"MWM Looking for My Age or Younger"
Oh, that'll do. Hotel nearby. EZ. And a prompt response. We exchange a couple emails, then he drops off. It's late, 11:00ish, and I get off on other tangents and forget about it. Around quarter to midnight I'm walking by my computer en route to bed when it belchess out one of those 'incoming email' noises. It's him again. Apologizing that he'd gotten stuck on a business call. And he's still motivated.
But I'm tired. Then he sends me a pic. Awww, what a cute pup. And salt & pepper hair makes me all weak in the knees. I'm feeling less tired. Yup, I could find the energy. No problem.
We quickly negotiate that we're meeting in the lobby of his ritzy-modern hotel that's a grand total of six minutes away. He's right there waiting for me, as promised. 5'9"ish, 170ish, 50ish and sporting a very thick gold wedding band. Not as attractive as the pic seemed, but not bad looking. A bit nerdy, he would definitely make a serviceable husband.
I'll take care of the serviceable part!
Upstairs, he's got a nice suite, located in a portion of the architecturally notable hotel that one notices from the ground and thinks: wow, wonder what it's like up there. He mumbles something about getting an upgrade. He maneuvers me into the bedroom section of the suite and suddenly, awkwardly grabs me and stuffs my mouth full of tongue. The approach was bungled, and the tongue was a bit over-active, but I appreciate a guy who wants to make out. Hurried ripping off of clothes followed and we settled into a rough tumble on the bed. He's his advertised age of 48, though that's not restraining his rock-hard cock - on the thick side of average, and on the average side of longish.
I go down on him, and apparently he's on the sensitive side because he pushes me off after a short bit of vigorous cocksucking. And he's hungry, too because he clearly wants a taste of what I'm packing. I happily straddle his chest and fuck his inexperienced throat. I say inexperienced because he can't swallow more than an inch or two, and even as I easily, unavoidably push him to gagging a couple times - he continues enthusiastically. He wants this cock. But when I start really enjoying myself he pulls back: he clearly doesn't want to get a mouthful of jizz - or, at least enough of his conscious self is still functioning in this sexual rutting that it stops him. So fine, I reluctantly climb down and decide it's time to finish him. And it doesn't take long. Thirty seconds of vigorous work and he spews a big thick load, which I spit into the sink.
The moment I get out of the bathroom, he's taken my place for a guilty wash-up. As I'm pulling on my clothes I spot his driver's license sitting outside his wallet on the bedside table. Why? I have no idea. But there it was, and I couldn't resist looking. No touch, just look. Name, address, etc., etc. I made mental notes.
Back home a few minutes later that bit of information leads me to: press releases about his brilliant career in finance (though I gotta say, I think this guy is the sort they've been warning us about in the recent melt-down), information about his huge newly constructed home in a tony suburb, and, I kid you not, his kids' soccer games. The internet is a powerful tool.