy with cum. Wink. ‘Last drink at mine?’ Night just starting. Secret thrill lingers. Back to normal life. But I own this dirty memory.