Mr. Harlan’s breathing was still ragged, chest heaving as the last thick pulse of his release dripped over his knuckles and onto the worn carpet between his spread thighs. His c**k, still half-hard and glistening, twitched against his hairy belly. He didn’t bother wiping his hand. Instead he lifted it—shiny, sticky—and crooked two fingers at me.
“Come here.”
My legs felt like they belonged to someone else. They carried me forward anyway, one shaky step, then another, until I stood between his knees. The smell hit me first: sharp musk of fresh c*m, stale beer, old cigarette smoke baked into the couch fabric. It should have turned my stomach. Instead it made the empty, pulsing ache between my legs clench harder.
He reached out with his clean hand and grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking
