More than Just an Old Man

For me, sex has always been a physical act; nothing emotional, just something to get off on when my mind wanders into a place which leaves a wet spot in my panties. When in the company of another, any engaging conversation is more so a bonus than a necessity. If anything, a sense of anonymity, of mystery enhances the experience, makes that wet spot spread that little bit further.

I had always thought this was normal, but then I thought a lot of the things I felt were normal.

While I'd grown up watching women fall in love with handsome bachelors, I always knew movies didn't reflect reality, and so this vanilla lifestyle was always something fictional to me. I thought all women wanted to fuck other women, to be fucked by men twice their age, to be played with like a disposable toy, to explore anything and everything that would make that wet spot spread so far that my panties started dripping. As I grew further into my teenage years, I quickly learned that this wasn't the case for all women.

Realising this, I started becoming reclusive, started wearing a mask with every sexual encounter I had to make whichever bachelor I was fucking believe I craved the vanilla sex we were having. The most exciting part about it was the thrill of finding a stranger at a party and sneaking away to fuck without even contemplating asking his name. It was fine. I never came, and had to rely on my own hand to reach that point after the act, but it was fine.

Then I met you.

I was nineteen: a college student who'd moved away from home for the first time, away from the suffocating small town I grew up in.

You were sixty-two: a stranger I'd met online who I thought I'd never meet, who'd never become anyone beyond a bearded face behind a screen.

We met on one of those old-young dating forums, and you began as just another face in the crowd who provided me with the opportunity to express my darkest sexual desires. You were different, though. Other people I spoke to would often crumble, admit that despite telling me otherwise, it wasn't just a sexual relationship they wanted, but something more. You, to put it simply, just wanted to fuck me. No more, no less.

There were others who would've been happy with a fuck. They were never quite right, though. They'd ask me too many personal questions, or back out when my sexual desires didn't exactly match their own. Sometimes, they simply didn't make my panties wet enough. You, however, ticked every box. You were the perfect age, you wanted something strictly casual, you were attractive but not traditionally handsome, and you had no strict rules around your sexual preferences-you wanted to experiment.

We met at a hotel; something else I admired. There was no false pretence around taking me out for dinner and drinks. Instead, I followed the simple instruction in your text message: Room 313.

My stomach was rolling with a mixture of excitement and anxiety as I stood outside your hotel room door that night, but if the dampness in my panties was anything to go by, the excitement was winning. It was a nice hotel, not overly extravagant but not some run-down motel. My heart beat loudly in my chest while I waited outside the door, and I smoothed down my curled hair, twirled the dark locks around my fingers as I chewed on my lip.

I barely reach five feet tall, so as I heard footsteps moving behind the walls of the room I was waiting outside, a giggle escaped my mouth at the thought of you looking through the door's peephole because I must have looked a picture. This tiny, dark-haired little thing gazing up at you wearing a long red coat, although I'm sure you didn't mind the perfect view of my braless breasts peeking through my blouse.

You opened the door with a cool smile, and my heart nearly leaped from my chest because you were more than I expected. You were nearly a foot taller than me, and your wrinkled face showed the life of a man: a real man with years of experience. Your white hair had started thinning, your beard was generous but not wild, and your stomach was round as it perched over your fastened trousers. You weren't carved by the gods, nor looked any younger than your sixty-two years.

To cut a long story short, I've never wanted to fuck someone at first sight as much as I wanted to be fucked by you that evening.

You welcomed me into your room and removed my coat for me, ever the gentleman. I breathed you in as I stood beside the double bed wearing a miniskirt and white blouse that was probably a little too transparent to show off in public. I could see in your slightly drooped eyes that you were fighting off a smile, but per the character you had promised me in advance of this night, it never broke onto your face.

Instead, you sat yourself down onto the plush armchair in the corner of the room, then took a sip from a half-drunk glass of whisky on the desk beside you. Silently, you scanned my tiny frame from head to toe.

'On the bed,' you ordered, followed by a, 'and clothes off. All of them.'

I quivered at your instruction, and could barely contain my pussy from throbbing at your direct tone, your commanding presence. You'd remembered my desire to be dominated.

Without a word, I unfastened my blouse until my perky breasts were exposed. I'd always been self-conscious about my breasts; they aren't mosquito bites, but they're far from the enormous cock teasers plastered across porn. In one look, you obliterated every insecurity I'd ever had because as your eyes set upon my breasts, your breath hitched and aged eyes melted. With my blouse now in a messy heap on the carpet, I carefully unzipped my black skirt and let it fall to my ankles.

I failed to ignore your hard length pressing against your grey trousers as I shuffled onto the bed, then lay onto my back.

'Panties too,' you instructed before taking another sip of whisky.

'Sorry,' I apologised, my voice uneven.

'Sorry what?' you questioned.

For a moment, I froze, but quickly remembered the conditions we'd set out prior to this meeting.

'Sorry, Sir,' I correct myself, and you nod your approval.

As instructed, with trembling hands and hard nipples, I bent forward to peel my lace thong away from my sex and down to my ankles. You instructed me to put the palms of my feet together and bend my knees away from each other as I remained on my back, and I followed your order without question.

As my pussy spread open, the cool air of the room hit me and I shivered as I released something between a sigh and a groan, which made you laugh. My cheeks burnt hot at the realisation, but you reassured me it was okay, that you wanted me to be vocal.

'Good girl,' you murmured as you began unfastening your brown belt, but remained unmoving from the cream armchair to my right. 'I want you to play with yourself, but no more than one finger, okay?'

'Yes, Sir,' I answered, then hesitated. 'Can I play with my nipples, please?'

You paused, midway through lowering your trouser's zipper, then scanned me until your grey eyes landed on my spread pussy, which I had no doubts was dripping. A ghost of a smile appeared on your face.

'You may,' you replied, finally.

With your approval, I lowered my right hand down my neck, to my breasts, my stomach, my thighs until I couldn't resist the heat of my throbbing sex any longer. I slid my middle finger inside, and despite being in complete control of the movement, gasped as I felt my wet hole.

As I gently fucked my pussy with my finger, hooking it to achieve full pleasure, I watched as you finally released your hard cock from your trousers. It was modest; thick, but no more than five and a half inches, and the hair around it was coarse and gray. I watched you rub your hand against your length as I pinched my nipples with my free hand, and continued to fuck myself.

I was desperate to use more fingers, desperate to fit as many as I could inside me as your pleasured grunts swam around my ears.

'Sir,' I tried as I moved my finger to my pulsing clit. 'Sir, can I please use more fing-'

'No,' you interrupted.

'Please, just one-'

'I said no,' you boomed.

'Will you fuck me then, please?' I begged, desperate.

You didn't respond, and instead, released your hard cock from your hands to stand up as you ordered for me to keep playing with myself. You removed your t-shirt to reveal a chest covered in gray hair, and now that you were standing, I could see where your plump stomach poked out and spilled over your waist. As I drank you in, my hips buckled in silent desperation for your length as it hung a few steps away from my face.

This was it. Finally, you were going to fuck me.

You approached slowly, your hand once again grasping your cock as you gently caressed it until you reached the bed's headboard. You instructed me to keep playing with myself as you sat on the pillow beside me, then with your hand which wasn't occupied with pleasuring yourself, you cupped one of my small breasts, then flicked its hard nipple.

I tried to contain the groan, but it was impossible. You pinched my nipple between your thumb and index finger, then twisted, again and again and again until my eyes watered. Just as I was about to beg for more, you removed your hand from my breasts and moved your gaze to my eyes.

'Hands off,' you demanded as you nodded towards my pussy.

'Yes, Sir,' I breathed as I followed instruction, and pulled my finger out from my hole.

Before I could ask you what you had planned, you glided your wrinkled hand down my smooth stomach until you were inches-no, centimeters away from my sex. My hips involuntarily buckled again, and you turned your gaze back to me.

'More hair next time,' you said, sounding almost bored.

My face reddened as my heart sank because I wanted so desperately to impress you, and I'd failed. I'd always been clean shaven, always assumed that's what all men wanted, but then the men I was used to fucking were so much younger, raised on pretty porn and perfect pussies at the click of a button.

Before I could apologise for my bare pussy, you slid your hand further down and plunged a finger into me. My breath caught in the back of my throat, but it barely lasted a second because before I could comprehend what was happening, you slid a second finger in and began to fuck me at a speed so fast, so sudden that, to this day, I have no idea how I didn't cum there and then.

I cried in pleasure as you continued fucking me with your fingers, then shifted your thumb into the perfect spot to rub my clit as I grinded into your hand. You gazed at me throughout, your steely eyes not shifting from my face contorted with pleasure, your expression not displaying a flicker of emotion no matter how fast your hand was moving. The only inclination towards the pleasure you felt was your breath turning heavier, and the precum dripping down your exposed cock.

I gritted my teeth, clawed the bedsheets, held my breath; tried everything to stop myself cumming too early, but it felt impossible.

'I'm gonna cum,' I warned through a pant.

'No, you're not,' you replied with the even tone I'd become familiar with, still finger fucking me at the same quick pace. 'You don't cum until I say so, okay?'

'I'm trying,' I promised. 'I can't-It's-It's too hard.'

'Okay,' you announced.

Without as much as a warning, you pulled your hand from my sex and left me empty, left me with nothing.

'Please, I-I didn't mean stop, I just-' I practically cried.

'Until you learn how to control yourself,' you began, your voice low and measured as you moved your hand to the tip of your cock. 'I've got no choice.'

I begged again-pleaded-but to no avail, and I was terrified I'd ruined what was turning into the best sexual encounter I'd had with anyone. As you toyed with the tip of your length, you lifted yourself up and cocked your thick leg over my petite frame so that you were leaning over me, your sagged balls inches away from my pert breasts, your mature cock dangerously close to my wet lips.

'Open,' you instructed, and I obeyed.

My heart beat with glee as I eyed you up; your round stomach, your thick cock, the gray pubes that decorated your ballsack. I was ready to taste you, eager to discover if the cum of a man three times my age tasted any different to that of the young men I'd grown accustomed to.

I lifted myself up on my elbows until one of my hard nipples poked into your balls, my mouth now centimeters away from your cock. I awaited instruction, awaited permission to take you into my mouth, and raised my eyes to meet yours above me.

You locked your gaze with mine while you lifted your fingers to my lips, and spoke softly as I tasted myself on you.

'I'm going to piss into your mouth,' you soothed, your fingers moving around my tongue as the bittersweet taste of my pussy settled in my mouth. 'And you're going to drink it, okay?'

I'd dreamt of this moment, spent hours agonising in intense pleasure over the thought of somebody old enough to be a grandfather playing with my naked body, teasing my mouth with his thick cock, giving me the honour of drinking his warm piss. My small body quivered in anticipation, at the mere thought of what you were about to give me.

I stared up at you, mouth wide open as you inched forward so that your hard cock rested on my tongue. You shut your eyes, and you were so close to me that I could barely see your face over your chubby stomach. It started slow; a trickle of yellow that ran down my chin, but within moments, a steady stream of warm piss was flowing from your cock and into my mouth, down my throat.

It tasted nothing like I expected; I honestly thought it would taste awful, but it didn't taste like much at all beyond something salty. You opened your eyes to look down at me as you maintained a steady flow of piss into my mouth, and I couldn't keep it all down. It was dripping from the corners of my mouth, running down my cheeks to my neck, into my hair and onto the pillow below me. Where I could, I redirected the flow down to my breasts and massaged your piss into them as I tugged and squeezed my nipples.

I glugged as much of your piss as my body would let me, and gagged as you thrust forward until your entire cock was in my mouth, and your steady flow of piss trickled to a stop. I assumed this meant you were empty, that I wasn't going to earn another opportunity to taste your urine again that night. You always did spoil me.

You removed your mature cock from my mouth as you backed away slightly, finally giving me permission to close my mouth. I'd closed my legs while you were relieving the contents of your bladder down my throat, and upon realising this, you lifted a hand and smacked my left breast, hard.

My hips buckled, and I yelped an apology as you sighed. 'Did I give you permission to close your legs at any point tonight?'

'No, Sir,' I whispered as I resumed my former position, my breast stinging.

You remained straddled over me, only now your sagged balls were resting on my pubic bone. I watched in awe as you gently licked the palm of your hand, then reached it towards my breasts which were already damp from your piss. You caressed them, only taking a break from doing so to flick my nipples which hadn't softened for a second since entering this hotel room.

For the second time that night, you began to piss on me. This time, you aimed for the breasts you were still fondling, and your piss was steaming hot against my pale skin. You covered my torso in your urine, pissed on me until a small pool collected underneath my body, but were kind enough to let me taste some of it one more time as you finished this session in my mouth.

I'd never been so desperate for someone to fuck me, and I begged you-pleaded for you to enter my spread pussy with your piss-stained cock. Instead, you reminded me of my earlier mistake, of my impatient desire to cum as you fucked me with your fingers, and so I didn't get the pleasure of feeling you inside me that night. I was left with no option other than to lie in a pool of your cold piss as I fingered myself until I came.

I had to admit, I didn't really mind.

I hated you for not fucking me that night, but looking back, I've never been so grateful for anything. You had more for me; so https://guiacereza.com/perfil/567262-campabadal

much more to come for me, and it was going to get a lot more explorative than piss play.

More than Just an Old Man

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