Except…the torture is bliss.
Slower. Make it last longer. Drag it out forever.
The moment I come, she’s going to wake up, remember herself. Remember that this is me, and that she’s not supposed to like me. Want me. That I’m wrong. That I’m off-limits somehow. That we shouldn’t do this—because of our history, because her twin brother is my best friend, because I was awful to her way back when.
So I tighten up harder, hold back. But it’s impossible, holding back. Watching her small hand with the thin fingers and pastel pink nails wrapped around my thick veiny cock is too much. Her tits hang heavy against my chest, occasionally jostling slightly with her movements—those little jiggles are nearly my undoing. Her breasts are pure perfection, in shape, in size, in movement quality. Every little moment of her body sets them quivering. When a wave splashes against my back and shoves me forward against her, they wobble and shiver. When she sucks in a sharp breath, they jolt upward, and then wave side to side in tiny quakes as they come to rest.
Good god, what would I do, what would I give to have her beneath me, taking my rough hard thrusts, making those perfect teardrop globes shake and jounce?
Anything—everything.
Now, finally, she adds her other hand to the mix. Not around my cock in a two-hand stroke, but cupping me from underneath. Clutching my balls in a firm but gentle grip, which tightens, squeezes, massages, and all the while her fist is sliding torturously down my shaft, dragging back up even more slowly.
My abs brace, hard. My ass clenches and I lift up, flexing forward into her touch. Chest rises while my chin drops, and my breathing goes ragged.
Hold back.
Make it last.
If this is the only thing she ever does to me, I’d die a happy man. This memory, naked here in the wild cold Pacific, her hands all over me, touching me until I explode—this will sustain me for all time.
I’m just a greedy bastard—I want more before this is even over.
I want her mouth.
Anyone else, I’d have waded closer to shore and guided her to her knees and taken her mouth.
But Delia?
I dare not breathe, for fear she pulls away.
If I don’t come, I’ll die.
So I hold utterly still except for the involuntary movements I can’t help, and hope she takes mercy on me, allows me to find my completion.
Who even am I, right now? I’m a take charge, take what I want and don’t apologize sort of man. This simpering, pathetic, needy creature is not Thai Bristow—Delia has reduced me to this. Such is her power over me. I just hope she never figures out exactly how much power she has over me, or I’ll be the kind of man I’ve always had nothing but contempt for—pussy whipped. Balls in her purse.
The ache in my chest, the boiling pressure in my balls increase exponentially.
Her touch does not speed up.
I lift up onto my toes, hips grinding forward. I cannot stop this motion. I need more. Need to move. Need to thrust.
I don’t.
Don’t dare.
Instead, I freeze, every muscle clenched as hard and tight as possible. My jaw might crack, if I grind my teeth any harder.
My breath is hoarse and ragged through my teeth.
Helplessly, I begin to push into her slowly stroking fist.
I feel the edge approaching.
It’s a titanic wave of convulsive, explosive pressure.
Hold back, hold back, hold back—notyetnotyetnotyet…
