Goddamn, there I was, my hand grazing her waist in that crowded rooftop bar, but her hips—fuck, those hips—swayed against me, grinding just enough to make my cock twitch under my jeans. Tara, 32, was all heat, her tight dress hugging curves that screamed trouble, her ass brushing me deliberately as she laughed at some bullshit joke. I’d seen her wild side on a shady subreddit—clips of her stripping in her car, parked in a public lot, naked and touching herself, captioned “See me, but don’t tell.” The thrill of getting caught, her face half-hidden but body bared for strangers, was her rush, and now, her hips teasing me, I knew she was playing that same dangerous game in person.
I’m Dylan, 29, a bike mechanic in Miami, lean and tatted from years of wrenching and street fights. Grew up in a rough hood—mom a cleaner, dad a ghost. I’m scrappy, good with my hands, but shit at trust after a fiancée fucked my cousin. I drink too much, pick fights when I’m low, but I’m real, no front. Tara’s a hairdresser, all sass and hustle, raised in a trailer park outside Tampa, parents who preached purity but ignored her. She’s bold but paranoid, snaps when stressed, and hides her soft side behind a sharp tongue—curvy as hell, with dark eyes that dare you to keep up.
It kicked off at the bar where I’m a regular. Tara’d come in, flirting hard, her hand brushing my thigh when she grabbed her drink, her smirk saying she knew what she was doing. I’d catch her staring, hips swaying to the music, inviting me to bite. It fucked me up—hating how her teasing messed with my “no drama” vow, but craving her like a drug. Those subreddit clips? Her naked in her car, windows down, pussy wet as she teased the camera, risking a passerby’s glance. That exposure kink had me hooked, and her hips now were begging for more.
One night, the bar cleared out, just us and the hum of neon signs. “Help me close?” she asked, voice low, eyes glinting. I nodded, pulse racing. She locked the door, dimmed the lights, her dress clinging as she bent to wipe the counter, hips swaying. I moved close, boots scuffing, her scent—coconut and sweat—hitting hard. My hand grazed her waist, slow, feeling her shiver. Hers met mine—manicured nails, warm and shaky, fingers curling, her pulse hammering under my thumb, sending a jolt to my dick.
Our eyes locked—hers wide, curiosity turning to shy heat, cheeks flushing. “Dylan…” she whispered, hips nudging closer, brushing my hard-on. My fingers slid to her hip, gripping lightly, her curves soft but firm. Her breath hitched, nipples perking through her dress, begging for touch.
I let it out. “I saw your clips online,” I growled. “Naked in your car, daring everyone. Fucking hot.” She gasped, but pressed closer, her ass grinding against me. “You… know?” she breathed, voice trembling with thrill, nails digging into my arm. She hated the risk—her clients or family finding out, society’s bullshit shaming women for their bodies while men jerk off guilt-free. But she craved it—the power of being seen, the edge of exposure. Me? I fought my trust issues, wanting her raw but scared of betrayal.
We spilled it, bodies close. “It’s my escape,” she said, her thigh hooking mine. “Growing up trapped, I needed to feel free. But if it leaks…” Emotions flipped—curiosity at my vibe, shy confession, then heat as I owned my shit. “I’m fucked up from betrayal,” I said. “But you? I want real.” She smirked, whispering, “Then take it.”
It was slow, raw. I peeled her dress up, revealing no bra, her C-cups bouncing, nipples hard. She shivered, arms crossing shyly, but dropped them under my gaze. No panties—just a slick, shaved pussy. Taboo hit: naked in the bar, windows open to the street, her clips once shared by a creep, nearly outing her. This risk made her drip. “Fuck me,” she urged, guiding my hand to her wetness.
I stripped—shirt off, showing my inked scars, jeans down, cock throbbing. Her eyes lit up, hunger taking over. She pushed me onto a barstool, straddling me, lowering slow, her walls gripping tight. Moans built—shy, then “Harder, Dylan!” We flipped, me pounding from behind, hand in her hair. She came, squirting on the floor, cries loud. I finished on her ass, her fingers smearing it, that exposure kink alive.
After, tangled and sweaty, we got deep. She shared therapy for her paranoia, how her clips fought her past. We hit social shit: women shamed, men excused. I admitted my trust issues, started counseling. A client found her vids, tried drama; we shut it down legally. She quit posting, we went exclusive. Now, a year in, her hips still fire our nights—no secrets, just raw, understood heat.
