Want to read more futanari content? Check out my website thenewagewriter.fun!
The line at the bustling London café snaked around worn wooden tables, the air humming with chatter and the sharp hiss of the espresso machine. I shifted my weight, my notebook tucked under my arm, pages blank and mocking my latest bout of writer's block.
At 28, I'd learned that nothing sparked my romance novels like the raw pulse of sex—the way bodies tangled, breaths mingled, stories unfolding in sweat and moans. But today, inspiration felt as distant as the Thames fog outside the window.
That's when I saw her. Tall, with a confident stance that cut through the crowd like a blade, she stood a few spots ahead, her dark hair cascading over broad shoulders. Folie—though I didn't know her name yet—wore fitted jeans that hugged her hips, and there, unmistakable even in the casual press of bodies, was the bulge.
Thick, prominent, straining against the fabric. My heart slammed against my ribs, heat flooding my cheeks and lower, a sudden ache blooming between my thighs. God, what would that feel like? Pressed against me, hard and insistent.
Our eyes locked as she turned slightly, scanning the menu board. Hers were dark, piercing, holding mine with an intensity that made the café noise fade. Tension coiled in my gut, thick and electric, my slender frame suddenly too warm in my light blouse. I imagined it then—her hand gripping my wrist, pulling me into the shadowed corner of the alley behind this place.
She'd pin me against the brick wall, her body towering over my soft curves, that bulge freeing itself from her jeans, her cock thick and veined, throbbing as she hiked up my skirt.
'Fuck,' I'd gasp, but she'd just smirk, her voice low and commanding. '
You want this, don't you?' In my mind, she'd thrust into me without mercy, her cock stretching my pussy wide, filling me deep with each rough pump. The slap of skin on skin echoing off the walls, my juices slicking her shaft as she fucked me hard, my legs wrapping around her waist.
I'd feel every inch, the heat of her pulsing inside, her hands bruising my hips while I clawed at her back, moaning her name—Folie, yes, somehow I knew it. The daydream gripped me, my nipples hardening against my bra, a wet throb building in my core.
She caught me staring, her lips curving into a teasing smile that sent a shiver down my spine. I bit my lip, tasting the faint chapstick, my body screaming for her touch, for her to take control right here amid the oblivious crowd. What if she did? Pushed me onto a table, spread my legs, and buried that cock in me while everyone pretended not to notice? The thought made my breath hitch, desire twisting with the thrill of exposure.
But reality crashed in. I stepped forward too quickly, bumping her elbow as the line shuffled. My notebook slipped, pages fluttering.
'Sorry!' I blurted, bending to grab it, my face burning.
She steadied me with a light touch on my arm, her fingers warm and firm. 'No harm done. You alright?'
Her voice was smooth, laced with that same teasing edge from my fantasy. Up close, she smelled like clean soap and something musky, intoxicating. I nodded, words stuck in my throat, imagining those hands elsewhere—sliding under my shirt, pinching my nipples while she ground that bulge against my ass.
'Yeah, just... clumsy today,' I managed, forcing a laugh.
She chuckled, low and knowing, her eyes flicking down my body for a split second. 'Happens to the best of us. Enjoy your coffee.'
We both lingered, the air between us charged, like we were seconds from breaking. I wanted to say more, to invite her somewhere private, feel her dominate me until I came undone. But the barista called her name—Folie—and she turned away, leaving me aching, my pussy clenching around nothing.
I grabbed my latte and slipped out into the crisp London air, the daydreams refusing to fade. As I walked, I pictured her catching up, dragging me into a doorway, her cock slamming into me from behind, fast and relentless. My moans muffled against her palm, her cum flooding me hot and deep. Inspiration surged, words forming in my mind—raw, passionate scenes born from this electric what-if. But she was gone, and I was left craving, wondering if our paths would cross again.