Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  She caught her breath and swallowed.

  “Will you let me, Vanka?”

  She looked up at Galen and let him watch her as she said “yes” to Khalid, as Khalid slowly worked his cock into her ass, and as he fucked her.

  What had she thought? That she'd be someone else. But Khalid was fucking her, Galen was watching her. Then Khalid had told Galen to kiss her, to open her and kiss 160

  her and drink them, and Galen had gone still, strangely still, and when he'd touched her legs to part she'd stiffened, and he'd said, “Vanka,” with that laughing, demanding grin, and she'd spread for him. And then they'd all shifted and Galen was under her, his mouth sealed over her cunt, his tongue stroking into her sex, making her come while Khalid went on fucking her. And it wasn't some stranger, it was her, Vanka, when Galen went into her, too, and, buoyed and cradled between them they both surged up and over, both inside of her and instead of feeling reckless or dirty or like she'd gone mad, she felt warm and loved and safe.

  Later, in Galen's bed, they were all soft and quiet and warm and clean after all their fucking and a group shower. On either side of her, they nuzzled in and were kissing her breasts. Both nipples tongued and nibbled and sucked, it was an almost unbearable pleasure, even in the wake of all the pleasure that had come before. Galen's hand settled over her sex and teased her just gently, but she came deliciously, passively, without a single flex in search of it. Her mouth under Galen's kiss, then Khalid's. It was so good, so sweet, she felt so cared for, that under those kisses she blushed for the ugly things she'd thought about them both that first night with Khalid.

  “You kiss, too,” she panted between them.

  Galen smiled down at her, and she followed his shifting gaze over to Khalid.

  “Not now, Vanka.” Khalid's gentle voice thrummed with finality. “This, tonight, is about you.”

  * * * *

  Little kisses. Fingers combing through her hair. His smell. Galen.

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  “Morning, sleepy,” he lilted, then kissed her, his lips lingering soft and warm on hers. “Sorry to wake you.”

  Galen was perched on the edge of the bed, leaning over her. Khalid wasn't in the bed anymore.

  “What time is it?”

  Early. Seven. I didn't want to wake you, but I wanted to say good-bye.”

  “Mmmm?”

  “I have to catch my flight.”

  “Flight?” She struggled through her sleepiness, up to sitting.

  “Chile?” he prompted.

  “Chile?”

  “Vanka,” he grinned, amused, “are you that groggy? Or didn't you get my message?”

  She gave him the eyebrow.

  “It just came up yesterday. A project. I'm meeting with the director in Chile.

  They're completely wound up that I've got to see some ruins there, that there's no point in pitching the film, otherwise. I left you a message on your cell yesterday morning.”

  “Oh.”

  “Can you ferry Khalid back to Silverlake? I promised I'd drive him back, but of course now I'm running late. He's actually not that far from you.”

  “Sure, yeah.”

  “And Thursday. I'm sorry. We'll have to postpone 'til I get back. Next Wednesday? How's that sound?”

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  Suddenly, she was cold. Shaking, she felt so cold.

  “Sure,” she breathed.

  “Last night,” Galen was saying, his breath caught up in her hair, heating her ear, her neck, “you were fucking delicious. When I get back, next Wednesday, you and I are going to wear each other out.” Now he was looking at her, the ardor melting away, furrow making a shadow between his eyebrows. “Hey, are you feeling OK?”

  “Mmmmm. Just half asleep.”

  Galen smiled, looking earnest. Boyish.

  “Back to sleep, then.” He kissed her. “See you in a few days.”

  “Bye.”

  Her body felt weak and too light, naked soles pressed to the cool wood floor, shakey legs scissoring her over to the bedroom door. He'd packed. Maybe the day before. At the end of the hall he was saying good-bye to Khalid. A hug. No kiss. No caress. A murmur and a smile and Galen stooped for his bags and disappeared from the aperture at the end of the hall, and a second later a wedge of sunlight cut across the floor and bleached Khalid for a brief moment, then narrowed and disappeared. As if Galen had been the victim of an alien abduction.

  Rushing, she pulled on panties and a T-shirt, afraid the aperture would open and Khalid would be beamed away, too.

  “Good morning,” he said as she came down the hall.

  “Morning.”

  He was looking at her. Too intently.

  “I hear Galen's left you stranded. May I be of service?”

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  “Are you sure you do not mind? I can call a cab.”

  “No, yes, it's fine. Sounds like we're neighbors.”

  “Mind if I have a shower? Or do you need to get going?”

  “Take your time. I'm working from home today.”

  She knew Khalid was walking off, down the hall. She knew, because she was waiting. Waiting. Holding herself together. Then waiting, waiting, but nothing. Like she'd been packed tight with sawdust. So, she wouldn't fall down sobbing, after all. She'd just get her things and when Khalid was ready, they'd drive off. And that would be it.

  * * * *

  “Vanka.”

  Khalid touched her stick hand just before she'd levered into reverse to back down the drive. She made herself turn and look at him. Flayed. Open. Every nerve laid bare to his gaze. But it wasn't Galen's scalpel look cutting into her. Khalid's gaze was warm.

  Gentle.

  “You seem,” he paused, serene and still until he chose his words, “unhappy this morning.”

  All she had to do was make it through the next twenty, twenty-five minutes. Just to Silverlake, to his house, to the moment after he'd clicked his seatbelt open and opened the door and unfolded himself to standing and shut the door and she'd put it into first and put a definitive block or two behind her.

  “Are you sorry about last night?” he asked.

  “No.”

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  “We didn't hurt you? I mean to ask, we didn't do anything to make you feel bad?

  Galen and I—did we push things too far?”

  Her chest went tight and heavy at Khalid's expression, his voice. More than concern. Fear. Or hurt.

  “Khalid, last night, I'm grateful.”

  His serene look was back, tinged with silent laughter.

  “I mean, I feel fortunate, having had that. It was gorgeous.”

  “Yes, for me, too.”

  She couldn't look at him anymore. She got the car in gear and got on the road.

  "Khalid."

  "Yes."

  "Tell me about you and Galen."

  Her eyes were on on the sun-glazed asphalt and cars, but to the side she noticed as he turned toward her. When she glanced over, Khalid smiled as he usually did, without baring his teeth.

  "What do you mean by that? Tell you what about me and Galen?"

  "You're lovers?"

  "Why do you ask me? Why not talk to Galen about this?"

  He sounded amused.

  "I did. He said that he gave me his story, and I should get yours from you."

  Khalid laughed softly. He'd never done that before, in front of her.

  "Did he explain to you that he isn't gay?"

  "He said you're the only man he's ever fucked."

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  "Yes. Well, if he ever fucks another, he'll have to work very hard to restore his heterosexual self-image, I suppose."

  "I sort of gathered you were both bi."

  "Did you?"

  "Yes."

  "Because we've both fucked you, and fucked each other?"

  "Yes."

  "I suppose we are. But mind you don't say such things to Galen."

  "Why?"

  "Mmmmm," he hummed, routing around for his answer, "Galen is an
open-minded person, you know. In many ways. But his—framework?—there's straight, and there's gay. And bi is gay. And he's not gay."

  She laughed.

  "OK. So how do you fit in, then?"

  "Not very well."

  His voice had gone sad.

  "We met in Paris. Did you know?"

  "Mmmhmmm."

  "It was for his movie. That's why he was there. Unusual, I think, how long they stayed to shoot that film. More than one year."

  For some reason it surprised her, how wistfully he was telling his story.

  "Henry Miller said that Paris is an obstetrical instrument that tears living embryos from wombs and puts them in incubators. He was speaking of conflict, of human drama.

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  Sometimes I think that if I had met Galen anywhere else, nothing would have happened between us."

  Khalid smiled, and Vanka suspected he was laughing at himself. Then, forgetting about Miller and conflict and forceps, he started again.

  "Have you been to Paris?"

  "No."

  "All over Paris there are cafés, and on the sidewalk outside the cafés are tables and chairs. Paris culture is to sit outside, at these little tables, drinking coffee or beer or wine, having one's food, with friends, or reading."

  "Just like in the movies," she said playfully, making an inside joke to which Khalid couldn't know she was privy.

  "Depending on the movie, yes."

  He grinned and took his eyes off the road for a moment to show her he'd guessed what Galen had been saying about him behind his back.

  "It was at one of these sidewalk cafés that Galen and I met. I was having a glass of wine—it's unusual for me, but I was in a romantic mood that afternoon, and indulged—and reading Gide's The Counterfeiters, and I heard to my left some revolting French—terrible grammar, worse pronunciation, much worse than mine—"

  "Worse than yours? You're not French?"

  He looked at her like she was insane.

  "I'm Algerian. Didn't you know?"

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  She felt really dumb all of a sudden. All she could do was raise her eyebrows and confess her guilt. He waited for his astonishment to dissipate, then went on with his story.

  "I looked over, and there was Galen." Khalid smiled, and then he was laughing, but she could only tell because his eyes were so shimmery.

  "I'll tell you something. If you promise you'll never tell Galen."

  "I promise."

  "I knew who he was, right away. Galen Ross. The American movie star. But to let him know that would have been to give him an advantage. So I pretended not to know."

  "So cruel, Khalid. He thinks you've never seen a single one of his films."

  "Yes, well. We all have to do our part to keep the man's ego in manageable proportions."

  She was beginning to detect a note of bitterness in Khalid's voice. But then he resumed his story with an air of tender reminiscence.

  I watched this famous American actor struggle through a simple order, mangling his request for a beer and a cheese sandwich. But he was quite charming. Even the waiter thought so, I think. And then I saw that he had on his thigh a copy of that same book of Andre Gide's that I was reading. I thought, how nice to be wrong. Here is an American, an actor, even, and he not only reads, but reads something other than some detective novel, something other than Stephen King or Michael Crichton. And of course it was the perfect opening.

  "I looked at him, very obvious, until he had no choice, and had to turn and look at me. I smiled then, just looking. I knew what he was thinking. That he'd been recognized.

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  That even in a foreign country he could not escape his fame, that I would begin to ask him about his movies, his life, ask him for his autograph.

  "I stared until I saw from his face that he was becoming angry, because I still had not said to him why I was staring. And then I held up my book. He was . . . taken by surprise. His mind had already decided why I was staring, so at first the book didn't mean anything to him. So I pointed to the author's name, Gide, and pointed to Galen's lap. Finally he looked down at the book he was holding there. He blushed. Really blushed. Very cute."

  In that moment Vanka got it. How deeply in love Khalid had been with Galen at some point. Maybe he still was.

  "It was later he told me he was reading that book because the film he was making was that story. Changed, but from that story. He doesn't read much. But that book was enough. We started to talk. The afternoon became evening, and we went to a little bar I knew, not far from there. We talked and laughed for a long time. In the end we went back to my place. To me, it was simple. We were going to fuck. But you know, I kissed him, and he became a statue. I kissed him a second time, and he pushed me away so hard, I almost fell down.

  "I saw then, that he had not been with men before. He wanted me. I knew he did.

  But it was impossible for him, to let himself fuck a man. So I took him. We fought, and I took him. And that's how it's always been with us."

  "You . . . took him. You mean . . . does he . . . come?"

  Khalid laughed. "Oh yes. He comes."

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  He smiled quietly for a moment, apparently lost in some pleasant memories. But then he looked over at her, and went on in a voice that seemed a little bitter.

  "Of course, he could never just give himself over. But he plays at retaliation. Or, when I've got him pinned, when I've won the struggle, sometimes I suck him off before I fuck him. Or stroke him off as I take him. But it's never just a fuck. It's always a battle."

  She parked alongside the curb in front of the charming dark-timbered craftsman to which Khalid had guided her. He turned and gave her one of his serene smiles, his gold eyes luminous and sad. She'd hug him good-bye, and then she'd let him go up that neat path of flagstones, up to the generous porch, through that heavy, carved door with the leaded window. Strange how things had turned out, that Khalid, not Galen, would be the one to close the door on this part of her life, this largest joy in the middle of her worst pain.

  “Will you come in for a bit?” He asked her.

  His invitation pulled her back from the edge of the awful fear and loneliness she'd been dreading all morning.

  Inside, Khalid's home was as simple as Galen's was slick. The hardwood floors, the heavy beams of the ceilings, the mantel, the handcrafted furniture were all warm browns, polished smooth but richly textured. She felt a strange urge to go around and run her hand over every vertical and horizontal surface, over every carved, wooden joint.

  "Always?"

  “Sorry?”

  170

  “You said it's always a battle. With Galen,” she reminded Khalid where he'd left his story.

  "There, in Paris for that year. And here."

  She laughed. He gave her an inquiring look.

  "I know I'm going to sound like an idiot, but . . . If it happened that way between you once, how could it have happened again? I don't understand."

  "You don't? Really?" Khalid asked with a knowing smile that made her blush.

  "That first time, I was sure. His eyes, his body, everything told me that he wanted me. And even after he'd hit me, started to fight me, his cock was rock hard in his pants.

  But even so, even though he trembled and moaned and came as I fucked him, after I worried that I had been wrong. That maybe I had actually raped a man. When we'd finished he looked terrible. Now I know. He was afraid of himself. But then, he was so pale, his hands shook as he pulled up his pants. He fled, He didn't say anything to me.

  He wouldn't even look at me. A day went by, then two, and I started to feel afraid every time my phone rang, every time someone rang my doorbell. I even got scared opening the mail, because I started to think I would get a summons from the police. That I'd be charged with assault or some worse crime. When more time went by, I thought I hadn't heard from the police only because this American actor was afraid of the publicity.

  "But then, about three weeks after th
at first night, I came home from work, and only a minute later someone knocked on my door. It was Galen. He'd been waiting outside my building, to make sure I was alone when I came home. When I opened the door, he stood for a long time in the hall, without saying anything. Then he came through the door, and when I shut it, we started again. Almost the same as the first time.

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  I tried to kiss him, and he hit me. Very hard, really. It was his test. He wanted to know if I would tell him to fuck off. That I didn't want to play those games. I let him hit me a few more times. Then I took him down. He's big, and strong, but he's not a fighter. It was easy, always, for me to get the advantage.

  "The next time he came, though, I didn't want to fight that way. I wanted to save my strength. I wanted to take my time. This time, he had only made me wait four days, and I was ready for him. He knocked. He came inside. I shut the door. Locked it. I didn't try to kiss him. Instead I went to the little table by my door, and took out a gun I had hidden there. I had been very careful, removed all the bullets. I understood by now that he only needed some excuse to believe it was not him choosing to fuck me. That I was forcing him.

  "So, I pointed the gun at him. I told him to get on his knees."

  Khalid sighed, and Vanka thought maybe she saw him shudder.

  "You know, Vanka. I was scared. I don't like guns. For me, guns have bad memories and bad feelings. But pointing that gun at Galen, knowing he would obey me, it was the most erotic moment I had ever experienced. He did what I told him. Got on his knees. I walked up to him and told him to undo my belt and my pants. When he pulled my briefs down, just the feel of his fingers on my skin, I was so hard, I felt such a rush of need, violent need, and that gun in my hand, for that moment before he started, I felt like a man who could do real violence to have him. It was a big feeling. It frightened me. But it thrilled me, too.

  "When he took my cock in his mouth, I could tell he had never done it before. He did it at first as if it was disgusting to him. He tried hard not to take too much of me into 172