Sex stories

I’m 50, always dressed like royalty: sharp three-piece suit, salt-and-pepper hair on point, a splash of Creed Aventus to top it off. I live in a swanky 16th-arrondissement building—marble elevator, the whole bourgeois deal. But for weeks, I’ve been eyeing Ahmet, a Turkish construction worker grinding away at the site downstairs. He’s in his 40s, stocky, hairy, scruffy as hell, reeking of sweat and dust. His filthy uniform and beat-up work boots clash with my pristine lobby, but what drives me nuts is the massive bulge I can make out under his pants. A beast of a cock that’s been fueling my dirty fantasies every time I pass him.

That evening, around 5 p.m., I stroll in, and there he is in the lobby—cigarette dangling, hands black with grime. He clocks me right away, smirking, and hits me with: “So, fancy boy, you like staring, huh?” My cheeks burn, I mumble some dumb shit, but he steps up, pinning me almost against the wall. His stench—sweat and tobacco—hits me hard. “I’ve seen you checking me out for a while. You want it, don’t you?” Before I can answer, he grabs my tie and yanks me toward him. I’m paralyzed, but my dick’s already twitching.

Out of nowhere, he shoves me into the trash room, drops his joggers, and there it is—his cock: a monster, thick as a soda can, at least 9 inches, hairy at the base, half-hard already. “On your knees, slut.” My legs wobble, but I drop, my polished loafers smacking the floor. I hesitate for a second—bam—he slaps my cheek. “Suck it, I ain’t got all night.” I open up, struggling to handle his girth. My tongue slides over the grit and sweat from the site. He grunts, grabs my head with both hands, and rams it down my throat. I choke, drool spilling everywhere, staining my pristine white shirt.

After ten minutes of him fucking my mouth, he hauls me up, spins me around, and slams me against the wall. He yanks down my Armani pants in one move. “Princess ass like yours—let’s see if it holds up.” He spits in his hand, smears it over his huge dick, and spears me with one sharp thrust. I yell—loud! The pain rips through me, but he clamps a hand over my mouth. I’m mortified; the whole building probably hears me. “Shut it!” He starts pounding—slow at first, then fast, hard, his hairy balls slapping my ass. The lobby echoes with nasty, wet sounds, my fancy cologne drowned out by his raw stink.

Bent over, I’m in hell and heaven at once—my pristine 50-year-old body totally at his mercy. He speeds up, growling like a bear: “Fuck, you’re tight—I’m gonna blow.” In minutes, he pulls out, forces me to face him, and barks, “Open wide.” Five thick spurts blast my face, cum dripping down my cheeks, soaking my pricey shirt. He hikes up his joggers, smirks: “You’re my bitch now, rich boy. I’ll swing by tomorrow after work.” He spits on the floor and walks off, leaving me there—breathless, humiliated, but already hooked on his nasty game.