He poured oil into his palm and stroked it onto his c**k while I watched.
Fifty-eight years old, grey at the temples, a soft flat stomach and heavy shoulders, his c**k thick and dark in his oiled fist, gleaming. I sat up on the table and reached for him and he stepped in and let me.
It was so slick we couldn't grip each other. My hands slid up his chest, over his shoulders, and he laughed under his breath and got his hands on my t**s, slid them over the oil and around and down, everything was slip and gleam and the sound of skin on skin with no friction in it at all.
"Lie back," he said.
"Don't stop touching me—"
"I'm not stopping." He pushed me down by the sternum. "Lie back."
He got on the table over me. One knee either side of my hip, oiled and heavy, and he pushed my t**s togethe
