Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
I have a type. Specifically, I have two types. There’s Type A: The distinguished gentleman, preferably with a full head of silver hair, a penchant for single malt scotch, and a portfolio that could rival a small nation’s GDP. These men are wonderful conversationalists, masters of the five-star reservation, and possess a certain gravitas that only comes with decades of accrued wisdom (and even more accrued wealth). They also, almost without exception, have the libido of a particularly sluggish snail.
Then there’s Type B: The strapping twenty-something, all rippling abs, boundless energy, and an unshakeable belief that life is one long montage from a sports drink commercial. These men are less interested in discussing the nuances of global economics and more interested in, well, nuances. And by nuances, I mean anything that involves their cock.
Richard, The Silver Haired Cuck
My current Type A is Richard. A charming septuagenarian with fingers more accustomed to stock market fluctuations than, well, anything else. I invited him to my sprawling penthouse last Tuesday. We had an exquisite meal, discussed interest rates, and by 9 PM, Richard was comfortably dozing on his velvet couch, a half-finished glass of Armagnac clutched in his hand, a financial newspaper tented over his face.
I quietly padded into the bedroom, where my Type B for the evening, a delightful personal trainer named Jax, was already diligently performing stretches. As far a Richard was concerned, Jax was there to fix my air conditioner. He looked up, his eyes sparkling, a grin splitting his face. “Ready for your workout, Amber?” he whispered. I winked. “Oh, I’m more than ready, Jax. And don’t worry about Richard. He’s deep into a very important discussion with the Dow Jones.”
We closed the door, but not too tightly. It’s important to keep a little air circulating. And perhaps, a little sound. Just in case. Jax grabbed ahold of my hips and launched me on the bed, then stripped off his clothes and jumped on top of me. As soon as I spread my legs and pushed aside my thong panties, his dick was inside of me, thrusting with vigour and a lot of sweat. About an hour later, the living room door creaked open. Richard stood there, blinking owlishly over the top of his reading glasses.
He took in Jax, who was currently doing a sort of triumphant, post-workout strut in his underpants, then glanced at me, still flushed and tangled in the bedsheets. Richard’s gaze, usually so precise when dissecting quarterly reports, seemed to fuzz over. “Oh,” he mumbled, a hand going to his silver hair. “Is…is the young man finished with the…the air conditioning repair?” Jax paused, mid-strut, and I suppressed a giggle that threatened to bubble over. “Yes, sir!” Jax boomed, ever the polite one. “System’s running perfectly now. Optimal temperature achieved.”
Richard nodded slowly, as if processing this profound technical information. “Good,” he said, turning back towards the living room. “Because it felt a little warm in here earlier. Thought I might have imagined it.” He shuffled back to the couch, completely oblivious, or perhaps, perfectly content in his blissful denial. I watched him go, then flopped back onto the pillows, a satisfied smile spreading across my face.
Amber 1-844-332-2639 ext 404
https://phonesexcandy.com/amber