Page 78 of Ghost

“It’s trying to stand up, but it can’t.” With the shaft gripped firmly in my hand, I wiggled it back and forth, watching the peak of the fabric tent move as I did so. “It’s restricted. Like putting on a size two when you need a size six. It can’t feel good.”

“It’s not a big deal,” he said dryly.

I peered into the leg of his shorts. His dick was pointing toward the beach at a forty-five-degree angle, limited in travel by the fabric of his swim shorts, which were stretched to the limit.

“You’re pitching a nylon tent,” I said. “It looks like it hurts.”

He opened one eye. “Okay. It hurts.”

“Does it really?” I asked excitedly.

“No.”

I sighed. “Okay.”

“What do you want me to say, Abby?” he asked. “Dicks aren’t as delicate as you might think. It doesn’t hurt.”

I squeezed it as hard as I could. “What about now?”

“Nope.”

I bent it downward, toward his chair’s seat. When it felt like it was going to snap off in my hands, I stopped. “What about that? That has to hurt.”

“It’s not comfortable,” he said without emotion. “But it doesn’t hurt.”

Frustrated, I released his dick and tugged against the leg of his shorts. “If we’re not going to surf right now, can we take these guys off?”

One eye opened. “Is that what all that was about? You want to take my shorts off? Why didn’t you just ask?”

“That’s not how girls do things. We beat around the bush until the man gets the hint.”

“Fine.” He untied the shorts, wrestled them over his stiff dick, and tossed them aside. Being naked was obviously comfortable for him, because he nonchalantly sat and propped his legs onto the wicker ottoman no differently than if he were clothed. He closed his eyes. “There. Problem solved.”

I was disappointed that I hadn’t suggested he spend all his outside time sans clothes. As I admired his naked beauty, I made a mental note to require that he be naked in the future.

Tanned and covered in muscles from his knees to his neck, he looked like he belonged in the risqué display of the art studio on Beverly Hills Boulevard, in Los Angeles. With a watering mouth and a wandering mind, I shifted my eyes from his rigid dick to the beach, which was a few hundred yards away.

From our second-story vantage point, we could see everything below, but it wasn’t easy for passersby to see us. I looked left, and then right. My neighbor’s homes weren’t as tall as mine, and it was equally impossible for them to see us.

Satisfied that we were secluded enough to allow me to play with his dick without repercussion, I began to stroke it. The velvety smooth skin amazed me, considering what it encompassed was as hard as a Porter’s bulging muscles.

“I really like you,” I whispered.

“You talking to me?” he asked.

“No, I was taking to him.”

“To my cock?”

“I like him,” I said.

With his eyes still closed, he nodded in acknowledgement. “He likes you, too.”

I increased my speed and tightened my grip a little.

“That feels good,” he said under his breath.

I compared my dainty hand to the size of his massive shaft, and soon got lost in the rhythm of providing Porter pleasure.