My Forbidden Medieval Quickie: Fucking the Queen in the Woods
Deep in my private locker, that mental vault where I bury the filthiest secrets, I’ve kept this one locked tight. But tonight, in this dingy hotel room after the medieval chaos, I crack it open. No more holding back. The thrill hits hard—sharing this raw fuck with you, like whispering cum-stained truths in your ear. It’s Paul here, the journalist chasing werewolves, but really chasing pussy in a fake medieval village. My marriage crumbling, Marie cold as ice. Then Viviane, the hot shop owner, the mayor’s wife, grabs my hand. Leads me past tents, into the woods. Pine scent thick, leaves crunching like chips underfoot. My cock twitches. She’s a stunner—black gown hugging curves, dragon tat peeking over her tit. We duck under ancient trees, mossy trunk looming. Heart pounding, dick half-hard already.
She stops, lifts her skirt. Long legs flash, no panties. Drops to knees, then all fours. Ass up, cheeks pale and round, pussy glistening wet, pink lips parted. Tiny brown ring winking above. ‘No time, Paul. Five minutes max. Can you do it?’ Her voice husky, fingers spreading herself. Pubic twists dangling like bait. I unzip, pull out cock and balls. Kneel on crackling leaves. Grip her soft hips, rub glans on slick slit. Thumb her wetness, she moans soft. Stroke myself rock-hard. Slide in slow. Fuck, so tight, hot velvet gripping. Balls slap her as I thrust. Heart hammers. Distant crowd cheers fights, music drifts. Her rune tat at tailbone flexes. Anus tempts, but hell no—already damned. Grip tighter, pound harder. Leaves snap, her ass jiggles. She fingers clit fierce, hips bucking back.
Opening the Private Locker
Adrenaline surges—any second, someone spots us. Her moans rise, body quivers. My sack tightens, cock throbs deep. Ramming her white cheeks, sweat drips. She cums? Hard to tell, but pussy clenches like a fist. I explode—hot spurts flood her. Body locks, groan escapes. Stay buried, panting on her back. Pull out, cum leaks down her thigh. She rolls over, legs clamped, hands buried in pussy. Bites lip, eyes roll back. Twitches, sighs deep, face flushes crimson. Stares at sky through branches, drained.
‘Witch, you’re pyre-bound.’ She grins wicked. Fixes skirt, leaves stick to ass. ‘Met your Marie. Sweet girl. Filming the fest.’ We chat—her splitting from the mayor, his crush on Marie. Grabs my arm. ‘Time to armor up, stud.’ We crunch back, secret sealed. No regrets, just buzz. Cock satisfied, mind light. Marie none the wiser. Back in this hotel, vault clicks shut. But sharing it? Electric rush. That controlled exhibitionism—your eyes on my dirt. Fuck, it hardens me again. Secret’s out, lighter now. Craving more confessions?
