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He’d spotted her for the first time in the town’s quaint little marketplace, basket in hand, sorting through the local tropical fruit. There was something about her that struck him as different from the very beginning; something about her that set her apart from the local inhabitants and the other tourist visitors to that beautiful Caribbean island; something special that had caught his eye. To be sure, he found her extremely attractive. But it was more than just the pretty eyes and pleasant smile beneath the stylish sun hat. The way she carried herself, the way she moved, her clothing – she conveyed both a delicate femininity and a warm, intense sensuality. He often saw her in town, which was just a short walk from the nearby beach and its luxurious, oceanfront villas and condos. She was, he suspected, a tourist like himself: there for a few precious weeks of sun, white sand beach, aquamarine water, and relaxation.
At first, those brief, silent encounters sustained him. He might be in a store in the main square, or walking along one of the few bona fide streets in the village, when he would spot her from afar: dressed as she usually was, with a tasteful blouse and an exotic-coloured sarong over her bikini, and that sun hat which shaded those pretty eyes and sometimes left him wondering if she’d ever noticed him staring. As discreetly as he dared, he admired the long, shapely legs below the hem of her short sarong; the erotic contour of her behind; the line of her bikini bottoms, just visible through the semi-sheer fabric of her sarong; and the arc of her delicate breasts with the tasteful amount of cleavage inside her unbuttoned blouse. It wasn’t long though, before he longed to speak with her; to know her name; to hear the cadence of her voice; and to elicit that charming smile of hers firsthand. He judged her to be a woman in her mid forties, perhaps some twenty years his senior, but this only intensified his interest. He’d long nurtured the fantasy of an older woman. He felt ill-matched to women his own age; preferring the female companionship of women older than himself — their maturity and depth of feeling were immensely attractive to him. Still, the added dimensions of romance and love-making had always eluded him in that respect.
He had been on the island for several days, and his day-time regimen had been the same: a light breakfast in town, a leisurely walk, with the hope of spotting the woman who so dominated his thoughts, and then a swim in the warm, transparent waters of the gulf. Each afternoon, he would find a less crowded patch of white sand beach, lay down his towel and strip off his surfer trunks and t-shirt down to his brief bikini swimsuit. Relatively tall, he had a slim, swimmer’s build; his short, dark brown hair cropped close. His skin was already nicely bronzed from several days under the Caribbean sun. Somewhat shy and introspective, he enjoyed the solitude and anonymity of his time on the island, and felt a secret thrill in throwing off some of his usual inhibitions. The daring men’s bikini swimsuit was a manifestation of that; normally opting for the much more conservative surfer trunk-type swimwear.
Since high school, and the days of communal showers with taunting male classmates, he’d come to understand that he’d been endowed with an exceptionally large penis. In practical terms, this had been a mixed blessing up to that point in his life. Although his size never failed to impress in visual terms, actual sex had proved to be a source of frustration. Though relatively inexperienced, instances of aborted sex – either because having been ‘unveiled’ to her, the woman was unwilling to proceed any further, or because try as they might, he just couldn’t penetrate her – were all too uncommon. That said, the island’s ambient hedonism was allowing a nascent exhibitionism to flourish in him. As he lay there on the beach, he would feel a small, private thrill at his newfound ability to throw caution to the wind. For, being some eight fleshy inches in length in a flaccid state, his penis conspicuously taxed the crotch of his skimpy, white lycra swimsuit. On display as it was and restrained by so little, his impossibly large endowment frequently garnered a number of stares from fellow sunbathers.
One particular afternoon, he was applying sunscreen to his chest and surveying the beach from behind his aviator sunglasses, when someone about ten feet away entered his peripheral vision. He turned to see who it was and felt his face go flush – it was her. In his shyness, he quickly looked away, lest he be caught staring once again, and at such close range. But despite the quickness of his reaction, he had had just enough time to note that she had been staring at him!
He felt his hands shake slightly as he finished applying the requisite amount of sunscreen. When he dared, he stole discreet glances in her direction. She was even lovelier up close: her short brown hair was stylish and chic; her eyes expressive and penetrating; ataşehir ucuz escort the fine features of her face suggested kindness, tenderness, warmth. When she stood and stripped down to her sea foam-coloured bikini — removing her blouse and unfastening her sarong – he could feel his heart beating in his chest and his formidable manhood begin to swell in his swimsuit. That latter caused him considerable anxiety since even the slightest excitement in that regard could have extremely embarrassing consequences given his size and his relative state of undress.
Like two smitten teens, their eyes met several more times before she offered a modest, shy smile; a smile that momentarily both thrilled and immobilized him. Though only modest gestures, her repeated looks and smile emboldened him.
“Hello, there – I’m Marc,” he said, returning her smile in kind, a slight quiver in his voice.
“Well, hello. I’m Caroline. Very nice to meet you, Marc” she replied. Despite being older, he sensed in her a nervousness that equalled or surpassed his own, and this, combined with the tender tenor of her voice, created in him an incredible urge to hold her.
At last he knew her name; the sound of her voice. She was so much more than the sum of his fantasies. Rare is it that reality surpasses fantasy, yet for Marc that was the case. The two of them chatted amicably and he was struck by her genuine, earthy charm. Like him, she was there for two weeks; their timelines happily similar. She was from the American Midwest; he from the west coast of Canada. He felt his heart sink when he spotted a wedding ring on her finger, and only began to recover – and then only partially – when she disclosed that her husband had not been able to make the trip with her.
Still, there was something in the way she spoke to him, something about her attentiveness and the way she focused her attentions on him that lifted his spirits. For him, their conversation seemed almost electric — like the easy back and forth of a first date going very well — and he hoped she felt the same. With pleasantries and initial impressions of their beautiful surroundings covered, their conversation turned to shared interests, of which there were many: art (her villa was equipped with a studio space, and she often spent the mornings happily sketching and painting), music, travel, books, films, even philosophies of love. Such was the immediate intensity of their connection, that Caroline politely asked if he wouldn’t like to move his towel closer to hers. His heart leapt in his throat and he jumped at the offer. She reached into the wicker picnic basket she’d brought with her and poured two glasses of chilled sangria, offering one to him which he graciously accepted. Facing her and kneeling on his towel that was now aligned with hers — his thighs parted — he took the glass from her. As he did, he noticed that her eyes were unmistakably fixed on the huge bulge in the front of his swimsuit. He blushed, suddenly self-conscious of his revealing choice of swimwear. He thanked her again for the cool, delicious drink.
“I love your swimsuit,” she gushed, blushing herself.
“Really?” he replied. “I’m not really sure I carry something like off, but it’s nice for swimming and for a climate this tropical.”
She smiled a knowing, mischievous smile. “Oh, you carry it off very well. In fact — and I think I can speak for the other women on this beach — you take a girl’s breath away!”
Marc demurred, trying not to reveal how flattered he was by the attentions of the woman he found so attractive.
“Actually,” she continued with a soft giggle, “the only thing I’d be concerned about if I were you is bursting the seams in the front!”
The sexualized candour of her comment, accompanied as it was by her disarming charm and sweetness, again caused his over-sized organ to stir. What was worse, when he scanned her beautiful, bikini-clad body – the high-cut, tie-sided bottoms and the exquisite delta between her legs; the crest of her breasts atop the sea foam top; the long, beautifully-formed legs; the oh so kissable lips — he did nothing to quell his excitement. With the swelling beginning to reach the danger zone, Marc sat down and brought his knees up until ‘things’ subsided.
They enjoyed each other’s company so much, the two of them stayed out in the sun longer than they should have. Only reluctantly did they part company that afternoon, and only then after Marc had summoned the courage to invite Caroline out for dinner the following evening. She eagerly accepted his invitation, putting Marc’s fears of rejection to rest.
He lay nude in bed that night, staring at the stars through the skylight window above him, and drifted off to an agitated sleep; Caroline still very much in his thoughts. He awoke from a powerfully erotic dream in the middle of the night; his lust fired with visions of Caroline’s bikini-clad form; the sound of her voice; ataşehir yabancı escort the smell of her perfume and suntan lotion still firmly in his sense memory. He was unable to sleep. Sensing that only sexual release could provide him with the respite he craved, he slipped his hand under the sheets and grasped the massive, horse-sized sex between his taut thighs. With his mind’s eye feasting on images of Caroline on the beach that day – the way her bikini bottoms hiked up over the delicious curve of her derriere; the single-minded way she stared at his crotch – Marc violently stroked his enormous, steely hard stalk until he came. Whispering her name softly aloud at the penultimate moment, strings of his hot white cum shot high into the air and rained down on his sheets. Spent, his breathing slowing to a gentle rhythm, he drifted back to sleep and slept soundly ’til noon. He awoke to the sounds of exotic birds in the surrounding trees; the smell of flowers and saltwater filling the sweet gulf air.
They met the following evening, at dusk, at an intimate French restaurant at the end the town’s main street. He was waiting for her when she approached their candlelit, white linen table. It was her turn to take his breath away – she looked stunning in her short black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, open-toed heels, and tasteful silver earrings. He’d never seen her in make-up before, and her eyes and lips shimmered in the candle light.
“You look so beautiful,” gushed Marc.
She smiled brightly and thanked him, complimenting him on his crisp white dress shirt and black pin-stripe dress pants. Thankfully, the waiter was timely in delivering them their cocktails, since nerves had got the better of them. The cool drinks steadied them, allowing them to recover the rapturous ebb and flow of their conversation, and to regain their appetites, such as they were. With ‘The Look of Love’ playing softly in the background, he presented her with a single red rose. Such was her reaction that at first he wondered if such a gesture to a married woman was inappropriate, but her blush and the expressiveness of her eyes soon convinced him otherwise.
As the evening wore on, his heart began to ache in equal measure with the intensity of his lust. He decided at that moment, as they sipped their wine together, that, married or not, he had to have her. He had to know her in the most intimate sense. He felt his huge, vascular penis expanding down his pant leg as nervousness gave way to immense sexual tension. When she touched his hand, his face went hot. Before either of them quite realized what was happening, their conversation had turned to sex and sexuality. Even though their take on the subject rarely extended beyond the abstract, she conveyed a raw and intense sexuality in her words. Her depth of feeling and her desire to experience everything sex could offer was palpable. Still, there was a sadness about her when she talked about her marriage. Though his curiosity had been piqued, he did not press.
Caroline steered the conversation towards their time at the beach the previous day, and for a moment he wondered if she was changing the subject because he’d said something inappropriate, but he was wrong.
“I can’t get the image of you in that white swimsuit out of my mind,” she grinned flirtatiously.
“I could say the very same thing about you in that tiny, sea foam bikini!” he countered. Truer words had never been spoken.
The evening flew by. The electricity between them manifested itself in gushing but heartfelt compliments and gentle flirtation. He found her charming in the extreme; sexy beyond words. At one point, Caroline’s facial expression suddenly grew earnest.
“Marc, I don’t mean to embarrass you or make you feel uncomfortable, but may I ask you a rather personal question? And please, feel free to tell me it’s none of my business,” she said. Marc assured her that there wasn’t anything he couldn’t ask her. She hesitated for another moment before asking, as if struggling for the nerve as well as just the right words.
“Does the difference in our age bother you? I mean, having dinner with a woman more than twenty years older than you?” she asked.
Marc fixed his eyes upon hers, and tried to express in words what he desperately wanted to express with his lips and his body.
“Nothing, and I mean nothing, could be further from the truth” he answered in a low voice, his dark brown eyes burning with passion and emotion for her.
As if to give some relief to the current of sexual tension flowing between them, their conversation moved to lighter subjects. He asked her about her art, and she talked enthusiastically about her newly discovered penchant for drawing and painting. Clearly, hers was a soul meant for art and all things creative he thought. How could such a passionate soul not pursue them all? Indeed, they shared a love for all the ‘sensual arts’: music, dance, painting, food, ataşehir escort bayan love, sex … He asked her what she enjoyed drawing most.
“The human form,” she answered earnestly. “But I haven’t had a real nude life model since I took a drawing course at an art college last year back home. It makes such a difference.”
“May I be your life model?” asked Marc, seizing the moment purely on impulse, and before he had a chance to second guess himself. “I could sit for you tomorrow in your studio.”
“Are you sure?” she asked with a shy, somewhat embarrassed grin. He assured her that it was.
“Oh, that would be wonderful!” she answered, excitement in her voice.
There was a method to his madness. He wanted desperately to make love to her — more than any woman he’d ever set eyes on — but he had been frustrated often enough in the past to know that there was always the chance that his size would preclude that. She was also a married woman – something that was always in the forefront of his mind. This would be her opportunity to bow out for either reason and still save face.
He walked her home that night. Mercifully, she was expecting a call from her husband that night, and couldn’t ask him. Had that not been the case, wild horses could not have dragged him away from her. There was an awkward moment as they said their goodnights. Each sensed the other was desperate to kiss, but something stopped them. Perhaps it was that they both knew too well that one kiss would open the flood gates; that it would be a point of no turning back. And perhaps for that reason, they held back. They looked into each other’s eyes long and hard, struggling with the desire they both felt, before a last kiss-less goodnight.
The next day, around noon, Marc made his way over to Caroline’s villa. It was even more beautiful in the daytime: an elegant structure of dark wood and stone, landscaped with tropical trees and exotic-coloured flowers. He took at deep breath, and then knocked.
The door opened to a smiling Caroline, barefoot and wearing a big, puffy terry-cloth robe. She invited him in, her voice betraying her own, not insignificant, case of nerves. Inside was exquisite: bright, with more dark wood and stone, warm-coloured walls, and candles and flowers throughout. The sweet smell of the lush fauna permeated the rooms. She showed him around the spacious living space, before escorting him into the studio. Of particular interest was the master bedroom, with its panoramic view and the four-poster, king-size bed.
The studio was sparsely furnished — only a single leather loveseat — but Caroline had obviously left her own imprint; making it cosier with candles, art and ceramics she’d purchased in town, and covering the walls with her sketches and paintings, which he judged to be quite good. Other than the loveseat, there was her easel and a table for her art supplies – set up and ready to go — and in the centre of the room, a barstool, presumably for him to pose on.
She offered him a robe identical to her own, and showed him the way to one of the bathrooms so that he could change. She was in an effervescent mood, and asked if he’d care for a glass of chilled chardonnay. She’d read his mind, and he gladly accepted her offer. Closing the door behind him, he stripped off his clothes and wrapped himself in the large, luxurious robe. He met her back in the studio and their huge wine glasses kissed in a toast.
“Shall we get started, then?” she inquired a little bashfully and with a deep breath.
“Of course,” he replied with a smile.
Almost business-like, as if compensating for the sexually-charged atmosphere, she instructed him on that to do: she needed him to assume a natural pose that was comfortable – either leaning against, or sitting on, the barstool — since he would need to hold it for some time. And lastly, and only when he was ready, she asked him to remove his robe and they could begin.
Marc sipped a liberal amount of wine into his mouth and approached the barstool. The soft, noonday sun gave the room a warm glow. His back was to her as she stood at her easel, and he untied the cloth belt of his robe and let it slip from his shoulders. He detected a soft sigh as his naked torso was unveiled to her: the taut behind; broad shoulders; and well-formed, athletic legs. Pausing only briefly, he turned and faced her; choosing to sit, thighs parted, with one knee higher than the other. His giant sex slapped heavily against his leg, reaching almost mid-thigh, as he assumed his pose. Below his flat stomach and a smallish thatch of dark pubic hair, and from between his parted thighs, his giant phallus came to rest; extending down and over the edge of the barstool. Dangling some eight inches in its dormant state, it maintained a fat and fleshy thickness from the root to the plum-size head.
He heard Caroline gasp audibly and turned his head slightly to see her gaze fixed upon the over-sized organ between his legs; wide-eyed and crimson-cheeked. He was not unaccustomed to a reaction such as hers. The difficult part was gauging a woman’s tolerance level despite the inevitable, initial intimidation. The gasps and gaping mouths were soon replaced with either undaunted desire and resolve, or incredulity and a fearful refusal.
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