Fib

You tell him a fib, though the memory of what you say is hazy, as you become distracted with the pleasure of his wrinkled, brown hands massaging your flesh. It feels good, especially as you begin to feel buzzed from the ****. As he massages you, he guides you forward past a door and into his small office.

You barely notice the change in location, nor the disheveled bed or the small wooden desk with an array of the man's personal items. Pictures of his family, wallet, a woman store uniform, papers, bills, and a computer

"So I can't go back home...ugg," you moan, as he releases a knot on your back, breaking the stress that had kept you in overdrive since this morning. You let his hands wander where they like, hesitant to tell him no, afraid he would stop his massaging.

"That is troubling," the man says sympathetically, his breath raising goosebumps on your neck. He was so close to you, you could smell his musk and feel his body heat radiate against your back. It felt so good, his caress pleasurable and exciting, but tender and relaxing at the same time.

The pleasure, body heat, and beer was already having an effect on your hungry body, your pussy was in **** need. Yet you also hesitated, knowing that one slip up could land you as a girl for the rest of your life.