I slump deep into the airport lounge chair. Marseille Provence glitters outside the glass walls. My roller suitcase leans against my leg, keycard from last night’s Avignon hotel tucked in my purse. Corridor echoes fade—late-night cleaners, rolling trolleys. I text Mom: ‘Grab the kids, pls. Delayed.’ Alone now. Thoughts drag me back to that first evening with Max. My naughty stopover. Pure anonymity in festival chaos. No one knows me here. I leave tomorrow.
He’d spotted my gloom earlier. Tried jokes—awkward, but sweet. Offered a chill night out. I said yes. At 7 PM, he pulls up to my hotel lobby. Simple jeans, wild-print shirt. Matching shoes, belt, watch. Elegant as fuck, I think. I slip into my green summer dress—hope’s color—mid-thigh, showing off my long swimmer’s legs. Wedges, shawl match. Shoulders bare, toned.
The Stopover
We hit a pub terrace first. July festival buzz. Band rocks Anglo covers. Beers flow, vibe electric. He raves about Avignon: pop-up theaters everywhere, wild shows. I’m stunned—cultural depth, smooth talk. Tract guys hawk their play, table to table. He chats them up, promises to catch it later. Says I need laughs tonight, his pick will distract me. Charisma hits hard. I’m hooked.
We weave through crowds to Le Palace cinema-turned-theater. City’s transformed—every hall a stage. One-man shows, improv, eclectic shit. His fave: authors starring in gender-swap comedy. Dude wants to be a woman. Three flatmates: stiff prof, macho soccer fan, questioning accountant. Hilarity explodes. Complex topic, gut-busting delivery. I howl. We praise the actors post-show. Worries gone—ex-husband bullshit erased.
Dinner at Place des Carmes. Great chat, killer food. He offers ride back. Fuck no. ‘Your place?’ I say. At his apartment—neutral, eclectic decor, city rooftops view—he pours Cuban rum. I pounce. Lips crash. Tongues tangle wild. Hands roam. I rip his shirt, feel those muscles I’d eyed. He peels my dress straps, unhooks bra. Firm tits out, nipples hard. Squeezes right one, sucks left. I moan, sigh. Neck kisses trail down.
Kneels, tugs panties. Sits me on sofa. Kisses thighs, feet—wait, what? Inner thighs quiver. Tongue teases pussy lips, clit peeks. Flicks it. I clamp legs, scream—cum hard. He stops, I devour his mouth.
The Transit
Condom on. Enters slow, deep. Belly grinds my clit. I shatter, he pounds us over.
Naked still, he wraps me in blanket. Mojito? Yes. Fruits, nuts. He grabs beer. Sofa cuddles, leg strokes. Chat decor, his theater passion. Kiss reignites. Bedroom.
I shove him on bed. Straddle, kiss down. Palpate abs—perfect build. Cock shaved smooth, huge. Stroke, kiss base. Suck glans like ice cream pop. Lick shaft. He fingers my ass in mirror view—armoire reflects my arched back. Excites him. Condom with mouth. Mount, rub clit on it. Sink down. Pin arms, ride hard. Tongue flicks my nipples. Mutual blast-off. Panting collapse.
Sweaty July heat—shower. His hands worship every curve. Dries me tender. Never felt this cared for.
Dawn keycard beep at hotel check-out. Suitcase wheels echo corridors. Festival fades. Plane boards soon. That body memory lingers. Transit thrill. Until next stop.