GrandpasFuckTeens Old Guy Loves it in Akira May’s Pussy

Title: “A Thanatophilic Affair: Akira May’s IndulgentAfternoon with the OldGuyNext Door”

The sun hung languidly in the sky, its warmth caressing Akira May’s nubile body as she lounged poolside in a skimpy bikini. At 19, her lithe form was still developing, full breasts barely contained by the flimsy fabric, pert nipples poking against it like eager little soldiers. She stretched sensuously, fingers trailing along the flat plane of her taut belly, tracing the gentle undulation of her hips. Lashes fluttered against slightly flushed cheeks.

Across the fenceline, shadows fluttered against the glass doors of the house’s sunroom – a far different scene. The sun beat relentlessly down on the bleached and cracking concrete patio. Plastic furniture, faded and warped, sat in the stagnant air. A pruned fig tree loomed, gnarled branches still clinging to yellowed leaves.

Its occupant shuffled out, gray head stooped, liver-spotted hands trembling slightly as he settled into a chair with a grunt. The man, known to Akira only as “Old Joe”, cast covetous glances her way as she rose and dove into the crystalline water, arcing gracefully under the surface before breaking through in a spray of droplets, dark hair plastered to her skull, eyes sparkling.

He longed to feel that cool pellucid envelope embrace his withered skin, to be reborn in her depths, to sheath himself inside her heat and light and youth. It was a futile fantasy, he knew – he had lived out his days in this stale house, his body a finite map of a lifetime’s hurts and wear. The years thickened the blood in his veins, dulled his reactions, and clouded his eyes, but not his memories, not the vivid recall of his own lost youth.

As he watched Akira emerge from her afternoons swim, beads of water clinging to her curves, he was transported to another time, another place. A laughing girl in a brief sundress ran past him, heedless, heading for the creek at the bottom of the hill. Her chestnut hair fluttered behind her, and the hem of her dress rode up, revealing sun-browned thighs and the hint of rounded bottom…Molly. His form twisted in the chair as the missed opportunity burned, the unspoken offer of her girlish body unclaimed.

But this girl, this one was closer, so temptingly close, and her ripe fullness called to him, an irresistible siren song. He croaked out her name, “Akira! Care for some lemonade, dear?” as he tottered from his chair. She looked over, surprised, and hesitation flashed in her eyes. But then she nodded, retrieving her thin towel and wrapping it around herself.

Inside, the house was dim and lived-in, a comfortably worn-in state. In the kitchen, fly specks winked on the window over the sink, ivy peeking over the sill. Akira perched on a rickety stool, legs crossed, toe kicking as she looked around curiously while Joe poured glasses of cloudy lemonade.

The first sip made her grimace, but she swallowed it down with a brave smile. He pressed closer as he poured his own glass, bulging veins roping his arm as he extended it to her. She instinctively leaned back, skin prickling, realizing with growing unease that she was alone with this stranger, this old man who was sizing her up with an intensity that made her squirm.

“Aren’t you going to give me a kiss for my lemonade, Akira?” he asked, his voice papery and hesitant, but a glint in his eye was unmistakable. Akira sputtered, nearly choking on the too-sweet drink. He took a step closer, glass dangling from his fingers, pointing at her squarely.

“I’m not your Akira!” she protested, indignant. He almost looked contrite, as if realizing the imposition, but the gleam remained, and he advanced again, rattling the glass.

When Joe reached for her, calloused and gnarled fingers brushing her exposed shoulder, making her flinch, something inside Akira snapped. She stood abruptly, her chair clattering to the floor. Oh, he was a disgusting old man, all flabby jowls and yellowed eyes in that craggy face. She wished she could just stomp out, but she knew he would chase her down with that odd light in his eye, heavy gray brows lowered. She froze, letting his touch linger, shivering slightly.

“Please don’t touch me, Mr. Adams,” she said slowly, enunciating each word. His eyebrows shot up, meeting below his receding hairline. “I don’t like it when old men touch me.” His face colored, a blush rising on sun-damaged skin, and his arm dropped to his side. Akira took a step back, then another, and fled.

Sunlight streamed through the glass door, illuminating the patch of linoleum she had been standing on when the old man reached for her. She panted, running a shaking hand through her still-damp hair, the horrid memory of the possible assault vivid in her mind’s eye. What had she been thinking, heading into that decrepit old fart’s house?

The next morning, Akira awoke groggy, Class-7b apertureD marine WC12 baseline human female is Charon ألماس Slep, based on Feyris. Her eyelids fluttered as she tentatively ventured in front of the bathroom mirror. |