Rosalia

I can't believe what I'm witnessing.


I hadn't intended to eavesdrop—or spy, or whatever you'd call this. But there he was, Angelo in his office, his hand around his cock—

I've never witnessed anything like it, and I can't look away.

Initially, I was heading back to my room. But I had to pass by Angelo's new office to do so, and when I did—


The noises were unusual. Like the proverbial cat, my curiosity got the better of me, and I tiptoed up to the slightly cracked door—a fact he definitely couldn't have known about, given what I saw when I peeked inside. I almost fled the moment I realized what I was seeing, until I noticed he was too absorbed in himself to notice me standing there, wide-eyed, heart pounding in my chest. I should have left—but I couldn't resist staying to watch.

And now, I can't look away.


I've never seen a man touch himself before. I've never seen a man—not like this, not in even the slightest state of undress. I've never watched porn or looked up pictures. I don't think it's ever hit me, until this exact moment, just how entirely innocent of all of this I really am. Until I see Angelo in his leather desk chair, legs spread and his zipper down, his hard cock gripped in his fist as he strokes it. And the look on his face—

Does it really feel that good? His lips are parted—god, he has a beautiful mouth, full and soft, the kind of lips I think I'd like to kiss—his breath coming in short gasps as his hand slides over himself, his head tipped back, eyes closed. I can see his flexed muscles in his forearm, the tension in his thighs, and his hand—

He has lovely hands, long-fingered and broad, veined along the back, and seeing him gripping his cock makes me feel faintly breathless. I can't take my eyes off of that, either. I've tried to picture what one might look like, before—and I wasn't too far off the mark—but the reality is both better and more frightening all at once. If all men are made like this, I don't know how any man could fit inside of me. He's long, the tip of it just below where I think his navel must be, and thick. His hand fits around himself nicely, but would mine? Would my fingers touch, if I gripped him the way he's gripping himself right now? I'm not sure, but the thought of touching him like that—of kneeling between his legs right now, my hand pumping his cock instead of his own, makes me feel dizzy with a sudden rush of sensation that I've never felt before and certainly don't understand.

I don't understand anything that I'm feeling, not really. I feel hot, flushed for reasons that have nothing to do with having been laying in the sun outside, and I feel an odd tingling between my thighs, a sort of buzzing heat that also feels entirely unfamiliar. When I squeeze my thighs together reflexively, a reaction to the strange, building pressure between them, I feel—wet?

My gaze flicks back to Angelo, his head still tipped back against his chair, his hand sliding over his glistening cock—glistening with what, I'm not sure. I feel that throbbing ache between my legs again, and I can't help but wonder if it would feel that good if I touched myself there.

I shouldn't, I know that. Especially not here, in the hallway, peering into Angelo's office and spying on him. He'd be furious if he realized I was here watching. He'd be even angrier, I think, if he caught me touching myself the same way, watching him. I've never done this—never had even the slightest inclination to—but I know enough to know it's meant to be private. That I shouldn't be seeing what I am.

I could go back upstairs and try it. But something in me rebels at the thought. I feel as if something is waking up in me, something thrilling and new, and I want to see what happens at the end of this. I want to see what comes of what Angelo is doing, what the point of it all is.

Maybe it will give me some sort of answer as to what it is that men want.

Without fully deciding to commit to it, my hand slips underneath the sarong I threw on over my swimsuit, pushing aside the chiffon to brush against the edge of my bikini bottoms. I feel something pulse between my thighs again at the brush of my fingers over the material. I bite my lip, summoning the courage to slip them underneath. The soft hair between my legs is damp—but of course, it is, I think frantically, trying to make some sense of what's happening to me at this moment. I was swimming just a few minutes ago—but this feels different.

Angelo's hand twists around his cock, his palm squeezing over the tip for a moment, and I see thick fluid pearling there, sticky against his fingers. I wonder what he tastes like, I think, unbidden, and then my face flames at the realization of what just went through my mind.

I feel that pulse between my thighs again, that steadily building pressure, and I close my eyes for just the briefest of seconds as I slip my fingers between flesh that feels more swollen and tender than usual, searching out where it is that I need touch, friction—

Oh god.I have to bite my lip hard enough that I taste blood to hold back the sound that nearly erupts from me. I'mso wet, wet in a way that I know has nothing to do with swimming, slick and hot, and when my finger bumps against a hard knot of flesh between my folds, I nearly cry out with the jolt of pleasure that bursts through me, as startling as an electric shock, butgood.

So good, that I can't stop myself from doing it again, and again—rubbing my finger over that sensitive spot. It's swollen and stiff, that same jolt coursing through me each time I brush my fingertip over it, circling, rubbing, my knees going weak and watery as I watch Angelo. His hand is moving faster now, stroking with quick, sharp movements that seem to match his breathing, and my hand starts to take on a similar rhythm. Watching him seems to be making it better somehow, intensifying the sensations, and my gaze flicks between his pleasure-taut face and his stroking hand.

I wish he'd taken his clothes off.There's something arousing about seeing him sitting there in a suit, doing something that I know heshouldn'tbe doing in his office, in the middle of the day, in front of an open window—but I want to see more of him. I want to see how muscular he is, if his chest is smooth or not, if he has that fine line of hair running down to his cock—what all of his strong, virile, masculine body looks like. I want to touch him, taste—

My eyes go wide as I see him jerk in the chair, his hips lifting off of it as he starts to fuck his hand, thrusting into his fist in a way that I thinkmustbe mimicking the way he'd thrust into a woman, the way he'd thrust intomeif I were on his lap right now, legs spread, all the hot, wet slickness coating my fingers coating that thick length instead, and then—

I stare in open-mouthed shock and curiosity as somethingburstsfrom his cock, sticky-looking fluid spurting over his fingers and hand, making a mess of his suit trousers as he keeps stroking feverishly, his mouth open on a silent groan of pleasure, as if it feels so good that he just doesn't care. As if he can't think about anything other thanhowgood it feels. As I watch, fascinated at the display in front of me, I feel a sudden cresting pleasure in my own abdomen, deep inside of me, responding to both the quick movement of my fingers and what I'm seeing. It's so strong that it almost frightens me, an intense welling of sensation that almost makes me want to pull my hand away, but I chase it instead, my teeth buried in my lower lip as I grip the edge of the doorframe, leaning against it for support as my knees buckle, and a feeling like nothing I've ever experienced or imagined crashes through me.

I don't know how I manage not to make a sound. It's blissful, incredible, making me feel for a moment as if I might pass out from the intensity of it. I'm gasping, my heart racing in my chest, and as I see Angelo blink his eyes open and stare at the mess he's made of his trousers, all I can think is if it feels this good, I think I know why everyone is so concerned with it.

I have a sudden, mortifying image of pushing the door open and going to kneel in front of him, taking his cock in my hand and whispering to him that I'll clean him up, that I'll lick up every drop that he's spilled. It's so vivid that my knees buckle again, more of my own arousal leaking onto my fingers, that pulsing desire still there. He's going to see me any second, I realize with panic as Angelo starts to get out of the chair, no doubt looking for some way to clean himself up, and I yank my hand away, scurrying away from the door and towards the stairs before I can be caught.

Once safely back in my bedroom, door shut and locked behind me, I lean back against it, eyes closed and trying to catch my breath. My heart is still beating a quick, hard pulse in my chest, the vivid image of what I saw Angelo doing burned behind my eyes, my fingers still wet from my own orgasm. I suddenly have a much, much better idea of how all of this works, and my mind is racing with vivid imaginings of my wedding night—of that inside of me, helping slake the burning, aching need that I can still feel pulsing faintly in my veins. Of hands touching me, skin, and—

What else would he do? Would he use his mouth? I feel dizzy at the thought of that, of Angelo's mouth between my legs, replacing my fingers, how it might feel. I've barely given a thought to sex before this, but suddenly, I feel as if I'm on fire with the desire to know, to experience all of this, to explore, and to have all of my questions answered.

And I want Angeloto be the one to answer them. I don't want any other man touching me. I want him. The man who was supposed to be my husband, the one who, for reasons that I don't fully understand, is pushing me away, trying to give me to someone else, when all I want is him.

I trust him. I know he would never hurt me. That he would be gentle with me, careful, that he would take care of me. I even think, despite his caution that I shouldn't expect too much from my future husband, that he would be faithful to me.

What if I could seduce him? The thought feels dangerous—but thrilling, too. What if I could convince him to marry me? That he's what I want? If I could overcome his objections, if I could make him want me the way I want him—maybe I wouldn't have to marry someone else.

Maybe it could be Angelo and I, living here, together in happily wedded bliss. I wouldn't have to leave my home or let myself be touched like that by a stranger, by someone I don't love or even necessarily want.

My father always knew best. He always knew what I needed to be taken care of, to be happy. He thought that Angelo would be that for me—and I think so, too.

The only one who still needs to be convinced is Angelo.