Wheels of my suitcase clattered up the dim stairs to the annex hotel by the church. Village nowhere, perfect layover pitstop en route to Tours. Train tomorrow. Total anonymity. No one knows me here. Buzzer buzzed. Key clanged down from third floor. Grabbed it, hauled ass up. Door ajar. ‘Enter, shut it, sit in the armchair. Five minutes.’ Voice gravelly. Dumped bag by worn leather chair. Room screamed cheap: peeling yellow wallpaper, thrift-store furniture, faint poverty whiff. TV flickered mute. My heart raced. Emails with Ursula, forgotten school brunette from Copains d’Avant. Shy kid me, her fantasizing deflowering. Filthy chats: cocks, cunts, assfucks. Dick pics swapped. Her face? Bulldog ugly, greasy straight hair, bull neck. Body? Curvy enough. Still came. 200km drive, RTT lie to wife. Urgency burned – gone by dawn.
She shuffled in. Minnie Mouse mask hid half her mug. Short skirt rode high, low-cut top spilled heavy tits into deep cleavage. Crossed to sofa opposite. ‘Minnie turns you on more than my ugly face.’ Acerbic bite. Legs parted slow. Skirt hiked. Garters peeked. Slipped off one heel, foot on armrest. Thighs splayed wide. No panties. Bushy black curls framed wet pink slit. ‘For you. Garters, bare pussy. Like your mails.’ Cock throbbed tight in pants. Stood, dropped them. Gripped shaft, stroked hard. She spread lips, fingered hole. Vulva glistened. ‘Condoms in box.’ Fumbled one on, blew load premature. She laughed. ‘Tiny dick, huh? Come here.’ Grabbed it, sucked deep. Lips slurped sloppy. Years since wife’s mouth. Hard again. Rolled new rubber. ‘Bedroom.’
The Stopover
Pushed her down. Legs wide. Plunged into soaked cunt. ‘Fuck, so good.’ Belly slapped belly. Heavy, sweaty. She groaned as I bottomed out. ‘Pound me, big boy. Old pal’s pussy hot?’ Railed hard. She screamed orgasms. Mine hit, flooded rubber. Collapsed on her. ‘Too heavy.’ Rolled off laughing. Stripped full. She ditched stockings – ‘Only pair.’ Milked cum from used condom, smeared tits. ‘Rub ’em.’ Kneaded jizz over sagging boobs. Then straddled face. Pussy dripped. Tongue-fucked deep, sucked juices. Nibbled fat clit. She bucked, came buckets. Somnifère wine hit. Blackout.
The Transit
Woke groggy. Street voices echoed. Turned. Wife Maryse? Naked, frog eyes, floppy tits, belly rolls. Grain de beauté confirmed. ‘Licked me good. Years.’ No rage. Serene slut vibe. ‘Your cum dried on tits.’ Drugged! Explored: sparse bathroom, hotel towels stacked. Kitchenette bare. No capote now. Cleaned. Her in garters again. ‘Sexy weekend, remember? No panties, always ready.’ Not my prude wife. Window: no sign, church view. ‘Annex.’ Car gone outside. Phone vanished. She sucked me off filthy. Deepthroated, balls slurped, swallowed load gushing. Chin dripped cum to tits.
Dressed, out. No car. Hotel desk girl: ‘No annex.’ Bar smokes, croissants. Door locked. No answer. Hitchhiked Camaro to Angoulême station. Late TGV. Home empty. Car back next morn. Emails bounced. Ursula ghosted. Toilet flush. Maryse and Fabienne – Ursula real name – arm in arm. Lovers months. Setup prank. Drugged to swap wives, spark sex drought. Her apartment staged hotel. Fabienne winked in nightie. ‘Threesome? She stays.’ Kissed deep. Best derail ever. Back to transit life, but hornier.