by James, Ella
I’m not sure how I know. Perhaps the oldest, basest intuition. I look down our bodies. Declan draws his rigid frame away from me, and there I see it, jutting heavy from his hips, straining against his pants: a rod that’s long and thick, outsizing what I believed possible. It’s so large, it can’t even tent the fabric of his shorts. The tip of it seems pushed against the shorts’ waistband, the thick shaft bent in its confinement.
As I stare at it, he reaches down, melding his hand around it. As my gaze sweeps upward toward his face, I see the bare tip of it trapped between his pants and chiseled belly.
For the love of all things holy!
Desire courses through me, making my breaths quicken.
I was right, then, back at Gammy’s. He’s endowed quite like a bull. Something clenches in the region of my hips. I press my thighs together as I blink up at him.
Declan’s hand spreads over his abs, partly hiding his sex from my eyes. But it’s so long and thick, he can’t completely shield it.
With his free hand, he kneads his forehead. “Sorry,” he whispers, eyes shut. “When it’s…like this—” His jaw tightens.
“Like what?”
He shifts his hips, his face twisting. “Getting clean.” His voice is breathless, almost groaned. “Everything hurts…but this.” He shifts his hips again, rubbing at the bulge of his sex.
“What does that feel like?” I swallow, my poor heart hammering as if it might give out. It’s surreal, this moment, in this place. It doesn’t feel like reality, and I’m not behaving like myself.
He wraps his hand around himself as best he can, squeezing. Hot saliva fills my mouth as I watch his jaw clench, his eyelids lift open slightly.
He’s breathing hard and heavy as he lets go of his stiff sex. I watch as his hands fist.
“Fuck.” He shifts his legs again in clear discomfort. “Get up, Siren. Go away and I’ll…” He sucks a breath back, grips his temples.
I feel as if it’s someone else’s voice that whispers, “You’ll do what?”
“Shit. What do you think? You rubbing on me—” He shakes his head. “It felt good.” His voice is hoarse. “Just…go. I can make it fast.”
As he says that, he cups himself, his raised knees spreading wider. I watch as his hand delves inside his shorts, and then he’s pushing them down.
His thick sex springs up, stiff and rigid, lying like a hose against his abs. I note the darkness of his glans, the bulbous thickness of it. At that moment, he wraps his hand around it, squeezing as he tweaks the thick tip with his thumb. He tugs at it again, letting out a ragged groan. It seems to hurt…but perhaps not.
He wraps one hand around the length as the other delves down to— Holy virgin! Still swathed in his underpants, but those must be his testes. They’re…massive.
I have the thought how does he move about with those, and then he’s pumping up and down the rod of his sex, squeezing the tip as his hand curves around it, gripping himself just below and then stroking up and down while with his other hand, he’s stroking his awfully swollen testicles, tapping his fingertips against their sac.
I realize as I watch his face twist and his body writhe, his hands working frantically to find relief, that this was surely part of his discomfort. I know males swell and stiffen for the act, but this seems quite extreme. I’ve never heard of one so long and thick, not even during arousal.
Declan’s breaths grow ragged as he works himself into a fervor. His knees lift a bit, his chest pumping with frenzied breaths. I can’t tear my eyes away. How horrible that he’s in so much pain, because it’s quite majestic…and compelling.
As I watch, I feel my senses heighten, spurred by ancient magic; I grow warm and breathless, feel a needy clenching where my own sex would receive his…were we to copulate.
I’m about to turn away—all this is well beyond improper—but at that moment, he grunts and shifts onto his side, his hand releasing his sex as the other rises up to knead his shoulder…that right shoulder. He lets out a long, unsteady breath—it makes his thick sex jut toward his navel. When he inhales again, the hand on his shoulder moves to cover his face.
I hold stone still until he resumes stroking himself, one hand pumping his shaft as the other fists his hair. I tear my eyes away from his member and realize he’s clenching his jaw.
At that moment, his eyes open. “Finley.” His face still looks tired, but his voice is hard. “What are you doing?”
My cheeks burn so hot, I feel my eyes tear. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“You were watching,” he says darkly.
I look at my feet, and then I start to turn away.
“Why?”
I freeze. Why? Because I love to watch you all the time…
That forbidden thought sends shockwaves through me.
“Siren.” His low voice is clear and quiet. “Have you ever seen a man without his clothes on?”
I shake my head, unable to turn fully around to face him. My eyes throb. I bring a hand to my forehead, clutching. “Please don’t be…offended.”
“Not offended.” He sounds husky.
“I’d be mortified if someone looked upon me that way. I’m terribly sorry.”
My gaze affixes to the pale glint of the stream. I start to move toward it when he laughs. “The more you look, the easier it is.”
His words drop like weights inside me, as if I had swallowed them. I hear my own unsteady whisper. “I’m not sure I—I don’t understand.”
“Turn around, Finley.”
I obey with bated breath—and find his maleness covered with a blanket.
“Have you ever touched yourself?”
His question pierces like an arrow, making my eyes well with tears of shame. I shake my head…then, to my horror, I feel myself nod. Looking at him, with his desperate face, one thick forearm still snaking down behind the blanket, I find myself incapable of deceit, even what’s needed to salvage my wayward sense of shame.
His lips twitch. “You liked it, didn’t you?” His voice sounds strange, a bit too low. I note his arm is moving; he’s stroking his sex as he speaks. “It’s supposed to feel good, Siren. There should be some pleasure, don’t you think? Something to ease the pain.”
His eyes close as he says that. His arm moves more quickly.
I sense myself in motion half a breath before I am, moving slightly closer to him. Declan’s eyes open to meet mine. He looks dazed as he strokes himself behind the blanket—eyelids heavy, his face more relaxed now.
“So…it feels good?”
I watch his throat move as he swallows. “Yeah.”
His eyes are closing, even as he strokes. I realize that I’ve crouched beside him.
Time freezes around us as his breaths grow faster, heavier. I can see his jaw tighten, his features tense as if he’s deeply focused.
Then he shifts his hips. The blanket falls away, and I’m stricken to my core by what I see in front of me. His thick sex is fully revealed, his underpants tucked behind the mighty orbs below. His long sex looks painfully engorged, its dark tip pointed toward his navel. Around it, his thick hand curves, moving back and forth from tip to base, each long, solid stroke making his swollen testes bounce and wobble.
“Ohh.”
The noise slips from my lips, and Declan’s gaze moves to mine. I should look away, but I find I’m not able. I look instead down at his sex, at his hand around it, pumping smoothly up and down. I watch the way his fingers twist over the tip, tugging upward as his knees spread wider and his slack face tautens. I see a mist of sweat along his hairline. Now there’s color in his cheeks.
And I can’t look away.
I have never seen a sight like Declan pleasuring himself. As I look down at him, my knees tremble. His hand slows its frenzied pacing, squeezing his glans. His molten gaze licks up and down me.
“Come here, Finley.”
I kneel by his muscle-corded leg. My breath is caught in my throat. My pulse races as his eyes hold mine, and h
is hand squeezes the thick tip. I watch as he swallows, his eyes half closing. Then he lets himself go.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph! The way it stands out, pointing proudly upward. It’s so…thick. My gaze traces a vein from tip to base. It’s a marvel—the perfection of it.
“Go on, Siren.” His voice rumbles. “Touch it.”
Heat zings through me—so much heat I’m sweating. For a moment, I can’t find the words. They stutter out. “I…can’t.”
“No?” His hand strokes, lazy, down the shaft, then spreads below to cup his swollen sac. He squeezes slightly, and I nearly die from desire.
Jesus himself help me, but I want to touch it. Heat suffuses my face, and I’m realize I’m now panting. I scoot back, but I can’t wrench my wanton gaze away. I watch his big hand play it like an instrument, his savvy fingers rolling his testes then tugging upward on the thick shaft.
“You don’t have to.” His eyes close. “Knowing you’re watching is enough.”
His fist grips beneath the flared tip, moving firm but gentle, up and down. His legs fall open wider. He does something with his hand—his thumb stroking over the tip in precisely such a way so I can see a tiny slit there at the top…and all around it, something wet and shiny.
I’m leashed by propriety, by twenty-seven years of Catholic learning. I am bridled by my past, by proper vows and chastity and even simple decency. He is not mine.
And yet…I know before I reach for him that I will. Not because I want to touch him but because I must.
Declan moans as my hand covers his. Then his hand moves over mine, urging my fingers around his sex. I gasp at the feel of it—so hot and soft. As he urges me to stroke, his silky skin glides over the core of steel beneath. He exhales, and I feel him swell in my grip.
Holy virgin…
I adjust my hand. My fingers can’t reach all the way around him, but I think the grip should be firm, as his own appeared to be. I glide toward the base, and then back up, and he moans.
“Fuck.”
I spread my fingers, rubbing over him with the skin between my thumb and forefinger until I reach the tip again. I trace the rim, and his hips jerk. “Siren.”
“Does it hurt?”
He shakes his head, but still, I feel unsure until he juts himself against my hand. His hands stroke up and down my arm, and I explore the little slit, prompting a ragged groan.
I’m afraid of hurting him, so I return to what his hands suggested: stroking up and down the marble-stiff length. When I reach the base this time, I hold it with one hand and use the other one to test the swollen sac below. I feel it draw up at my light touch. Between my own legs is a yawning ache.
Declan shifts his hips again. His hand presses my palm against those tender globes, as his other starts to pump his sex again. Gripping him gently, I join in. Can he feel my fingers shaking? I watch his hand, turning slightly as it grips the thick shaft underneath its tip.
I tickle his sac, and he groans. “Shit.”
I move with growing confidence up and down him, stroking the shaft as his thumb tweaks his tip. With his other hand, he grabs my arm.
“Finley.”
I stroke him again, and his hips lift off the floor.
“Squeeze harder.”
I do.
“Harder…please.”
I grip him harder.
“Faster.”
I stroke so quickly, so firmly, I’m afraid I’ll hurt him. His hand grips my shoulder. I can feel him shaking.
He moans. “If—” My hand stills, and his urges it to move again. He shudders. “If you don’t stop soon…I’m gonna come.”
I find his warning leaves me undeterred. I feel eager, almost frenzied, with the urge to see him come undone. I’ve only heard a bit about what techniques men like most, but I act on the knowledge.
I look into his eyes as I run my hand up and down his swollen sex. I can feel it throb as I do.
“Relax,” I whisper as his breaths begin to come in tugs. “What do you like?”
I trace my hand from top to bottom—teasing, languid. Then I grip his tip, as I saw him do, and I rub my thumb over the tiny slit as I cup his balls.
“Finley…”
“I like this.” I sway them a bit and his backside lifts off the floor. I stroke from mid-shaft to the tip and feel more moisture.
“What can I do?”
“Rub…your palm around.” He’s grunting.
I do as I’m told, rubbing over the wetness. With a gentle squeeze, I release his heavy sac and stroke his sex. His hand rubs over my arm, the fingers trembling as he drags air into his lungs and groans it out.
“I’m close.”
I quicken my stroke, run my thumb over the wet spot where he’s leaking, and then, when I’m positive he’s just swelled further, when he starts to writhe and grab at me, I close one hand around his sac and pump my other up his length again.
When my closed fist brushes the notch there at the rim of his glistening tip, he gives a mighty jerk and grabs himself.
My head spins as I feel his sac harden against my palm, as I watch his thick cream spill between his fingers, dripping down the taut engorgement of his sex.
He’s panting, but his face has slackened. I watch his pulse thrum at his throat and want to lick it. Bite it.
My gaze attaches to his heavy pecs, finding his perfect, brown nipples erect. I’m aware as my hand lifts away from his sex that it’s time to step away. He’s relieved—I’ve eased his discomfort—but between my own legs, I feel heavy. Heavy and…riotous.
He runs a hand over his length, and I throb. I can’t say where. Perhaps it’s all of me. I press my thighs together, feeling odd and slightly fearful.
His eyes open. “You okay?”
He looks near asleep.
I hear myself laugh. “Yes, are you?”
He inhales deeply. “Great.”
I turn around and get a towel, setting it atop him.
“Thanks.” He’s still panting a bit, so I decide I’ll clean him up. It’s quite strange to run such ordinary terrycloth over his slackening sex. It’s still enormous. As I wipe it tenderly, it seems to flinch.
He groans.
“I’m sorry.”
“Fuck no.” His eyes open again. “Hey, do you want…” His brows draw slightly together, and I can feel the question in the ether.
My pulse races as I shake my head. His gaze remains on mine, as if asking, Are you sure?
“No thank you,” I murmur.
“That was so good, Finley.”
And, at that, he’s gone. Sunk into dreamland.
After I cover him, I go stand beside the stream, where I touch the inseam of my shorts with quaking fingers. I imagine my hand gliding up my thigh, beneath the fitted seam-line of my own white underthings…over my dark, coarse curls.
I can’t stop myself. I glide my fingers over my sex, stunned to find it slick and swollen. When my fingertip nudges the slit between my lips, I have to bite my cheek to keep from moaning.
Oh, Declan…
I need my finger in that place. I need something to fill where I feel needy for his harsh engorgement.
I’m breathing so hard, it echoes. I close my eyes and I imagine his smart fingers parting my forbidden crevice. I’m so very, very wet…could he fit in?
I push a fingertip inside and cry out. I’m throbbing, my entire body aching with the need to feel…him. In my fantasy, he’s lying flat as he was, his sex jutting up. I tug it toward me, push its thick tip to my swollen flesh.
I imagine spreading my legs open for him. He would push inside—so large and long—and I’d be filled completely…to the point of sinful madness.
I see his taut jaw, then his parted lips. I see his dazed eyes and that kind smile he gives me at odd moments. And I can feel his cheek beside mine.
My beloved.
The words chill me. How…ridiculous. And shameful. Sinful. I feel ill as I dip my hand into the stream and wash away the evidence of my wic
ked thoughts.
Chapter Twenty
Declan
I feel…better. It’s the first thing I notice as I blink up at the craggy ceiling. All the fucking dread, the racing heart shit—gone. Along with the surreal sensation I hate so much. I’ve still got the empty-chested feeling, but it’s physical. That shit, I can handle. Pain and discomfort—that’s the easy part.
I roll over, hoping to go back to sleep. That’s when I feel it. My shorts…
The surreal feeling’s back, making my stomach roll as I reach down and find…oh, thank fuck. My hand brushes the towel on my crotch, and then I know I didn’t dream it.
Finley really jerked me off. I had a giant, detox hard-on and she…helped.
Again, with the fucking roller coaster. My heart bobs like a buoy up into my throat, so I can hardly breathe. I shut my eyes, and I can see her lower lip between her teeth, her long, red hair over her shoulder as her hands rub up and down my cock. Pale, tentative hands…that pumped my dick—and rubbed my back.
Warmth spreads through me like some kind of Harry Potter shit. Shame kicks up behind it. Shame and something heavy, like a metric fuck-ton of regret. That this is who I am. That she saw me this way and…I don’t know. What did she think?
She grabbed my dick.
I tell myself that means she doesn’t think I’m scum, and when I’ve got the nerve to look around, I spot her over by the cave’s mouth, standing with her hands on her hips and her face tilted toward the boulder that’s blocking us in.
I let my gaze run up and down her. Siren. She looks like a siren…or a mermaid. She’s on the taller side, with curvy hips, a nice, round ass, and big breasts. Her face has that extra clean look some women have. I think it’s something with her skin. It just looks soft. I can’t see her very well across the cave, so I close my eyes and see her face. A few freckles across the nose...and those lips. Damn.
She gives me these looks sometimes where she’s got her brows raised and her eyes wide and her lips pursed, and she looks like a sassy schoolmarm. I can see her sitting by me—leaning over me—her face framed by a few loose strands of hair…and I can hear her soft voice.
