The Au Rhin tavern reeked of sweat, stale beer, and tannery rot. July 1919, Petite France, Strasbourg. Heat clung like a lover’s breath. Bodies packed tight, air thick, unbreathable. I stormed in, silk dress hugging my curves, heels clicking defiance. Eyes locked on Klei Peter, drunk, sneering. ‘Another silk-farting slut thinking she owns us,’ he slurred in Alsatian. My blood boiled. Heart hammered. I needed this. Craved the danger.
I stepped close. ‘Not buying trash like you, Peter. But how much for this?’ Skirt hiked slow. Thighs gleamed under black fishnets, red boots laced high. Jarretelles snapped taut. No panties—just lace voids teasing shadow. Crowd froze. Jaws dropped. Peter’s eyes bulged, cock twitching in his pants. Pulse raced in my throat. Skin flushed hot. I unbuttoned my blouse. Corset spilled my tits—firm, high, nipples hard peaks. ‘Touch if you dare.’ Grabbed his rough hand. Forced it between my legs. Wet already. Slippery heat. His finger plunged in. I gasped. Urgency clawed my gut.
The Fever Ignites
‘How much for all?’ He stammered a price. Laugh. ‘Double, or suck my toes.’ Higher. ‘Triple. On the table. Now.’ Coins slapped down. I hopped up. Legs splayed wide. Skirt bunched at waist. Pussy bare, shaved smooth, glistening. Crowd encircled. Breaths heavy. My clit throbbed. Heart thundered like drums. He dropped trou. Cock sprang—thick, veined, Lorraine sausage. Rage in his eyes. Grabbed my hips. Slammed in.
Pain. Bliss. Stretched full. He pounded savage. Table shook. Splats of my juices echoed. I kneaded my tits, pinched nipples raw. Grabbed a young vannier’s hair. Shoved his mouth to my breast. Sucked hard. Waves built. ‘Fuck me, ass! Harder!’ Eyes rolled white. Orgasm ripped—convulsing, squirting. He flipped me doggy. Ass high. Slapped cheeks red. Rammed deeper. Crowd groped—fingers on tits, pinching. I bucked back. ‘Fill me! Break me!’ Sweat poured. Skin slapped slick. Pulse exploded in ears.
Blaze of Ecstasy
He flipped me again. Legs over shoulders. Piledrove. Hands everywhere—twisting, probing. I arched. Screamed French filth. Climax after climax. His grunts feral. Finally, he roared. Hot cum flooded me. Pulled out. Drips trailed thighs. Crowd exhaled. I sat up calm. Dressed slow. Tits still heaving. Skin fever-hot, marked red. They stared, spent, shamed. Peter staggered off, broken.
I slipped into night. Legs shaky. Pussy aching, full. Heart slowed, but fire lingered. That rush—watched, taken, devoured. Pure. Dangerous. Mine.