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I drove past his hundred- and fifty-year-old farmhouse three times. This time was different. I could attribute the first encounter to happenstance. I could blame it on a weak, very horny moment in time. A moment that led to our book store play and secrets to keep. The moment I turned into his driveway, though, it was a conscious choice to do whatever it was we were about to do. This would be a game changer. I was seeking him booty massage out now and it scared the hell out of me. It scared me because I wanted it to happen with every fiber of my being. Over the course of the three weeks after I’d run into Phil that day, I had stroked my cock countless times thinking about it.
The thing that intrigued me the most was not what had happened. What intrigued me was all the things I had fantasized about happening after that night. I had never booty massage entertained some of the ideas I had come to fantasize about in those few weeks afterwards. All I knew was I came harder than I had ever come thinking about him. When I ran into him at church that Sunday and shook his hand, it was electric. He pulled me in a bit and said, “bench press, Monday, 4.30 pm.” The knowing smile on his face and his soft blue eyes made my cock ache.
Finally, I worked up the nerve to pull into his long driveway. My stomach was in knots as I saw him step into the doorway of his barn with that knowing smile. I parked and he waved me into the barn, where he had a small workout area set up. Simple equipment of a bench, squat rack and barbells. The bench already had one hundred and eighty-five pounds loaded. Phil was wearing a pair of grey sweatpants and a classic tank top booty massage undershirt. At sixty years old, he still looked strong and from the memory of wrestling him in the pool that summer, he was strong.