At my age, an eighteen-year-old is too much trouble; too much drama.”She thought about that for a minute. “So how old are you, then, Mr. Simpson? ... mean, if you don’t mind me asking.”“Sixty-two,” I admitted, still liking that she was calling me “Mister”.“Perfect,” she muttered.“What?”“Um, you don’t look sixty-two.” Which is true, not to brag or anything. But I wasn’t convinced that she was complimenting me. It sounded more like a diversionary tactic.“So how old are you?”“Thirty, as of a month. I tied up the lace to the door knob of the room and left here there on the ground. She was thrashing and now started to plead. Please spare me. Please. I have never crossed path with you. I have never stopped anything that you do. Please leave me be. I will even give you money if you want I will do anything you want except this. Please spare me. Hearing this made me even hornier. My rod was ramming straight and I wanted to get into her. But now that everything else had failed, she started. More

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