Monday morning, 3:59 AM… You stop just in time. You pull your mouth off his cock with a wet sound. A long strand of saliva stretches between your lips and his glistening head. He groans in frustration, his cock twitching in the air, ready to explode. You pull him by the arm. "Sit." He obeys. He settles down next to you on the narrow bench seat, his raincoat wide open, his hard, shiny cock still trembling from the denied release. You turn toward him. You cup his face in your hands and kiss him. A real kiss. Deep. Tongue against tongue. You taste your own saliva lingering on his mouth, suck on his tongue, and moan into his throat. His wrinkled hands climb up your thighs, spreading them wider. Then you break away from his lips, breathless. You slide down. You lie back on the bench, your spine against the sticky seat, legs wide open, pants still around your ankles. You lift your hips slightly and present your bussy. Open. Offered up. Already twitching a little with impatience. "Lick." The old man doesn't need to be told twice. He leans in between your thighs—his hands spreading you even wider—and presses his warm mouth directly against your hole. His tongue is broad, wet, and slightly rough. At first, he licks you slowly, from bottom to top; then he presses down, swirls, and pushes the tip of his tongue inside. You feel his gray stubble grazing the insides of your thighs as he eats your bussy like a starving man. You tilt your head back, mouth open, one hand grabbing your cock to jerk yourself off while he opens you up with his tongue. The booth is tiny. The screen keeps projecting bodies fucking. And there you are, getting your hole licked by an older stranger at 4 a.m.—door unlocked—in a Pigalle sex shop.🌅💦💦💋👅🌈
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