Landed at the regional airport on November 11, 2024. Gray sky heavy like wartime fog. Grabbed my roller suitcase, wheels rattling on tile. Shuttle to the chain hotel nearby, neon sign flickering. Keycard beeped at room 312. Dropped bag by the bed, city view hazy through rain-streaked glass. No runways here, just monuments and mairies. Quick shower, black coat on. Had to hit the cemetery for the Armistice ceremony, honoring my great-grandpa’s grave. WWI vet, gangrene took him.
Crowd thinned after speeches. Gravel crunched under boots, cold wind whipping. Stood at family stele, lost in thoughts. Then her voice, soft, ironic: ‘You come here often?’
The Stopover
Looked up. Red hair flaming against the gloom. Tight black coat hugging curves. Smile bold, insolent. ‘Uh, yeah. Great-grandpa. You?’
‘Enjoying the vibe. Someone’s gotta lighten this place.’ Her laugh cut the silence. Chatted weird. Death, memory, war shadows. She mocked it all, light but deep. Leaned in, woody perfume hitting hard. ‘Past weighs you down. Live now.’ Hand on my chest, feeling heartbeat. Fingers trailed collar, cheek, lips.
‘You look serious, like him. A man I loved long ago.’ Eyes locked, heat building. Reminded her of someone. Strong hands, rebel spark. Heart raced. She pulled me behind massive stele, hidden. Out of sight. Adrenaline spiked—no one around.
The Transit
Lips crashed. Hungry, urgent. Tongue deep, tasting smoke and mystery. Hands roamed. Mine gripped her ass, firm under coat. She unzipped me fast, cool fingers wrapping cock. Stroked hard, thumb on tip. ‘Feel alive,’ she whispered. Dropped to knees, gravel biting. Mouth hot, wet. Sucked deep, no tease. Gagged soft, eyes up. Balls tight, thrusting hips. Came hard down her throat, groaning low. She swallowed, licked clean. Stood, kissed salty.
Fingers in her now, wet slick. Coat open, skirt hiked. Fucked her against stone, cold marble on her back. Legs wrapped tight, nails digging. Pounded raw, fast. She moaned French curses, tits bouncing. Climbed together, her walls clenching. Pulled out, spurted on thigh. Breath ragged, world spun.
Back in hotel, legs shaky. Keycard beeped again, corridor hum empty. Suitcase zipped half-open. Dug phone, family scans. Yellowed letter to Louise, nurse lover. ‘My soulmate.’ Photo flipped—her face, that smile, brooch. Pocketed it: wilted poppy, gold faded. She died 1917, bomb. Him six months later. Ghost? Fuck. Heart pounded. Her touch lingered, cock twitched at memory.
Dawn. Checked out, keycard dropped at desk. Shuttle to airport. Boarded flight, city fading. That naughty transit burned in. Anonymity fueled it—one night, gone. Life pulsed harder now.