The Camps Bay strip was buzzing — Friday waves crashing, fairy lights twinkling like they knew what was coming. I was nursing a whiskey at the bar, sleeves rolled, feeling the week's tension melt when she caught my eye.
Mid-40s, maybe pushing 50, but wearing it like fine wine. Voluptuous in all the right places — full hips swaying in a black dress that hugged every lush curve, deep V plunging to show creamy cleavage that begged to be grabbed. Dark hair loose, red lips curved in that knowing smile older women perfect, after years of getting what they want.
She slid onto the stool next to me, ordered a Pinotage, and let her knee brush mine. No accident.
“Alone tonight?” she asked, voice low and smoky, eyes flicking down my chest like she was already measuring me.
I turned, let my gaze drag slow over her — tits, waist, the way the dress clung to her thick thighs. “Not anymore.”
Her laugh was throaty. “Bold. I like that.”
Two hours, three drinks, and a lot of teasing later, the crowd thinned. She’d been dropping hints — fingers tracing my forearm, leaning in so her breasts pressed against my arm, whispering how she loved a man who didn’t hesitate. When the barman called last round, I leaned close.
“My SUV’s out back. Black. Tinted windows. You coming, or just gonna keep teasing?”
She bit her lip, eyes dark. “Lead the way, handsome.”
We barely made the car before hands were everywhere. Door shut, seats reclined — I pulled her onto my lap, dress rucking up to expose soft thighs and no panties. Fuck, she was soaked already. My fingers found her slick folds, sliding in easy, curling to hit that spot that made her gasp against my mouth.
“You’re dripping for a stranger,” I growled, thumb circling her clit while she was grinding down on my hand.
“Been watching you all night,” she breathed, nails digging into my shoulders. “Wanted this cock since you walked in.”
I unzipped, freeing myself — thick, hard, veins pulsing. She wrapped her hand around me, stroking slow, eyes locked on mine like she was daring me to take her rough.
I didn’t disappoint.
Lifted her just enough, lined up, and sank in deep with one thrust. She moaned loud — full, throaty — walls clenching tight around me like velvet heat. Her curves rolled against my chest, heavy breasts bouncing as I gripped her ass, fingers sinking into soft flesh, guiding her down harder.
“Fuck, you’re tight,” I hissed, thrusting up to meet her rhythm. The car rocked — windows fogging fast — wet slaps echoing with every deep stroke.
She rode me like she owned me, but I flipped the script. Pushed her back against the passenger seat, hooked her legs over my shoulders, and pounded in hard. Her tits spilled out of the dress; I latched onto one nipple, sucking hard while my hips snapped, driving deep. She arched, crying out, fingers in my hair pulling me closer.
“Harder—fuck—make me come,” she demanded.
I obliged. One hand on her throat — light pressure — the other rubbing furious circles over her swollen clit. She shattered first — thighs shaking, pussy pulsing, soaking my cock and lap in hot waves while she screamed my name (or something close enough).
I wasn’t far behind. Pulled out just in time, stroked fast, and painted her stomach and tits with thick ropes, groaning as she milked the last drops with her hand.
We sat there panting, her dress ruined, my shirt open, both grinning like idiots.
She traced a finger through the mess on her skin, licked it clean. “Same time tomorrow? Bring that tongue — I want to sit on your face before round two.”
I kissed her hard, tasting myself on her lips. “Deal. Wear the red dress next time. Easier to rip off.”
Started the engine, dropped her at her spot with a wink, and drove off windows still steamed, her scent all over me.
