t was Malcolm’s idea.
They sat on his patio just after dusk, the heat of the day slipping into cool evening. The stars had begun to pierce the velvet sky above, and the gentle bubbling of the hot tub filled the space between easy laughter and soft sips of wine.
“I spend most nights out here,” Malcolm said, gesturing toward the steam curling up from the water. “It’s where I clear my head. Nothing better than soaking naked under the stars. Been that way since my twenties.”
Jason gave a chuckle, always eager to match the vibe. “Sounds… freeing.”
Malcolm leaned back, that calm smirk tugging at his lips. “You two are welcome to join me. Clothing optional, of course. But I never wear anything. Never liked the feel of fabric in water. You can strip or not—no pressure.”
Jason turned to Emma, grinning. “We’re guests. When in Rome, right?”
Emma blinked. “Wait—”
“It’s just skin,” Jason said, too casually. “He’s already seen everything, right?”
Her stomach flipped—not with fear, but with something far more dangerous.
With Jason’s hand lightly pressing at the small of her back, and Malcolm watching them with such easy openness, the line blurred.
Emma nodded. Quietly. “Okay.”
Inside, she stood in front of the mirror.
The lighting was low, warm. Her skin looked soft in it—creamy and pale, her cheeks flushed from wine and nerves. Her hair hung in loose, honey-toned waves, tousled in a way she hadn’t planned. She wore no makeup. No filters. Just herself.
Her robe hung open at the collar.
She looked at her body without judgment. Her breasts were small, naturally full, with nipples already tight from the thought of being exposed. Her waist curved inward, leading to soft hips, thighs that brushed, and a gentle, feminine belly that rose and fell with every breath.
Between her legs, her bush was neatly trimmed—a soft triangle of blonde curls, framing the pale pink folds beneath. It wasn’t styled for seduction. It just was. Natural. Honest.
Jason said she was beautiful. But he loved her for her, not because of how she made him ache.
Malcolm… she wasn’t sure. But something about the way he looked at her—so still, so full of presence—made her feel different.
Not just seen. Noticed.
She considered grabbing a swimsuit. But her hands didn’t move.
This wasn’t forbidden. It was freedom. Wasn’t it? She let the robe fall loosely around her, tied just enough to keep it closed. Then stepped back outside and joined the boys on the patio.
Jason walked ahead, laughing at something Emma hadn’t caught, wine already buzzing behind his smile. He reached for the knot at his waist with a little shrug.
“Well, when in Rome…”
He untied the robe and let it fall.
His cock, soft and small, rested gently against his groin—light, modest, unassuming. It barely moved in the breeze. It wasn’t just average. It was… quiet. Almost bashful.
Jason climbed into the water, trying to keep the air light. “Guess I’m setting the bar low.”
Malcolm stood nearby, still sipping from his glass. He didn’t say a word. He simply undid the knot of his robe and let it fall.
The fabric slipped from his shoulders like water, pooling around his ankles with quiet finality.
And there it was.
His cock, thick and long, already half-awake, hung low between his thighs—dark and heavy, with the kind of presence that shifted the air. Even soft, it dwarfed Jason’s completely. Wide at the base, darker near the head, veins tracing the length like a roadmap of something forbidden.
Jason’s smile faltered—not much. Just enough.
Emma didn’t mean to look.
She did.
Her stomach flipped, her pulse thrummed between her legs. She swallowed, cheeks flushing as guilt bloomed beneath her ribs—but it didn’t stop her from staring.
Malcolm turned, calm as ever, and stepped into the water.
Jason forced a small laugh. “Well… guess the water’s warm.”
Malcolm smiled. “Always is.”
Then Emma untied her robe.
Malcolm didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He just… drank her in.
Her pale skin was almost luminescent in the porch light. Her breasts, full and perky, shifted slightly with each nervous breath. Her stomach was soft and real, and her thighs curved down into smooth, supple hips. The triangle of soft blonde curls between her legs made something inside him go still for a moment.
She didn’t look posed. She looked like something private. Something personal.
A woman completely unaware of how fucking beautiful she was. And it changed him a little.
Malcolm let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding as she moved toward the water.
Jason, watching from below, laughed. “That’s not fair—she looks like a goddess.”
Malcolm smiled. “You two make a beautiful couple.”
But his eyes were only on her.
She stepped into the water slowly, knees folding, thighs pressing subtly beneath the surface. The warmth curled around her body, easing some of the tension, but not the flutter in her chest.
Any awkwardness, if it existed, didn’t last.
Malcolm began to speak, telling a story from his college days—a naked canoe race, a wrong turn, and a very public mooning of the dean. Jason laughed, loud and unfiltered. Emma giggled, covering her mouth.
Malcolm had a gift. He smoothed the air around him. Made everything feel natural—even this.
Three naked adults in a hot tub, and somehow it didn’t feel insane. It just was.
Time blurred. The stars deepened overhead. The wine ran low.
“I’ll grab another bottle,” Malcolm said, standing.
Emma didn’t mean to look.
She did.
Water cascaded down his body in glistening streams. Down his broad chest, across his powerful thighs… and over his cock—now hanging low and alive, fuller than before, slick and magnificent in the soft light.
Jason stared. Emma stared harder.
It looked even larger wet. More real. It moved when he walked. Not like it was swinging, but like it was leading him.
He disappeared into the house. Silence followed.
Jason shifted beside her. Opened his mouth. Closed it.
There were questions there—Is this okay with you? Do you think about that thing? Are you still thinking about it now?
But he didn’t ask. He didn’t want to sound small.
So instead, he looked up at the stars and said, “You having fun?”
Emma turned her head slowly. Met his eyes.
“Yeah,” she said softly.
And this time, she meant it.
————
Later that night—
Jason kissed her hard the moment the bedroom door clicked shut.
His hands moved over her naked body—the same body that Malcolm had seen in full moonlight, had taken in with his steady, unreadable gaze. The same body Emma had exposed not just in skin, but in energy, in tension, in curiosity.
Jason was horny.
Emma was hungry.
But the difference between them stretched like a chasm.
He climbed on top of her, clumsy with wine and need, pressing kisses down her neck as he fumbled between her legs. She parted them instinctively, her skin hot, wet, open—but not for him. Not fully.
He pushed, trying to slide inside.
Nothing. His cock was soft.
Jason groaned, rolling onto his back with a frustrated exhale. “Too much wine, I guess.”
Emma stayed still. Silent.
Her body was slick between her thighs—aching, flushed, soaked.
But it wasn’t from Jason’s fingers. Or his mouth. Or the idea of his cock.
It was from the image she couldn’t shake.
Malcolm.
The moment he stepped out of the hot tub, water gliding down his dark skin, his cock swaying as he moved—thick as her wrist, long enough to make her breath catch.
It wasn’t just the size. It was the way he carried it. Like it was nothing. Like it was his, and the world had to make peace with that.
That image was burned into her mind now. Into her body. A living ache.
Jason rolled away.
Emma stared at the ceiling, wide awake.
Her legs tingled. Her lips were swollen, slick and throbbing. Her body was alive for something she wasn’t allowed to want. Something she couldn’t even name out loud.
She knew it was wrong.
She knew.
But if that was wrong…Why did it feel so right?
————
The morning after the hot tub was quiet.
Emma sat at the kitchen table, slowly stirring her tea. Her robe hung loosely from her shoulders, collarbone bare, hair still damp from the quick shower she’d taken alone. Her body felt clean. But not clear.
Jason moved around the kitchen with an energy that didn’t match hers—nervous, overcompensating. He glanced at her more than once, waiting for her to say something. A comment. A joke. Anything about last night.
She hadn’t.
“You sleep okay?” he asked, trying too hard to sound casual.
Emma nodded, not looking up. “Yeah. Fine.”
She didn’t ask if he did. Her voice wasn’t cold. But it wasn’t warm either. Just… distant. Muted. Like something in her had dimmed, and he couldn’t find the switch.
When Jason left for work, he kissed her cheek. A soft press of lips without heat. She smiled—automatically—but it didn’t reach her eyes.
Later that morning, he called her from the car.
“Hey,” he said when she picked up.
“Hey.”
“I was thinking… maybe we should go out tonight. You know. Something nice. Just the two of us.”
She paused. “Okay. That sounds… good.”
“Dinner. Wine. No distractions. I want to take you out. Remind you why you married me.” He tried to laugh. It came out a little thin.
She gave a soft chuckle. “Okay, Jason.”
But when the call ended, the knot in his chest didn’t loosen.
Dinner was sweet.
Jason had picked a nice place—mid-tier romantic, dimly lit, linen napkins, small portions. He even made a reservation. He complimented her dress—a soft, wine-red wrap that hugged her curves more than she usually allowed. Her cleavage pressed just slightly into view, the fabric dipping along her hips, teasing the soft curve of her thighs.
“You look incredible,” he said, his voice lower than usual.
“Thank you.” And she meant it.
She did feel good. Not because of Jason.
Because of something else.
Because she knew now what it felt like to be looked at… really looked at. Not just noticed, but felt through someone’s eyes.
She’d seen it in Malcolm.
And now, when she walked, she saw it in strangers. In the way men’s heads turned. The way their eyes paused at her hips, her lips, the natural curve of her body she’d never thought to celebrate.
They talked. About work. About nothing. Jason tried—earnestly. He smiled too much. Reached for her hand too often.
After dessert, he kissed her in the doorway.
“You feel like making tonight… even better?”
Emma nodded.
Maybe tonight would be different.
The bedroom was quiet, low-lit.
Jason undressed with a confidence he didn’t always have. His cock stirred, eager, hopeful.
Emma peeled her dress away slowly. Not for him. Not like a performance.
She stood nude in front of the mirror, catching her own reflection in the soft glow of the bedside lamp.
She looked beautiful.
Natural. Soft. Real.
And she thought of Malcolm.
She thought of the way he’d watched her—once, and only briefly—but in that single look, she’d felt completely naked. Even before her robe had fallen.
Jason guided her to the bed, his lips pressing against her neck, his fingers skimming down her hips.
She let him. Let her legs part. Let him slide inside.
He was hard—enough.
But not enough.
Not deep enough. Not slow enough. Not present enough.
His thrusts were steady, shallow. He whispered her name like he was asking for reassurance, permission, something she couldn’t give.
She moaned softly. Politely. Out of habit.
When he came, he gasped her name again and collapsed against her, skin warm, breath light.
Emma lay still, her eyes on the ceiling.
Jason curled into her, kissing her bare shoulder. “That was nice, wasn’t it?”
She nodded. “Yeah. Perfect.”
But the word rang hollow in her throat.
There was no flutter. No rush. No fire.
Only the slow, aching absence of what her body had started to crave.
Her body was done pretending.
And the man sleeping beside her had no idea how far she’d already drifted.
————
It was a warm afternoon when Emma returned to Malcolm’s.
Jason was at work. They’d barely exchanged more than a few words that morning. He’d left a note on the counter in his sweet, crooked handwriting: Last night was amazing. I love you.
But it felt… disconnected. Like a message sent from the wrong time zone.
She hadn’t written back.
She hadn’t needed to.
She hadn’t planned to stay long today. Just check on the garden. Tidy the kitchen. A polite visit.
But the moment Malcolm opened the door—standing tall, relaxed, and completely nude—her breath caught in her throat.
She didn’t flinch.
She looked.
She let herself look.
As he stepped aside, it moved with him—long, veined, impossibly real. Not obscene. Just… undeniable. His ease, the way he let his body exist without explanation, made something tighten low in her belly.
She didn’t mean to stare. But she did.
And she stayed longer than she meant to, because turning away felt impossible.
“Hey,” she said, stepping into the earthy, musky scent of his home.
“Hey, yourself.” His voice was low, warm. “You didn’t have to come today.”
“I wanted to.”
His eyes softened. “I’m glad.”
She moved through the kitchen, wiping counters, loading dishes. Slower than usual. Her hands moved with purpose, but her mind was elsewhere—dragged back again and again to the man sitting behind her.
Malcolm sat at the dining table, sipping cold tea. Legs open. Easy. His cock resting against one thigh like it belonged there.
And it did.
Every time she passed him, something pulsed low in her belly. She could feel it—the slow build, the slick heat between her thighs. She was wet, and she didn’t even try to hide it from herself anymore.
They chatted. Lightly. Books. Weather. A memory from her childhood that made them both smile.
Then, softly, he asked:
“How are things with Jason?”
She paused, cloth still in her hand. Her fingers tightened around the rag.
“Fine,” she said—too quickly.
But Malcolm didn’t push. He didn’t press. He just stayed present.
And it unraveled her.
Emma set the cloth down, slowly. Turned to face him.
“They’re… okay. He’s sweet. He’s trying.”
Malcolm nodded. “Trying’s something.”
She stared at the floor, then exhaled. “It’s just… hard. Sometimes. I feel like I’m lying when I say I’m satisfied.”
He didn’t speak. He just let it hang between them. Let the truth breathe.
“I don’t think I’ve had a real orgasm with him in… months,” she admitted. Her voice cracked at the edges. “I feel awful even saying it. Like it makes me a bad wife.”
Malcolm’s tone was quiet, grounded. “It makes you honest.”
Her eyes met his. Searching. Wanting.
“Does he know?”
“No,” she said. Too fast again. “I don’t want to hurt him.”
Malcolm leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, his cock still visible beneath the table, thick and dark, forgotten but impossible to ignore.
“You already are,” he said softly. “Just not in a way he understands yet.”
Her breath caught.
“You can’t live your whole life unsatisfied, Emma. You’ll wither from the inside out.”
She swallowed. “I know.”
There was a silence.
Then he continued, voice velvet-smooth but edged with something deeper. “Sex isn’t just friction. It’s knowing someone. Feeling them. Being felt. Worshipped.”
That word bloomed inside her like a gasp.
She nodded, barely. Her voice came small. “He tries. But he’s just… not enough. And I mean that in every way.”
Malcolm didn’t react. No smirk. No shift. Just the same steady attention.
Emma’s eyes dipped—shameful. But her mouth kept going. “He’s… small. I didn’t think it mattered. I told myself it didn’t. But now…”
She trailed off, her eyes flicking downward. She couldn’t help it.
Malcolm followed her gaze, then brought it back to her face. “It’s not just about size,” he said gently. “It’s about presence. Intention. Hunger.”
She let out a shaky breath, almost a laugh. “I don’t think he knows how to be hungry.”
He took another sip of his tea.
“A man who can’t satisfy a woman with his cock should use his mouth. His hands. His focus. There’s more than one way to worship someone.”
That word again.
Worship.
Her body tightened—barely—but she felt it. Felt her sex throb quietly between her legs.
“Did your wife…” she started.
He nodded. “Every night we weren’t inside each other, we were still touching. Still tasting. We never left each other untouched. Not ever.”
Emma’s pulse was racing now. Her breathing quickened—subtle, shallow.
Then Malcolm’s voice softened even further.
“Go home,” he said. “Tell him what you need. Don’t shame him. Don’t resent him. Just… show him.”
Emma stood frozen for a moment.
The truth burned behind her ribs like heat.
Then she nodded.
And before she could stop herself, she stepped forward and pressed a kiss to his cheek—light, trembling, barely a whisper of skin.
But it lingered.
And neither of them moved as it did.
————
That night.
Jason was surprised when Emma climbed on top of him after dinner.
Even more surprised when she slid downward, straddling his chest, her knees framing his face.
She didn’t speak.
Just reached for his hand, guided it to her hips, and said softly:
“I want you to use your mouth tonight.”
His eyes widened—caught somewhere between arousal and uncertainty. “I… yeah. Okay.”
It was awkward at first. Hesitant. His tongue was eager, but aimless. The rhythm was off. The pressure too light, then too firm.
But Emma didn’t recoil. She corrected him.
Gently. Patiently. Encouraging.
“Slower.”
“Right there.”
“Don’t stop.”
And when she started to moan—really moan—Jason responded like a man who’d been wandering a desert and finally found water.
She came.
Not from his mouth.
But because of it.
Because she allowed it. Directed it.
Claimed it.
Afterwards, he lay back, breathless and proud, his hand stroking her thigh like he’d discovered something rare.
He smiled, satisfied.
Emma smiled too.
But in her mind, it wasn’t Jason’s voice she heard.
It was Malcolm’s—low, patient, steady.
There’s more than one way to worship someone.
She closed her eyes, heart slowing, body warm. But the ache between her legs hadn’t faded.
It had only grown quieter.
————
Emma wasn’t supposed to see Malcolm today.
It was Saturday. Jason was working overtime. She’d told herself she’d run errands, maybe read in the garden, do something light. Keep her distance. Stay… normal.
But by mid-morning, her body moved before her logic could catch up.
She brushed her hair.
Slipped on a pale, soft tank top—no bra.
Just panties and a long skirt that clung to her hips, swayed softly when she walked.
She didn’t do it for Malcolm. She told herself that.
But when she caught her reflection in the mirror—bare shoulders, nipples faintly visible through the fabric, the curve of her waist disappearing into the skirt—she lingered.
She looked… beautiful.
And she felt like being seen.
He opened the door in nothing but a towel. Water still clung to his chest, beading in the salt-and-pepper curls scattered across solid muscle.
“Emma,” he said, surprised—but not unhappy.
“I wasn’t planning to come,” she said, voice quiet. “I just… felt like talking.”
His smile came easy. “You’re always welcome.”
He stepped aside. She entered.
The house smelled like soap and steam. The air felt warmer here—heavier somehow. More intimate.
“You caught me mid-soak,” he said, motioning toward his damp chest. “Hot tub’s still warm. Weather’s too good to waste.”
She paused. Just a breath.
Then: “Why not.”
She didn’t ask for a suit. Didn’t hesitate in the bathroom.
She slipped out of her skirt, her top, her panties—folded them quietly—and walked into the backyard with nothing but a towel loosely tucked around her.
Malcolm was already in the water, arms stretched across the rim, steam curling lazily around him.
When she dropped the towel and stepped in—fully nude—his eyes met hers for a moment.
Just a moment.
But it was enough.
She saw it.
That flicker.
Of appreciation.
Of desire.
Of control not exercised, but owned.
Her cheeks flushed with warmth.
She was naked with him again.
But this time, it wasn’t Jason’s idea.
It was hers.
They sat shoulder to shoulder in the water, not quite touching. Sunlight filtered through the trees above, dappling the surface with gold.
Emma sighed. “Thanks again… for what you said the other day.”
Malcolm nodded, slow and deliberate. “Did it help?”
She smiled. “It did, actually. I finally got something out of Jason last night.”
He tilted his head, amused. “That so?”
She let out a soft laugh. “I had to spell it out for him. But yeah… it was the first time in a long while I actually finished.”
His smile widened, slow and warm. “Good. You deserve that.”
She turned slightly toward him. Her wet hair clung to her collarbone. Her breasts hovered just beneath the surface, catching light like secrets trying to rise.
“I just…” she hesitated, voice lower. “I don’t know if it’ll ever be enough.”
Malcolm didn’t rush to answer.
So she kept going.
“I mean… I love him. I do. But I don’t think he has what it takes to really satisfy me. Not fully.”
She looked at him now. Fully.
Her voice softened into a teasing edge.
“Not everyone’s blessed like you, Malcolm.”
The air changed.
The words hovered, thick with implication. The surface of the water almost seemed to still.
Malcolm didn’t smirk. He didn’t break the moment with ego.
He just looked at her—calm, deliberate, slow.
“You’re learning what you need,” he said. His voice was like warm thunder. “That’s a good thing.”
She felt those words in her chest.
In her stomach.
Between her legs.
She didn’t look away.
They talked for a while after that. Half an hour, maybe more. Not about size. Not about sex. But something had shifted.
It was quiet.
Undeniable.
Like the space between them had changed shape.
When she stood to leave, her towel slipped slightly as she stepped from the tub. Just a little.
Malcolm didn’t stare. He didn’t have to. He’d already seen her.
And Emma walked away knowing she’d be seen again.
————
The sky was heavy with clouds.
A dull overcast muted the morning, turning the light a washed-out grey. Shadows stretched long and tired across the hardwood floor. Somewhere in the distance, thunder murmured — not loud, but there. A warning.
Emma stood barefoot by the window, watering can in hand, eyes fixed on the little green plant in its clay pot.
The one Malcolm had given her.
Its leaves had spread since the day she brought it home. Fuller. Stronger. A quiet survivor in a house that felt less like home and more like… a holding space.
His words played again in her head:
“For growth. For things needing care to flourish. You’ll have to give it sunlight and water, just like anything in life that’s worth having. It’ll grow in its own time.”
But today, there was no sunlight.
Only stillness.
And silence.
And that silence with Jason felt louder than ever.
I need to grow too.
She watched the water disappear into the soil — slow, patient, sinking deep.
Then she turned.
“Jason?” she called out, her voice soft, but sure.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, tying his shoes. He looked up with a half-smile. “Hey.”
Emma stepped into the room. Closed the door behind her.
“Can we talk?”
They sat at the foot of the bed. A few feet apart. A chasm between them — invisible, but impossible to ignore.
Emma looked down at her hands. Then up into his eyes.
“I love you,” she said. “But I need to say something. And I need you to really hear it.”
Jason nodded, uncertain. “Okay.”
She inhaled slowly.
“I’m not satisfied. Sexually.”
His head tilted slightly. “What?”
“I haven’t been. Not for a long time. I’ve tried to ignore it. Tried to pretend. But it’s not working, Jason.”
The air between them thickened.
He gave a small, hollow laugh. “This about that jacuzzi night?”
“No,” she said, firm. “It’s not about one night. It’s about every night. I feel disconnected. Like I’m going through the motions. And when we do have sex… it doesn’t reach me.”
Jason’s face paled. “So I don’t satisfy you.”
“I’m saying I need more. I want to feel… full. Desired. Alive. I want to feel things I’ve never felt with you. And I don’t want to fake it anymore.”
He stood abruptly, voice rising. “So what, you want someone else now? Is that it?”
“No—” her voice cracked. “Jason, I’m telling you this because I want to fix it. But we can’t if we’re not honest.”
He turned away, hands on his hips, pacing. His voice trembled now.
“I work nonstop to take care of us, and this is what I come home to? A checklist of how I’m failing?”
“I’m not attacking you,” she said. “I’m telling you I feel alone. Even when you’re right next to me.”
Silence.
Jason ran a hand through his hair. Then he muttered, “I’m going to my parents’. I need time.”
Emma’s heart dropped. “You’re leaving?”
He didn’t answer. Just moved to the dresser and began pulling out clothes.
“I’m not walking out,” he said. “I’m stepping away before I say something I’ll regret.”
She didn’t stop him.
And he was gone within the hour.
————
By early afternoon, she was standing outside Malcolm’s door.
No message. No warning.
She didn’t even know what she planned to say.
Her hand lifted before her mind caught up. She knocked once.
The door opened.
Malcolm stood in nothing but a towel, freshly showered. Beads of water still clung to his chest, catching in the salt-and-pepper curls that dusted his skin. The heat of his body reached her before he even moved, and the clean scent of soap and man and something earthy underneath it made her breath snag in her throat.
He saw her eyes — red-rimmed, glassy, vulnerable.
He said nothing. He just stepped aside.
She entered. The door shut quietly behind her.
“Jason left,” she whispered.
Malcolm didn’t ask how or why. He just opened his arms. And she stepped into them.
The moment her body met his, she felt it all:
His chest — broad, warm, steady.
His arms — thick, protective, wrapping around her like the walls of a shelter she didn’t know she’d needed.
And lower… against her belly… the press of him beneath the towel. Not hard. But full. Heavy. Real. Present.
A silent promise she wasn’t ready to unwrap.
But she felt it.
She trembled. But not from fear. From relief.
From the feeling of finally being held by someone who knew how to hold.
He said nothing. Just stroked her back with a hand the size of a reassurance. His touch was slow. Thoughtful. No urgency. No pressure.
Just presence.
She pressed her face into the curve of his neck. Breathed him in.
Malcolm didn’t smell like Jason. Not like aftershave or cologne or anything curated. He smelled like skin and heat and time. He felt solid. Grounded. Unshakable.
Where Jason hesitated, Malcolm simply was.
And Emma… didn’t want to let go. And Malcolm didn’t make her.
They stood like that for what could’ve been five minutes or fifty. No clock. No expectations.
Just the slow melt of something that had been frozen far too long.
The Evening was quiet.
No call from Jason. No message. Nothing.
Emma didn’t know if she felt abandoned or freed. Maybe both.
The house felt too still. Too spacious. The silence pressed against her skin like breath she couldn’t exhale. She wandered room to room, touching things without knowing why—doorframes, windowsills, chair backs—like trying to remember what this house was ever meant to be.
Her body carried a strange, slow ache.
Not grief. Not even guilt.
Just longing.
A persistent pulse low in her belly that tea couldn’t soothe. That a hot bath only stirred deeper. That no blanket or book or distraction could quiet.
And as the evening shadows lengthened, she found herself thinking of Malcolm again.
Of how he held her today. Of how his hands moved—confident and patient, like he knew exactly how to handle pain without trying to fix it.
And of the way his body had pressed against hers… the slow, promising swell beneath the towel, resting right where her hips began to hum.
Her fingers twitched. Her breath deepened.
And quietly, without even making the decision aloud, she knew what she’d do tomorrow.
She would go back. She’d offer a massage—just like before.
But this time, it wouldn’t be about helping. It would be about touching.
And if he let her…
————
Malcolm opened the door before she knocked.
He didn’t ask why she was there. He just smiled.
Soft.
Safe.
And undeniably male.
Inside, the house was warm — not just in temperature, but in presence. In Malcolm. It felt like stepping into something she wasn’t just welcome in, but meant for.
He wore nothing. As always. And this time, Emma didn’t flinch.
Her eyes dropped without shame.
Soft. But full. Hanging between his thighs with that slow, casual weight that made her breath catch in her throat. The kind of cock that didn’t need to be hard to ruin you. Heavy, veined, shadowed at the base, the head just visible beneath the subtle sway of its own gravity.
She let herself look. Let herself want.
Her voice came low. Controlled. But aching beneath the surface.
“Do you still want that massage?”
Malcolm’s mouth curved, slow and steady. “Always.”
He laid on the couch, face down, one arm folded beneath his head. The towel beneath him creased gently as he settled in. His back stretched wide and thick beneath the lamplight, muscles shifting as he exhaled—a slow, grounded breath that sounded like something sinking into the earth.
Emma knelt beside him. Poured oil into her hands. And began.
Her palms moved slow. Reverent. The warm oil gleamed on his dark skin as she smoothed it over his shoulders, his spine, the thick ropes of muscle down his back. His body felt hot beneath her—alive, like it held something just beneath the surface that hadn’t yet been touched.
Her fingers pressed deeper. Into knots. Into tension. Into a man who never showed pain, but carried it.
He didn’t moan.
He rumbled.
A sound that came from somewhere deep, low and full, vibrating through her hands and straight into her thighs. The kind of sound that didn’t beg. Didn’t ask.
Just existed.
And Emma’s body answered.
She shifted her weight as she moved lower. Her thighs pressed together beneath her skirt, not in shame—but in pulse. In wet, unrelenting ache.
Her hands drifted to the curve of his lower back. The flare of his waist. Her fingers brushed the top of his glutes, slick with oil now, firm beneath her thumbs.
She shouldn’t have gone lower.
But she did. Slowly. Deliberately.
As if the permission had already been given.
She traced the outer swell of his ass, letting her hands explore the shape, the density, the heat. Her breath had quickened without her noticing, and when she spoke again, her voice had changed.
Thicker.
Darker.
“You feel like stone,” she murmured.
Malcolm’s reply was a simple, low hum.
And then… silence.
But not empty. It was the kind of silence that dared her. That waited for her.
And Emma… was done hesitating. Her voice didn’t waver.
“Turn over.”
Malcolm looked at her. Still. Grounded. Then, with the calm of a man who had never once hidden himself from the world, he shifted.
And rolled onto his back.
And it was all there.
His cock dropped with the motion—heavy, deliberate—falling from one thigh to the other with a fleshy thud that made her inhale sharply. The sound alone made her thighs twitch, her pulse roar in her ears. It was like a physical punctuation to everything she’d been pretending not to feel.
She froze.
Just for a second.
It wasn’t just big.
It was… absurd.
Thick and long, even soft, it stretched across his thigh like something half-sleeping, waiting. Veins traced down the shaft like dark rivers, the crown nestled low but already flushed, hinting at the devastation it could bring. It looked leisurely, resting there with arrogant weight, as if it knew what it could do.
She didn’t look away. Couldn’t.
Her breath had gone shallow. Her core clenched without warning, panties damp and clinging.
You’re not even hard yet, she thought. How is that possible?
Her hands moved on autopilot, pouring more oil into her palms, pretending to continue the massage. But her eyes stayed fixed.
Malcolm didn’t shift. Didn’t adjust. He let her see. Let her stare.
And she did.
She placed her hands on his chest.
Thick, powerful muscle met her touch—solid beneath a dusting of dark hair, warm with heat. Her palms glided over his pecs, slow, sensual strokes that had little to do with tension now and everything to do with the man underneath.
He breathed slow. Even.
His nipples hardened beneath her thumbs as she passed over them, and she let herself notice.
Her fingers moved down his torso, tracing the curves of strength and time. His belly wasn’t flat—he wasn’t a boy—but it was strong, deeply lined with lived-in muscle, thick and real and deliciously male. Her fingers dipped into the groove of his abs, the slick sound of oil filling the space between them.
But her eyes never stayed on her hands.
They dropped again.
To him.
Laid out like an offering. Dark against the golden sheen of his thighs. Her mouth went dry.
She wasn’t just curious now.
She was aching.
Her hands skimmed lower, just above the thick line of hair that led downward, her fingers gliding over the soft skin of his lower abdomen, inches from the base of that impossible cock.
Should I?
Her pussy clenched so hard it hurt.
Is it time?
She was burning. So wet, her thighs stuck together beneath her skirt. She felt the ache of need blooming outward from her centre like a second heartbeat.
And still he said nothing.
Just watched her from beneath hooded eyes, like he knew. Like he’d been waiting for her to make the move she already knew she wanted.
Her hands stilled just above his hip bones.
God, I want to touch it.
I need to feel it.
Her voice barely left her throat. Just breath and want.
“Can I touch you?”
Malcolm’s eyes met hers. Calm. Certain.
“Yes.”
She moved beside him, shifting her weight until she was kneeling near his legs. The air between them felt charged, trembling with what had already been decided.
He lay fully exposed, his cock soft but still massive, resting across his thigh like it had been laid there by intention. Not just thick—monstrous. Dark, ridged, the skin almost satiny with veins that wound like roots down its impossible length. It didn’t look like it came from the same species as the men she’d known before. It looked mythic. Like something carved from a darker god. Meant not just to enter—but to claim.
Emma stared.
And for the first time in her life, she felt truly small. In the best, most aching way. Her breath shivered in her chest.
Touch it.
Her hand hovered, hesitant only for a beat.
Then she reached.
Her hand met his skin—hot, velvety, heavy—and she tried to grasp him. Truly grasp. But her fingers didn’t come close.
Not even close.
Her hand curved as far as it could, but a thick band of cock still pushed past the gaps in her grip, like he was spilling out of her touch without effort. It would’ve taken both hands and then some just to hold the base.
And there was so much more.
He pulsed in her grip. Not like a heartbeat. Like a summons.
One stroke, and he began to swell.
When he began to grow in her hand, it was like watching something rise from the earth—slow, assured, deliberate. His cock didn’t just get hard—it revealed itself, swelling with intent, the head flushing into a swollen, aching crown that glistened at the tip.
She wrapped both hands around him—one, then the other—sliding along the glistening shaft, her palms slick with oil and precum and awe. Still, a full stretch of him remained exposed, thick and proud between her fingers like even her best effort was just a suggestion of control.
Her eyes widened.
Jason would vanish in one hand.
She didn’t need palms to hold him. Just a few fingers. That’s all it took. That’s all he was.
Her two handed grip on Malcolm… didn’t contain.
It only worshipped.
Malcolm exhaled.
Not approval.
Permission.
She watched it rise—slow, deliberate—until it curved upward and settled against his stomach like a weapon returning to its altar. The skin was taut and ridged with veins, the head flushed to a deep, carnal crimson that glistened at the tip.
She stared.vStunned all over again.
It wasn’t like her forearm.
It was her forearm.
Maybe thicker. Maybe longer.
Her mouth watered. It was beautiful. And so much.
Too much? No.
Exactly enough.
Her hand began to move, slow and reverent. From base to tip, she stroked with care, twisting slightly at the crown, her thumb grazing the ridge. His slick mixed with the oil on her hands, creating a perfect glide, a frictionless rhythm that left her trembling.
Malcolm breathed deeper. A low rumble coiled in his chest.
But he said nothing.
He let her.
Let her learn him.
Let her worship him.
Her other hand joined the first. One hand at the base, the other stroking upward, milking slowly, gently, with deliberate pressure. The feeling of it—so hot, so thick, so alive—made her whole body react.
Emma’s body pulsed with heat.
Not just between her legs—through her. An ache that lived in her spine, her ribs, her scalp. Her whole body was tight and tuned, breath catching every time the thick head of his cock passed beneath her thumb.
She shifted—trying to breathe, trying to think—but the pressure inside her felt like a kettle just before the whistle. She wasn’t squeezing her thighs together to stop it.
She was squeezing them because the pressure needed somewhere to go.
A slickness bloomed beneath her skirt, hot and wet and shameless.
And when Malcolm moaned her name, that low, velvet rumble, it made her hands tighten, her rhythm slow, sensual, precise.
She wasn’t touching him like he was big.
She was touching him like he was sacred.
Her head was light.
Her skin was fevered.
And he moaned again.
Low. Guttural.
“Emma…”
His voice was rough velvet. Almost reverent.
“You don’t have to stop unless you want to.”
But she didn’t. She didn’t want to. Not yet.
She kept going, her hands fluid, her rhythm tuned to the way his hips twitched, the way his breath staggered. She felt him begin to throb in her grip—warning her.
He was close. She slowed. Not ready for that.
Not ready to make him cum.
She wanted to feel this longer. This power. This heat. This cock that could undo her before it even entered her.
Finally, her hands stilled. They slipped away, slick and gleaming. Emma sat back on her heels, flushed and shaking, her breath ragged. Her lips parted.
“I need a minute,” she whispered.
Malcolm looked at her like he could see all of her. And smiled.
She stood—legs trembling, thighs damp—and slipped down the hall toward the bathroom, saying nothing.
Malcolm stayed where he was. Naked. Oiled. Eyes half-lidded. His cock lay against his thigh, still twitching, still hungry, the heat of her touch lingering like a scent.
He understood. He didn’t need to finish. He’d seen what he wanted.
And then he heard it. A sound. Muffled. Barely there.
Then clearer.
The slick, frantic rhythm of fingers moving fast and wet. The low moan she tried to bury. The desperate gasp that caught in her throat and spilled against tile like steam.
Silence.
Then another moan.
Deeper.
Malcolm smiled, eyes closing for a moment, his cock pulsing once with silent, throbbing satisfaction. Not because she came.
But because she couldn’t stop herself.
When she reappeared, her walk was slower. Her cheeks flushed. Her skin dewy at the temples. There was something wild in her eyes now—like something had broken open in her, and she hadn’t figured out how to put it back yet.
She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t.
Malcolm didn’t move. He just spoke, his voice calm and smooth and low enough to reach under her skin.
“You don’t have to hide in there.”
Her step faltered.
“If you want pleasure…”
A pause. A breath.
“You only have to ask.”
Emma froze. Halfway across the room. Her lips parted slightly—like the words were there, just behind her teeth.
But she didn’t say anything.
Not yet.
Emma just sat beside him again—close. Close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, the low thrum of his breath. The scent of oil still clung to the air, sharp and musky and thick with memory.
Her thighs touched his. Bare. Hot.
And her eyes dropped.
Lower.
And stayed there.
Malcolm hadn’t moved.
He lay back like a man carved from stillness—chest broad, arms relaxed, every line of him drenched in calm power. And then there was him.
That enormous cock resting across his stomach—not just lying there, but claiming it. Like his torso existed for no other reason than to be its altar. The thick, dark shaft stretched from hip to navel, glistening with oil and promise, too heavy to do anything but sprawl across the muscle like it belonged there.
Her heart pounded, a deep echo in her ribs.
She hadn’t said a word since returning from the bathroom. Her orgasm still lingered behind her eyes. In her legs. Between her thighs.
But it wasn’t enough. It never would be.
Malcolm’s voice broke the silence, low and velvet-rich.
“You don’t have to pretend anymore.”
Emma turned to look at him. Breath tight. Lips parted.
“I saw how you touched me,” he continued, his tone soft, measured. “I felt what was in it. That wasn’t curiosity. That was hunger. You didn’t just want to feel it…”
His gaze pinned her.
“You wanted to own it.”
The words struck her squarely in the chest. Her lips parted further, but her voice came small.
“Is that wrong?”
“No.” He shook his head once, slowly. “It’s honest.”
And that was it. That was all she needed. And she reached for him again.
Her fingers curled around the base, her grip tighter this time. Confident. Needy.
He twitched in her hand, already thick, already growing, the weight of him building between her palms like something alive.
She stroked him slowly, deliberately—watching the way he swelled under her touch, how the head flushed darker, wetter, more demanding. She let her second hand join, stroking upward, and still… so much of him remained exposed.
It stunned her all over again.
She gave a shaky laugh—half-disbelief, half-devotion—and finally said what she hadn’t dared say before.
“Jesus, Malcolm…”
Her eyes moved down, her hands stroking, reverent and sinful.
“You’re so fucking big…”
He rumbled softly, a sound of pleasure and pride.
“I mean… I can’t even—” She tightened her grip. “I can barely hold you. It’s like… my hands aren’t enough.”
Malcolm smiled lazily, gaze heavy-lidded.
“They’re not,” he said.
Emma moaned under her breath, licking her lips unconsciously as her pace slowed again, just to feel him more.
“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she whispered. “It’s… beautiful.”
Her mouth hovered just above the crown now, slick and glistening, pulsing against her breath.
She looked up at him.
“Let me.”
And he nodded. Once.
Her mouth hovered just above him, her breath warm against the swollen crown. Malcolm’s cock twitched—impossibly thick, impossibly ready—and her lips trembled with hunger she no longer pretended to tame.
She kissed him first. Just a brush. Barely there. A reverent press of her lips to the slick, flushed head.
Then her tongue flicked out, slow and wet, tracing the ridge with a soft, circling motion that made his body go still beneath her.
Malcolm groaned. Not loud. Low.
From the chest. The kind of sound that made her pussy clench hard, like a muscle catching fire.
Her lips parted wider now, trembling with anticipation, her breath catching as she inched forward.
And then—she took him.
The stretch was instant. Shocking.
Her jaw opened wide, too wide, her lips slick and full around his girth. Heat filled her mouth in a rush—salt and skin and pure, impossible man—and still, he pushed deeper.
She moaned against him.
Her tongue worked, sliding beneath the weight of him, and her throat opened as far as it could manage—but it wasn’t enough. There was still so much cock left to take. More than she thought possible. She wrapped one hand around the base and stroked where her mouth couldn’t reach, twisting gently, wetting him further with every bob of her head.
Malcolm exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since she started. And maybe he had.
This wasn’t just a blowjob. It was worship.
Devotion in the form of pressure and spit and sound. She loved every inch she could take. Loved the stretch. The burn. The feel of him pulsing on her tongue like her mouth had finally found its purpose.
And she ached—aching desperately—for the parts she couldn’t take yet.
His size was a challenge. His texture, maddening. Her hand kept pace where her lips couldn’t, gliding with practiced rhythm, twisting at the tip just enough to draw another ragged breath from his chest.
She flicked her tongue just beneath the head—there—and he broke.
“Emma…”
Just her name.
One word, strained and low and wrecked.
It made her moan around him, the sound vibrating down his shaft.
And Malcolm groaned again—deeper this time.
She was soaked again—ruined her panties twice in one day.
The second time wasn’t from her fingers.
Or his words.
It was from the act of worship itself.
She took him deeper, her throat stretching, jaw aching, and when she gagged lightly, she pulled back with a wet gasp—eyes watering, lips slick, hand stroking fast and soaking wet with spit.
Malcolm’s body tensed beneath her.
She felt it—his breath catching, his hips shifting, his cock pulsing harder in her fist.
His voice dropped, hoarse and wrecked.
“Fuck… Emma, your mouth feels unreal…”
She moaned against him, a needy, guttural sound that sent vibration down the thick shaft of his cock. He groaned in response, head falling back, and that was all it took.
She needed to hear that.
That she was good. That she was enough for this enormous, godlike cock.
Make him cum.
The thought hit her like fire. Her thighs clenched again, her body alight with the filthy, gorgeous truth that she wanted to please him. Desperately. Proudly. She didn’t want his praise—she craved it. Needed it.
He was close.
Her hand pumped faster, her lips kissing the swollen tip again, tongue flicking the head with wet, practiced circles.
He grunted, deep and rough.
“Where—?” she asked, voice thick, lifting her mouth from him just enough to speak, lips swollen and pink and glistening.
Malcolm’s breath shuddered.
“Anywhere you want.”
She opened her mouth, eyes locked on his.
And she watched him cum.
He growled her name—raw, broken—and thick, hot ropes of cum pulsed free, painting her lips, her chin, her tongue. It was so much. Warm, musky, male—and she swallowed what she could, let the rest drip slowly from her mouth and onto her bare chest.
A droplet clung to her collarbone. Another slid down the curve of her breast.
Her hand didn’t stop moving until the last twitch faded in her grip. Then she leaned forward—slow, deliberate—and took him back into her mouth.
Just the head.
Her lips wrapped around the crown with reverence, her tongue circling once, twice, catching the final remnants of his release. She cleaned him like it meant something. Like he meant something.
And he did.
She savoured the taste—thick, warm, rich—as it slid across her tongue. Salt and musk and male. Her eyes fluttered closed as she swallowed the last of it, her throat working softly, taking him into her one more time in the most intimate way possible.
She moaned—quiet and satisfied—and only then did she pull back, licking her lips, chest rising and falling. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand… and smiled up at him.
Not shy.
Proud.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
Then Malcolm shifted, his breath still unsteady, and reached for the throw blanket behind the couch. He pulled it down, draped it over her shoulders—not to cover her, but to wrap her in something gentle.
Something earned.
“Rest,” he murmured.
His voice was quiet. Deep. Soft in a way that curled under her skin. She curled against his side, her cheek against his chest. And for the first time in days—maybe longer—Emma fell asleep without feeling alone.
She woke slowly, her body still heavy with satisfaction, her skin wrapped in warmth and softness.
The room had dimmed.
Outside, the sun had dipped behind a cover of clouds, casting the space in a gentle grey-blue hush. Time had passed, but she didn’t know how much—only that it was the most blissful sleep she could remember.
Malcolm was beside her. Asleep now, lying on his back like a man who had nothing to hide. One arm behind his head. Chest rising slowly. Still naked. Still thick. Still beautiful.
Emma’s gaze dropped between his legs.
Even soft, his cock lay massive against his thigh—impressive, unbothered, like it didn’t need to be hard to command attention. She let her fingers drift lightly over his thigh, brushing up toward the heat between his legs.
She cupped his balls—soft and full in her palm. Then, with gentle pressure, she stroked him. Just once.
He twitched in his sleep. A slow pulse. A subtle shift.
She leaned in. And kissed the base of him.
Soft. Curious. Devoted.
Her lips explored, her tongue flicking gently, as if she were learning him again. Mapping the skin. The texture. The way his scent changed when he was half-asleep and untouched.
She wanted to know every inch.
Malcolm stirred. Not startled. Just aware.
His breath caught in that way men breathe when something good is happening before they understand what it is.
Then his eyes opened. Their gazes met.
He didn’t move. He just watched her, voice low and warm like melted velvet.
“Go ahead.”
Emma smiled against his skin. And without another word—took him into her mouth again.
Ready to worship all over again.
