The Italian marble in the lobby was real and the concierge with the silly moustache looked up at me with distain written all over his delicate cologne...drenched face.“Do you at least have a card, Mister Andrews?”I dug one out of my wallet, even though it was a bit dog-eared and had a spot of ketchup on one corner. The guy sniffed with contempt at my offering and pushed it onto a silver tray with one gloved hand like it might have some sort of foreign disease hidden in the ink. In all honesty, it. ”“Agreed,” she said. She cleared her throat self-consciously.“Err, how old are you?” she asked me.“I’m twenty-nine,” I replied. “You?” I asked.“I’m forty-seven,” she admitted.“Hmm. Older woman,” I said, starting to stroke my slightly deflated cock.She noticed the association between my words and actions and asked, “You like older women?”“Yes, I like them,” I admitted, as I began to fully harden under her gaze.“Seems that you do,” she said, nodding at my hand around my cock and letting out a. More

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