“I’m thirty-one today, Cara,” I remind her, and I don’t know what for. She knows how old I am. Woke me up with her version of birthday bumps, which is to say she squeezed the base of my cock in her fist, engulfed the swollen head with her mouth, and then seemed to swallow it whole before dragging her mouth back up, in slow fucking motion, thirty-one times. “Over halfway to sixty. Might as well be a hundred.” “You’re lucky you’re hot.” That must be the only reason I let her get away with everything, right?
