“No.” I shake my head. “Don’t touch until I say you can.”
Duncan makes a sound of pain, quickly lacing the fingers of both hands together on the back of his head, his biceps like two melons on either side, his humongous chest lightly glazed with sweat.
“I’m so much younger than you,” I say, studying his face closely. “Why do you want to…be on your knees for a girl, like this? Why are you so willing to serve me when you could so easily force me to serve you?”
“I don’t have an answer for ye, Thea,” he says, his accent growing more pronounced. “I’ve never wanted to serve anyone. I serve myself. Maybe it’s because you’re young that these needs of yours are so…pure. You’re so fucking pure that they strike me hard and I want to get right in the middle of them.” He breaks off, visibly getting himself under control, licking sweat off his upper lip. “When ye wish it.”
“That’s right, Duncan. When I wish it,” I whisper, shaken. Moved. More and more freedom lifting me, making me light with every honest word out of his mouth. “Sh-show me what a ready cock looks like.”
Duncan takes a moment to breathe, drying his palms on his bent legs. Then he raises dark-chocolate eyes to mine and unzips his pants, his jaw flexing as he reaches in and takes out the enormous flesh that lives between his legs. Presenting it to me in a fist.
It’s gorgeous.
Thick and hearty like the rest of him. Long. Covered in patterns of veins and throbbing, beating like a heart in the home of his giant paw. It’s nothing like the penises I’ve seen in paintings and sculptures throughout the gallery. Duncan’s is a living, breathing animal unto itself. Visibly in need of tending.
“Leave it there. Put your hands back on your head.”
A rough sound kindles in his chest and he winces, letting the heavy shaft and balls drop, the mass of his manhood nearly reaching the floor between his legs. And the vision he makes kneeling in front of me with his hard sex jutting out, hands behind his head, is something I’ll think about every day for the rest of my life. It’s hedonism. It’s a perfect depiction of lust. Of the aroused male condition.
He’s…perfection.
A gift.
A drive to reward him has me arching my back, peeling off the silk of my chemise. Dangling the material off my index finger for a moment, before letting it slither to the floor. Duncan moans, the sound echoing around the cavernous gallery, his shaft firing straight up and smacking off his deeply-grooved abdomen.
Falling back in the throne lazily, I palm my breasts, letting them bounce down and plucking at my nipples. Part of me can’t believe I’m sitting on this valuable throne, wearing nothing but a pair of lace panties, part of me feels like I’ve always belonged here. That it was built for me to sit in and torture this giant of a man.
“I’d lick them rotten and suck them sweet, if you let me,” he pushes between his teeth, the erection bobbing hungrily between his powerful thighs. “Such sweet little babies they are.”
I blink at him innocently. “Where would I lick and suck you, Duncan?”
“Ah, Jesus. Fuck!”
A long stripe of white paints the floor between Duncan and the throne, excess moisture dripping from the purple head of his arousal. I watch it happen with delighted wonder, moaning a little at the evidence of his lust for me. He seems caught in the middle of an unescapable storm and maybe I am evil, maybe I am wicked, because it makes my flesh spasm happily. In anticipation of more. More. Something I can’t describe because I’ve never experienced it.
“Angel.” His stomach hollows violently, his hips pumping against the air. Muscles chase each other across the range of his chest. “I need to stroke my cock.”
His accent is thicker now, almost guttural.
Ahh need tae stroke me cock.
“Say please,” I murmur, uncrossing my legs and leaning forward in the throne.
“Please.”
I purse my lips. “No. No touching.”
Cursing vilely, he ruts the air with futile thrusts and my body begins to respond. Imagining him inside of me, those big hips rolling him deeper and deeper, his sweat decorating my skin, his desire and desperation and gratitude lining his chiseled face. As he works and works and works to rid himself of the painful frustration men feel.
But maybe not only men.
I’m beginning to feel it now, too. A spiraling tickle in my tummy, spreading lower and making me flushed everywhere, making me breathe faster. My nipples are little pebbles now and I rub at them anxiously, hips restless on the cushion of the throne. Is that me whining?
Duncan watches me with intense eyes, hands still locked behind his head, hips driving forward and back—and it’s like we’re having intercourse without touching, but I can almost feel him. The rabid punch of his sex into mine, spearing me, his muscle pinning me down.