Parked desire

The bar was humid with late-night energy — bodies moving, music pulsing low like a heartbeat. You spotted her the moment she walked in: curvy, commanding, tattoos peeking from the sleeves of her leather jacket, her confidence thick as smoke. Her eyes scanned the room like she already knew who she wanted. And when they locked on you, something electric passed between you.

You didn’t need lines. Just a smirk, a tilt of the head, and the slow, sure swagger of a man who takes what he wants.

She followed.

Out in the car park, under flickering sodium lights, her campervan waited — a quiet sanctuary from the noise inside. You pressed her back against the side of it, her breath catching in anticipation as your hand wrapped around her jaw, tilting her face to yours.

“You’re trouble,” she whispered, lips parted.

“I am,” you said, leaning in, voice dark and deliberate. “And you want all of it.”

Inside the van, soft red lights glowed. She led you to the back, pulling you down onto the cushions with a hunger that matched your own. Her mouth was eager, teasing — but obedient when your hand gripped the back of her neck and pushed her where you wanted.

She liked being told what to do. Liked it a lot.

Between gasps and moans, she murmured filth with a grin, loving the power you took from her. Your voice in her ear told her exactly how to move, how to beg, how to open herself up to you.

And then — movement. A small sound. You glanced forward.

There he was. Her husband.

Sprawled naked on the front seat, eyes wide, unmoving — like he’d been there the whole time. Watching. Listening. Wanting.

She glanced at him over her shoulder and smirked.

“He likes hearing me be taken,” she breathed.

You looked down at her — flushed, panting, marked by you already — and gave a dark, satisfied grin.

“He’s about to hear a lot more.”

Tags: dominant