Stroking my palm on his pec, I pet him gently, wanting to give him something in return for his performance.
I read that this is how Native American males wooed their women. In my imagination, it wasn’t particularly masculine. Or sexy. In person, though, it’s seductive as hell.
No matter how many times he’s played these tunes for himself, to keep himself amused or from going insane, tonight he’s playing for me.
Maybe it’s not a courting ritual, but it is a gift.
His concert goes on for a while, giving me what will probably be the only comfort I’ll get in this shithole. The flute’s last musical note hangs and reverberates in the air, then disappears. The wooden flute makes a soft tap on the rock when he sets it on the floor at my side.
After he places me on the stone floor in front of his crossed knees, I hear him unbinding the rag that holds his sex. He rises to go to the wall to wash. He returns to his original position and I sense the movement as he strokes himself. I guess this is to be our nightly ritual.
In the blackness, I picture what I watched last night. First, I imagine him sensually stroking up his inner thighs, then gripping his thickness in his huge palm. I hear the almost-silent slide of flesh on flesh and remember the look of growing ecstasy on his face.
This visual journey catapults me into the territory of pure lust.
I’m dying. I’m convinced of it now. Even though the nausea has abated I know this reprieve won’t last. Why shouldn’t I act on my desires? I might be dead by morning.
The tips of my nipples are tight, needy points. My channel is clenching in empty desperation. It seems he wants nothing more than to protect me. Why not return a gift to this male who has received nothing but abuse and derision for who knows how long?
Placing my hands right above his knees, where he likes to start, I slide up his rough skin, noticing the heat of his flesh as my fingers glide higher.
Although not the effect I was going for, every muscle in his body freezes. He swallows and breathes, but otherwise is still as a statue as he waits for my next move.
My fingers slip higher, my thumbs on his inner thighs until they collide with his balls. This pulls a soft “Mmm,” from him.
“Like that, Slag?” I ask as I cup them from beneath in one palm.
“Mmm.”
A spike of fear slices through me as I realize how impetuous this was. It’s wonderful and sensual and arousing when I’m in charge, but what if he takes the lead? What if he wants to do things I don’t?
But he’s sitting still, waiting for me to proceed.
“You’re a good male, Slag.”
I lean and breathe on his cockhead and am close enough to know it pulses in response.
His thick fingers feather through my blond hair. I think I know him well enough by now to know he won’t force my mouth onto him. He waits, panting in little huffing exhales.
“I want you to feel good, Slag.” I lick his slit with the tip of my tongue, somehow having the unerring radar to touch him on the right spot.
He can’t control his grunt or the upthrust of his hips.
My mind flies in a hundred directions, reminding me how sick I am and how long this humongous green alien male has toiled in these mines. I wonder about mortality and the fairness of the universe and even question whether there really is a God. Then I succeed in shutting all those crazy thoughts into a steel box lined with lead so even Superman can’t get in.
All I want to do now is feel.
I rim around the head of his cock, swirling with the tip of my tongue and then the flat of it until he can’t contain his hiss of pleasure.
His appreciation spurs me on and I decide not to draw things out. This poor male has waited far too long for this. I try to take him into my mouth, but can’t do it, it’s too big of a stretch.
Grasping around the base of his cock, one palm on top of the other, I take up a rhythm as I circle his head with the flat of my tongue.
He can’t stifle his moan, which incites me to move faster, squeeze harder. He’s panting louder and swifter now, as he thrusts his hips toward me. In my mind’s eye, I see him throwing his head back in pleasure, thick muscles straining in his neck.
One of his meaty hands surrounds mine as he squeezes tightly and propels himself into ecstasy, aiming his release at my throat and upper chest.
Pulling me onto his folded legs, he rubs his come on my exposed skin, then lies back and pulls me next to him, readying us both for sleep.
A jolt of outrage sizzles through me as many expletives float through my head, all preceded by the word “selfish”. Then I have the sweetest awareness that he has no idea what to do with me.
A green seven-foot-tall virgin. What I’m going to do next will be more fun than worrying about my impending death.
His equipment is far too big to invite inside me, so after pulling off my clothes, I snuggle my ass against him. Interesting, his cock is getting ready to reprise its role. I rest my foot on his thigh and lift my knee so he has complete access, then grab his hand and rest it on my belly.
He doesn't move a muscle other than to sniff. That’s right, big guy, this woman wants you.
“Make
