Story Reader
The morning broke warm and still, the kind of Mediterranean calm that makes footsteps sound too loud. Emil eased the door shut behind him, careful not to stir the sleeper in the next room. He carried his sandals until he reached the corner, then slipped them on and walked down to the sea.
The beach was empty except for an old man fishing off the rocks. Emil stripped down and waded straight in, the water cool enough to steal his breath. He swam out until the shore blurred, then floated, staring at the pale pink light crawling over the roofs of the town. The surface hissed softly in his ears—like applause too far away to reach him.
By the time he returned to the promenade, café chairs were being set out. He found a quiet spot under an awning and ordered a coffee, then another, and a plate of fried eggs with tomatoes. A couple at the next table recognized him—the “story man” again. They smiled, whispered, and he nodded back without interrupting their breakfast. Fame of that gentle sort amused him: children stopped him in the street, adults pretended they didn’t recognize him but he could see them through.
The day stretched wide. He wandered through the market, trying on a straw hat he didn’t buy, then drifted to the bookstore to browse kids’ books. The store owner, with whom he sometimes exchanged reading ideas, saved him a collection of Croatian sea legends to look at. He lingered there, reading a tale about a crab that guarded the underwater gate to dawn. The image stayed with him.
He had lunch at a shaded taverna—grilled sardines, a glass of white wine, the kind that made him drowsy in the best way. The afternoon he spent near the harbor, snoozing on a free beach chair, inventing bits of rhyme and rhythm for the evening show. Children’s laughter echoed from the pier; a stray cat brushed his ankle and stayed a while, and he petted its arched back absentmindedly.
Toward six, he reached the small theater by the sea. The stage was half outdoors, framed by pines. Technicians were adjusting lights, teachers herding children into rows, parents chatting in clusters. Huge posters at the entrance read: “Emil Kovpacek in Town! Join us and make a story come alive!” Although it was mid-summer, his slowest season, even at the summer retreat where they liked spending their summers, Emil knew he would get a full house for two months straight every evening.
He changed in the wings into a fresh white shirt, put on his “theater-only” silver necklace and started breathing exercises…
When Emil appeared from behind the curtain, the kids burst into cheers. He bowed low, one hand to his chest, as if greeting a royal court.
The story that night was a new one—the tale of the Crab King who ruled beneath the waves and could make the tide dance to his will. Emil wove it slowly, his voice rising and falling like surf. He invited the children to supply the sound of the sea, the snap of claws, the creak of the ocean gates. They joined in, shouting, giggling, making waves with their arms. He let them lead him, improvising where their excitement carried him.
When the story ended—with the Crab King releasing the dawn and the sea turning gold—Emil jumped up, clapped twice, and said, “And now, my brave crabs—let’s see who remembers the Tide Dance!” He showed them the moves: side-step, clap, two jumps, a twist of the hands like opening shells. Within minutes, the whole amphitheater was scuttling and clapping in rhythm, parents filming, grandmas laughing helplessly.
Afterward, as the children crowded around to give him a “crab hug” he invented on the spot, the parents came with their own questions.
“Do you ever take private bookings?”
“Could you come to our twins’ school in October?”
“Do you have recordings of your shows?”
One woman said her son hadn’t stopped reading since last year’s performance; another asked how he managed to keep every child’s attention for an hour straight. Emil smiled, gave polite answers, promised to send his schedule once autumn came. He stayed until the crowd thinned and the last families drifted toward the parking lot under the blinding white floodlights.
By the time he left, the sea was black and murmuring against the stones. He walked to his temporary home slowly, jacket over his shoulder, the night air inside his mind still full of children’s laughter. The streets were nearly empty now, most shutters drawn.
When he opened his door, the apartment was dark. For a moment, he thought the place was asleep. Then from the shadows came a voice, calm but edged:
“Where have you been?”
***
“Sorry, sir, had a lot of spectators.”
“You always say that.”
“It’s true.”
“Come closer. Still closer. Come on!”
“Please don’t, sir.”
A slap of a leather belt stung his back.
“Please don’t.”
“You want it.”
“No, sir, please don’t.”
Another slap seared his buttocks.
“You do. Get naked.”
“I need a shower, sir. I stink, sir.”
“It’ll wait. I love your stink.”
… He was squished into the bed by the huge man on top of him. First, a giant palm settled between Emil’s shoulder-blades—warm, heavy, commanding—then it slid down the delicate spine until it cupped the small of his back. One steady push and Emil folded: elbows slid forward, his chest sank, his cheek was now turned against the cool cotton pillow that drank his quick, muted breaths.
His lover’s knees nudged him wider apart; the burly man guided them with his own, spreading Emil until his spine curved into a perfect, trembling bow. The bedside lamp turned on, and Emil’s lover growled at the sight of his pale ass cheeks and the shadowed cleft between them, twitching with every rapid heartbeat. The big man felt possessive and powerful on top of Emil, and another growl rumbled, this time angry, almost furious—the sound vibrating through the bedframe—while his broad thumbs traced the sharp cut of hipbones he was already imagining gripping hard when the real rhythm began.
The giant man’s hands engulfed each cheek. His fingers splayed wide and he eased them apart until the skin drew tight and the tiny entrance blinked into lamplight—pink, furled, fluttering with Emil’s quick breaths. Big thumbs met at the top of the cleft and drifted downward, barely grazing the sensitive rim, tracing ghost circles that made the muscle jump and purse. Each light pass drew a faint shine of oil, a silent promise of pressure still withheld, while the big man’s chest rumbled in appreciation at the sight of something so small trusting itself to hands so huge.
A slick thumb gave way to one broad finger with a wide, glistening knuckle—pressing forward until the tight ring kissed the first joint. The big man’s finger twisted slowly, screwing through the resistance, feeling the velvet walls cling and yield in tiny spasms. Emil’s back arched deeper; the giant’s other hand slid up the slender neck, burrowed into soft hair, and closed—gentle but firm—tugging until Emil’s head lifted, throat bared. In the lamplight their eyes met for one charged second: pupil-blown brown staring up, storm-blue gazing down, both reflections trembling in a single pane of shared hunger while the thick digit kept boring deeper.
“It hurts, sir. Ouch, ay! Thank you, sir.”
The second finger slid in alongside the first—thick, insistent, spreading a slow burn that bloomed outward. The big man twisted them apart, scissoring the tight ring wider, then curled both tips inward in a come-here sweep that brushed the small, firm swell hidden inside. Emil’s breath cracked; a shudder rolled up his spine. Behind the intrusion, the giant’s thumb settled on the silky strip between balls and entrance and pressed—firm, steady—pinching that secret circuit between the internal spark and the external pressure. The three points of contact pulsed in rhythm: a curl inside, a press outside, curl, press—until Emil’s hips started rocking on their own, chasing the spark like a moth beating on the glass.
“Aaaah, sir…”
“Quiet.”
“Sorry, sir…. Aaah….”
The giant man’s fingers slipped free in one wet glide, rim flaring open with a soft pop that echoed in the hush. The giant shifted forward, knees planting wide; the blunt crown of his fat cut cock, glossy and thick as a plum, kissed the glistening entrance and stopped. Heat met heat—no push yet. Instead he bent low, chest covering Emil’s back, and closed his teeth on the sharp curve of shoulder blade—gentle clamp, skin dimpling, a silent count of three that said hold still, breathe, take what’s coming. Only when Emil exhaled a trembling sigh did the big man rock his hips a fraction, letting the head breach the first ring of resistance and pause again, savoring the velvet squeeze waiting beyond.
“Shhh…. Ay! Thank you, sir.”
Then just one slow roll of hips followed and the thick shaft sank to the root until the giant man’s coarse hair met the stretched rim and his heavy balls nestled against Emil’s own smaller sack. The big guy then lowered himself, chest blanketing the slender back, belly hard against the dip of Emil’s spine; the stubble on his chin scraped along Emil’s nape and shoulder like rough sandpaper, each breath a rumble felt more than heard. Shallow rocks started—tiny, cruel circles that screwed the head against the deepest wall, grinding without retreat, forcing the smaller man to feel every vein pulsing inside him. The weight pinned Emil flat; the pillow swallowed his gasps as each nudge drove his face deeper, hips pinned, legs spread, his body forming the shape of a drawn bow beneath the heavy bulk that owned him one merciless inch at a time.
“Sir, sir… I can’t breathe…”
“Good.”
“Ay, ay, ay, ay… please, sir.”
“Not a word from you.”
Now with each stroke the big man sent rattling the iron bedframe until the iron screws chirped against wood. His heavy sac swung forward, clapping wet skin on skin, setting a drumbeat that filled the room: slap-slap-slap beneath the rasp of two men breathing. The giant tilted his pelvis, cockhead dragging downward on the withdrawal, then spearing up on the drive—nailing the small, electric gland he’d mapped earlier. Every thrust punched a sound from Emil: muffled, raw, half-sob half-song, the pillow drinking each note while his fists knotted in the sheets as the unrelenting rhythm hammered pleasure straight through him.
“Ay, ay, ay…sir, please, sir… I can’t, it hurts… ah, my spine.”
“Can’t hold it, can you?”
The giant’s chest collapsed onto Emil’s back, his forearm sliding beneath to pin shoulders flat; with the free hand he fisted the young guy’s slender cock in a tight grip. The angle was now deep, ruthless, steep enough to lift Emil’s knees off the sheet each time the crown slammed home. The bed shrieked; its springs wailed in protest. The big man’s hand and cock moved as one brutal engine: slam up into heat, drag down the shaft, twist hard at the base, repeat—until Emil’s vision sparked white and his slit started leaking steadily. The giant’s growls rose to feral grunts, pace stuttering, every third thrust missing the beat as his own crest loomed—balls drawing tight, shaft swelling thicker, the room shrinking to the wet clap of flesh and the animal roar building in his chest.
The giant slammed home one last time, and the first hot jet ripped up his shaft and burst deep—spurt after spurt flooding Emil’s clenched heat, each throb answered by a guttural growl muffled against his sweaty skin. Finally letting himself scream, Emil shook violently and came into his lover’s palm. When the final pulse ebbed the big man still stayed buried, his chest heaving, then slowly drew back his hips just enough to keep the head lodged inside.
Only then did he loosen his grip on Emil’s spent cock; milky streams pooled in the cup of his broad huge palm. He lifted the handful to his mouth, tongue lapping in slow, deliberate strokes—salty-sweet heat sliding down his throat—while Emil shuddered beneath him, feeling every swallow like a second, smaller climax rippling through his bones.
“Mmm, you had that pineapple juice, huh?”
“For you, sir, thank you, sir.”
“Get out of my bed.”
“Thank you, sir, I love you, sir.”
“Whatever.”
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