This story was automatically created with AI assistance. All characters are adults. 18+.
The air was heavy and humid as I strolled through the alleys of the old town, sweat already clinging to my back under the thin, black dress. It was like a second skin, cinching my waist, making my breasts seem freer than they did under normal clothing. I had dressed up for this evening, for the gallery opening, but really, I dressed up to feel myself again. The divorce had made me numb. My body had become foreign to me, an empty shell that functioned but didn’t feel. Tonight, that was going to change. I wanted to feel again, hard and direct.
I entered the gallery, the smell of cheap white wine and expensive perfume hitting me. The paintings were garish, expressive, screaming for attention. I took a glass, emptied it in two big gulps, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. Then I began to wander through the crowd, letting my hips sway, deliberately slowly, provocatively. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be desired. Suddenly, a voice behind me, deep, rough, like velvet on stone. “What do you see in this painting?” I turned around. He was tall, maybe mid-thirties, with dark hair and eyes that appraised me as if he were undressing me. A publisher, he said. I laughed softly. A publisher. Perfect. We talked about art, about words, but underneath it was all foreplay. His glances swept over my lips, over my neck, lower, to my breasts pressing against the dress. I let him. I wanted him to see.
“There’s something about you,” he said, his voice a whisper meant only for me. “Something wild. Something that wants to be set free.” I took another sip of wine, letting the liquid slowly trickle down my throat. “Maybe I’ve just been in a cage long enough,” I replied, my voice hoarse with a desire I didn’t fully understand yet. He smiled, a thin, knowing smile. “Then we should open the cage.” He took my hand, his fingers warm and firm, and led me out of the stuffy gallery into the mild night. The streets were empty, only the soft murmur of the Rhine audible. We walked side by side, our shoulders brushing, and every time his skin touched mine, an electric shock shot through me. He stopped, under an old lamppost whose light cast a golden glow on us. He turned me to face him, his hands on my shoulders. “I want to kiss you now,” he said. It wasn’t a question. It was a statement. And I wanted it too.
His lips met mine, and it was like a dam breaking. It wasn’t a gentle kiss. It was greedy, demanding, his tongue pushing into my mouth, exploring me, challenging me. I allowed it, returned the kiss with equal intensity, bit his lower lip lightly, heard him moan softly. My hands slid into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of his body through the fabric of his shirt. He pulled away, breathless, his eyes blazing. “Come with me,” he said, and his voice was now deeper, rougher, full of raw lust. We hurried through the streets, past sleeping houses, until we stood before an old apartment door. He unlocked it, his hands trembling slightly, and I knew he wanted me as much as I wanted him.
Inside, it was warm and quiet. I looked around, registering the high ceilings, the bookshelves, the large bed in the center of the room – but it was just a backdrop. The only real thing was the tension between us, almost tangible. He stepped behind me, his hands on my shoulders, slowly sliding down my arms, leaving goosebumps in their wake. I heard his breath in my neck, hot and fast. “Take it off,” he whispered. I obeyed. I let the straps of the dress slide from my shoulders, the dress falling to the floor, a black pool around my feet. I stood only in a narrow lace thong. My breasts were bare, my nipples hard and erect, the cool air a shock on my hot skin. He let out a low, appreciative sound, turned me around, his eyes burning into my body. “Damn, you’re beautiful,” he murmured, and then his hands were on my breasts, his thumbs stroking over the hard tips, and I gasped. The ache of arousal was sweet and sharp.
He bent his head and took one of my nipples into his mouth. His tongue circled it, first gently, then more demandingly, sucking until I moaned and threw my head back. I felt the moisture growing between my legs, my body opening for him. His hand wandered lower, gliding over my belly, under the edge of the thong. His fingers found me immediately – wet, hot, ready. “You’re already dripping,” he whispered against my skin, as one finger pushed into me. I gasped, clutching his shoulders, feeling him stretch me, fill me. A second finger joined, and he began to fuck me, slowly, deeply, his fingers inside me, while his mouth continued to suckle at my breasts. I was on the verge of coming, just from his fingers, but he stopped. He pulled his fingers out, licked them with relish, his eyes never leaving mine. “Not yet,” he said. “I want to come in you. I want to fuck you until you scream.”
He undressed, tearing his shirt off, dropping his pants. His cock stood hard and long before me, the glans glistening wet, the veins prominent. My mouth went dry. He was bigger than I had expected, thicker. He took my hand and placed it around his shaft. “Feel him,” he said. “Feel how hard you make me.” I enclosed him, let my fingers glide over his length, felt the heat radiating from him, the twitching under my touch. He moaned softly, his hands sliding into my hair, loosening the knot, letting my hair fall over my shoulders. Then he grabbed me, turned me around, bent me over the edge of the bed. My hands braced on the mattress, my ass sticking up in the air, the thong a narrow strip between my cheeks. He pulled it aside, baring my wet slit, glistening with desire.
“This is how I want you,” he growled. “Ready to be fucked.” He leaned behind me, his hand stroking over my wet labia, dipping briefly inside me, then he pulled it away and licked it. The sight was obscene, the sound of his smacking arousing me even more. He straightened up, I felt the tip of his cock at my pussy, as he teased my entrance with the glans.
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