[F]ucking my dirty old Airbnb host | 2016

Back in October I was in another city for a wedding, renting a really cool Airbnb out in one of the suburbs. It was a little bungalow, and the owner lived in another house next door. I met him when, embarrassingly, I couldn’t find the key to get in. It wasn’t super late, but I still felt shitty calling a dude at 9:30pm on a Thursday because I’m an idiot.

The man who walked over looked extremely good for a late-fifty something, and generously laughed at my expense — the key was hidden in a planter on the side of the house, not on the porch, like I thought. I pointed out that the instructions must of been poorly written.

We were off to a great start!

He helped me with my bags, gave me a quick tour of the house, pointing out the amenities (washer/dryer, newly installed Nest, TV, wifi password), the best of which was a fully stocked wine fridge.

“Help yourself to whatever you want.”

“What would you recommend?”

He grabbed a red.

“Mind if I stay for a glass? It’s one of my favorites.”

I didn’t mind! As I said: he looked extremely good for a late-fifty something. Maybe 5’11, tan and toned — rugged, but not weathered. His eyes had a youthful, flirty energy. His hair was nearly grey.

I learned that he was divorced and had two kids, both in college several states away. He had been an entrepreneur for years before picking up cheap houses after the recession, fixing them up and renting them out.

We talked about the area and about the wedding and about me. He eyed me with what seemed like interest — and if he wasn’t interested in short, curvy brunettes, I wanted DESPERATELY to convince him. I’m 23 and only 5’3, but I’ve got D cups and baby-makin’ hips and I know how to use ‘em :p

But before I got the chance, he finished his glass and showed himself out. I had another glass or two, deciding that this red might be one of my favorites, too.

The next day, I wasted away most of the morning, then got ready for the ceremony. I curled my hair, did my makeup and slipped into my dress: a sleeveless salmon number with a nearly-inappropriate v-neck and a short, flared skirt.

Paired with silver heels and pearls, I looked like a sexy 50’s housewife. I wondered if my neighbor was into that.

Spoiler: he was.

When I left for the wedding, he was doing yard work, but paused to chat. He asked how the house was, and we talked again about the wedding, but the entire time I felt him giving me the up-and-down. He finally made a joke about whether or not it was too late to be my plus one (“I promise I clean up good.”), and my answer was, unfortunately, yes.

“But if the reception’s a bust, I might be back early for more of that red from last night.”

He chuckled low with a lusty look in his eye.

“Here’s to hoping.”

And then I was off, to be the most distracted belle of the ball.

Did I dance? Yes. Did I drink? Absolutely! Did I add a handful of hopefuls on Facebook? It wouldn’t have been a productive wedding if I didn’t. But around 11 I had to say my goodbyes. I couldn’t get my host out of my head. The thought of rough, callused hands against my skin had my heart racing.

It couldn’t have been the dancing because the DJ sucked.

So I drove back to the Airbnb, the A/C cranked to cool my flushed body.

Thank God his lights were on when I got back. I knocked, and he opened the door with a smile in a fresh pair of jeans and a button down — me, only a bit disappointed that he had showered. Though, if I wanted him fresh from the yard, it was my fault for not pouncing on him earlier.

Still, that smile and those forearms had me floating right into his house. It was cozy and clean — definitely more home than the rental.

We chatted about our nights: yes, the reception was a bust.

“You should’ve skipped and watched Deadliest Catch reruns with me.”

I didn’t really want to think about crabs at the moment, but before I could make a comment, the bottles were out.

“Now, we can continue the red from last night,” holding up one. “Or we switch to the hard stuff.” He held up a bottle of bourbon, and I couldn’t tell where the innuendos started and ended. Of COURSE I wanted to take the hard stuff right then and there, but again, before I could comment:

“You a bourbon girl?”

I admitted that I like it, but know nothing about it — and so my drink decision was made for me. He opened the bottle and grabbed a couple glasses, plopped a few cubes of ice in each and poured a few fingers.

As we sipped he started telling a story about a trip down the bourbon trail post-divorce. Things took a turn for the raunchy as he danced around the point of picking women up at distilleries (which apparently is a thing you can do).

“I have to admit: there’s something sexy about girl who loves bourbon.”

“Well I better have another, then.” I winked and slid my glass toward him.

He poured us another.

Then, two sips into the third and after several peeks at my cleavage he said he loved my dress. Loved. Strong word! I stood up.

“Want me to give you a twirl?”

I spun around, my dress rising and twisting with me, winking when I finished. His eyes were all over me. I giggled.

“Do you flirt with all your guests?”

He took another sip.

“Only the pretty young things that I’d SURELY have no shot with.”

I wrinkled my nose at him for that. He was really fishing now, haha.

“Usually I have to dodge a husband or a boyfriend…” he was getting closer. “But you’ve made yourself easy pickins.”

Were he not incredibly charming and handsome (and me not incredibly wet and ready) that last line would’ve been a bit creepy, but hey — isn’t that always the way?

“Hey, just because there’s a goalie, doesn’t mean you can’t score.”

He laughed as I espoused an old piece of college wisdom. He drained his glass, and pretended to look around, nervous.

“Say, you’re not hiding a mister somewhere, are you?”

We were so close now…

“I mean, there were a couple cute guys at the reception who might be chasing after me, but they’re at least a half hour away…”

And then an arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me in even closer…

“Mmm… I’m gonna need more time than that…”

Stubble… slightly chapped lips… and fucking lust made for a very, very rough kiss. And I was already half-wondering what that mouth would feel like on my tits and clit.

And I got a taste, as a hand shot up my dress, between my thighs, teasing my pussy over my panties. He took my breathe away as his fingers wormed past the cloth into my vagina. They thrusted and curved inside me. One of my legs started to lift off the ground, giving him a better angle. He supported me with that one strong arm as our tongues casually made their way down each other’s throats.

I was getting drunk, getting fingered, and getting wobbly as I stood there in my heels. I came up for air and held onto him for dear life. His mouth moved to my neck as his fingers willed me to cum.

But I had other ideas.

“Fuck… Fuck… I’ve thought about you all day…” I purred in his ear… “About the dirty old man with the dirty old cock fucking my little pussy…”

“Mmm… I don’t know… I’m kinda having fun…” his fingers picked up speed and I was seriously close to falling over.

“You can have me any way you want… I just need your cock… please…” My purrs had become desperate moans.

He pulled his fingers out and wiped them off on his jeans.

“Any way, huh?” He spanked my ass and pointed me towards the bedroom.

I wobbled in, and was about to kick off my heels.

“Nope. Heels on.” He didn’t raise his voice, but there was power in it. “And I want to fuck you in that dress first.”

He was unbuttoning his shirt as he slowly made his way toward me. The rest of him was as tan as his face and arms, and I was melting.

“I’ve been thinking about you all day, too…” He kissed me rough, again, as I leaned against the bed. “Thinking about taking you in this pretty dress, in your pretty heels…”

His hand was up my dress again.

“Thinking about cumming in that sweet little mouth of yours…”

I found the dirty old man I was looking for.

I dropped onto the bed, and was struggling to get my panties off while he took off his jeans and boxers. He fumbled around in a drawer for a condom just as I kicked off my thong. Then he spread my legs and plunged in.

We groaned in unison, settling into a steady, powerful rhythm, his hands running up and down my thighs — his eyes trained on the way the fabric of my dress shifted and rippled as he fucked me. I was gripping the bed to keep from sliding, catching glimpses of that tan torso, still wearing an open shirt.

“Yes… yes… yes… harder…” Maybe I chose the wrong word, because the next thing I know, he was flipping me over, flipping the skirt of my dress on to my back to take from behind. Harder. The rhythm was no longer steady — more frenzied. And then fingers were in my hair, pulling me, arching me back.

“God fuck yes! Yes! Fuck! Fuck!”

His hands were everywhere at once: my hair, my neck, spanking my ass, playing with clit… and then…

“Tell me if this is too much…” he growled. And before I could ask what he meant, he grabbed my pearl necklace and pulled, ever so slightly. Not enough to completely choke me, but enough that we both felt pressure.

My pussy was absolutely flowing as he took me like a fucking animal. He was bent over me, those hands still every where and nowhere as I squealed, getting closer and closer until…

“Holy fuck,” he barked in my ear. I squeaked in surprise as his cock jerked inside me.

Once. Twice.

I felt the pearls tighten around my neck.

Three times. A fourth.

And then the pressure was gone.

We kissed after he pulled out and went to clean up.

“What about cumming in my sweet little mouth?” A sentence I’m not sure I’ve ever shouted across a house.

And then, shouted back:

“Take off that dress and we’ll talk. Want some more bourbon?”