[man-of-sea]

Here is a new story Enjoy....
Speedo Surrender

The steam from my double espresso barely obscured the captivating movement of Loredana’s collarbone as she leaned forward, one manicured hand tracing circles on the worn cafe table. It wasn’t just the graceful rise and fall with each breath that drew my attention; it was how her low-cut silk camisole clung to her ample cleavage. I had mentally dubbed them forty-five FFs when we exchanged photos online, but in person, they were breathtaking – living sculptures defying gravity with remarkable confidence.

Damn gravity, and damn these ridiculous cafe tables that seemed designed to force a man’s gaze directly into the cleavage valley every time the conversation took a dip. I felt my face heat up under her intense stare - eyes like polished obsidian set in a framework of sculpted cheekbones – probably burning hotter than those ice cubes clinking lazily against the chipped rim of our glass pitchers.

"So," she finally purred, her voice husky and laced with an accent that tugged at the edges of my memory but refused to name itself. Are you sure about this?" A playful quirk lifted one sculpted eyebrow, momentarily eclipsing a freckle-dusted constellation above her cupid’s bow. 

“Absolutely,” I managed, pushing back a stray strand of dark hair clinging stubbornly to my forehead and hoping she didn't notice the tremor in my fingers as they tightened around the worn ceramic mug. "This is going to be fun." Fun wasn’t quite the word for it, but it was less… awkward than “utterly dominated by the sheer physical spectacle of your magnificent bosom.”

“Good,” she chuckled, her voice resonating in my chest. “Because I don’t do ‘fun.’ Not exactly.” A long fingernail tapped the chipped tabletop, then gestured toward the street. The cafe was in a once gritty part of town, now gentrified but still edgy, with graffiti on brick walls and jazz flowing from bars like “The Velvet Underground.”

"I prefer…efficient," she continued, her gaze sliding back to mine, dark and unwavering.  And then, in a way that felt almost casual considering the sheer weight of those two words hanging between us, she added, “Painful.”

Her studio was just three blocks away, nestled in an old auto repair shop, marked by a faded Ford emblem on the garage door. It matched her gritty vibe perfectly. I knew this wouldn’t be a delicate, tea-sipping affair from our first online chat. Loredana exuded hard edges and shadowed angles—a woman who likely wrestled her way into bed rather than asking politely.

Which, honestly? I wouldn’t have had it any other way. 

The scent of vanilla coconut hung thick and sweet in the air, like a siren song laced with sugar and something faintly musky - Loredana’s perfume perhaps, or maybe just the residue of countless men who'd come before me willingly submitting themselves to this particular brand of olfactory seduction. 

Stepping out of the shower stall felt less like emerging from water and more like surfacing after a deep dive into sensory overload. Not that the heat wasn't appreciated – I still felt the prickle of goosebumps crawling up my arms even as the steam swirled around me in blue-tinged wisps. But it was the goddamn spectacle of *her* that had made the water an almost irrelevant detail.

She perched on a stool beside a battered antique vanity mirror, likely salvaged from a forgotten Victorian boudoir for her ritualistic dance. I could still picture the micro bikini clinging to her like a second skin, its neon blue fabric barely containing her full breasts, which overflowed like ripe peaches. It was clear that beneath the veneer of ‘professional wrestling,’ we were both in this for something more primal and raw.

The micro thong—now there's a word I hadn't expected to utter with such reverence. Forget “bikini wax. “ This woman had redefined ‘beach-ready’ as something bordering on surgical precision. It was the garment designed to show off and command attention. And it did so with ruthless efficiency, cutting a clean line across her impossibly sculpted backside and disappearing into the shadows between thighs that would make Venus jealous.

She raised a dark eyebrow at me as I stepped out of the shower, water clinging to my chest and arms, emphasizing the erection straining against my snug blue speedo. It felt surreal, like walking onto a set where every cliché about Greek statues and Olympian goddesses came to life with an enticing smirk that could melt glaciers.

“You followed my pre-instructions?” she asked, voice like velvet sliding across rough stone. It wasn’t exactly a *question*, more of a statement punctuated by the expectant tilt of her head and the way those obsidian eyes seemed to devour every inch of me with an almost predatory intensity.

My grin was more expansive than it should've been for such a simple query. "Did you want to inspect personally?”  I managed, tugging at the drawstring of my Speedo just enough to make sure she *definitely* got the full scope of what lay beneath the thin blue fabric. The smirk that curved her lips when she caught the gleam in my eye was worth every cent of those five hundred bucks.

That smirk widened, turning predatory, before Loredana lifted one hand and did something that stopped my breath for a full second longer than was strictly necessary - she traced a fingertip down the line of my jaw, just under my earlobe. It wasn’t rough, but it had enough bite to make me feel like I’d been branded with a hot iron instead of lightly kissed.

Her movements were a captivating blend of grace and power. Each roll sent waves through her taut muscles, especially her chest – full, forceful pendulums that propelled her like pistons in a finely tuned engine.  Their solid impact against me with every shift was a constant reminder: this wasn't delicate sparring beneath those straps and that impossibly tight thong; it was primal warfare fought on the edge of elegance. I swear, if not for the sheer physical spectacle, I might have relished being at the receiving end of those weaponized breasts.

"I've been accused of...over-appreciating certain assets myself," I shot back, attempting a nonchalant shrug even as the words felt distinctly less smooth in this cramped space that smelled like coconut and something wilder, muskier beneath it all.  Maybe her perfume had an edge - like jasmine laced with tiger lily and just a hint of blood orange. Not your average bottle of "Fresh Linen.

Her obsidian eyes glittered, their amusement deepening the shadows under those perfectly sculpted brows. A slow, lazy nod confirmed she’d accepted my jab – and then she leaned back further on the stool, tilting her head at just the right angle to make the tiny straps of that neon blue bikini dig into her shoulders with a satisfying little hitch of flesh as they strained against something impossibly full.

"Alright," she conceded, her voice dropping to a husky murmur that somehow managed to be both commanding and teasing simultaneously. "Let’s make this interesting then.” A finger tapped once on the worn surface of the vanity table beside her, like counting out a beat in some unspoken rhythm, before she continued, “Three rounds. You survive those with me, I'll consider your proposition...worthy."

“Worthy” was not a word I expected to hear applied to my anatomy, but then again, this whole setup was starting to feel less like a wrestling match and more like some bizarre, highly-priced game of tug-of-war where the rope itself was lubricated with vanilla coconut scent oil and the stakes involved both physical endurance and something considerably less quantifiable.

“And what,” I asked, leaning against the edge of the vanity table as she rose from her perch to offer me a slender amber bottle capped with silver - probably worth more than my car. “What exactly constitutes this 'worthy proposition'?”  I’d been hoping for that question before removing all those clothes back in the shower stall.

She held out the bottle, tilting it to reveal the viscous liquid inside. The scent was rich, a blend of spice and earthy notes—maybe cedar or sandalwood with saffron. “This,” she said, tapping the glass against my palm, “is *Fleur de Tigre*. My favorite.” Her slow smile radiated raw confidence. “Rub it on your back,” she instructed, nodding toward the mat beyond the shower stall. Her last words felt like a promise rather than just advice.

"And after that?" I asked, finally giving in and accepting the bottle - hell, it was probably worth something ridiculous even if she’d used it on every other man who dared to step into this particular wrestling ring of hers.

Her gaze lingered on me for a long beat before she finally answered, eyes flickering down the line of my torso, lingering just above where those tight blue Speedo straps were doing their damnedest to contain whatever else might be happening south of my waist.

"After that," she said with another slow smile that made her whole face bloom like some impossible hybrid of a panther and a rose, “well, *then* there’s a round of what I call *per pleasure.*"  She didn't need to elaborate further - how her eyes glinted as they drifted back up to meet mine was enough. It was going to be more than just wrestling in this ring.

“Round one, we loosen up,” Loredana announced, sweeping her hand toward the mat and twirling a tendril of her midnight-black hair. The scent of Fleur de Tigre mingled with my lingering vanilla coconut from the shower, a heady blend of musk and sandalwood. She radiated heat, the tension between us palpable even before we began to move.

I followed her to the mat. It wasn't some pristine plush wrestling canvas from the big leagues. It was more like a patchwork of old-school rubber padding stitched together over faded green foam beneath a worn floral pattern that probably hadn't seen a fresh dye job since the Nixon Administration. Still, something was reassuringly primal about its feel under my bare feet—like stepping into a den rather than some sanitized gym locker room.

Her phone, duct-taped to a rickety tripod and angled precariously at one edge of the mat, felt almost laughably casual in contrast to this aura of controlled aggression she’d cultivated around herself.  But yeah, I gave her the thumbs-up – if nothing else, those next few rounds would be good for my ego's self-esteem on Instagram later.

"Camera's rolling," she said with a click of her tongue that sounded suspiciously like "Let’s get this over with," before clapping her hands twice and dropping into something resembling a fighting stance – except hers was less about rigid legs and more about fluid tension coiled like a spring just about to uncoil. It was hard to believe someone who moved with such effortless grace could pack that kind of power in those sculpted limbs, but the sheer size of her biceps alone told me not to underestimate her.

"Let’s see what you've got, sweetheart," she murmured – and then we were off. The first round wasn't brutal by any stretch of the imagination; more like a languid exploration of angles and pressure points. Loredana was all shifting hips, snapping strikes that felt more like whips than blows aimed at my ribs and solar plexus - each one testing how well I could deflect them without breaking stride, keeping her from exploiting those tiny openings in my guard.

Her movements were a mesmerizing dance between grace and raw power. Every roll sent waves of energy through her, her breasts propelling her like pistons in a finely tuned engine. Their solid impact against me with each shift underscored that this wasn't a dainty spar but a war waged on the border of elegance and primal force.  I might have enjoyed being hit by those weapons-as-breasts if I wasn't so captivated by their physical spectacle.

She was right, though.  "Playful" didn't entirely cover it. Loredana moved with the languid grace of a jungle cat that knew it owned the damn savanna – all sinuous shifts and explosions of power disguised as nonchalance. I wasn’t some hapless gazelle caught in her casual attention span; more like prey she was enjoying stringing along before finally deciding to sink its teeth into me.

"It's not *just* below the waist," she purred, tracing a thumb across my collarbone before settling back, eyes lingering on the flexing muscles beneath my damp shirt with an intensity that turned my cheeks hotter than her touch ever could.

Her neon blue top strained against the flex of those powerful nipples when she faked left, pivoted back in a hip-twisting ballerina blur, and sent me stumbling. It wasn't just brute force; it was elegance weaponized – one minute, I felt bulldozed by her statuesque frame, the next dodging a perfectly executed arabesque ending with her elbow aimed at my sternum like a walnut cracker. 

It took me the better part of ten minutes to get within arm’s reach for a decent takedown attempt - and even then, she treated it like some delightful nuisance rather than an actual threat. She tripped me more than once with those impossible-to-pinpoint ankle sweeps –  the sort where your foot gets caught in the middle of what should have been space and you’re suddenly sprawled on your ass wondering if gravity had suddenly decided to take a vacation.

Then came that moment when time seemed to compress into itself like one of those old movie reels where things speed up for dramatic effect.  I remember lunging with everything I had, some desperate half-hearted attempt to at least get her off balance before the bell rang. She sidestepped it so effortlessly – fluid as a shadow sliding across wet pavement – that my momentum carried me right past her and onto my back with an audible thump that probably registered on the Richter scale for a block around.

I swear, the next thing I knew, she was pinning down both arms in this impossibly tight grip above my head while simultaneously settling over my chest like some goddess of vengeance who'd chosen to descend from Olympus wearing only those two-piece wonders and an aura of pure, predatory calm. My head swam with a sudden rush of adrenaline – it wasn’t just the way she held me there, all muscles coiled tight against mine, but the sheer *weight* of her coming down on me like a well-aimed avalanche.

Then those damn breasts... they were practically living things by then. One hand cupped around my throat like a velvet fist to make sure I didn't bolt at the first opportunity, and the other was shoving one entire hemisphere against my face – not just pressing against it, but actually *pushing* into my cheek with enough force that air escaped in ragged gasps instead of proper breaths. My vision tunneled inward towards those twin moons of flesh that had become a world unto themselves, their warmth radiating outward like furnace-baked obsidian.

The final few seconds before I blacked out were less about the physical pressure – though God knows that was plenty intense – and more about the overwhelming sensation of being utterly *consumed* like drowning in a warm bath filled with vanilla coconut perfume and the scent of some dark, earthy spice. The world narrowed down to the erratic thump-thump of my own heart trying desperately to keep pace against whatever primal rhythm pulsed beneath those massive, impossibly full breasts that had become the only reality left.

I remember her lifting me from that position – a gentle tug at first, like she wasn't quite sure how much weight I was still packing around – then hauling me upright into some awkward seated position on the mat with my legs dangling uselessly off the edge. My head swam back and forth against the floorboards as if trying to catch up to the sudden shift in gravity.

Then, without breaking stride, Loredana did something that might have been a purposeful press of her thigh against mine - or it might've just been the natural consequence of being six inches from my face while simultaneously wrestling with a couple of gallons of pure feminine force – and I was pretty damn sure she swept down to give my cock a quick, appreciative pat.

"Water," she said curtly, tossing me the bottle with a casual flick that would've made an Olympic discus thrower proud. "Two minutes, round two." 

The water, icy against the back of my throat, did nothing for how my brain felt like it was still trying to unspool itself from a knot tighter than an over-cranked winch. My vision was probably still flickering in and out of some hazy hyper-focus –  the edges of things sharper than they should have been while the center remained smeared like a watercolor left too long under running water.

Still, when she spoke again, I sat straight enough to meet Loredana’s gaze. Even at that angle, it was impossible not to feel like you were being appraised by an exotic cat who knew precisely how much of its fur to let hang loose over the raw power coiled beneath. It wasn't just her eyes – obsidian pools with flecks of molten gold, like someone poured liquid starlight into a volcanic crater – but that slow, predatory smile playing around those full lips. She was savoring this somehow, watching how long I took to get my bearings.

"I think," she purred out, tilting her head just enough to let the mat-light catch the way her cheekbones dipped beneath that impossibly straight black eyebrow – "that you're starting to *enjoy* this match, yes?" It wasn’t a question so much as an assessment delivered with a tiny, almost imperceptible quirk of those sculpted lips.

Her hand moved so fast, a blur against my stammered reply.  A single fingernail unhooked the flimsy blue strap from her impossibly full breasts. They fell away like petals, leaving her leaning forward in an effortless grace that demanded more than just looking.

The whole damn spectacle of what had been ‘her chest area’ before the sudden deconstruction was laid out for me like some divine offering – a twin-peaked, gravity-defying landscape sculpted in smooth, warm flesh that would've made Aphrodite blush and envy her simultaneously.  It wasn't just big; it was somehow *immense*, spilling over those taut straps with an almost defiant refusal to be contained by mere fabric.

"Come and get them, big boy," she said, voice dropping low enough to vibrate the air between us as she tilted one breast forward like a queen offering a jeweled scepter to a supplicant who better not dare refuse the boon. "If you think you can."

For a split second, I just stared. Not even sure if it was *her* taunting me or the sheer physicality of what had suddenly become the central battlefield in this damn game –  the way she held them there, those twin titans swaying with that slow-motion pendulum motion she seemed to make everything do –  whether it was her teasing me or just being a goddamn force of nature.

Driven by instinct, I lunged for two ripe mangoes suddenly before my face, grabbing them with hands that moved as if possessed. One fist clamped around firm flesh near my chest, the other snagged her opposite side. She remained frozen, letting me cling to her like a drunk climber on Everest.

That soft moan wasn't just from *me*. It was like a ripple running through the goddamn atmosphere between us as I slammed down onto the mat, hands fisting in those impossibly firm globes that somehow felt both smooth and textured like polished river stones at the same time. One hand buried itself deeper than it should have been possible for a human hand to go –  I swear I could feel individual fibers of muscle flexing beneath my thumb, responding with some primal tug-of-war against the sheer pressure of my palm.

But yeah, she'd figured me out alright. Most guys wouldn't resist that kind of instant feast laid out before them - and Loredana didn’t just understand *that*, she understood exactly how far you could lean into it before becoming a goddamn drowning man clutching at whatever buoy drifted closest to hand. I hadn't even registered the shift in her stance – one second she was giving me that full-frontal, come-hell-or-high-water siren look; the next, my arms were suddenly trapped in those warm caverns of flesh and bone, while the rest of me was going down like a ship caught in a rogue wave.

She’d become *everything* at once: a coil of living muscle coiled around me, the heat radiating from her somehow intensifying with the speed of it all – not just from her skin but like she'd burned through some internal furnace to make this move happen. It wasn't so much that those legs were powerful; they were *liquid* – flowing and folding into position around my chest as if the damn thing had been sculpted in a single, fluid stroke from obsidian poured molten across a steel framework.

They locked together just above my ribs on either side –  a seamless cage of taut flesh woven through with veins like dark rivers pulsing beneath that perfect skin. I was pinned against the mat in this way that felt almost *too* good at first: like being hugged by a goddamn goddess carved from polished mahogany and powered by pure, unfiltered desire. But it lasted about three seconds before reality started to bleed in.

It wasn't just the pressure – though Christ, she could squeeze enough air out of my lungs with those thighs that I swore my ribcage would snap in half like some cheap wind chime if it didn’t already feel like they were being slowly crushed beneath a hydraulic press run on pure willpower and thigh muscle. No, what got me was the *constricting* – not just outward pressure, but a sensation of being slowly drawn inward, sucked towards her core like a moth to some predatory flame that smelled both sweet and vaguely metallic.

My grip on those breasts tightened reflexively – they were still warm enough that I felt individual pores opening under my fingers as if in protest against the sudden shift in our dynamics. But it was a losing game. My whole body had gone from overheated and wanting to *melt* into her heat to suddenly feeling like someone had taken a gallon of water and poured it straight through the middle of me – except that water was somehow cold enough to be turning my insides into brittle clay while simultaneously trying to suck me up into that warm, hard knot in front of me where those damn thighs locked around my chest.

She wasn't *trying* to hurt me, not exactly. It was more like a demonstration. Like some predatory feline showing you what happens when you get too close and forget who the hell is supposed to be doing the hunting around here, my body started to fold against her, instinctively trying to make room for those damn legs – but each time I shifted, it just tightened further, squeezing me down into that coil of muscle and sinew until my lungs were wheezing a desperate plea for air they couldn't quite manage anymore.

I was starting to get it: the "breast men" thing wasn’t about some cheap tactic; it was about letting you think *you* had control while she was already halfway through turning your grip into a goddamn lifeline, and that lifeline was now being steadily tightened until only one kind of escape was left open –  and I wouldn't be able to choose if I wanted to or not.

She had that predatory grin again – but it wasn’t smug or precisely. It was like watching a cat after it’s sunk its claws in good and deep, but not quite *finished* with the business of savoring the kill just yet. There was an almost playful intelligence behind those obsidian eyes, taking stock of how much I could take before she dialed up the pressure another notch.

It wasn't strain but a lifelong dance etched into every muscle. Each shift was seamless, gears adjusting effortlessly. Her taut thong, practically painted with sweat, showcased quads and hamstrings glistening like obsidian under a shimmering oil slick, tightening her grip on me. 

The heat radiating from her thighs felt like being burned alive in a sauna run by a goddess.  My breaths hitched, clogged with molten honey as my vision narrowed to two points: the crushing pressure of her thighs above my chest and Loredana's feral expression, teeth bared like she imagined tearing apart some hapless wolf.

"Oh, you're trying to keep up," she murmured against his cheek, a smile he felt more than saw. Her voice was low and guttural, punctuated by gasps like chilled wine poured down someone's throat. It vibrated through him instead of being spoken, and every subtle shift, even the inch her thigh bunched and relaxed, sent fresh waves of pressure that locked his breath captive.

“Big boy,” she hissed out when I finally managed to suck in enough air to wheeze a tiny protest sound somewhere between a moan and a choked sob, “*strong* man. But you’re *mine*, aren’t you?”  There was something almost apologetic in that last syllable – like someone realizing they'd accidentally let loose a wild boar on a picnic blanket instead of the usual poodle. Now, they had to try not to laugh while figuring out how many ham sandwiches would be needed for damage control.

A primal moan ripped from her chest, like a predator claiming its prize. She leaned forward, muscles taut, the scent of sweat and coconut turning almost acrid with desire. "So *sweet*," she murmured against my head as I crumpled beneath her gaze.  "All this struggling... but you don't want to stop me, do you, big boy?"

The truth was, I probably didn’t. Because at some point in that first crushing minute where it felt like she’d taken up permanent residence inside my chest cavity – and the only air coming out of my mouth was a soft rattling sigh every time those thighs squeezed just right –  I realized this wasn't about winning or losing anymore. This wasn't even wrestling, not in any way I'd ever known. It was something else entirely.

It was about being *consumed*. And maybe there’s a whole hell of a lot worse fate out there for a guy to die by than having those goddamn breasts and thighs be the instrument of his demise.

The shift wasn't so much a change in scenery as an unfolding. It was like watching some impossibly intricate origami figure suddenly blossom from its folded form – and realizing that the delicate paper crane you thought it was had been hiding a goddamn tiger beneath all those crisp creases. 

One moment, Loredana was a predator, coiled tight around me like a spring just before it launched; next, she was something else. Not exactly softer, not at all more gentle—but sharper somehow. The tension that'd held her body rigid had suddenly been replaced by something colder and more complex than steel: absolute, focused power distilled from years of knowing exactly what she wanted and then taking it.

The moan she’d let loose as I finally went slack-kneed was almost a purr now – still rumbling deep in those canyons of her chest that pressed against my cheek with the force of some damn small planet. But the way it vibrated through me wasn't just pleasure anymore, not solely; there was this underlying *hum* to it like she’d tuned herself into something beyond mere physical sensation –  some internal tuning fork struck by a hammer made of pure will.

“Yes,” she breathed out then – and the word was more than a sound, it was an echo bouncing off the insides of my skull. It vibrated through me *before* I could even register her lips moving against my cheekbone. “*That’s* good, big boy. That’s what I like to see.”

Her shift wasn't fluid this time but precise, like blindfolded chess moves. One leg uncoiled, granting a gasp of air for protesting ribs. Then she pressed down with that foot, an enormous nail hammered into my sternum.  Her other thigh locked tighter, not crushing but bending me backwards, trying to turn me into a mantis poised to lunge with useless arms.

And then she looked down. Not just down *at* me; it was like she’d unhinged that whole upper body and tilted the damned thing on its axis so it was all focused on me –  like a hawk staring at a field mouse caught in the open, not yet sure if it's going to eat it or play with it first. And God help me, I felt about as big as that mouse while trying to hold onto some shred of dignity beneath those eyes.

“You’re good,” she murmured, her voice a low thrum against my chest. Less playful purr, more like the kind of contented vibration you get when you've just had something *delicious* and satisfyingly challenging shoved down your throat, “Strong enough to make it interesting.” That was followed by this slow blink explicitly designed to watch me trying not to break apart under that gaze. Then she added, in a smooth tone that could have cut glass with its edge – "But I'm about to see how much you can *take*."

Her review called her "dominant" – like calling a supernova "a little bright". It wasn't control she wanted, but complete ownership, including me. She hadn't won through force, not yet. Instead, she'd stripped me bare in this first round, leaving the actual game to begin: rebuilding me from whatever scraps she chose. 

She craved more than a power trip or even sex.  Her hunger radiated like a star's sunspot, needing to *feed* on my dwindling energy after those minutes of her molding my soul. This wasn't just a match anymore; it was primal. And facing that naked need, I realized this wasn't better than she promised – it was exactly what I craved.

The air thrummed with nervous electricity when Loredana shifted again, and it wasn’t just from her proximity; I felt it like static crackling beneath my skin. It was less about *heat* now, though she radiated that like a furnace stoked by molten desire, and more like…charged potential waiting for the right spark to turn it into something blinding. My initial panic had ebbed away, replaced with this weird, hyper-aware kind of stillness where every nerve ending felt like a tuning fork struck by the hammer of her raw intensity.

She hadn’t just *taken* control of that space; she'd become an entity occupying it entirely – like someone pouring molten gold into a mold and then letting it cool until the metal wasn't so much *in* the shape anymore as it *had become* the shape itself. The mat felt like a stage, me pinned beneath her like some offering, and I was starting to get that this whole ‘wrestling’ thing was less about grappling and more about ritual sacrifice – and she was the priestess with an appetite for something far fiercer than blood.

"Go on," she breathed out then – her voice barely a sigh against the damp curve of my cheekbone, but it vibrated through me like some guttural command delivered from inside my skull. It’s not even *a* request anymore; it’s just that insistent pull towards something primal in both of us. It was a full-body vibration that went beyond spoken word - more like she’d tuned herself to the same frequency as every last nerve ending trying to scream its way out of my skin.

“Go on,” she repeated, and this time her hand came down –  not gripping anything in particular but more like *scooping* at the air just above those breasts I was desperately clinging to with both hands now. “Don't be shy.”

She wasn’t even looking directly *at* them, not really; it was like she could track my gaze from behind her eyes –  like those obsidian depths were some heat-sensing camera calibrated for the specific way a man’s soul went molten when staring into that particular inferno. And there I was, caught in that goddamn spotlight again: trying to hold onto something resembling dignity while the only thing between me and pure surrender was the flimsy fabric of my speedo.

"They're yours," she murmured – a little sharper now, that purr almost gone, replaced by something more like a lioness’s soft growl when it decides its cubs are old enough to start gnawing on things beyond their kind. "Mine, but *yours*.” And then, the thing that cracked me wide open:

"Most men," she said – and her voice was almost conversational now, not directed at me precisely so much as to some invisible audience of all the ghosts of men who'd come before me and gotten bored with just looking - "they forget *what* they’re supposed to be hungry for."

This wasn’t about that review anymore.  It was like a goddamn prophecy unfolding beneath her thighs: Loredana had been waiting for this – not for the wrestling, not even for me specifically – but for someone who wouldn't just reach out and *grab*, who wouldn't mistake the feast laid out before them for the whole damn banquet table. It was about what she wanted to be devoured by. The kind of hunger that could make you forget how to breathe to remember how to swallow something whole.

And God help me, I was starting to think there wasn’t anything left between us but a single, hungry inch of skin and the goddamn audacity to try and devour her entire damn soul in one go.

The air hung thick and jungle-like, not just from her radiating heat. She shimmered with sweat and desire, a furnace burning within. My ragged gasps weren't just from being pinned down; everything vibrated – the slick mat, my nerves thrumming to the relentless pulse of her thighs against me. 

There was this almost tangible hunger radiating off her now – less predatory, more like a wild animal settling down to feed after days on end out hunting: full-bodied, contented, utterly *sure* about what it would do next. The review had called Loredana dominant; she wasn’t just that –  she was something *primal*. This whole wrestling thing hadn't been a prelude to sex; it had been some elaborate, exquisitely timed appetizer leading straight up to this moment. And now?

The hunger had become tangible enough that I could almost taste it—metallic and floral simultaneously—like someone'd mixed blood orange juice with crushed violets and let it steep in the dark for a week. It was everywhere, not just emanating from her but swirling between us like an invisible tide pulling me under faster than my limbs could manage.

"Good," she breathed, the rumble more felt than heard against his chest.  She shifted again, a subtle sliding that wasn't just muscle play. The weight on his sternum intensified, pressing him back against those thighs, a barrier between him and the world. Then, deliberate as an empress revealing her gown, she lifted her ass, sending a jolt through him.

My speedo had been clinging to me for dear life already; now one hand slid under the damp waistband –  and not just *under*, it was more like she was scooping up a handful of air and forcing it against my skin. I’d tried to hold on to some dignity. Still, that first touch sent an almost physical jolt through me: slick heat radiating from her fingertips as they skimmed across the front of my ass, then digging into my hip bone with a pressure that felt like she was trying to knead something loose inside my goddamn core.

His moan went beyond the contact; every muscle in his legs went slack, useless. "Harder," she commanded, but how could he when all his willpower had been poured into those thighs?  Her warm breath against his ear murmured, "Don't disappoint me, big boy," holding him captive with words and lingering touch like a priestess sharing sacred secrets.

“Not quite *out* yet,” she murmured on another inhale, and I swear those goddamn words vibrated up through my spine and set off the whole damn chain reaction again in my lower half –  not just because of what she'd said but what was still happening: “Just… letting me taste how well you can be mine.”

It wasn't enough to *be* hard now. It was about being something *more*: a goddamn sculpture chiseled from lust and polished with desperation by the sheer force of her presence. And the last shred of control I'd clung to? Gone. I was swept away in that tide of heat and need just like everything else, leaving me utterly adrift at the mercy of this woman who decided what kind of appetite she wanted fed and if *I* was going to be good enough to satisfy it.

That face – yeah, that was the thing that cracked it wide open for me. It wasn't just beautiful anymore, not in some detached way you might throw a glance at across a crowded room and think 'damn'. No, Loredana looked like she’d been carved from raw desire itself –  and not the kind of polished, glossy lust you see marketed on billboards; this was something feral. Like someone had taken a flint striker to a pile of smoldering embers beneath that smooth obsidian skin, all those hidden flames spit sparks in every direction.

So consumed by her magnificent breasts, I'd almost forgotten how arresting her whole face was when she leaned in.  Her exertion sharpened already sharp cheekbones that seemed poised to pierce the air and stretched full lips wide enough to reveal every tooth, including those chipped from conquering a previous admirer.

His eyes were still sharp, intelligent, but now edged with a predatory gleam. It wasn't hunger exactly, but the focused calculation of a tiger spotting prey after hours of stalking—a rare flower discovered in its clearing, about to be meticulously dissected before it wilted.  He felt less like prey and more like that prize itself.

And then came the touch –  not the crushing pressure of those thighs anymore, but something infinitely more intimate as she took my speedo in both hands, sliding them up and down past my hips like some silk-clad lizard shedding its skin. It wasn’t rough or possessive; it was almost reverent, like she was handling a rare insect before pinning it to her board: tracing the lines of that damp fabric with thumbs that felt slicker than any oil I’d ever known –  and *then* rolling me free of my pathetic attempts at containment.

The air shifted again as those goddamn hands went beneath, cupping against something so taut and raw from hours of being pressed to one side it practically throbbed like a second heart in its cage. She didn’t even need to press down hard; the way her fingers wrapped around my core made me feel like I was suddenly caught in some invisible whirlpool –  all my defenses dissolving into that delicious, agonizing heat radiating off of her skin.


Loredana had been right about the men before: most of them probably hadn’t even registered this whole exchange as anything but another chance to grab at what they thought would be a prize. This wasn't just taking control; it was like she’d decided *what* kind of man I could be –  what shape and texture and urgency – and then sculpted me into that goddamn form with bare hands and the sheer force of her want. My head was spinning, trying to keep up with the new coordinates of my body as everything went taut and slack in a rhythm dictated by those heat-slicked palms kneading at something far more profound than muscle alone.

I’d come here wanting to be the aggressor, ready to wrestle that fire into submission – and now?  Now I was adrift in this goddamn ocean she'd made of herself: no compass anymore except her scent, and the only prayer left was that I’d drown right down to the center of whatever dark, ecstatic place it was she wanted me to taste.