Speaker 1: The air in sunny veil assisted living smelled like boiled carrots,
and regret. I'd been there exactly twelve minutes and already
wanted to peel my own skin off. Missus Patterson, the
director with the cat eye glasses and a mustache she
clearly didn't know about, had handed me a feather duster
and pointed toward the East wing like I was supposed
to know what the hell in east wing was. Community
service hours don't earn themselves, Miss Callaway. She'd chirped community
service as if Coach Reynolds had called it character building
after I'd told him his daughter's boyfriend's form was sloppy whatever.
So there I was, cheerskirt barely covering my ass, palm
palms ditched in the car, but the cropped top still
showing off my mid drift. Because screw laundry day and
screw this place. I shuffled room to room, dragging the
feather duster across surfaces. I tried not to look at
too closely. Most of the residents were either asleep or
staring at game shows with the volume cranked to deafening.
A few of them tracked me with watery eyes as
I passed, looking good, sweetheart. One wheezed from his doorway
eat your jello, sir. I shot back without breaking stride,
but then room to one four. The door was half open.
I pushed it with my hip, already mid eye roll,
already mentally spending the extra credits that would get me
out of summer school, and stopped. The man in the
chair by the window wasn't like the others. He sat straight,
shoulders back, silver hair swept away from a face that
had probably been been carved from something harder than oatmeal.
Eighty something, sure, but his eyes sharp and blue and
watching me, didn't have that foggy look. You're new, he said,
voice like gravel in honey, observant. I flicked the duster
at his nightstand gold star. He smiled, slow, got a
mouth on you, That's what they tell me. I bent
to swipe at the base boards, and when I straightened up,
he hadn't looked away, hadn't blinked. Really, most of these
old guys, they stared at my legs with this sad,
hungry confusion, like they remembered wanting something but forgot what.
This one knew exactly what. You're gonna watch me the
whole time, I asked, putting a hand on my hip, probably,
I snorted, but I didn't leave. Instead, I started tidying
his dresser, his photo a woman wife, probably smiling in
black and white, a metal of some kind, the usual
old person shrine to a life already lived. And then
I turned around and saw it tenting his gray slax,
a ridge that made my breath catch in my throat
and hang there. Fuck, not old man, half masked, Not
some sad, confused chub. This was a full on, zero gravity,
magnificent hard on, pressing against the fabric like it wanted
to introduce itself to the world. My mouth actually watered,
which was disgusting and also true problem, he asked, And
the smugness in his voice could have powered the whole building.
You've got, I mean, that's I pointed, Genius. He glanced
down at himself like he'd just noticed. Ah. That, yeah,
that used to be quite the fuck in my day,
he said it, casual, like commenting on the weather. Guess
the equipment still works. My thighs pressed together, traders, It's
been a while, he added, wife passed ten years ago.
Nobody since I should have walked out, should have made
some joke and disappeared into the hallway and finished my
hours in the dementia ward, where nobody remembered what a
boner was. Instead, I pulled the gum out of my mouth,
strawberry going stale, and pressed it to the back of
his chair, rules, I said, dropping to my knees. His
eyebrows rose, genuinely surprised for the first time, no coming
in me, got it understood. My fingers found his zipper.
The sound of it, that metallic whisper, shot straight between
my legs. I tugged his slacks down, boxers next, and
then he sprang free, and I actually made a sound
somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, unreal, thick and
veined and flushed at the tip. And I didn't wait,
didn't tease. I leaned in and ran my tongue from
base to crown in one long, sloppy stripe. His hips
jerked a hiss through his teeth. Been a minute, sweetheart,
shut up, I murmured against his skin. Then I took
him in my mouth. The thing about blowing guys my age,
they're grateful, desperate. They finish in forty five seconds, and
apologized like they broke something. But this this, he just
let me work, let me hollow my cheeks and twist
my wrist and lap at him like I was starving,
tongue flat along the underside, spit dripping down his balls.
I gagged on purpose, pulled off with a wet pop,
and grinned up at him. That's it, he breathed, Just
like that. I know, back down deeper. My cheer skirt
bunched around my thighs as I shifted on my knees.
The rough carpet burned, but I didn't care. His hand
found the back of my head, not pushing, just resting present.
I was making these noises now, wet and eager and shameless,
a whrrorse soundtrack, and I didn't care about that either.
When I finally pulled away strings of spit connecting us,
his chest was heaving, but his eyes were still sharp,
still hungry. My turn, he said. I blinked. What the chair?
Climb up here? And I did, because apparently I'd lost
my damn mind. I straddled his face, one knee on
each arm rest, skirt flipped up, thin panties already soaked through.
He hooked a finger in the fabric and tugged it aside.
The first stroke of his tongue was a revelation. Oh
my god, he knew, he absolutely knew what he was doing.
Slow circles, flicking, sucking like my Clit was the last
good thing on earth, and he intended to savor it.
My fingers tangled in his silver hair. That's it, Lap
it up, grandpa. His laugh vibrated against me, and I
nearly came right there. But no, not yet. I wanted more.
I climbed down, legs shaking, and pulled him up toward
the bed. He moved slower than a younger guy would have,
but his grip on my hip was iron You sure,
he asked, and there was something almost gentle in it.
Don't get sweet now you already ate my pussy. He
laughed again. Then he bent me over the mattress. The
first thrust knock the wind out of my lungs, deep, unhurried,
like he was rediscovering his favorite song. My fingers clawed
the thin blanket as he found a rhythm, slow, then
faster than punishing, the slap of his hips, the creak
of the bed frame, his old balls swinging against me
with every stroke, A detail I'd never thought would turn
me on, but here we were. Get on, he said,
patting his lap. The chair creaked as he leaned back.
Ride me, sweetheart. I should have laughed, should have told
him to fuck off. Instead, I swung a leg over,
positioning myself above that monster cock. My thighs trembled as
I sank down, inch by inch, feeling myself stretch around him. God,
he filled me completely. That's it, he growled, hands gripping
my hips. Take all of it, I start, hear did,
moving slow at first, then faster. My cheer skirt bunched
around my waist, my tits bouncing in his face. He
watched me with those sharp blue eyes, not saying a word,
just letting me work. I rode him like I owned him,
grinding my clit against his base, chasing my own pleasure.
Then he stood up, cock still buried inside me, and
bent me over the back of the chair. Now this,
he said, and slammed into me from behind. I gasped,
gripping the vinyl. His thrusts were brutal, unforgiving. His thumb
pressed against my asshole, circling, teasing, then slid inside. I
cried out loud and shameless as he fingered my ass
while he fucked my cunt, two rhythms colliding, my brain
short circuiting. He pulled out, dragged me to the bed,
flipped me onto my back, and hooked my legs over
his shoulders. Gonna fuck you proper now, he grunted, Gonna
fill this tight little pussy till you remember who gave
it to you. He drove in balls deep, every inch,
his hips slapped against mine, his balls swinging against my ass,
his cocks splitting me open. He was merciless, unstoppable, pounding
into me like he was claiming ownership. Take it, he growled.
I came, screaming, my back, arching my cunt, clenching around him.
And then he groaned, deep, guttural, and I felt the
pulse of him inside me, the heat spreading. Take every drop,
he growled. He followed a second later, pumping into me,
flooding me with hot, thick cum. I felt it drip
down my thighs, felt him pulse inside me, felt the
weight of his body as he collapsed. The room smelled
like sweat and sex and boiled carrots. No, I said,
my voice cracked. You came in me, you he collapsed
beside me, panting. I lay there, chest heaving, cheer top, twisted,
skirt bunched at my waist. Silence, Then reality, I can't
get pregnant, I hissed, scrambling off the bed, yanking my
panties up. I can't. This was for extra credit, not God.
I snatched my duster from the floor, marched toward the
door behind me. The old bastard chuckled a low satisfied rumble.
Don't name it after me, sweetcakes, Cakes. I hoped you
enjoyed today's sexy story. If you love this podcast, leave
an Apple review. Share what sexy fantasies you want to hear.
Maybe we can make your dirty dreams come true. See
you soon. M