Varian Krylov

by Hurt

"Just a scar."

  He seemed to be in awe. Not just the scar. Not even just her breasts. Her. The whole situation. He stared like a figure frozen by a comic book villain, but his breath was rapid. Audible.

  "It's OK. Touch me."

  She tried to say it softly. And she smiled as kindly as she could.

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  The hand that had touched her skin close to her scar and then retreated to his lap came back, mirrored by its companion. For a second she thought he was going to go for it, just grab her tits artlessly, like a boy who doesn't know better or a man who doesn't care enough. But the trajectory changed and his palms landed on her ribs, right below her breasts. He was breathing awfully hard now, almost hyperventilating, but obviously trying to be quiet about it. Then, slowly, the panting boy, the professed virgin, raised his hands until they cupped her breasts.

  He was so still she was almost annoyed for a moment, because it brought her no pleasure and it was kind of awkward, waiting for him to do something. But then she thought how it must feel to him, holding her warm flesh in his hands like that, having a woman he didn't know at all let him touch her, what it would have been like for her, at that age, to touch a man that way, or hold his cock in her hand. Or even now. There is something more to touching than giving and taking pleasure; nudging nerves toward a symphony of pleasure culminating in climax. That sense of another's body. Of warmth and softness and trust. And just touching flesh not one's own. The astonishing, thrilling difference.

  She smiled. After a nervous glance, he began to move his hands. There was nothing stirring in his touch but the context. His innocence made his exploratory touches rousing. He sighed a little with every exhale, and that soft sound softened and warmed her. Maybe she couldn't use it, but she had the sudden urge to feel his mouth. She pushed his hand away, took in his look of embarrassed fear, petted his hair, stroked his cheek, and pulled him to her. Gave him her breast. With a little groan, he put his mouth to her.

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  She moaned and clutched him to her. He sucked the way she imagined an infant would nurse: driven by need and instinct. Now her body was reacting to him. Now she was panting with him.

  They were already past what she could use for the piece. She pulled back, and when he leaned forward, going with her, following her breast, still diligently sucking, she pressed her hands to his shoulders and, trying to be gentle, pushed him back.

  "Thanks, Mike." She made her voice gentle. "We're done. That was perfect."

  He looked a little disoriented, a little disappointed, like she'd wakened him from a nice dream.

  "You got what you need?" he asked, trying to smooth the excitement from his voice, trying to sound professional.

  "Yes. You did great."

  "Really?" He smiled, nervous. "Good."

  She had him sign a release form, paid him, and walked him to the door. But she didn't open it. He was still breathing erratically, his eyes alternately avoiding and fixating on her breasts--half-heartedly hidden under the sheer blouse she'd casually closed with a single button—and her face. Especially her mouth. And it looked like he had a length of pipe stuffed into the front of his jeans. Virgin or not, he wanted her. At least his body did.

  Yes, the kid had probably lied, but the idea of fucking a virgin was suddenly, violently arousing.

  "Mike."

  He raised his eyes and blushed.

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  "Would you like to stay a little longer?"

  "Yes," he said uncertainly.

  She touched his thigh, drew her hand up over the coarse, loose denim until her hand was curved over the thick cylinder of his hard-on and he was breathing so hard he was almost gasping. She slid her hand down and up again along the length of his denim-sheathed erection, then slipped her hand inside his jeans, loose on his hips, and cuffed his thick cock through his briefs. From the way he whimpered and shuddered, for a second she thought he was going to lose it right there by the door. But she gave him a moment and he pulled it together.

  She took him back to the bedroom and undressed while he watched, then told him to take his clothes off. His nervousness, exacerbated by his shyness as he started to undress, became almost painful to watch, and she felt a pang of guilt that the extra twinge of arousal she was suddenly feeling came from the pleasure of feeling a kind of power over him. Because she thought it would turn him on, and possibly shock him a little, she touched herself while he stripped, sliding a finger between, into her wetness, rubbing herself slowly. His eyes honed in and locked on, and his undressing slowed, but finally the shirt, the shoes, and the socks were off, and she watched with a feeling of anticipation as he undid his jeans and slid them and the white briefs down. The kid was hung. Even bigger than she'd guessed from the feel by the door.

  After she'd gotten a condom on him, she let him climb on top of her, and his trembling, his urgency was touching, but he had no sense of how to please her, and so, even though she kissed and caressed and sighed for him, really she was feeling more curiosity, a distant sort of interest, than arousal or pleasure, and soon it was over. She 125

  held his hot, damp, trembling body until it stopped shuddering and panting. When he lifted himself and looked at her, guilt stung her. He looked sad. Remorseful.

  “Was I awful?” he asked.

  “No,” she promised, smiling, petting his damp hair. “Was I?” she teased.

  “No! God, no. That was . . .” his smile was huge. Artless. “But you didn't . . . Did you?”

  “No, I didn't. But we're just getting started. Unless you've got to be somewhere.”

  * * * *

  "Hello, Vanka."

  "Hello, Galen."

  "You recognize my voice? Or have you got my number programmed?"

  "Both."

  "Come over tonight?"

  "When?"

  She heard a soft laugh. Maybe he'd expected her to be a bit more coy.

  "How about nine?"

  "Good."

  "Good," he echoed in a teasing tone. "See you then."

  "See you then. Bye."

  Her hand shook as she pressed the little disconnect button on the keypad of her cell. Timing was everything.

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  "Want a drink?"

  "Am I going to need one?"

  He smiled.

  "How about a Manhattan?"

  "How old school."

  "I do appreciate the classics."

  She watched as he mixed and poured, then dropped a cherry into each glass.

  "You're doing a much better job of stocking your bar these days."

  "I have company a lot more these days."

  "What about Khalid?"

  "He was never here that often. And he's not much of a drinker."

  They clinked glasses and sipped.

  "You seem to have healed all right," she said, affectionately touching the places on his face she'd cut and bruised her last night there. Looking at him, touching him, a melancholy yearning welled up in her. She felt fragile. Needy. Unfamiliar, uncomfortable feelings.

  He pressed his hand to hers where it was, curved against his cheek, turned his face, kissed her palm.

  "You coming back here. Does that mean you trust me?"

  "No."

  "Then you're afraid?"

  She didn't answer. She just let him look in, read her. He leaned in, put his lips by her ear.

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  "It excites me, the way your fear arouses you."

  Her body was already hot and quivery with fear and want when her lips brushed against his, and they sank into a long, deep kiss that went on and on as if it wasn't a prelude to something else, and it occurred to her, long moments into that kiss, that it was the first time they'd just made out, like kids. The closeness, the heat of him, the feel of his body, tall and broad and hard, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, all of it sated her want and fed it at the same time, growing it bigger and bigger.

  "What are you afraid of?" he panted against her lips.

  "What?" />
  "You're afraid. Of me. Of . . . things I might do. What scares you the most?"

  It occurred to her that a confession would be a kind of invitation.

  "I don't know."

  "Yes, you do. One thing. What is it?"

  She didn't want it. She didn't. The fear was real. Nauseatingly real.

  "You won't tell me?" he asked with a playful smile.

  She shook her head. No.

  "It's all right. I already know."

  She laughed.

  "Oh you do, do you?"

  "The thought of being tied up scares you out of your mind."

  Her blood seemed to have drained out of her. She felt cold. A little faint. She tried to smile, to laugh.

  "I see I'm right."

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  "Don't be too proud of yourself. Who wouldn't be afraid of that? With someone like you?" she added with the venom that always welled up in her whenever he backed her into a corner.

  "Come here."

  He took her hand and led her down the hall, into his room. Affixed to the headboard of his bed was a contraption of polished wood and dark leather, with stainless steel rings glinting here and there in the dim light. Her stomach twinged.

  "What would you do to me? If I let you?"

  "Whatever I want. That's the point."

  "People . . . I thought people set limits."

  He laughed a little.

  "Sure, you can tell me what's okay, what's not okay. You can pick a safe word.

  But then, you're trusting me to leave you in control, when the point is for you to relinquish control. To put yourself totally in my hands, and see what I do to you."

  "No."

  She turned to walk out of the room. A sickening, softening sensation slogged through her as she felt his hands clamp down on her shoulders.

  "Yes, Vanka. Yes."

  That he wanted it so much made her suspicious, increased her fear and the hot throb in her sex. He might really hurt her. What kind of person had an elaborate contraption like that? Maybe he wanted revenge for what she'd done last time. All the bruises and cuts she'd given him. Once she was bound, he could do anything. Kitchen 129

  knives glinted, the cherries of cigarettes glowed orange-red in her mind's eye, then faded away.

  She didn't trust him. But one thing she knew with her whole being: whatever he'd do to her, he'd do with his own body. His cock. His mouth. Maybe his fists. Maybe with fingers pressed to her windpipe. But definitely his flesh.

  Some dark, masochistic part of her wanted it. All the fear, all the hurt he'd give her. But the rest of her felt like it was softening, shrinking, melting, as she let him turn her back toward the bed, drove her toward it, laid her down on it, slipped the wide black cuffs over her hands, pulled them snug against her wrists and fastened them.

  It felt like he'd pulled a noose closed around her neck.

  Fuck. She'd done it. She'd really put her well-being—her life—in his hands. In that one moment she felt, rather than thought, his absolute power over her. Her utter loss of control, she wanted to cry. It wasn't even fear of what would happen. Of what he'd do. It was just the fact of being helpless that horrified her. Even if he'd laid down beside her and just held her, the terror would have been unbearable.

  Of course, he didn't just lie down and hold her.

  "Now," he said with saccharine cruelty, "you can let go completely. You can do, say anything, without worrying that I'll heed you. Beg and plead all you want. I won't let that stop me. Promise."

  Sealing his words, he pressed a tiny kiss to her neck, releasing a cascade of chilling tingles down her body.

  "It's funny," he said, going up on his knees and looking down at her, "without even thinking about particulars, just the idea that I could do anything to you has me . . . "

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  He paused to take inventory, ". . . rock hard." He ran his palm over the bulge in his pants. "And when I do start to think about the specific things I might do . . ." He was getting breathless.

  So was she. She couldn't take this.

  "Galen," she said, startled to hear how tiny, how weak her voice sounded, "untie me."

  She'd meant it to be an imperative. A calm, polite order. But it came out a plea.

  Hyperventilating, sure she was suffocating, she waited. He would. He had to.

  He descended, until his body's warmth enveloped her, until his nose almost touched hers, and he looked into her.

  "I haven't even touched you, yet."

  "Please, Galen," she pleaded on purpose this time.

  "And pass up the pleasure of hearing that little warble in your voice? And feeling that quiver in your body?"

  He kissed her, covering her mouth with his, sliding his tongue against hers.

  Tender, but deep and long, making it even harder for her to breathe. A demanding kiss.

  A possessive kiss. It terrified her, even though she didn't resist, because she knew she couldn't. It hurt her, that a tender kiss from . . . her lover could induce panicked terror.

  He stopped. She sucked in a desperate breath, taking in that he was riled up. Hot and panting. He was enjoying her helpless fear.

  "Now," he breathed in her ear, "I'm going to strip you."

  She'd never been shy about nudity. About her body. But the way he said it—“I'm going to strip you”—did something to her. Made her feel like a victim. He pulled the thin 131

  sweater she was wearing up, and left the gathers bunched under her arms and chin.

  Over her little camisole he cupped her breasts, rubbing her hardening nipples through the silk, driving an urgent twinge through her abdomen, into her sex.

  "Can't keep quiet, can you?" he sighed by her ear when his touch made her groan. "That's good. I like the sound of your little cries."

  His comment prodded a defiant urge to life, but she whimpered out loud, and her arms strained against their bonds when he hiked the camisole up, baring her belly, baring her breasts, and sucked her nipple into his mouth, rubbing the tip with his tongue. Everything—the restraints on her wrists, the weight of him on her, his heat, his smell, the feel of his mouth on her, the wet suckling sound—was making her throb, making her writhe, making her pant and whine.

  Then he was up, kneeling over her, straddling her legs, unfastening her belt, unzipping the fly of her slacks, pulling her pants and her underwear down, over her hips, down her thighs, down, down, and off. He stood, walked around to the side of the bed, and sat.

  "So pretty," he sighed, looking her over. "So vulnerable." He curved his hand over her sex and she gasped as, without prelude, he slid a finger into her. "Mmmmm.

  And so wet."

  He pumped his finger in and out of her, only a little constrained by the way her thighs were clamped together. She shuddered as he pulled his hand away, leaving her with an aching throb of want, and a feeling of having been violated.

  The mattress shifted under her as Galen stood and started to strip. Prone and tied, she thought he seemed bigger. Stronger. The muscles in his arms—thick and 132

  round above the elbow, long and sinewy below—seemed more defined. As he finished undressing and mounted the bed, his cock looked fiercely hard.

  She gasped and shuddered as he forced her legs open—wide open—and settled down between them. She had struggled, at first, the muscles along the insides of her thighs straining instinctively, futilely against the strength of his arms, but after, she didn't bother bringing her knees together again. He'd only force them apart once more.

  "I love your smell, Vanka. The smell of your cunt makes me want to fuck you . . ."

  Her body seized as he ran his tongue up her slit.

  ". . . taste you," he growled, his breath breezing over her moist sex.

  Looking down, past the length of her torso, bare except for the scrunch of sweater beneath her chin, at Galen crouched between her legs, his face an inch from her sex, she watched two fingers crest the horizon, land on her smooth, rose-pink labia, and open her. When his mo
uth covered her, his lips sealing against her flesh as if he were eating a peach and didn't want to let any juice escape, the touch of his tongue sparked through her like an electric shock, jolting her body, forcing a startled cry into the open.

  "Don't you dare cum, Vanka," he teased. "I want you wanting, when I fuck you."

  The next touch of his tongue made her whimper, and as he went on kissing her, she writhed against his mouth.

  "Stop. Stop."

  She couldn't hang on, not if he kept at her like that. He stopped, pressed his lips to the inside of her thigh in three little kisses with, she supposed, a dual purpose. Then he grinned up at her from beneath an arched eyebrow.

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  "All right, Vanka. I'll stop. But that's the last of your pleas I'll heed tonight.

  And with that he bit her. A sharp nip at the tender flesh inside her thigh.

  Adrenaline surged and a heat spread over her face, down her neck and chest. Her speeding heart rate tapered and slowed as the pain solidified, throbbing just below her pulsing sex.

  She was afraid again.

  Galen went up on his knees, seemed to tower over her as his big hands curved around her thighs and pushed her legs together again. He straddled her, leaned over her, put his face by hers. "I guess it's obvious, how much I'm looking forward to fucking you."

  When he straightened up she fixated involuntarily on his flagrant erection. She heard Galen's low chuckle as he brought his hand to his prick and slowly stroked it while she watched. He pulsed his grip on the shaft, tight and loose, a few times, then delicately caressed the head with the pads of two fingers.

  Want. She wanted it inside her. Wanted to feel that sleek smooth dome open her, wanted to feel the thick, hard length of him filling her. She zoomed out, took all of him in.

  His hard thighs parted in a V around her hips, his big hand stroking his hard cock, his flat belly, his defined chest, with its narrow thatch of dark hair between the pecs; his broad shoulders; his muscular arms. And him. His face. His coffee-colored eyes reading her, his grin swinging up on the left, his laugh lines. She wanted him inside her.