No

The old man groaned as you squeezed his hardening cock through his worn polyester pants, his breath hot and stale against your face. His free hand tangled in your blond hair, keeping you locked in the sloppy kiss as his other hand worked faster between your thighs, fingers sliding in and out of your slickness with rough, practiced motions. The register counter dug into your bare hip as he shoved you back against it, the cold metal a sharp contrast to the feverish heat of your skin.

Your mind screamed to pull away, but your body arched into his touch, your nipples stiffening under his calloused palms.

The old man’s fingers curled deeper inside you, his thick knuckles pressing against your sensitive walls as his thumb circled your clit in rough, demanding strokes. Your thighs trembled, caught between the urge to clamp shut and the **** need to grind against his hand. His breath hitched as you fumbled with his belt, the cheap metal buckle clinking against the counter before you finally yanked his zipper down just enough to free his heavy, half-hard cock. His swollen brown cock springing free beneath his stained undershirt. Your stomach twisted as his dry, wrinkled fingers wrapped around your wrist, forcing your palm against his hot, veined length. The precome smearing your fingers was tacky and sour.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as the scent of sweat and musk filled the cramped space behind the register as you wrapped your fingers around him, his skin hot and slightly damp against your palm.

His cock twitched in your grip, leaking sticky precome that slicked your strokes. The old man groaned against your mouth, his tongue pushing deeper as his other hand groped your breast roughly, pinching your nipple until you whimpered.

You could feel his hips bucking slightly into your fist, his breath coming faster now—warm and sour against your cheek.

You pull back from the sloppy kiss with a gasp, saliva stringing between your lips as you spit directly onto your palm—the warm wetness mixing with the sticky precome already coating your fingers. The old man grunts as you tighten your grip, your slicked hand now working his shaft in slow, deliberate strokes, the swollen head glistening under the flickering fluorescent lights. His hips jerk forward, his thick cock pulsing in your grasp as precum beads at the slit, dripping onto the stained fabric of his pants.

His movement caused you to look down. His cock was thick and dusky brown, the skin mottled with age and heat, the swollen head flushed an even deeper shade where it strained against your palm. Veins stood out along the shaft like ropes under his taut skin, pulsing with each rough stroke of your hand. The weight of him was heavy, the foreskin slightly loose where it bunched at the base, the musky scent of his arousal clinging to the wiry gray curls at his groin. His balls hung tight beneath, the skin wrinkled and drawn up with need, a glisten of sweat making them slick where they pressed against your thigh as he ground forward.

His calloused hand suddenly gripped the back of your neck, pulling you forward as his wet, chapped lips crashed against yours again. The taste of stale cigarettes and sour chai flooded your mouth as his tongue pushed past your teeth, thick and insistent. Your trapped whimper vibrated against his mouth as his fingers—still glistening with your own slick—dug into the soft flesh of your hip, holding you in place against the counter's sharp edge. The register's metal corner pressed cold through your shirt as he ground his swollen cock against your trembling thigh, his breath hitching in ragged bursts against your cheek.

You could feel the tension coiling in his groin, the way his balls drew up tight—he was close. The sour tang of his sweat filled your nose as you twisted your wrist just slightly, thumb swiping over the leaking slit to spread the slickness, your own spit mixing with his precome to ease the friction. His breath came in ragged bursts, fingers digging into your hip hard enough to bruise as his other hand tangled in your hair, keeping your face tilted up toward his.

The thought flickered through your mind—*if you just get him off with your hand, maybe he’ll be satisfied, maybe you won’t have to take him any further.*

Your fingers tightened around his cock, twisting slightly on the upstroke the way you knew you liked, your spit-slick palm dragging roughly over the swollen head. His breath stuttered, hips jerking forward as a thick bead of precome smeared across your knuckles. The old man’s grip on your neck tightened, his other hand still working between your thighs with rough, practiced motions, fingers curling just *there* until your legs nearly gave out.