I tossed all night. Wrote my first story yesterday after years of lurking. Felt good spilling it. Now the floodgates are open. Every dirty memory demands release. I’m Karine, 40s, blonde, petite, athletic. Proud of my 90D fake tits—firm, sensitive, my erotic core.
This one’s from a few years back. Wedding of my colleague’s son. No husband tagging along. Elegant affair. I wore a sleek black tailored suit, skirt hitting mid-thigh on heels. They sculpted my calves, thighs. Felt fit, tight, gagged. Bustier under the jacket—no blouse. Cleavage hinted, not slutty. Gold cross pendant nestled in the valley. Stole hid it in the church chill. Pro chignon, stricter than the bride’s. Fake glasses, red manicure. Bourgeois boss vibe. Provincial elite. I owned it.
The Awakening Spark
Jazz manouche under pergola. Mild night. Chic summer vibes. Knew few subs from work. Kept distance, old-school. Stuck at dinner’s end. Bal started inside. Slipped to terrace. Champagne coupe in hand—flutes suck. Bucolic spot: ancient trees, pond fed by stream. Pianist lingered for intimate chats.
Young guy by brasero, phone out, twirling luxury car keys. Tall teen, not hot yet—but potential. Awkward. Chat starts banal: nice night, wedding’s posh, party’s not us. Server swaps my bubbly. Ask why solo—he should chase wedding tail. He blurts: no taste for girls his age. Likes women like me. I laugh, shocked. Little shit rattled me.
Champagne hits hard. Can’t drive yet. We talk women, his crushes. Murmurs no real experience—just fumbling in dark cinemas, clubs. Stirs me. But upbringing screams flee. Chat too long already. Bail, head inside. He’s poetic, slinks to park by pond, moonlit maple.
Regain poise, air kisses hosts. Relief on their faces—boss lady leaving. Grab stole, to car. Spot him against tree. Plot twist. Invisible to others. Knew I’d see. Dumb logic: I veer toward him. ‘Everything okay?’ Voice warmer than smart.
Silence hangs. Hot now. Desire hits raw. ‘Can’t stop thinking of your tits’ cleavage. That cross trapped there.’ Voice deepens, man-boy tremble. First-love shakes. Ignites my core, pussy clenches deep. Grateful. He admits: isolating to jerk off after my car leaves.
Against sanity, offer help. Control mine. Thrill surges. He freezes. I perch on bench back, in his line. Hike skirt mid-thigh. Eyes bulge. No lunge—good boy. Pants bulge. Smirk. Decided. Tease, then bolt.
The Raw, Pulsing Act
Skirt higher. Immaculate lingerie—wet, though. Love resisting urge. Bustier opens. Pouterie cleavage. ‘No touching. Watch.’ He frees average cock. Swollen, pre-cum slick. Hour of buildup. Epic load coming, young balls full.
‘Told you: look, don’t touch.’ Slow strokes—guide voice. Undo bustier buttons. Deep V. Eyes locked. Speeds up. Stop him, nails trail veiny shaft. Cup balls, massage. Eyes shut bliss. Hand nears tit—I pull back, then allow. Clumsy grope. Long fingers pinch nipples. Sparks fly.
Face him. Eyes lock. Move his hand to cock. Mine works balls under waistband. He pumps, defiant stare. Tense. Squeeze tighter. Looks to freed tit. Edge. Drop low—cum blasts. Not forceful, but volume insane. Hot ropes coat cleavage, drip to navel. Dominate. His first—burned forever. Stammers sorry-thanks. Fix clothes, cum-streaked.
Whisper: ‘Live free like me.’ Walk to car, no look back. Hear him scramble as I peel out.
Home fast. Hubby asleep. Slip in naked, no shower. Suck cock awake. Quick, hard fuck—sex toy for my fire. He grunts, passes out. ‘Tell tomorrow.’ Smirked.
Light? Real. No embellish. Pure fact. Thrill lingers.