Publisher Description

Sexy Shyla Bartlett is shocked when a 78-year-old former soccer player gropes her at an after-match event. Shyla determines to put the pensioner straight. But when she turns up at his house, it doesn’t go the way she planned – and the OAP is doing much more than just groping her. It ends up in some dirty sex between an old man and a young woman.

This story is only suitable for adult readers. It contains graphic descriptions of sex between an old man and a younger woman. The characters depicted are aged 18+. Intimate acts featured in the story include M/F consensual sex, oral sex, a*******s. Although the characters don’t use condoms, the author encourages all her readers to always practice safe sex.

At 8pm she arrived at the address by cab. The taxi driver gawped at her bust as she leaned forward to pay her fare. She wore an animal print dress,which showed off her ample cleavage, a hip-length faux fur coat, and leopard-print heels, the shoes that smashed a £600 hole in Adam’s credit card.
She looked hot, hair and make-up just the way she liked them.
She felt confident that she could sort the OAP out and put him in his place. Her costume was completed by the black lace knickers and bra she’d bought that morning with her husband’s credit card.
Without warning, a voice in her head said, “Shame Adam won’t be the first bloke to see them.”
She nearly stopped dead. Where did that come from? She felt queasy all of a sudden, some of her confidence seeping away.
Mr Wilson lived on a terraced street. Her heels clicked as she tottered toward the address. Shyla had grown up on a street like this. But she would never go back now. She loved her lifestyle too much.
She rang the doorbell, her throat dry and her heart knocking vigourously.
He opened it wearing the same football shirt he’d worn earlier, and stained tracksuit bottoms. The odour of sweat and curry emanated from the house. Shyla nearly pulled a face.
His jaw had dropped. He looked her up and down.
“Blimey,” he said, “can you kick me in the balls, darling, so that I’ll wake up? ’Cause I think I must be dreaming.”
“Can I come in?” she said.
“Jesus, I think God must be real.” He stepped aside, and she went in.
“Cor, you smell nice,” he croaked. His hair was as white as snow, and a messy nest on his head. He didn’t have his teeth in. He is so wrinkly and old, thought Shyla. She looked around the living room. It was grim, and there was she, so hot and gorgeous in the midst of it all. A flat screen TV hung on the wall. Dirty magazines and newspapers were piled around. The couch was covered in blankets, and they smelled sour. A plate smeared with curry sauce was on the floor, along with some empty takeaway containers.
“So welcome to my gaffe, darling,” he said. “You want to sit?”
“No thanks, I’ll stand. I just… just wanted you to know, yeah, that, well, it was bad of you today, you know, to grope me at the club… right in front of my husband… bad.”
She was flustered. Despite the animal print dress, the heels, the fur coat, the sexy underwear, her confidence had leached away.
And Mr Wilson knew it. He grinned, showing his toothless gums.
“Here, darling, why don’t I just come over there and get a proper feel, eh? Ass, tits, the lot?”
Her tummy knotted. “Yeah, all right, then.” The words spilled out. She had no clue where they came from. But she’d said them. And the wrinkly old man was tottering over.

Fiction & Literature
January 8
Rebecca Ryatt

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