I walked into that downtown bar like I owned the place, short skirt riding up my thighs, no bra under my tight tank top. At twenty-two, fresh off the plane from Ohio, I was done being the good girl back home. The guy at the end of the counter looked me over once and didn’t bother hiding it. He was older, maybe thirty-five, broad shoulders, rough hands. I slid onto the stool next to him and ordered a whiskey.
“American girl, huh?” he said, voice low. “You look like trouble.”
“Only the kind you want,” I answered, already wet from the way his eyes dropped to my tits.
We skipped the small talk. Twenty minutes later his apartment door slammed behind us. He shoved me face-first against the wall, yanked my skirt up, and ripped my panties aside. Two thick fingers shoved straight into my pussy.
“Fuck, you’re soaked already,” he growled, pumping them hard. I pushed back on his hand, grinding like a slut. He pulled his fingers out and slapped my ass, then spun me around and pushed me to my knees.
I had his cock out in seconds, thick and veined, the head already leaking. I wrapped my lips around it and took him deep, gagging when he grabbed my hair and fucked my throat. Spit ran down my chin onto my tank top. He used my mouth like a toy, hips snapping, balls slapping my chin.
“Get it nice and wet for your cunt,” he ordered.
When he pulled out I was gasping, strings of spit connecting my lips to his dick. He hauled me up, bent me over the arm of his couch, and slammed inside me in one thrust. I cried out, stretched wide, pussy clenching around every inch. He didn’t go slow. He fucked me like he hated me, hard, deep strokes that made my ass ripple and my tits bounce. One hand fisted my hair, the other reached under to pinch my clit.
“Tell me what you are,” he snarled.
“A dirty American girl who needs cock,” I moaned back.
He laughed, low and mean, and pounded harder. I came first, legs shaking, pussy pulsing around him. He kept going, using my orgasm to fuck me even rougher until he pulled out and painted my ass and lower back with thick ropes of cum.
We weren’t done. He dragged me to the bedroom, stripped the rest of my clothes off, and spread my legs. His tongue went straight to my clit, sucking and licking while two fingers worked my pussy again. I came on his face, thighs clamped around his head. Then he flipped me onto my stomach, spread my cheeks, and licked my asshole before pushing his cock back into my pussy.
This round was slower but no less filthy. He made me talk the whole time.
“Tell me how much you love American girl pussy getting wrecked,” he demanded.
“I love it,” I gasped. “Love getting fucked like a whore in a strange city.”
He flipped me again, put my ankles on his shoulders, and drove in deep. Every thrust hit that spot inside me that made me see stars. I came again, screaming, nails digging into his back. He followed right after, flooding my pussy this time, cum leaking out around his cock as he kept thrusting through it.
We fucked three more times that night. On the floor. In the shower. Me riding him reverse cowgirl while he slapped my ass red. By morning my throat was raw from sucking him, my pussy swollen and sore, cum dried on my thighs. He handed me a cab number and told me to come back the next night if I wanted more.
I went back every night that week. Raw, direct, no romance, just two people using each other until we were both wrecked. That’s my American girl sex story.
