Rural Mailwoman’s Forbidden Fuck: Old Farmer’s Massive Knotted Cock Secret
I’m cracking open my private locker right now. The mental vault where I bury my filthiest secrets. Adrenaline surges. No more holding back. This one’s gnawed at me too long. My name’s Mathilde. Rural mail carrier, over ten years on the job. Thirty-something, single forever. I crave freedom. No makeup, no frills. Jeans, sweater, casual. Not chasing men, but my contact list overflows. Childhood buds, vacation hookups. Married, single—doesn’t matter. Fuck when the itch hits. Virile studs only. Muscled brutes who flip you, pound endless hours. Rare breed. Most talk big, fizzle fast. Work? No daily bangs. Village eyes everywhere. Three route quickies in a decade. That’s it.
This farm? Outskirts, old couple nearing retirement. Rare stops—mostly bills in the box. But today, registered letter. Muddy track tests my cart. No bell, no dog. Main door yawns, plastic strips sway. I step up to call. Freeze. Old woman bent over kitchen table. Skirts hiked to waist. Saggy ass exposed. Old man behind, pants pooled ankles. Slamming her raw. Grunting like a pig.
Unlocking My Private Locker
“Take my fat cock in your cum-dump hole, you old hag. If you weren’t so damn ugly, I’d flood you daily.” His voice gravel. Filthy. She takes it silent. He roars, unloads. Yanks out. Holy shit—his cock. Huge. Knotted veins bulging. Thick as wrist. Balls like plums, swinging heavy. Still spurting ropes. Wipes it on her ass cheeks, then her skirts. Belches loud. Pants up sloppy. “Now you’re full, pour my wine.”
She shuffles off, probably never climaxed in her life. Cum reek hangs thick, musky. I knock hard, push in. Heart hammers. “Morning. Registered for you.”
He shoves her fully out. “Odette, stable now! Fuck off.” Door bangs. Alone with the beast. He flips the envelope, clueless. I hand the pad. Eyes me sly. “Saw you spying, you little whore. Gawking my pounding. Then my size. Factresses are sluts, hunting big knots. Wanna test mine?”
No shame. Zips down. No boxers. That monster flops out, glued with fresh cum and her juices. Shiny, veiny, thickening fast. My stare fuels it. Stands rigid. Girth scares me. Never seen bigger. Balls dangle low, heavy.
“Every bitch in the county craves this knotted log. You’re prime slut material.” Steps close. Grabs my hand, slaps it on. Hot. Iron-hard. Pulse throbs. Weight shocks. “Heft the balls. Imagine it reaming your sloppy cunt. Bet you’re soaked.”
The Raw Thrust and Afterglow
God, he’s right. Pussy clenches. I crave it. He spins me rough. Fingers rip my jeans button. Yanks pants and panties to knees. Cool air hits wet lips. I bend over the table, same spot. Ass out. No words. No foreplay. Spit-slick head prods. Then—thrust. Burns stretching. Fills me brutal. Knots drag walls. Starts hammering. Feral grunts. “Tight mail-cunt. Milk my fat prick, bitch.”
Sensations explode. Veins scrape g-spot. Balls slap clit. Table creaks under us. I shatter fast—orgasm rips, pussy spasms. Squirts around him. He pauses, shocked. “Fuck, you cum quick. Wife never does.” Softens slight, but reloads. Emptied once, lasts eternal. Pounds deeper. I cum again, thighs quake. Third peak builds. He swells, roars. Floods me. Endless hot jets. Feels like piss volume. Overflow drips thighs.
Pulls free. Sloppy pop. Wipes knotted length on my ass. Fixes pants. Mows nose, grabs wine. I’m trembling, jeans mid-thigh. Wife returns. Smells it. Knows. Eyes down, defeated. He barks at her for forgetting milk cans.
Signs receipt. Grins. “Itch returns, slut? Come back. I’ll fix ya.” Right there, wife watching.
I bolt. Cum leaks heavy down legs. Squish in boots. Tardy route. Filthy. Ashamed. How’d I cave to this vulgar pig? Soullied.
Months pass. Skip the farm. Pray no repeat. But nights? Fantasies rage. Fingers plunge, chasing that stretch. His knotted beast perforating. Locker snaps shut. Lighter now. Secret shared. Thrill lingers.
