The TGV races toward Paris at full speed, and I’m sprawled in my first-class seat, legs spread under the little table, still all sticky from what happened in Tours. The two agents’ cum is drying on my skin, between my thighs, on my belly, in my hair. It smells like raw sex, like something forbidden, and I fucking love it.
I don’t dare go clean up right away; I love this feeling of being dirty, of being a little whore who just got wrecked and came out ahead. Eventually I get up and head to the bathroom. In the mirror I look at myself: eyes shining, lips swollen, white streaks on my neck and breasts. I slide a finger between my still-sensitive, gaping lips and taste their mixture. One last shiver runs through me. I wash just enough not to draw stares, but I leave my panties in my bag. I want to feel the air on my bare pussy all the way to Paris.
When I step out of Montparnasse station, the Parisian air hits me: cooler, faster, more anonymous. I drag my big backpack along the sidewalk, already feeling the city both missing me and suffocating me at the same time. I take the metro to my tiny studio in the 20th arrondissement, the one I sublet from a friend who’s away on an internship abroad. It’s exactly as I left it: messy, posters on the walls, unmade bed, faint stale smell.
I drop my bag, strip completely naked, lie down on the bed and let the memories roll through me. Thomas and his explosive shyness. Martine and Didier who opened me up to everything. Alex’s pool and the tangled bodies. Lucette and her infinite tenderness. Claire and that forbidden sweetness. And finally, the two agents who fucked me like a bitch in a utility room.
My hand slides down between my thighs on its own. I’m already soaked just thinking about it all. I touch myself slowly, replaying every cock, every tongue, every spurt. I come quietly, face buried in the pillow, a long, deep orgasm that empties me completely.
The next few days, I go back to uni. First-year psych, big lecture halls, packed amphitheaters. I see my friends again and give them the ultra-light version of my trip: “Amazing couchsurfing, beaches, hikes, lovely people.” They believe me, or pretend to. But I know nothing will ever be the same.
In the evenings, alone in my studio, I open the couchsurfing app again. I scroll through the listings: Lisbon, Berlin, Barcelona, Amsterdam… Solo hosts, couples, groups. I can already feel the excitement rising. My pussy throbs at the mere thought of leaving again, of being hosted by strangers, of playing, provoking, letting myself be carried away.
I book a ticket to Lisbon in two weeks. A 40-year-old host, photographer, apartment with a view over the Tagus, reviews mentioning “warm and open-minded welcome.” I smile as I confirm.
Paris is nice. But I’ve become a different kind of traveler. A pleasure adventurer. A little couchsurfing slut, as they say.
And this is just the beginning.
End of Volume 1. 😈