Page 4 of The Wild Man
Wild Man.
It took me years, but I finally found him.
And holy mother of everything, it was well worth the wait.
He’s currently bathing in one of the springs the area is known to have. One end has a pool of crystal clear water with thick green foliage surrounding the sides. There’s a small path between a section of the foliage that invites a person to dip into the cool water. The other end has a small waterfall that has just enough of a trickle that it perfectly mimics a shower.
Wild Man runs a thick green leaf up and down his muscular arm, using it like a washcloth. He does the same to the other. When he switches to running it over his deeply chiseled chest, my eyes are helpless but to follow the movement.
He’s not built like a linebacker. More like a surfer. He’s stacked with muscles, but they aren’t bulky and excessive. Instead of a six pack, there are eight sharply-cut ridges running down his stomach until they meet a V that I’ve always found ridiculously sexy on men. His pecs flex with each movement of his arms. Other than a small scattering of dark hair on his pecs that travels down his abs, his chest appears smooth and flawless. His skin is deeply tanned, which is expected since he lives outdoors.
My eyes slowly move down the line of muscles and stop where the water gently laps at his waist. Just a small portion of his cock sticks out of the surface. Disappointment is the first thing I feel at not being able to see the full package. If I were a little closer, I’d be able to see through the crystal clear water. Then I feel like a pervert for spying on an unsuspecting man and shame coats my cheeks. Even so, no matter how much guilt I feel, I can’t tear my eyes away from him.
He’s just too damn beautiful to not look at.
His dark hair, which reaches his shoulder blades, is wet and glistens in the sun peeking through the heavy canopy of trees. His cheeks and chin are covered in a thick layer of hair. It’s shorter than what I would have expected, considering the man has lived in the wilderness for most of his life. How does he keep it trimmed? I can’t imagine him having a razor or even know how to use one.
He starts moving toward the edge of the water, and my breath catches. I no longer have to worry about drooling because my mouth dries of moisture. I’m pretty sure every bit of it went between my legs.
I have the perfect profile view of him. And sweet Lord have mercy, if I thought from the waist up he looked good, the view below is damn near perfection.
A tapered waist and a round ass with luscious muscular globes are just as tanned as the rest of his body. But it’s not that part that has my stomach clenching and my legs scissoring back and forth to relieve a needy ache.
With the leaf still in his hand, he wraps his fingers around a dick so thick and long that I can tell all the way from here it would be difficult for any woman to accommodate. I thought I had seen big dicks before, but good God, this one is mammoth. It has to be as thick as my wrist and nearly the length of my forearm.
A shudder ripples down my spine, and I send out imaginary sympathy to any woman who encounters that thing.
As intimidating as it is though, I can’t stop staring at it. Or the way he carelessly strokes his hand up and down. From root to the tip, he twists his wrist. He drops the leaf and fists it bare-handed. He jerks his hand back and forth, the muscles in his arm bulging, moving slowly at first but picking up speed. He looks like he’s squeezing that thing to death.
I move my gaze to his face. His head is tipped back, a sliver of sun shining down on him. It’s hard for me to see from where I am and the beard covering his cheeks, but I can imagine his jaw is clenched.
My panties grow wet. The temptation to reach inside my shorts and swirl the tip of my finger over my clit is nearly too strong to ignore. I want to play just as he’s doing. To flick that sensitive bundle of nerves just as he’s stroking his hard shaft. I’m so damn turned on, it wouldn’t take me long to come.
My eyes travel down his body just in time to see his asscheeks clench. I know that reflex. He’s getting ready to come. Not wanting to miss it, I ignore my mind’s demand that I look away and jerk my eyes back to his cock. Seconds later, a rope of cum spurts from the tip, splashing into the water. Three more arcs of clear-ish liquid squirts out as Wild Man’s hand slows on his cock.
My cheeks must be the color of cherries and sweat dots my forehead. I suck in a sharp breath, trying to regulate my breathing and heart rate. I can’t believe I just watched this man ejaculate. Watched him like a pervert while he was none the wiser.
You are a fucking creepy freak, Everlee. I admonish myself.
Even with that thought in my head, the camera hanging around my neck taunts me. A little teasing voice in the back of my mind whispers for me to take a picture of Wild Man and all his gorgeous glory. I bring the camera to my face, focus the lens, and press the shutter button. I take a couple more for good measure because, you know, just in case the first was blurry.
I disregard my conscience telling me this is for my own pleasure and not for the public’s eyes. Obviously, I can’t put these images in the article I’m writing. I tell myself it’s normal for journalists to document things that never actually make it to the public. It’s strictly for research purposes.
I almost snort out loud at the thought.
Wild Man releases his dick and it flops forward. It bounces to and fro as he exits the water. His legs are toned, tanned, and covered in a dark layer of hair. Water drips down his body, and for a miniscule of a moment, I’m jealous of the drops.
What in the hell is wrong with you, Ever? I reprimand myself. Your job is to witness and document, not ogle the subject.
Wild Man shakes his head like wild animals do and water flies everywhere. The movement also has his dick flapping about so hard it looks painful. Picking up a cloth, he roughly drags it up and down his arms and across his chest.
The shutter on my camera is silent as I take picture after picture.
The cloth gets dropped on a nearby bush. I hold my breath, wondering what he’ll do next. He does nothing. He just stands there, so still he looks like a statue.
After several moments, he walks out of view, leaving the drying cloth behind. I wait and wait and wait for him to reappear. I found Wild Man and where he bathes, but that’s it. I don’t know where he went or where he came from. This part of the forest is thick and spans thousands of acres on all sides. I’ve been wandering around this part since the sun came up this morning. Who knows how long it’ll take me to find him again.
My next move is to get closer to the pool of water and try to track his movements from there, hoping he’s left a trail behind to follow.