Tara spent the week in a haze—phone buzzing every hour with Rob's messages. *Wish I was balls-deep in your ass right now.* *Bet you're wet just reading this.* Filthy, shameless, perfect. She read them in bed, fingers between her legs, hating herself and loving it.
She knew it was wrong. She knew she should delete him. But her cunt ached for more than memories. Rob wouldn't be back for a month—too long.
Then, one morning—still in her robe, coffee untouched—she had an idea: treat herself tonight. Out in London. No kids, no guilt—just her, a hotel, and whatever came next.
She booked a room by London Bridge—clean sheets, Thames view, minibar. Told herself it was self-care: shopping, spa, drinks. Nothing more.
She arrived early. Wandered Oxford Street—bought lace panties she didn't need, a black dress that hugged her tits too tight, heels she could barely walk in. Then the spa: hot stones, scented oil, a massage that left her thighs slick with lotion and her mind drifting back to Rob's tongue.
By seven she was back—hair up, dress on, lipstick dark. Mirror check: widow, mother, slut. All three.
She headed out.
Streets alive—tourists, suits, pub laughter. She walked past the bridge, past the Shard, feeling the city pulse around her.
She ended up in a packed student bar off Borough Market—dim, sticky, bass thumping. Twenty-somethings everywhere: shots, laughter, bodies close. Tara felt old—then young again when heads turned.
And then she saw him.
Six-foot-five, broad-shouldered, skin like polished ebony. Late twenties, she thought—maybe thirty. He leaned against the bar, laughing at something a friend said, but his eyes found hers. Held.
She ordered a gin. He moved closer.
"First time here?" he asked, voice deep, accent soft—South London, maybe.
"Something like that," she said, smiling slow.
They talked. He bought her a drink. Then another. His name was Jamal. She didn't ask for last names.
He leaned in—close enough she could smell his skin, clean and warm. "You look incredible," he said, eyes tracing her neckline. "Seriously. How are you even forty-five? You look twenty-five. Prettiest woman in here—hands down."
Tara's thighs clenched. Heat pooled low.
He kept going. "That dress... fuck. It's like it was made for you. Every guy in this room's staring, but I'm the one who gets to talk to you."
Her nipples hardened under the fabric. She shifted—felt the dampness between her legs.
"You know," he murmured, fingers brushing her wrist, "I could watch you all night. But I'd rather do more than watch."
She laughed—breathless. "Careful. I might take you up on that."
He grinned. "Good. Because I want to fuck you till you forget your own name."
They flirted harder—his hand on her lower back, her fingers grazing his thigh, words turning dirtier with every sip. By the third drink she was soaked, clit throbbing against her lace.
They left together.
Back at the hotel, the lift ride was torture—bodies inches apart, breathing heavy. Door clicked shut.
Jamal pinned her against the wall—fast, no warning. His big black lips devoured her small, petite mouth—tongue pushing in deep, claiming her like he'd been waiting all night. She moaned into him, hands fisting his shirt.
He spread her legs rough—wide—knees knocking hers apart, dress shoved up. Fingers—thick, calloused—slid inside her panties, two at once, curling hard. He finger-fucked her like it was the last time she'd ever feel it—fast, brutal, knuckles grinding her clit. She bucked, gasped, came on his hand in under a minute—shuddering, biting his shoulder.
He didn't stop. Just kept going—three fingers now—until she was dripping down his wrist.
Then he pulled back. Unzipped.
Tara's eyes went wide.
His cock—thick as her wrist, veined, dark, curving up—bobbed free. She'd never seen anything this big. Not even close. It looked impossible.
He lifted her again—legs around his waist—and sank in slow. The stretch burned, then bloomed—her pussy swallowing him inch by inch until he bottomed out, balls against her ass. She cried out—half pain, half bliss.
He fucked her there—against the wall—then carried her to the bed. Flipped her. Took her ass next—slow at first, then pounding, relentless. Back to her pussy. Back to her ass. Over and over, all night—positions blurring, sweat soaking sheets, her voice hoarse from screaming.
He came inside her twice—once in her cunt, once in her ass—then pulled out and painted her tits.
They collapsed—tangled, sticky. He stayed.
Morning light crept through the blinds. Tara woke to him stroking her hair.
"You're still here," she whispered.
Jamal smiled—lazy, satisfied. "Couldn't leave without breakfast. Or round five."
She laughed—sore everywhere, but grinning.
He kissed her forehead. "You okay?"
She nodded. "Better than okay."
And she meant it. |
