Love at First Sight Hit Hard: My First Raw Surrender to Karine
My childhood bedroom in Belgium, December 2018. Posters of cyclists on the walls, single bed creaking under me. I’d just sent that email to Karine, spilling my guts about the lightning bolt in her Provence shop. Twenty years old, fresh off a dud relationship with Benedicte—my awkward first at fourteen, acne-faced neighbor who popped my cherry out of boredom. But Karine? She wrecked me. No reply yet. Heart slamming ribs. I pace, refresh inbox. Nothing. Lights off, slide under sheets. Cock stirs, half-hard. Fear grips: she’s married, nearing forty, owns that village store. Me? Shy cyclist kid from Belgium. But her smile haunts. Voice echoes. No turning back. Hand trembles down stomach. First time chasing this fire alone. Pulse thunders in ears. Breath short. Fingers hook waistband, pull down boxers. Skin electric. Unknown rushes in—will she ever know? Does it matter? Grip tightens. Stroke slow. Fantasy ignites.
Bodies crash together. Her on top, straddling in my dim room. Lips crush mine, tongues wrestle wet. Heart explodes. Hands claw clothes. Her blouse rips open, bra snaps free. Tits spill—full, nipples stiff peaks. I suck one, bite gentle. She moans low, grinds pussy heat on my thigh. Wet already, soaking through lace. My cock throbs, veins pulsing. She yanks my shirt, pins arms. Frees them. Palms her ass, squeezes firm cheeks. Fingers slip under panties, find slick folds. She gasps, bucks. ‘Fuck me,’ she whispers. No condom—raw need wins. Roll her under me. Rip skirt, panties gone. Pussy glistens, pink and swollen. Cockhead nudges entrance. Slides in easy, hot velvet grips. Thrust deep. She claws back, nails dig. Hips slam. Sweat slicks skin. Her walls clench, orgasm hits—shudders, cries out. Mine builds, balls tighten. Pump harder. Cum floods her, spasms rip me. Collapse, kiss sloppy. But she wakes me more. Finger traces cock, teases veins, cups balls heavy. Squeezes shaft, pumps fierce. Mouth engulfs—sucks hard, teeth graze. Tongue laps precum. I groan, buck. Explode down throat. She swallows, grins wicked.
The Approach
Dawn light filters. Cum-soaked tissue in trash. Body buzzes, spent but alive. Innocence shattered—not cherry, that was Benedicte’s clumsy fumblings. This? Pure, visceral hunger unlocked. No kid anymore. Obsession owns me. Check mail—still nothing. But I push: more emails, photo attached. Days blur, jerk every night to her ghost. Then, hours after last plea, reply lands. Short, flattered but cautious. Age gap stings, but spark there. We chat. Weeks, months. Discreet words heat up. Summer looms. Meeting set. That first solo plunge? Broke the dam. Opened filthy horizons. Karine’s real now, not dream. Nervous? Hell yes. But ready.
