My GPS glitched on the rural backroads, suitcase rattling in the trunk as dusk swallowed the fields. Flight out tomorrow from the nearby regional airport—no signal, no rush. I spotted lights in a shabby farmhouse inn, Auberge des Pensées. Pushed the creaky door, heart pounding from the detour.
Hilda, mid-40s, curvaceous in an apron, smiled knowingly. ‘Welcome. Your GPS brought you home.’ Relief washed over me. Clean room, big wooden bed, hot shower steaming up the mirror. No WiFi, perfect anonymity. Dressed in a thin robe, I headed to the dining room. Warm oshibori towel from Hilda—silky, scented, nipples hardening under the fabric.
The Stopover
She pointed to a polished church bench against the wall, faded mauve cushion worn from asses like mine. ‘Sit. It reveals your menu. Custom feast for body and soul.’ Intrigued, buzzed from the drive, I sat. Wood bit through the cushion. Then words poured out, raw, unfiltered.
The Transit
‘I crave thrills in my dull life. Haven’t been fucked right since my drama teacher popped my cherry at 17.’ Memories flooded: his lap in class, cock twitching against me. After, he kept me back, kissed me deep, tongue probing. Hands under my skirt, fingers slick. Bent me over desk, slid in slow, tender, stretching my virgin pussy. Filled me, came inside—no condom, hot spurts. Then ghosted me for hotter girls. Still masturbate to it, bitter ache.’
Eyes snapped open, pussy wet. Hilda nodded, vanished. ‘Relax. Dinner in 30 with Gustave.’