My flight delayed overnight, I dragged my suitcase into the airport hotel lobby. Beep of the magnetic key card. Elevator hums up to the fifth floor. Corridor lights buzz faintly. Room overlooks the runways—planes taxiing like restless beasts. Down to the lounge bar for a drink. Jet-lagged travelers everywhere. Spot a lively group: seven guys, seven girls, laughing over beers and joints. Pierre waves me over. ‘Join us, stranger?’ Agnès grins wickedly. Anonymity hits hard—no one knows me, gone by dawn. Why not?
They pitch the blind date game. Draw straws in separate rooms. I draw short. Eyes blindfolded, guided back to the dim lounge. Silence falls. My hands reach out, touch soft arms in silk blouse. Heart races. Who is he? Firm shoulders. I unbutton his shirt slow. He finds my deep V-neck, caresses my full tits through silk. Goosebumps. His hands knead my hips, round ass under tight skirt. Fingers slip under, graze hot skin above self-hold stockings, lace thong.
The Blindfolded Encounter
He kisses my neck; I squirm. Crowd whistles. Shirt off him—smooth chest. I lift arms; he peels my blouse up. Belly exposed, then lace bra barely hiding swollen nipples. We press bare torsos together, mouths hungry. My shaky hands undo his belt. His dive under skirt, fingers trace thong string, dip into wet slit. Pussy throbs. I yank his pants down—Calvin Klein bulge massive. Skirt hikes up, thighs bare.
He spins me, grinds cock against ass. Hands on tits, kneading hard. Bra snaps off—cool air on naked breasts. He drops my thong to knees. Girls cheer. I tug his briefs—thick cock springs free, veiny and rigid. He parades it, proud. Kneels, head under skirt. Tongue plunges deep, lapping my soaked pussy. Legs shake. I cum hard, flooding his mouth. Skirt falls—I’m naked, panting. Ten minutes up. We bow to applause. Later, recognize him: Alain. His girl Lisa smirks.
Speed Dating Chaos Unleashed
Agnès ups the ante: speed blind dating. Belts link girls in circle, guys hand-in-hand outside. Blindfolds on. Circles spin opposite. Stop—grab partners. Three minutes each. Hands roam wild. Blouses fly, bras off. Torsos bare, moans rise. Next rounds: pants drop, slips last. Cocks hard, pussies dripping—smooth mounds, bushy ones, gaping lips.
Boys kneel, devour us. Tongues flick clits, fingers spread folds. I buck, cum with the chorus. Girls kneel next—mouths engulf cocks. Slurps, sucks. Some guys spurt early, salty loads swallowed. Final spin: guys lift us, impale on rigid shafts. Legs wrap waists. Pounding frenzy—cunts stretched, asses too for some. ‘Oh fuck yes!’ Slaps of flesh. I ride waves of orgasms, grinding even if empty. Last couple screams longest.
We collapse in a sweaty heap, blindfolds stay. Kisses linger. Dawn nears. Key card returned at desk. Suitcase zipped. Runway lights blink. Boarding call. That anonymous frenzy—bodies unknown, pleasure raw—fuels my next flight. Perfect stopover sin.