Sixty-five, But Who’s Counting (Ch 4) - Sex Stories

Sixty-five, But Who’s Counting (Ch 4)

... barstool was Trish, sipping what appeared to be rum punch. She smiled, “Modelo Especial, right?”

The cute barmaid added, “Coming right up.”

I took it as a good omen that she had arrived early. Perhaps she was as big a horn dog as I was. I put my left arm around her tiny waist and gave her a kiss on the cheek. The skin over her low back felt almost creamy to touch. She smelled like vanilla. I was in sensory overload.

Trish’s polka-dotted, fawn-colored coverup accentuated her tan. I couldn’t help but wonder whether she was tan from top to bottom (pun intended) or whether there were milky white areas around each nipple and at her mons. I hoped for the latter.

Trish’s long brunette hair was in loose pigtails. A dozen freckles dotted her nose and cheeks. A set of braces and she’d pass for an eighteen-year-old cheerleader.

I carefully side-scooted onto the adjacent stool. I must have looked awkward, but there was no way I wanted my towel to shift akimbo.

Trish wasted no time, seemingly taking the bull by the horns. She leaned toward me and whispered in her southern twang, “Aaaa’m so glad you came. Oh maaaa, you look good enough to eat.”

She placed her hand on my left thigh; pausing only momentarily, before running it up and under the towel. She looked me in the eye and drawled, “Waaaa, you’re a naughty boy. Aren’t you?”

We both chugged our respective beverages. Trish signed the tab and slid off her stool. She grabbed my left hand. “Well, what are y’all ...

... waitin’ for?”

We walked hand in hand around the pool and into the back lobby of the hotel. The air conditioning hit me like a bucket of ice water. I developed goose flesh, my nips turning into BBs. I looked down at Trish’s tits. Two gumdrops were trying to perforate her coverup.

Trish led me to a bank of elevators just off the lobby. She pressed the up button and a car door opened almost instantaneously. She led us in and used a pass card to activate and illuminate the button for the penthouse. I thought, “La-di-da”.

Just when I thought we were about to zoom up to the penthouse for some nasty nasty; a disembodied voice pleaded, “Hold the door, please.”

Six or seven pale vacationers, each with a roller board, crowded into the Otis. Four additional floor buttons were pressed. Trish and I were squeezed into a back corner.

I heard one portly woman tell presumably her husband that we were a cute couple. The “ehhhhh?” at the end of her statement identified them as Canadian.

Within seconds of the doors closing, Trish slid her left hand between the fanny pack of the human sardine standing in front of me and the front of my towel. After a moment of fumbling, she found the overlap of terrycloth. She fisted Mr. Wiggly.

I was enjoying the ultra-slow jacking; but was also thinking of anything and everything (asparagus, tire irons, TV antennas, mulch) to keep from sprouting a full-blown chubby. It didn’t help that the Canadian housewife had inched her hand to the right and ...