“Who are you?”Jack figured this must be one of their guests and decided to play along. He was still in the old and comfortable clothes he had worn...while driving down from Boston, an old work shirt with the sleeves cut off, some baggy cargo shorts, and a pair of ancient Nikes. He tapped the faded nametag sown onto the breast pocket of the shirt and said, “I’m Jack. Who are you?”“I am Rebecca Culverin. Are you supposed to be here? Did you come up from the brewery or something?”“It’s a. It's actually not particularly long, but it's thicker than most. He moved back into his seat and began to slowly massage my cock, occasionally reaching into my pants to cup my balls. He kept it up for about thirty or forty minutes, alternating between fondling my knob, feeling my swollen balls, and gently massaging my shaft. He was making me harder and harder, but didn't set up the rhythmic stroking that by now I desperately wanted so as to give me relief. He leaned close again, telling me he. More

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