Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  down to his knees and playfully shoved him down on the sofa. He grinned up at her, his eyes descending with her as she went down on her knees with a teasing grin.

  It wasn't like last time. No little taunting touches, light licks with a soft wet tongue.

  This time she sucked his hard prick right into her mouth, taking him deep, working her lips and tongue over him with all the hunger he'd put into her with his tormenting caresses of her sex. His scent, his taste familiar, now. His stomach and thighs flexed and twitched, and as her lips felt the tickle of his dark curls he let out a growling groan that was almost as arousing as his touch had been. Slowly she slid the grip of her lips back over the hard length of his shaft, letting her tongue wipe back and forth against the underside as she went, until just the fat smooth head of his prick remained in her mouth.

  She cupped his balls in her hand as she savored the taste and feel of him, cradling the dome in the undulating curl of her tongue, then winding it round and round the girth of him, exploring the texture of the surface—different from all other parts of the body--with the tip of her tongue. Then she plunged him again to the back of her throat, pulling on him again and again with an eager, sucking pressure, reveling in the pleasure she read in his throaty groans.

  Wiggling her hips as she sucked him, she could feel how slippery wet her needful sex was. Maybe she could have waited, but she didn't want to. She slid back, letting his prick pop from her mouth, and looking up at Galen with her cockiest grin, reached into her purse, extracted one of the condoms she'd bought that morning, ripped the wrapper open, rolled the latex sheath down the length of his hard-on, and stood.

  Fuck, she wanted to feel him inside her. Watching him watch, she hiked the sides of her skirt up, caught hold of her panties, slid them down her legs, and off. She 64

  straddled his thighs. He was breathing hard, watching her face. To guide his eyes, and to see for herself, she looked down as she lifted the front of her skirt, baring her sex. It looked so pale next to his inflamed prick, vivid even through the snug sheath of latex.

  Feeling bold, nasty, wanting to prove something—to herself or to him—she reached between her thighs and, using two fingers, spread herself open, baring the deep pink of her inner folds.

  Except for sliding his hands up under her skirt, resting his warm palms on the tops of her thighs, he didn't touch her. Panting, he just watched. Waited for her.

  She shifted her hips forward, and pressed her moist, open sex to the underside of his erect prick. Watched her delicate folds embrace him, then hide as she raised herself, inch by inch, her sensitive nerves stirred as she rubbed her sex along his shaft.

  Then down. Then up again, until she was poised to take him in. She sank down, and his hard prick rose up inside of her, her sex slowly opening to receive the tender, curved head, trying to close over it as she moved, down, down, and the rest of his length rose, up, up, until he filled her.

  When she was on top, like this, the tiniest movements brought her off. Just rolling her hips in a circle spanning all of a centimeter or two let her clit rub against him, let the inside of her feel him in the most delicious way. His soft hands glided over her thighs, rounded her hips, caressed her ass, but never suggested a change in speed or motion.

  Just a connecting touch. She was close. She let him see, let him hear. Held his gaze, whimpered out loud. And then, still moving slowly, subtly, her climax bubbled up and spilled over. She went still to let her body feel the fading echoes, the diminishing spasms of the aftermath. In some ways, that was her favorite part.

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  When her eyes focused, he was watching her so intently she felt herself blush.

  He gave her a little smile, his expression sweet but perhaps a little sad. She didn't let herself wonder what that expression meant. She was here for a fuck, not some emotional drama. Let him pity her, write her off, whatever. His dick was still hard, inside of her. It was time to fuck him. Get him off.

  She began to move. Not the way she moved for herself, but rolling her hips in undulating waves, rising high, crashing down, expelling the full length of him almost completely as she crested each swell before pulling him completely inside again. After her climax, the feel of him inside of her was a kind of pleasant pain, his hardness prodding her hypersensitized depths. It made her want to bounce up and down on his prick, ramming him into her, like throwing herself on a sword of sorts. But her masochistic drive was overruled by her desire to hold on to her control. Her power over him. So, slowly, she rolled on, wave after wave, taking in his arrhythmic breathing, the seeking look in his eyes, the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. She had him.

  Until he had her, folded in his arms. Soft. Warm. Their chests pressed together through his long-sleeved T and her sweater. He held her close, dampening her motion, putting it all in slow motion. But, as she cradled his head in her arms, his face touching her face, his mouth open against her cheek, his breathing told her his climax was closing in on him. She rolled, forward and up and back and down and forward until his panting escalated, gained voice, swelled to wavering groans in her ear, until his long, thick body shuddered beneath her, until his fingers clawed at her sweater, balling two handfuls into the grip of his fists.

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  She was preparing to dismount when he tightened the circle of his arms, pulling her tight against him. She felt his lips on her cheek in a single, lingering kiss, felt the swell of his chest with every deep breath as he slowly calmed. He held her there for a long time before finally opening his arms to let her go. But again, as she started to rise, he touched her—curved his hand around the back of her neck, coaxing her to stay. He was still inside of her. He smiled.

  "That was lovely, Vanka," he sighed, still a little breathless. "But it's not what you came for. Is it?"

  * * * *

  He made coffee and they sat on his patio, the city spread below them looking like it was coated in a thin layer of orange sherbet, but smelling like smog.

  "So, Vanka. Where's this David of yours?"

  "David?" She didn't remember telling him anything about David.

  "Number four?"

  Ah, yes. Some lingering feeling of loyalty poked her with guilt, hearing a man she'd fucked twice refer to David as “number four.”

  "He at home, waiting for you to get back from grocery shopping or work, or wherever he thinks you are?"

  "That's a pretty opinion you seem to have of me."

  "My opinion of you, based as it is on the little bit of time we've spent together, is quite high. Almost unprecedentedly so, as a matter of fact."

  "And you think I'm cheating on someone?"

  He grinned. “I have a question for you.”

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  “Hmmm?” she hummed, guarded.

  “Do you think a person can love, be in love with more than one person?”

  “At the same time?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.”

  “I get the feeling you've thought about this before.”

  “I get the feeling you're a little shocked.”

  “Maybe I am, a little.”

  “People who have children can love more than one, can't they?”

  “But that's not sexual.”

  “No. But all relationships have the potential for jealousy—siblings and parents, friends, lovers. But outside of sexual relationships, most people expect that we'll all figure out how to cope with our needs and insecurities. With sexual relationships, people usually argue that it's biology that makes people possessive of their mates. It's about procreation. But a child's desire for the attention of her parents is about survival, too. But little children learn to accept their parents sharing their love with brothers and sisters. Some even learn to share their toys and Halloween candy.”

  “So grown-ups should be able to share their toys too?”

  “At least it's a theory.”

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  “But that doe
sn't answer my question. You only talked about a person accepting that their lover loves someone else. Can one person be in love with two, three, four different people at the same time?”

  “I say yes. I mean, everyone has their own idea of what it means to be in love, and probably for a lot of people, the root of being in love is loving one other, exclusively.

  But . . .”

  “What?” Galen's grin was playful, but his eyes were chiseling into her.

  “Most people are in love with more than one person during their lifetime. I tend to think that the only reason more people don't find themselves in love with more than one person at a time is because they don't let themselves. Or they don't admit it when it happens.”

  Galen just sat there, grinning and studying her.

  “Well? What do you think?”

  "We can delve into my views on monogamy another time. For now, just trust that I didn't mean to insult you."

  "Why ask about David?"

  "Just curious about you. Your life."

  "We're not together anymore."

  Galen looked vaguely shocked.

  "What?"

  "I don’t know," he said, blatantly reassessing her. "I'd never have guessed you were single."

  She gave him her, “what the fuck are you talking about?” eyebrow raise.

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  "It's an intuitive thing. You seemed . . . partnered to me."

  She felt a little disappointed that the indignant anger she should be feeling wasn't coming on.

  "Well," she conceded, "it's recent. The breakup. Maybe I haven't had time to cultivate my vibe of desperation."

  "When?"

  "The day I met you." She had no idea why she was answering his questions.

  "Did he . . . get scared?" he asked, his tone suddenly soft. Cautious.

  "What? About the cancer? He doesn't know. I didn't even tell him I was having the procedure. The lumpectomy."

  "So, what happened?"

  Yellows and oranges were melting from the buildings and blocks, running down the city streets.

  "When I found the lump, even before I really decided I knew what it was, there was a shift. I saw . . . I perceived my life—the things that make up my life—differently.

  Things I'd thought were little problems, things I could live with, were suddenly thrown into relief, and I saw how big they were. And other things, that had seemed big, overwhelming, just didn't matter anymore."

  "So you left him?"

  "I knew that if I told him what was going on, he'd need to stay with me. Take care of me. I couldn't have stood that. I don't love him anymore. So I told him that. Told him I'd stay at a hotel until he finds a place."

  "How long were you with him?"

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  "Almost two years."

  "And you're not going to tell him?"

  "No."

  The guilt she'd been feeling for days, ever since she'd decided, welled up fast and hard. She suddenly felt anxious. Nauseous. She stared off into the city-melting sunset, willing herself to calm. It was the right thing. It was.

  When she turned away from the horizon, back to Galen, he was gazing at her.

  Assessing. Pondering. Working her out. And she didn't care. Another thing she'd let go—not wanting people to look inside of her.

  * * * *

  Galen didn't seem to want her to leave. Every time she made a move to go he gave her a reason to stay. First the coffee. Then he lured her into the hot tub, where she thought he'd surely fuck her again, but where, instead, he gave her the best foot massage she could remember ever getting. Then, apparently, it was necessary that they both have showers, but separately. She was shown to the guest bath, for that. And then, long after it had gone dark, he made dinner. They'd passed hour after hour together, in tense quiet. Except for the coffee klatch, they'd hardly talked.

  And through it all she was dying for him to touch her, to kiss her. To fuck her. Not like that afternoon, on the couch. Like that first night. She fixated on parts of him: his mouth as he took a drink of water, his lips pressed to the clear glass, imagining them touching her lips, her neck, her sex; his hands as he kneaded the arches and balls of her feet, remembering the feel of his grip on her wrists, the contrast of the delicate way he'd touched her nipples, her cunt. His smile. Prickles danced between her shoulder 71

  blades at the memory of his teasing grin as he'd taunted her, even scared her the other night. Even the sound of his voice shaping mundane phrases—telling her where she'd find clean towels, asking her if she'd like wine with dinner—reminded her of the deep, low growl he made when he felt pleasure, when he was close to climax. By the time they'd finished eating, she was a nervous mass of need. When he asked her to go for a drive with him, she almost came back with, “Jesus, Galen. Aren't you ever going to fuck me?' But, frustrated and wanting as she was, she just said, “Sure.”

  When Galen pulled the car alongside the curb in front of Toys in Babeland, and she saw dildos and vibrators arrayed in rows spreading across the expanse of storefront window like some surreal Technicolor mountain range, she felt an unsettling confluence of relief and apprehension trickling into her hot, pulsing veins. She looked over. There was that grin. She was in.

  They stepped inside. Galen drew her over to a corner at the front of the store and stood behind her, so they both had a view of the venue and all the toys on offer. Her focus flitted around the room, from display to display, locking onto a swirly glass dildo one moment, a frighteningly enormous red rubbery-looking thing the next, as she tried to take it all in. His hands resting on her shoulders, Galen kissed her neck, then mouthed her earlobe, making all her skin feel tight and tickly, then biting it so hard she almost yelped out loud and her eyes suddenly felt wet and stinging before an incredible cascade of tingles washed down her entire body. It was at that moment she realized he was the best lover she'd had.

  "Vanka," he sighed near her ear, his voice and his warm breath prolonging the tingling sensation cloaking her body, "we're going to get you a toy."

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  The idea, the feel of his lips brushing faintly against her lobe as he spoke, the feel of his hands sliding over her shoulder and down to her arms, everything had her feeling vaguely drunk. Hot and soft, unsteady.

  "But first, I want you to take me around the store and tell me which toys you've used, with who, and how you liked them."

  Clearly Mr. Galen Ross had not yet gleaned that she wasn't . . . whatever . . .

  whoever would have tall tales to tell about an assortment of objects to be found there.

  Or maybe he had. Maybe the point was to make her blush and squirm and stutter as she confessed her innocence, or attempted to cover it up with thinly woven fabrications about a more illustrious sexual history.

  "Well, it's going to be a short tour."

  "Is it?"

  He sounded aroused. Through the center of her body a cord of rousing tension felt like it had just been pulled slowly, taut. Feeling a tad ridiculous, she led him around as she glanced over the various articles until she saw something that looked . . .

  intimately familiar. Taking the sample item from the shelf to which it was tethered by a piece of shoplifter-proof nylon cord, she held up for Galen's amusement what was probably the most ordinary item in the entire store: a plain old vibrator of modest size and beige color.

  He raised one eyebrow, grinned, and waited for the story. She smiled, blushed for some reason, and narrated her relationship with the doppelganger of the off-white plastic rocket in her hand.

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  "Right. After . . . guy number one, when I was single for a while, I bought a book on masturbating, and orgasms, and . . . inspired by something in that book, I bought a vibrator. I used it off and on for a while. It never had the . . . effect I was going for, and after a while I reverted to my usual M.O."

  "Which is what?"

  Funny how embarrassing the idea of answering that question seemed. Everyone does it, right? And she'd slept with the guy.
But still. . . . She looked around, checking to see if anyone was listening to their conversation. None of the six or seven people in the store seemed to have the least interest in them.

  "I just . . . use my hand."

  "How?"

  "Just . . . over my panties."

  "And?"

  "I just massage myself. Rub my clit."

  "You don't put your fingers inside yourself?"

  She'd tried that a few times, but really, it hadn't done much for her.

  "No."

  "What about the wax job? I thought you said you did that because you liked the feeling of your soft, bare skin when you touched yourself."

  "I . . ."

  Fuck. She hadn't meant to lie. It was true, about touching herself over her panties. That's how she always started. She looked furtively around. It was just so embarrassing, talking like this, here in public.

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  "After a while," she said, lowering her voice even from the whisper she'd been using, "when I'm close, I go under my panties and touch myself."

  He put his hand to the back of her head, pulled her close, whispered in her ear,

  "dip your finger in, between your lips, into your wet cunt, and slide your finger over your clit, and get yourself off."

  Fuck. Damn. Her sex was pounding.

  "Yes."

  He let her go, playfully tugging a strand of her hair as he withdrew his hand, grinning at her mischievously. Sudden heat touched her cheeks. He was hard.

  Deliciously, obviously hard.

  "Any of your lovers use it on you?"