Mon amour

Lara winks at you from the bed like she’s just gotten away with something. The guy looks old enough to remember when milk came in bottles, yet here he is, hard already because a girl half his age keeps calling him mon amour. She climbs into his lap, tiny skirt rucked up, wet spot darkening the white cotton underneath. He grunts when her hand wraps around him—warm, tight, younger than he has any right to touch—and she giggles, all teeth and trouble. She doesn’t wait for permission; she just sinks down in one slow, greedy shove until her slick cunt swallows every inch. Her walls flutter, slick and obscene, milking him with each tiny bounce of her hips. He mutters something about sweet youth; she answers by tightening around him and moaning like she’s the one in charge. The old leather chair creaks every time she drops, loud and shameless, wet sounds filling the room each time her pussy slurps back up his shaft. He grips her ass, wrinkled fingers digging in, while she rides harder, determined to wring every last drop out of the ancient cock inside her.