I'm not one to brag about stories.

But sometimes memories just come to mind.

Once, in a cramped bar booth, where the smell of alcohol mixed with sweat and perfume, he didn't ask for permission.

He simply turned me to face the wall, lifted my dress with one hand, and with the other pressed my palm against his fly so I could feel how ready he was.

I didn't resist.

I spread my legs wider as he entered me — sharply, all the way in, without foreplay.

The cold tile dug into my palms, and his thrusts were so deep that each time they knocked the breath out of my lungs.

I didn't scream — I hissed in his ear:

“Deeper. More. Don't stop, even if someone knocks.”

He came inside me, without pulling out, while I squeezed around him, feeling his cum run down the inside of my thigh.

We left a minute later — me with wet panties, him with the smell of me on his fingers.

No one noticed anything.

But I still remember the taste of adrenaline on my lips.

Now it's your turn.

Write me one sentence.

Not “cool,” not “I want that too.”

Write what you would do to me in that same stall — right now, uncensored, no apologies.

If your words make me squeeze my thighs tighter than usual...

I'll respond.

And then, maybe you'll find out how far I can go when someone really passes my filter.