1980. We rent this crumbling farm deep in the woods. Sixty kilometers from home. Weekends start Friday night. No heat, just a massive fireplace. One luxury: a shower. Big bedroom for us, small for friends. Kids crash in the loft with rats. Overflow sleeps in outbuildings across the cobbled yard.
We live naked or in swimsuits. Guests swarm with guitars, wine, horniness. I draw pastels, hang them in the courtyard. D. snaps photos. I discover my body—kinesiology, foot massages. I’m damn good. Word spreads. Women line up. Men bail. Fine by me. D. watches, eyes hungry. She just confessed her queer side. Her blue gaze tracks their squirms while chatting bullshit. Traces show in siesta fucks. We crave that chaos.
The Awakening: Tension Builds at Breakfast
Saturday breakfast. Us three in swimsuits: me, D., Marie. Freshly divorced, she’s golden-brown—dark hair, eyes, skin. Stunning smile, always chatty. D. pitches my foot skills. ‘Relaxation gold. He’ll melt your stress.’ Casual, her tits on the table, nipples poking cotton. Everyone steals glances.
Marie lights up. ‘When do we start?’ D.: ‘Now. Bedroom’s huge.’ I glance—your idea? Marie’s hot, but no spark. Friend, though. Okay. Clear dishes. Into the white-walled room. Our massive DIY bed: planks, beams, green satin quilt.
Doors? Symbolic, warped, lockless. I nudge the bedroom one shut. D. smirks outside, tongue in cheek, hands on hips. ‘Your show,’ my eyes say. Marie stretches on satin, two-piece clinging to curves. Confident. I kneel at bed’s end, take her left foot. Soft toes. Explain. She nods, eyes shut. Sighs escape.
Thumb digs arch. Resistance. Slow crush. Five minutes in: her face twists. Body tenses. Pain? Head shake no. Hand waves: more. Confused, I press. She props on elbows, head back, breaths ragged. Right leg spreads. Hips grind satin. Swimsuit crotch taut—puffy lips outlined, wet spot blooming. Musky scent hits. She’s cumming. Eyes squeezed, no stop signal. I kneel between thighs, swap feet. She bucks, suit rides up.
My red-white suit tents. Cock tip peeks. D. slips in. Hand on my shoulder: shh. Topless, tits sway, long nipples stiff in shadows. Slides to headboard, against Marie. Who senses her—arm drapes D.’s thigh.
The Act: Raw Surrender to Forbidden Lust
D. grins victory at me. Offers left tit. Marie latches, sucks greedy. Gurgles. D. tugs right nipple, pulls out—wet, stretched. ‘Watch me harden,’ she mouths. Her kink: visual cum.
I drop feet. Suit down thighs. Stroke cock. Marie’s bottom yanked aside. D. halts me. Rips her top. Pinches lemon-half tits. Marie whines, paws D.’s thighs. D. yanks back—no touch.
I lean. Grip Marie’s soaked yellow crotch. Ass lifts. D. slams it down. Her nails hook fabric, yank. Exposes brown lips, dripping gash. Dips finger, tastes. Grabs my cock base, aims, shoves into slick heat. Pushes my ass. I sink deep. Marie gasps, bucks wild.
D. stretches elastic wide. Watches cock plunge, suit askew. ‘Drench her now!’ Marie hears, grips my arm. Pants frantic. Eyes fly open void. Thighs clamp. ‘You’re the first.’ I erupt, flooding. She convulses, pussy milking.
D. aftershocks rumble low. We collapse. Suits adjusted. Laughter outside. Back to brunch. Smiles normal. Secret pulses. That yellow stain? Our trophy. No one suspects. Thrill lingers—pure, filthy dare.