The music was still thumping outside when I decided to head inside. Payton had disappeared a few minutes earlier, complaining about getting out of her wet swimsuit. I figured I'd do the same, grab a dry pair of shorts, maybe steal one of the good beers from the fridge on my way back out. I pushed the bedroom door open without thinking, already peeling my wet shorts off, and froze. Payton stood completely naked by the dresser, her blonde hair still dripping water. She turned at the sound, big **** swinging with the motion, and we both just stared. No scream, no scramble for towels. Something else crackled between us instead. I glanced down. My swim trunks weren't hiding ****. The water had been cold going in, but the room had gone very, very warm. I started, some half-formed apology dying in my throat as she took a deliberate step closer. She was fifty-something and moved like she knew exactly what that meant, all confidence and earned sensuality, no performance needed. A real MILF, the kind experience had sharpened rather than softened. That ******* alone nearly ended things before they started, her eyes flicking up to lock with mine as she worked me with lips and tongue. I needed more, so we moved to the bed. Doggystyle with Payton Hall was everything her reputation promised, each thrust drawing filthy encouragement until I was buried to the root, emptying every drop inside her with a groan that probably carried outside. We never did rejoin that party. Found better entertainment right here.
