First-Time Craving: Sucking Him in the Scorching Woods After 20 Years
The Cèze river shimmered under July’s brutal sun, shallow waters lapping at our feet. Avignon heat clung like a lover’s sweat. We’d reconnected online after twenty years, old flames flickering back to life. Messages turned filthy fast. Now here we were, naked from our swim, bodies remembering what minds had buried. Other bathers’ stares killed the beach vibe. We grabbed clothes, hearts pounding, and bolted for the woods uphill. Thorny bushes scratched our legs. The road below was empty—siesta time in this godforsaken heat.
My pulse thundered in my ears. Hand in his, we pushed deeper into the scrub. Train left in two hours. No time for doubts. Desire clawed at me, sharp and urgent. I’d fantasized this during our chats—tasting him again. He was married. Me too. But fuck guilt. Not yet. His grip tightened. I knew we weren’t turning back. Skirt hiked, no panties—his eyes darkened. He lifted my hem, breath hitching. I fumbled his shirt buttons, fingers clumsy with nerves. Heart slamming against ribs. His pants next. Zipper down, slip yanked. There it was—his cock, thick, veined, springing free. Splendid. Hard for me. He scooped me up, strong arms crushing me against him. Legs wrapped his waist. Old memories flooded: him fucking me like this back in our twenties. Innocence shattered then. Now? This was rebirth.
The Nervous Approach
No time for teasing. I slid down his body, tongue tracing from his collarbone, salty skin, down to those dark pubes. Heart racing faster. Childhood flash—sucking fresh eggs, that juicy pop. Fucked up? Maybe. But I craved his cock in my mouth. Dropped to knees on rough dirt. Ronces nipped my thighs. His tip brushed my lips—hesitant, throbbing. Mine now. I engulfed him. Warm, velvet steel. Salty pre-cum hit my tongue. Fuck, the thrill. My pussy clenched, juices slicking my inner thighs. He groaned, fingers in my hair. Nervous? Hell yes. First time like this in forever—raw, rushed, outside. His hand on my ass, dipping lower. Fingers found my soaked slit. “Wet,” he growled. Pushed in. I moaned around his shaft, vibrations humming.
The Raw Instant and Lingering Trace
Left hand pumped his base, stroking up. Right under his balls—heavy, ripe plums. He guided me. Complicity sparked. Perfect. His hips bucked. I sucked harder, tongue swirling the ridge. Waves built in him—electric, shooting up my spine. My clit throbbed untouched. Vagina spasming to his rhythm. Faster. He tensed. Jet hit my throat—hot, thick, savory. Gulped it down. Wanted more. Licked clean. He sagged, spent.
We dressed quick, stumbled to the car. Silent drive back. Air thick with afterglow and shame. He broke it: “Sorry I didn’t make you cum.” I smirked. “Next time.” Guilt talk followed—spouses, trust. “Sucking isn’t cheating,” I teased. He frowned. Moral now? His hand on my thigh, confessing he fucked her thinking of me. Laughter mixed with ache. Station loomed. Hugs tight. Parting sucked, always did. But that taste lingered. Innocence? Long gone. This reignited us—same wicked frequency. No regrets. Just hunger for more.
