Milking The Hand
- 2 days ago
- 10 min read
The late afternoon sun beat down on the dusty gravel road, turning the air into a shimmering haze that made Mandy's skin prickle with sweat. She was a fresh-faced virgin with long, honey-blonde hair tied back in a messy ponytail. Her school uniform was a crisp white blouse clung to her budding tits and a pleated skirt swishing against her smooth, untouched thighs that were now damp and disheveled from the long walk home. All she could focus on was the ache in her feet and the way her cotton panties rubbed uncomfortably against her virgin pussy. That's when the rumble of an old truck broke through her thoughts, as it slowed to a stop beside her. The door creaked open, and there was Tommy, the farm hand her father employed, his muscular frame filling the cab with an aura of raw, masculine power. He was in his mid-twenties, with a rugged jaw shadowed by stubble, his worn jeans hugging the bulge of his crotch and his tanned arms glistening with a light sheen of sweat that made Mandy's cheeks flush. "Hey, Mandy, you look beat from that walk. Hop in, I'll get you home quick," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, eyes lingering a beat too long on the way her blouse outlined her nipples, hardened from the breeze. She hesitated for a second, her heart fluttering with a mix of innocence and curiosity, but recognizing him as one of the trusted hands, she climbed in.
