He is Naked

I push the door open slowly, stepping into the dim warmth of his apartment. The click of the latch echoes louder than it should.

“Dunk? It’s me—”

The words die in my throat.

He’s standing in the middle of the living room, completely naked, his massive 6’6”, 375-pound frame filling the space like a wall of dark muscle. The low lamplight casts shadows that only make him look bigger, more imposing.

And there—impossible to miss—is his cock. Sixteen inches long, thick as my wrist, veins standing out along its length, jutting straight up from his fist as he strokes it slowly. The head is already glistening, swollen and dark, and the sheer size of it makes my knees feel weak.

His eyes meet mine, heavy with need but still holding that same ashamed gratitude from the grocery store.

“I… I couldn’t wait,” he says, voice low and rough. “It’s been bad all day. The second I knew you were coming over… this is what happened. I’m sorry if it’s too much, too fast. You can still leave. But I need help, Mrs. Stevens. Please.”

I should turn around. I should run.

Instead, I close the door behind me with a soft click, my purse slipping from my fingers to the floor.

My mouth is dry, my pulse hammering in my ears. I’ve never seen anything like this—never imagined anything like this. It’s intimidating, almost frightening… and yet I can’t look away.

“I… I said we’d set ground rules first,” I manage, my voice barely above a whisper.

He nods, but doesn’t stop the slow, deliberate strokes of his huge hand along that monstrous shaft.

“We can,” he says. “But I’m already so close. Just… come closer. Please. Touch it. Help me finish once, quick, and then we’ll talk rules all you want.”

I take one hesitant step forward, then another. My heels click softly on the hardwood. The air feels thick, charged.

Up close, it’s even more overwhelming. The heat radiating off his body, the sheer scale of him. That cock twitches in his grip as I approach, a bead of precum sliding down the underside.

I reach out—trembling—and my small pale hand wraps around the base. My fingers don’t even meet. It’s burning hot, throbbing against my palm.

A low groan rumbles from his chest.

“Thank you,” he breathes. “God, thank you.”

I swallow hard, my naive, protective heart still insisting this is for my daughter. That I’m saving her from something worse.

But as I start to stroke him—slow, careful, both hands barely enough to cover half his length—I know I’m already in deeper than I ever meant to be.

And we haven’t even started the “rules” yet.