See if she wants to touch it

You tilt your head, voice low and even, the kind of calm that makes the air feel heavier.

The question hangs between you for half a second. Then her eyes flash—not with hesitation, but with something sharper, hungrier. A tiny, almost disbelieving laugh escapes her, breathy and tight.

“Fuck… yes.”

She steps fully into the room, the door still open behind her like it doesn’t matter anymore. Her gaze is locked on your cock, wide and greedy, and the words tumble out before she can stop them.

“I’ve never seen one this big. Jesus. My boyfriend’s smaller when he’s hard than you are soft. Look at it…”

She reaches out without waiting for further permission. Her fingers are warm, a little damp from nerves or heat or both, and they close around the thick shaft with a tentative but unmistakable hunger. She doesn’t grip hard at first—just wraps her hand around you, testing the weight, the heat, the way your cock fills her palm and then some. Her thumb brushes the underside, tracing a slow, curious path along the heavy vein that runs the length of you.

A soft, involuntary sound leaves her throat. Her eyes flutter half-shut for a second as she feels you throb against her palm.

“God, it’s heavy…” she whispers, almost to herself. She gives a careful stroke upward, dragging the loose skin over the rigid core, and watches the head swell even fuller under the attention. Precum beads thicker at the tip; she smears it with her thumb in a slow circle, coating the flushed crown until it shines. The wet sound is soft but filthy in the quiet room.

She shifts closer, free hand coming up to cup your balls, rolling them gently in her palm while her other hand works the shaft in short, fascinated strokes. Every time your cock hardens further under her touch—thickening, lengthening, the head flaring darker—she makes another little noise of pure appreciation. Her thighs press together. Her breathing has gone shallow and quick.

“It’s still getting harder,” she murmurs, voice low and almost scientific in its focus, like she’s studying something rare and perfect. “I can feel it. Pulse after pulse…”

She tightens her grip just enough to feel the blood rushing under the skin, then loosens it again, sliding her fist all the way down to the base so she can admire the full, heavy length standing out from your body. Her fingers don’t even meet around the thickest part. She stares at that fact like it rewires something in her head.

Another slow stroke. Another smear of precum. She is openly enjoying every second of it—the heat, the weight, the way your cock responds so eagerly to her hands—cheeks flushed dark, lips parted, eyes glassy with the simple pleasure of playing with something so much bigger and harder than anything she’s had before.

She doesn’t stop. She just keeps touching, stroking, exploring, lost in the feel of you hardening even more under her fascinated grip.