Brothel Tour

Frank cornered him by the coffee machine. The old guy looked tired, washed out. Frank leaned in and started talking. About her. The blonde with the full, tight breasts that barely fit the black lace bra she wore on slow nights. He told him about her skin, soft and warm to the touch, and the way her pussy felt—wet, tight, and hungry. He described the taste of her, how slick she got on his tongue, how her mouth slid down a cock like silk pulled tight. The old man shifted in his chair. Frank kept going until the words finally did their work. They went that night. The brothel lights were low. She stepped out in lingerie that barely covered anything—stockings, a garter belt, and that bra pushing her tits up like an offering. The old man reached for her first. She dropped to her knees without a word and took him in her mouth, slow and wet. He groaned. Frank watched her throat work around him, her tongue sliding underneath, saliva shining on her lips. She looked up once, eyes half-lidded, then went back to it. When the old man came, he pulled out and painted her face—thick ropes across her cheek, her mouth, dripping down her chin. She licked her lips, smiled, and stood. Frank paid. They left. No one said a word on the ride back.