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I'd been precumming right through my boxers. I looked over at Colt and gasped, slightly audibly at what I saw. It was apparently loud enough to get RJ's attention. He looked up at me and followed my eyes straight to his friend's cock. It was hard again and throbbing violently, veins pushed out against the taut flesh. With each throbbing bounce it quietly slapped against his navel and sent strings of cum reaching between his stomach and his shaft.We both watched for a moment. RJ turned another shade of red, perhaps with the realization that he was using his friend's throbbing cock as visual stimulus to fuel his perverted act. But it didn't disgust him enough to stop. Eventually, RJ made a slight motion with his head, barely making eye contact with Colt. He silently ushered him up from the bed. Never breaking his dreamlike gaze with his friend's cock, Colt stood up with anticipation and walked over to his friend. It appeared that he was not entirely sure what was happening, but that he. This one was destined for the scrap yard anyway”.They chatted for a few minutes during which time they made their introductions. She was Kate, 28 years old and currently single, having not long ended a long term relationship. He was surprised to learn all this in such a short conversation.Grant offered to drive her and her shopping home - an offer that she accepted, making a counter offer of dinner at her place.This is the story from Grant’s point of view of what happened after dinner at Kate’s place.“You don’t remember me do you?” she asked as she sat on my lap, rubbing her nice rounded breasts all over my face, teasing my lips occasionally with her hard little dark pink nipples.I was stumped by her question but that was the least of my concerns given that she was naked except for a tiny pair of lacy panties, and my 55 year old cock was trapped within my trousers under her firm shapely ass.“No I’m sorry” I sheepishly admitted “I can’t remember you ... was I nice to you?” I asked.
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“What are you reading?” “David Mamet,” she answered, closing her book. “Do you know his writing?” “Yes, I’ve read a few of his plays and have seen several of his movies. I like his language and how he writes dialogue.” “Me, too, it’s called, Mamet speak. I love how crisp his dialogue is. It’s like poetry, so spare.” “Let’s pretend we’re in a Mamet play,” I said, surprising myself with that bold, spontaneous idea, somehow my usual shyness evaporating. “Okay,” she said, nodding, “Let’s pretend we’re in a Mamet play.” “Yes, let’s,” I responded, already entering the stylized, mono-syllabic, repetitive manner of his dialogue. “Yes, let’s,” Hannah repeated, picking up our game, a slight playful smile on her lips. “Hello,” I said, looking at her from my table. “Hello.” “You look sad. “I do?” “Yes, sad.” “Oh!” she said, widening her eyes. “Yes, sadness is not what I want for today,” I said, shaking my head. “Yes, I know you don’t want sadness. I know you don’t.” “What do you think I.

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