The Newlyweds And The Nudist Chapter 1
The sun drooped low, casting its final golden sigh across the stillness of the suburban street. Emma stood at the window of their new house, fingers lightly grazing the frame, her eyes tracing the tidy lawns and symmetrical trees that lined the quiet cul-de-sac. This was supposed to be the beginning—the bloom of the life she and Jason had dreamed into existence. And in so many ways, it was. Their first home. A fresh start. The soil of their future finally beneath their feet.
And yet, under the excitement, something restless stirred—a gentle ache, a flutter of disquiet just beneath her ribs.
The house itself was beautiful. Spacious. Sun-drenched. The kind of place that promised birthdays, backyard barbecues, whispered dreams behind closed doors. Jason had been euphoric when they found it. It checked every box. The kind of place he’d always imagined they’d grow roots in, raise something real. A family.
Emma smiled at the thought. It made sense. It was right. But as she moved through the stillness of each room—the polished floors, the pristine kitchen, the untouched corners—there was a strange echo in her chest, a hush that didn’t feel quite like contentment.
It wasn’t Jason. It wasn’t the house. It was something in her. A stretch of herself she hadn’t touched in years. She’d poured so much of her energy into the shared dream—into being what he needed, what the future required—that she’d forgotten how to ask herself what she wanted. Who she was becoming. If she was becoming at all.
A soft knock at the door broke the spell.
Grateful for the interruption, she padded across the hall and pulled it open.
He stood there—Malcolm Freeman—confident as a summer storm. Older. Solid. A broad, muscled frame relaxed beneath a faded t-shirt and drawstring shorts. He was unmistakably Black, his skin deep and warm like burnished mahogany, his salt-and-pepper hair cropped short, his eyes calm and steady, full of a quiet knowing. He looked like he was somewhere in his early fifties, though the years sat on him like a well-worn leather jacket—lived in, not worn down. His eyes held the quiet of someone who’d seen enough to stop pretending.
“Hi there,” he said, voice smooth as velvet over gravel. “I’m Malcolm. I live next door. Thought I’d come welcome you to the neighbourhood.”
“I brought a little something,” he added, holding out a small potted plant. Its green leaves burst vivid against the muted tones of the porch, sharp and unapologetically alive.
Emma blinked. There was something disarming about him—so grounded, so at ease. When he stepped forward to offer her a potted plant, her fingers brushed his, and the contrast startled her. Her skin looked pale against his—fragile, almost glowing in the soft light of the porch. She felt a little flutter in her stomach she couldn’t quite explain.
“A plant?” she echoed, fingers curling around the terra cotta pot. “That’s… sweet of you. Thank you.”
“It’s more than that,” Malcolm said, a low chuckle threading through his words. “It’s a reminder. Life doesn’t grow unless you tend to it. Give it sunlight, water, time… and it’ll show you what it’s capable of.”
Emma stared at the plant—new, fragile, waiting. Its bright leaves caught the dying light like they were reaching for it. Something about it made her throat tighten. She didn’t know why. Not yet.
“We’ve never been great with plants,” Jason said, joining her with a casual grin. His tone was light, but his attention was already drifting elsewhere.
Malcolm didn’t seem fazed. He looked to Emma again, softer now. “It’s okay to learn as you go,” he said. “Most people forget that. They think they have to know everything from the start. But some things… some things grow with you.”
There was an openness to the way he said it. Not pushy, not philosophical—just present. Grounded. And it made her feel seen in a way that was sudden and disarming.
Emma smiled, a little bashful. “I’ll try not to kill it, then.”
He grinned, and for a moment the years between them dissolved. “That’s all anything needs, really. A little attention. A little care.”
She laughed, and it surprised her—how easy it felt. How good.
“I’m just over there,” Malcolm added, gesturing with a nod toward his place. “If you ever need anything. A wrench. Sugar. Someone to curse at your broken sprinklers with.”
“Good to know,” Emma said, still smiling.
“I’ve also got a hot tub out back,” he added, casually. “It’s more fun with company.”
The line was delivered with just enough warmth to tease, just enough restraint to leave the moment open-ended. Not a come-on. Not quite. But the kind of line that lingered.
Jason chuckled, distracted. “Hot tub. That’s… generous.”
Emma wasn’t listening.
Her eyes had drifted back to the plant, now warm in her hands. In the soft amber of evening, its leaves seemed to glow faintly. It didn’t feel like just a welcome gift. It felt like something else. A sign. A beginning.
Malcolm’s presence still lingered in the doorway long after he was gone.
————
Later that night, the house hummed in its own quiet language—pipes ticking, wood settling, wind whispering against glass. Emma sat alone on the edge of their bed, the soft linen sheets curled around her hips like a half-finished thought. The room was still unfamiliar, its white walls too pristine, too clean, like a blank canvas waiting for someone to bleed on it.
On the windowsill, the plant sat in its small terracotta pot, its bright green leaves vivid against the sterile backdrop. It didn’t belong—and yet, somehow, it belonged more than she did. It was alive. It was growing. It demanded care. It reached for the light without apology.
Growth. Care. Life.
Malcolm’s words echoed in her mind like the chime of wind through an open door.
Emma wrapped her arms around herself, feeling the slow pulse of something restless beneath her skin. Was she growing? Or was she simply enduring? She’d always told herself this—that life would one day arrive fully formed. That she just had to wait for the right house, the right love, the right moment. But now she was here—in the house, beside the man—and it still felt like something vital hadn’t taken root.
She turned to look at Jason. He lay facing away from her, already drifting through sleep, his breath slow and even. His body, familiar. His presence, comforting. Their first night in this house. Their first night as husband and wife.
And yet…
She loved him. That much was real. Solid. But love didn’t always speak the language her body needed. There were moments—quiet, flickering moments—when their connection in bed left her aching not with pleasure, but with the longing for something unnamed. A deeper rhythm. A fuller surrender. She thought it would come naturally, that with love, the rest would bloom. But some part of her still felt untouched, as if there were rooms inside her that Jason hadn’t yet found… and maybe didn’t know how to enter.
Her thoughts, uninvited and warm, slid back to Malcolm.
That easy way he moved, like his body had already made peace with the world. The way he filled a space without demanding it. He didn’t posture. He didn’t chase. He just was. And in that effortless stillness, something about him tugged at a place inside her she hadn’t known was empty.
It wasn’t that she wanted him—not in any way she’d admit to. It was more… the contrast. The way he made her aware of herself. Aware of the hunger buried beneath the careful smiles and routine gestures. Aware that desire could look different—feel different—than she’d known. There was a gravity to him, and she felt her body leaning toward it, even if only in the safety of her own mind.
The plant rustled faintly as a breeze slipped through the cracked window. Its leaves reached out as though grasping for something just beyond the glass.
Emma followed its movement with her eyes, the metaphor unfolding itself without effort now. That tender thing—rooted, vulnerable, but persistent—it mirrored her perfectly. She, too, was stretching toward something invisible. Something warm. Something that would coax her open.
She didn’t know what any of it meant. Not yet. But she knew the stillness inside her wasn’t just peace—it was a waiting. A yearning. Something was shifting, curling, blooming beneath the surface.
She turned back to Jason, watched the rise and fall of his breath, the curve of his shoulder.
Whatever came next—whatever truth she might find in herself—she still wanted to walk it with him.
But in the dark, her fingers drifted to the plant on the sill, brushing gently against its tender leaves.
She wasn’t sure who she was becoming.
But she could feel it: she was starting to grow.
————
The following evening arrived wrapped in warmth, the dying sun painting slow amber trails across the walls as Emma moved through the kitchen, setting the table with quiet care. The scent of roasted chicken filled the air, mingling with the rich pop of uncorked wine. This was their first proper dinner in the new house—an evening meant to settle in, to feel like home.
But under the surface, there was a thread of anticipation winding through her.
Malcolm.
She hadn’t expected to think about him as much as she had. There was a maturity in him—not just in age, though he had at least thirty years on her, easily—but in his steadiness. His calm. It wasn’t intimidating in the way older men sometimes could be. It was grounding. Like he’d already weathered the storms she hadn’t yet learned to name.
Jason was already placing glasses on the table, his hosting instincts in full swing when the doorbell rang. Emma wiped her hands on a towel, heart fluttering with a nervous energy she hadn’t anticipated, and opened the door.
There he was—Malcolm. The light behind him gilded the edges of his shoulders, and in his hands, a dark bottle of wine. His smile—slow, warm, easy—was the kind that made her body relax before her mind caught up.
“Good evening,” he said, voice like velvet worn smooth by time. “Brought a little something to keep the conversation flowing.”
“Please, come in,” Emma said, stepping aside.
Malcolm moved inside with unhurried confidence. Not arrogance—just comfort, the kind born of someone completely at home in his skin. His eyes flicked around the space, taking in their still-settling world.
“It’s a lovely home,” he said genuinely. “I can already imagine the memories that’ll live in these walls.”
“Thank you,” Jason replied, his voice warm. “We’re excited to start making them.”
They settled at the dining table, the wine poured, laughter softening the spaces between clinking glasses and the shuffle of plates. Malcolm’s stories filled the room effortlessly—tales from his college football days, the countries he’d wandered through, the life he’d shared with his late wife.
“She was my world,” he said at one point, his tone dipping into something quieter. “We had dreams, big ones. We tried for kids, but…” He exhaled through a slow smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “Wasn’t in the cards.”
Emma’s heart tugged. She hadn’t expected this rawness from him—but it didn’t feel heavy. It felt honest. Lived in.
“I’m so sorry,” she said gently. “That must’ve been… incredibly difficult.”
He nodded. “It was. But we found joy anyway. She taught me how to be fully present. Even in loss, there was beauty. And love.” His eyes glinted with a fondness that shimmered just beneath grief.
Jason listened with the steady calm of a man who could sense something sacred in the story.
Emma, though, felt something more. Not pity. Not admiration, even. Something deeper. Something alive. Drawn was the word that came to mind, though she wasn’t ready to sit with that thought too long.
As the meal wore on and the second bottle of wine dwindled, conversation drifted toward their homes. Malcolm spoke of his, just next door—how it had fallen into quiet neglect since his wife passed. The garden, once her pride, now overgrown. A leak in the roof he kept putting off.
Emma set down her glass, her voice soft but earnest. “If you ever need help… I’d love to come by. Gardening, cleaning—I don’t mind. I’ll be looking for something to keep me busy.”
Jason glanced sideways at her, a brow rising, but he said nothing.
Malcolm gave a soft chuckle. “That’s kind of you. But before you make that offer, there’s something I should be honest about.”
He paused. Not dramatically—thoughtfully. With a stillness that commanded silence.
“I’ve lived a certain way since she passed. A way we lived together. And I never saw any reason to change it.”
He met Emma’s gaze first, then Jason’s.
“I’m a nudist.”
The room went quiet. Not awkward. Just… still. As if the word itself demanded room to settle.
Emma blinked. Not out of shock—more like her brain needed a second pass to confirm what she’d heard. She was young—just twenty-three—and this kind of candour, this kind of unapologetic truth, felt rare. Maybe that was part of what drew her in. He wasn’t trying to impress. He wasn’t trying at all.
Malcolm continued, his voice calm. “It’s not about being provocative. It’s not about shock or performance. It’s about peace. Intimacy with the world. With myself. We lived that way, my wife and I, and I made her a promise: that I wouldn’t go back to hiding just because she was gone. So I didn’t.”
The weight of it wasn’t in the nakedness. It was in the loyalty. The love. The ritual of it.
Emma’s lips parted, then pressed together. She wasn’t sure what emotion was blooming in her chest—maybe curiosity, maybe awe—but she wasn’t uncomfortable. And somehow, she knew Malcolm wasn’t trying to make anyone else uncomfortable, either.
Jason cleared his throat, recovering. “That’s… certainly different. But I respect that.”
Emma smiled slowly, her mind whirling with questions she wasn’t ready to ask. “Honestly? I don’t mind. It’s just another part of who you are.”
Malcolm’s face softened into a genuine grin. “That means a lot. Really.”
The tension broke, light laughter returning to the space as they moved back to easier conversation. But Emma’s awareness lingered. She watched the way Malcolm spoke, the weight of his presence, how little he needed to say to command attention. She felt something in herself lean toward that calm, that authenticity. He belonged to a world she hadn’t lived in yet. And for reasons she couldn’t explain, that made her want to inch closer.
By the time the evening wound down, and Malcolm rose to leave, something between them had shifted—slightly, subtly, undeniably.
At the door, Emma caught herself smiling before she even looked at him. “He’s a good man,” she said softly after he left.
Jason nodded. “Yeah. Unusual… but yeah.”
Emma stared at the door, then let her eyes drift toward the plant on the windowsill. Its leaves caught the dim light, a quiet beacon in the gathering dusk.
She wasn’t sure where any of this would go.
But she could feel it: the world was beginning to open.
————
The next morning unfolded slowly, sun filtering like honey through the trees behind Malcolm’s home. Emma crossed the lawn with measured steps, her heart a drum beneath her ribs. She’d offered to help with some light cleaning—just a neighbourly gesture, something to keep her hands busy. That’s all it was.
Still, her palms were clammy. This was the first time she’d be alone with him. Inside his house. In his world.
She exhaled as she reached the door, trying not to think too hard about what lay on the other side.
Malcolm answered with that same disarming calm. A loosely tied robe clung to his frame, grazing his thighs and hanging from one shoulder like it belonged to no one but him.
“I figured I’d keep the robe on,” he said, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “At least until we got started. Didn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”
Emma smiled, soft and steady, though her insides flipped like pages in a gust. “It’s your home, Malcolm. You don’t need to worry about that.”
He stepped aside, and she moved in. The air inside was cooler than outside, but her skin prickled with heat nonetheless.
The robe was an afterthought on his body—tied only in theory. Each movement stretched the fabric wider, exposing thick bands of dark skin and the slow, deliberate power of a man who wasn’t in a rush to cover anything. It swung open just enough, and then—
Oh.
Her breath hitched, silent and sharp.
Not because of the size—though God help her, the size was absurd—but because of the effect. He wasn’t aroused. He didn’t need to be. The way it hung—heavy, languid, unbothered—commanded her gaze. It made her body thrum in places she’d been trying to quiet since last night.
She turned to the kitchen counter and started wiping surfaces with sudden, excessive focus. Anything to avoid letting her jaw fall slack.
But the thoughts were loud.
That’s him soft?
She swallowed hard, her thighs drawing together in an instinctive attempt to contain the heat now blooming between them. It wasn’t just lust—it was reverence. A molten awe.
Malcolm moved around the kitchen, casual and unhurried, the robe shifting with each motion. Each turn of his torso, each lift of his arm teased her with flashes—hips, thigh, belly, that monstrous weight slung casually between his legs.
It wasn’t just big. It was mythic.
And she couldn’t stop looking.
“Emma,” he said, not unkindly. “You’re quiet.”
She turned to him, voice carefully levelled, heart hammering. “You don’t have to keep the robe on.”
His brow rose slightly.
She continued, a soft smile on her lips. “This is your home. I don’t want you breaking your promise to your wife. It’s okay.”
A silence passed between them, warm and intimate. His gaze held hers—deep and dark, unreadable for a moment. And then he nodded, slow and respectful.
The knot slipped. The robe fell. Her breath caught in her throat.
It wasn’t just exposed flesh—it was presence. The way he stood there, unashamed, body thick with strength and time, his cock draping across one thigh like something sacred. The veins, the heft, the sheer girth of it… her mouth went dry. It was as wide as her wrist. Maybe more.
It looked like it shouldn’t belong to a human being. Like it had been carved out of some ancient story.
And he wore it like it was nothing.
Her gaze snapped away too quickly, but the image had already etched itself onto the backs of her eyelids. The size. The texture. The impossible mass of it. And the calm way he stood, not performing, not preening. Just being.
She returned to her cleaning with trembling fingers, fighting to focus on countertops and clutter while her body reeled with hunger.
Malcolm offered her a glass of water, and when their fingers touched, the glass nearly slipped from her grip. The cold did nothing to cool her.
They spoke—casual words, nothing important. About the weather. About the lawn. But beneath her shirt, her nipples were tightening. Her pussy was soaked. Her thighs ached from squeezing against each other for control.
And still… her eyes kept drifting.
Not just to the size of him, but to the implications. The weight. The stretch. The act of accommodating it. The shape of surrender. She imagined what it might feel like just to hold it. To lift it. To open herself around it and feel him push—
She wiped harder, faster, as though the friction of her cloth could dull the friction inside her.
By the time she reached the living room, her legs trembled with restraint. Her panties were damp and clinging, a soaked slip of confession between her thighs.
Malcolm thanked her with an easy smile.
She nodded, her voice a hush. “Anytime.”
And as she turned to go, she couldn’t help but wonder—
Did he see it?
Did he see the tremble in her fingers? The pause in her breath? The way her voice softened whenever he stepped too close?
She didn’t know.
But she was beginning to suspect—Malcolm always knew more than he let on.
————
That night, Jason kissed her softly—sweetly.
Awkwardly.
She let him.
He was tender in the way someone is when they believe tenderness is enough. His hands were careful, his mouth familiar.
It was love that whispered, not love that took. Not the kind that made your breath hitch or your soul claw toward the surface.
When he moved between her legs and started to thrust—short, shallow, eager motions—Emma stared at the ceiling.
There was no spark.
Only the dull rhythm of a body trying to mean something.
She didn’t flinch. It didn’t hurt.
But it didn’t touch her either.
Not the way Malcolm had.
Not the way her memory of him still did—thick and haunting behind her eyes, in her core.
Her breath caught for all the wrong reasons.
Her eyes fluttered shut, not in pleasure, but to escape.
She wanted to be there. She did. She tried. Her hands curled in the sheets, clutching the softness like an anchor. But her body had already betrayed her—slick, aching, primed… for someone else.
For him.
When Jason finished, he kissed her temple—gentle and dutiful. He pulled her close, wrapped himself around her like he always did. A ritual. A comfort.
But the silence afterward didn’t soothe.
It echoed.
Through her chest. Between her legs. Across the hollow space where something wild was trying to bloom.
She loved him.
She really, truly did.
But there, in the dark, her truth pressed against her like a bruise.
Something inside her had cracked open.
Not broken—just… shifted. Exposed.
Her body was different now.
Hungry in ways she didn’t yet understand.
Awake in places that had slept too long.
And when sleep finally took her—drowsy, raw, unsatisfied—it wasn’t Jason she dreamed of.
It was weight.
The weight of Malcolm’s body, dense and hot above her.
The stretch.
The fullness.
The delicious ache of being filled too far, too deep, too completely.
And the way, with just his presence, he made her feel not just wanted.
But alive.
————
It had only been two days.
Two days since she’d seen him—all of him—and Emma still couldn’t shake the imprint. Not just of his body, but of the weight of him. The way he moved through his space—confident, naked, utterly at ease. The way that impossible length and girth had etched itself into her mind like a holy secret. A violation she invited. A dream she didn’t want to wake from.
And now, she was back. Standing at Malcolm’s front door, trying to steady the thrum of her pulse.
She was here to help, she reminded herself. To clean. To give her hands something to do. But already, heat was uncurling low in her belly, winding through her thighs like smoke.
The door opened, and there he was—bare chest kissed by the soft morning light, robe tied loosely around his waist, the knot little more than suggestion.
“You’re back,” Malcolm said, smiling. “Sure you’re not tired of an old man yet?”
Emma returned the smile, stepping inside. “Not yet.”
He chuckled, stepping aside to let her pass. “Well, house is still a disaster. Fridge too. And I’m still too stiff to reach anything lower than my knees. I’m just grateful you don’t mind.”
“I don’t,” she said, truthfully. “It’s… peaceful here.”
His gaze lingered a moment, something quiet and unreadable behind his eyes, then he nodded. “Well, I won’t get in your way.”
But he didn’t leave.
She moved through the kitchen, wiping down shelves, stacking the odd dish, trying to focus. But he stayed—sipping from a coffee mug, moving behind her with a lazy grace that made her hyperaware of every inch of her body.
“You’re still wearing the robe,” she said, too casually, glancing over her shoulder.
He met her gaze with a slow smile. “Didn’t want to assume. But you gave me permission, didn’t you?”
And then he untied it. The robe slipped free, pooling at his feet like it had been waiting for this moment.
Emma turned away quickly, but it was too late. She’d seen it again. That thick, swinging monument between his legs. It moved with him like it had weight. Gravity.
Each time she saw it, it stunned her—not just the size, but the truth of it. How natural it looked. How natural he looked.
Malcolm eased into a leather armchair, spreading his legs slightly, his cock resting along his thigh like something at rest, not tamed.
“I hope it’s not strange for you,” he said, his voice quiet but open.
Emma shook her head, fingers stilling on a shelf. “No. It’s not… strange. Just different.”
“Different’s good,” he said, voice warm. “Different’s honest.”
She hesitated, then asked, “Was your wife like this too?”
Malcolm’s face softened instantly.
“Oh yeah,” he said. “She’s the one who introduced me to the lifestyle. Said clothes made her feel like she was hiding. She didn’t want to hide from me.”
He paused, sipping his coffee. Then: “Though, she used to joke she only said that so she had an excuse to stare at my cock all day.”
Emma laughed—too quickly, too loudly. But she couldn’t help it. The ease of it, the truth in it, the filth of it, tucked inside love—it was intoxicating.
Malcolm smiled at her laugh. “She had a dirty mouth. Said it wasn’t fair. Said walking around like that kept her constantly wet.”
Emma’s hand froze on the countertop. A flush bloomed up her neck and spread across her chest.
He wasn’t being vulgar. He was being honest. And somehow that made it worse—better.
“She told me I ruined her,” Malcolm continued, voice steady. “Said after me, anything else would feel like nothing. So we never stopped. Not until the end.”
He glanced toward the window, voice drifting into memory. “We fucked constantly. When she was well enough. In bed. In the garden. Kitchen. Shower. Sometimes the laundry room, just because the floor was cold. She liked the contrast.”
Emma couldn’t move.
Her body burned with arousal—not just because of the image, but because of the way he spoke it. Like devotion. Like worship. Not of himself—but of her.
“And it wasn’t just the physical,” he said. “It was the freedom. No shame. We knew each other. Really knew each other. Desire kept us close. It was a language.”
Emma was still holding the rag, knuckles white, breath shallow.
Then Malcolm asked, quiet and steady, “You and Jason… is it like that?”
She turned slowly. His eyes weren’t prying. Just present. Curious.
“I don’t know,” she said. The words came out thinner than she expected. “We’re still figuring things out.”
He nodded. “Takes time. But don’t ever let comfort take the place of connection.”
She swallowed. “What if you’re not sure what connection’s supposed to feel like?”
He looked at her for a long moment. Then said, “Then you listen to your body.”
She nodded. Not because she understood.
But because she wanted to.
After that, the silence returned—but it wasn’t awkward. He stayed nearby. Sometimes reading. Sometimes humming. Always visible. Always uncovered.
Emma’s glances weren’t hidden anymore. They were slow. Searching. Hungry.
She watched the way his muscles moved under skin. The way that heavy, thick cock shifted slightly as he adjusted, like it belonged to its own rhythm.
She imagined what his wife must have felt. How she must have taken him. How it must have felt to stretch around that much man—and not just stretch, but open for it, crave it, anchor to it.
When Emma left, her thighs were tight with restraint, her panties soaked through, her body hot with ache.
And her mind? Still caught on the words he said so easily:
“Listen to your body.”
————
The next visit came easily.
Too easily.
Emma told herself it was still just a favour. Just helping. Tidying up, wiping windows, organising the quiet corners of a home still thick with memory. That’s all.
But when she stepped inside and saw him again—completely nude, stretched out in the golden hush of morning light—her stomach fluttered.
“Morning,” Malcolm rumbled, voice low and lazy. “Back to tame the beast?”
She smirked, closing the door behind her. “I’m starting to think this house might be a lost cause.”
“That makes two of us,” he replied, shifting in his seat with a slow, careful motion. One hand slid behind him, rubbing his lower back with a grimace.
“You okay?” she asked.
“Just sore,” he muttered. “Back’s tight. Neck too. And honestly? Feels like I’ve been hit by a truck. Old football injuries never let up. It’s not just my back—it’s everywhere lately.”
Emma set down a throw pillow she’d been straightening. “Do you want a massage?”
Malcolm looked at her—not startled. Just… considering. Then he nodded once, slowly. “Only if you’re sure.”
“I’m sure,” she said, before she could even hesitate. “You’re overdue for one.”
He lay himself facing down on the couch. She knelt down beside him, drinking in his nakedness. Her hands hovered for a beat above his shoulders… then sank gently into him.
Warm. Dense. Real. The muscle beneath her palms was thick and tense, roped with strength and age, his skin rich and dark beneath her fingertips.
She kneaded slowly at first, easing into the rhythm. Circles. Pressure. Breathe. Her thumbs worked across the broad span of his shoulders, drawing a low sigh from Malcolm’s chest.
“God… that’s good.”
Encouraged, she moved lower, fingers pressing into the base of his neck, along the spine, into the deep, knotted muscles near his ribs.
Her hands skimmed lower still—down to the small of his back, where the ache lived deep. He groaned, softly, head tipping forward.
Not sexual. Just vulnerable.
Still, something fluttered in her chest. Her breath caught.
As she worked, one knee brushed his hip, her body inching closer without even realising it. She pressed into the firm curve of his lower back, her eyes skimming along the lines of his body.
“You want me to turn over?” he asked suddenly, voice quiet—more offering than question.
She froze for half a second, pulse stuttering in her throat.
“Yes,” she breathed. “If you’re comfortable.”
He nodded, then leaned back, shifting slowly, the massive old couch creaking slightly beneath him. As he turned, Emma’s breath locked in her chest.
There it was.
His cock—fully visible now—lay across his stomach like something undeniable. Thick, heavy, half-hard already. Every inch of it dark and veined, a languid sprawl of flesh too big to ignore. It didn’t just lie there—it dominated his torso.
She forced her eyes to his chest. Began working her hands over his pecs, kneading gently, thumbs pressing into the muscle. But her gaze kept drifting downward—inevitably.
She moved to his abdomen, fingertips gliding over the ridges of muscle softened by time. She worked slowly, reverently. Her hands inches from his cock. Her eyes locked to it. Not touching. Not yet.
It twitched.
Just slightly. Like it knew.
Her breath came shallower, her skin flushed. She kept rubbing slow circles into his stomach, her wrists brushing coarse hair. She couldn’t look away—not now.
It began to rise.
Truly rise.
With each breath, it filled—thickened—arched up along his stomach until it cast a shadow across his ribs. Fully hard now, it was massive. The girth alone stunned her. It was easily as wide as her forearm. From elbow to wrist. Maybe more. Veins crisscrossed its surface like rivers across a landscape she ached to explore.
It wasn’t obscene. It was mythical.
Emma’s mouth parted slightly, her fingers slowing.
She worked higher again—back to his chest, needing to regain focus—but she couldn’t. Every pass of her hand was deliberate now. Every glance downward was an act of surrender.
She wanted to touch it.
She wanted to know how it felt.
She wanted to feel it react to her.
But she didn’t. Not yet.
Instead, her fingers trailed up across his sternum one last time. “That should help,” she whispered, though her voice barely carried.
Malcolm’s eyes stayed closed. “You’ve got a good touch,” he murmured. “Not many do.”
Emma stood slowly, her legs unsteady. Her heart thundered in her chest. She reached for her bag with trembling fingers.
And she still looked again—couldn’t not.
It was fully erect, lying proudly across his abdomen, unhidden. He didn’t move to cover it. Just stayed there, peaceful. Solid.
“Thank you,” he said again, calm and low.
She nodded, voice gone, and slipped out the door, her breath uneven, her panties clinging to her—wet, soaked, pulsing.
—
That night…
Jason curled around her, half-asleep, pressing gently against her back. Familiar. Safe. His cock soft and seeking.
He entered her with a sigh, slow and affectionate.
But Emma was already gone.
Her mind was on the couch. On the stretch of Malcolm’s chest beneath her hands. On the moment his cock rose—slow, thick, alive.
Jason moved inside her. She moaned, quietly. Pretended.
But her pussy throbbed for something bigger. Deeper.
Later, when Jason fell asleep with a contented hum, she turned away and let her hand slip beneath the covers. Her fingers worked her softly, then harder, her breath catching.
She imagined Malcolm—fully hard beneath her. That beast resting against her belly. The curve of it. The impossibility of taking it.
I’ll make you take it, he’d whisper.
You were made to take this cock.
Her orgasm hit her like a storm—silent but shattering. Her hips trembled. Her body clutched around nothing.
And his name echoed through her like a spell.
Malcolm.
