Sluttern's Hollow

The water is, naturally, freezing. She squeals when it hits her sun-warmed belly, and writhes as it wriggles down her abdomen. But Orla is more softly carved than the giant. There’s nowhere for pools to collect. Instead, icy water flows all the way down into the newly smoothed valley between her legs, flooding the deep groove between her lips. It lights her sex up in shimmering gold and gives her an exquisite cold-on-hot jolt.

The man grunts at the sight, as if hefting an unexpected load. Orla takes a breath to laugh at him but it’s stopped by the gorgeous chill, immediately followed by a renewed blossom of heat on her flushed bits. Her eyelids droop and she lets out a long, shivering sigh.

There is some Slut-Bambi at work in her, too; in the roll she gives her hips under his fixed gaze, making the most of her accidental glistening. Her show is playful until she catches the head of his great fat snake shifting along his thigh and she realises that teasing this stranger will have consequences.

He grimaces apologetically over his thickening, but doesn't cover up. Orla surprises herself by shrugging and giving him a cheeky smile, quickly lifting a knee between them to subvert her flirtatiousness. Her heart pounds at its cage. She is annoyed with him for so blatantly enjoying her arousal but also with herself, for enjoying his. She squints into the sunrise, as if to chastise her eyes with the vivid colours, while in the corner of her vision, his beautiful monster stirs.

She’s always believed that size doesn’t matter. Marrying Dan proved that. However, during the desperate months without him, when she’s reduced to seeking the company of porn, she’s never once googled: ‘average sized penis.’

The giant rolls to his feet and stretches out under the warm sunlight. He rumbles a long growl. His legs and buttocks are the flanks of a stallion as he shakes and kicks his limbs loose. Orla finds herself patting the rock beside her as if it's his hard cheek, digging her fingers at it, and then sliding over the cave floor as if they were the lumps of his back. She imagines exploring the groove of his spine with her fingers, then her lips, licking salt from her kisses. She wonders about his hands on her too, his rough skin awakening hers, on her back, her belly. Palms grazing her breasts. The restrained strength in them as he cups her buttocks and lifts her…

She clears her throat, and looks away. If he dives off now, and she never sees him again, this will be by far the most erotic morning of her life. Dan will not know what's hit him when she gets back.

But the man turns to face her and she stifles a yelp. His giant manhood is all but fully erect, right above her.

Orla stares. At this point it would be rude not to. Haloed by the sunset, his hips are pushed forward and his unfettered gaze licks her all over, as if powering his mighty rise by it. Having this profound effect on such a larger-than-life man makes her want to giggle as she watches the member nod itself vertical. In moments, his beautiful monster is rigid, laced in veins and bucking. Her cheeks prickle. She bites the inside of a grin.

It must be three hands high — or two hands and a mouth — and so thick she doubts she’d get a hand around it. She finds herself salivating, whether the feast is on offer or not. She can't help it. Her occasional oral fantasies might begin with Dan’s slim cock but always climax with a huge, jetting brute. Orla is dizzy with her filthiest dreams coming true.

That said, she’s never had anything like that between her legs, in real life or fantasies. The Slut-Bambi in her wonders if it would fill her better, somehow. Stimulate some unexplored spot and satisfy her more thoroughly.

She slides one shin up the other and lights a sweet, hopeful smile on the giant’s heroic face. He would do anything to please her right now. This time she can't hide her smile.

For sure, he would need to relax her enough to fit him in. Itself a delicious prospect. The god bowing low to her. Splaying her knees with his bulk to plant worshipful kisses to her clit. Lapping the trickle from her hollow until all goes liquid. Even the rippling sweep of his back might blur into the sea and he’d suck her with the rhythmic tug of the ocean. Pulling her into him, then rolling waves of tingling heat back over the beach of her belly. And again and again. Each building on the last. Cock-thick fingers plunging with a strong, deep-dug stroke...

She’s startled by her own quivering sigh. She shuts her mouth, stops licking her lip like a harlot and tries to swallow her quick breath and pummelling heart.

But his eyes are locked to her legs as if trying to part them with his mind. She fights the urge to swing a knee to one side, reveal her own arousal, because then, without a doubt, all heaven would break loose.

She would definitely take his mouth and fingers, probably to orgasm. But she’d deny his cock inside her for a while. He’s a giant but he's still a man, with a man’s weaknesses. He would be way too volatile after pleasing her. No use at all. She would need to relax him.

She would like him on his knees. No doubt her buttocks would still be gripped, one in each of his hard hands, after he’s held her up to his face and eaten her through her climax like a fruit. He would lower her hips to his; nuzzle his twitching member at her opening, his end wet with his own excitement. She’d cover herself and he would grumble and put her down. He might even beg, right there on his knees between her thighs.

Orla would stretch out like a slinking cat in the sun, tease him as her fizzy oral orgasm dissolves. She would wait until he grips himself in a meaty fist of frustration.

As he is now, scowling, unsheathing his cock-head and squeezing until it throbs like a great heart. His attempt to impress makes her want to fiddle herself to orgasm this instant, right in front of him. Instead, Orla slides a slow gaze over his display, gulping every detail, filling up lurid, bursting-veined, pre-cum dripping, fantasies for later.

In her dream, she would sit up and play only when he’d given up trying to entice her, and begun working himself up. Every muscle on him would be popping with the pump of his hands along his length, legs quaking ready to blow his lava all over her. That’s when she’d like to cup and stroke beneath his joggling balls; watch the blurring penetration of his fist. And, just as he starts to lose control, she would take his shaft of him. Let it calm. Test its pulsing hardness with feather-light touches. His taut bulb with soft lips. Trace veins with a tender tongue. Taste the salt from on him and from in him. Until the muscle bound stallion is a trembling foal.

That's when she would have her fun, riding the ebb and flow of his swelling climax. Swinging back and forth between rubbing — the choppy stroke of both hands working him up and down at her swirling tongue — and a sucking so urgent that her moans vibrate from his mouth. She would arch him gradually into a great cresting wave over her, poised and ready to splash down. Then test what delicious pressure she could pile on before the tsunami broke. How many times she could swap sucking for rubbing before he roared and shuddered. And what gigantic gushes it would take to overwhelm her mouth, to run off her tongue and mingle with the sea.

And then the real test would begin. Because she wouldn't stop. Not until his desire for her has got him rigid again. A desire drawn out from him by her slicked lips and tongue. Then. Only then she would be ready to take the beautiful monster deep into where she wanted it. When his pulsing eagerness is tempered to steel and she has sucked him right onto his back. Tamed. Ready to be ridden as long as she needs.

Just one man passes this test of desire, consistently. And she married him.

Orla blinks. Less than a breath has past outside of her thoughts. The giant is rubbing his member, slowly up and down under her gaze, feeding her dream. His smile is mischievous. As if he knows that, in her imagination, his hand is her body. Her wet glove eased over him at first, stretching her shockingly wide. The slow plunge forcing a quaking moan out of her. She would be fuller than she’s ever been, stuffed full. She would rise, sighing at the deep liquid friction and — digging fingers to his chest like a hungry, padding cat — sink down again more quickly to light up places inside that she didn’t know she had. Then she would be lost. Sliding along his mighty length, matching his hump up at her, building speed. She would gallop quickly to her first orgasm, laughing and leaping on his supernatural manhood. But the first would just be the ebb, the pull deeper. She’d like to spin around, face the sea, splay and writhe on the unstoppable organ. His thrusts lifting her off her knees, slowly building another, even bigger climax. She would know, and love, that the grinding plump of her buttocks on his front is driving him crazy, alongside the hot silken grip she has on his manhood. His fingers would slip juices up from his balls, over her clit, strumming her and filling her, working at both ends of her pleasure. He would simultaneously push her and pull her inside out. With every yelp of pleasure shoved from her throat, the entire ocean would swell into one big wave. To crash down on her. Into her. Through her.

All Orla has to do is slide her leg to the side and open up. Then it can all come true.

She crosses one knee over the other, her hands over her mound, and flattens her lips into an apologetic smile. This giant might be flesh and blood, and a lot of it, and he might desire her, but they are as much a fantasy to each other as Daniel and Slut-Bambi.

The giant tips a nod that doesn’t meet her eye. He offers his palm to the sun, then to her, then, shrugging, to his erection. As if to say: ‘Beautiful sunrise, beautiful woman, what can I do?’

Orla laughs. His mimed apology is the most honest and most human compliment she's ever been paid.

He flips backwards into the sea and speeds into the distance, leaping in and out of the water like a dolphin. She growls a sigh and swings a knee at his departing, perfect buttocks.

She supposes, now she officially lives on the island, she can visit Sluttern’s Hollow anytime she wishes. No. Anytime she needs. A tell-tale chill rolls between her bottom cheeks.

She needs Dan. All of him. Now.

In a blink, she is powering toward the villa, which seems to float, now, on the blue surface of the risen tide. She pushes up onto the terrace and scampers across, the surface already so hot, her footsteps dry almost immediately.

She rushes into the shady bedroom and finds Dan still asleep. She kisses him deeply, dripping water all over the sheets, all over his head.

He jolts awake, and grins, wincing at the daylight. She can't stop kissing his bristly face.

“You’re wet,” he croaks.

“Insanely.” Orla leaps to her feet and perches astride his head. Her legs tremble over him.

His eyes widen and his smile wavers. He says nothing. Just slides his eyes over her for a long moment. Then he opens his mouth.

And she’s home.