Fearless: a Sports Romance

by Avant, Amarie

  “I'm sorry.” The words lurch from my mouth as I return to my simpleton state of drool and desire.

  “Fuck right, you're gonna be sorry. I’m going to eat your beautiful, little pussy until you pass out,” he growls, a shredding sound so erotically pleasing to my ears that my head kisses the pillow. My thong is no more. Vassili scoots down on the bed. I'm on bated breath as his paws slam down on the inside of my thighs. He spreads my legs wide.

  “I’m going to make cum until you go crazy,” Vassili purrs like a lion’s growl against my pussy. Shit, I nearly cum just from the sound of his voice. His tongue trails out and glides across my second set of lips, slithering around my clit. There's a symphony of loud moaning, and I realize that it's mine the instant my legs shake. It's a feat to keep my thighs wide open for him as I tremble like a leaf while cumming all over his face.

  His mouth rocks along my core. Tongue edging its way inside of me. Automatically, my hips swivel, twisting upward. Beckoning his tongue to break me off more and more. His nose nudges against my swollen clit, offering more stimulation and bringing my desire into a tailspin.

  “Mmmmm, Vassili…” I squeeze my eyes shut, stopping the flow of tears at the notion of how I've saved myself all for this man. My thighs can hardly stay open as I cum back to back.

  “Fuck me,” I beg and I shout for him to screw me with his fingers, his cock! My words might even be Swahili. Vassili doesn’t come up for air as stars dance before my eyes.

  I grit down on my bottom lip, riding another orgasm. He eats my pussy like it’s a full-stack of hotcakes.

  “Oh my, Lawd, Jesus, damn, Vassili, fuck,” I scream, clawing at the headboard.

  He grumbles against my labia, alternating from titillating slow tongue movements to spearing his tongue deep inside of me. My pussy is drowning wet. My cheeks are flooded with tears. If I could just reach up and look at him. I imagine his chiseled face is rain soaked from my goods, yet energy fails me to move.

  Moans flow from my mouth nonstop as he stiff tongues deep into my g-spot. Deliberate and slow, Vassili brinks me over the edge, and I scream out, face sliding side to side as I pull on the sheets. Shit, I groan from frustration and needing him inside of me. “Vassili! I-I can’t cum again.”

  “Damn, girl, you can cum again. You will,” he orders.

  He leans up. His body is art, magnificently constructed. My gaze roams all over him as he finally tugs out of his pants and briefs. His shaft is like an ivory elephant’s trunk, thick and long, with these beautiful ridges and veins.

  I whimper. “Please…” My throat is too heavy to speak more. To argue that he’s only fucked me with his tongue as of now. To beg for something more because, first, I am in heaven just as much as I am in hell right now. My head kisses the pillow once again as his handsome face disappears between my thighs. I can hear the cocky bastard saying, “You made me wait, Zar, now I get to break the pussy.”

  His wet, stiff tongue glides around my clit in a perfect circle. Slower and slower he goes, focusing on my tiny nub until my legs go ridged. My limbs feel heavy like lead as he catches a rhythm. God, he catches a rhythm that has me bypassing Mariah Carey’s vocals. Damn, it I could shatter these windows as an orgasm slams through my curvy frame.

  This motherfucker wants me committed.

  He wants me in a damn straitjacket, rocking back and forth. No wait, my hips are rocking back and forth, coasting over his tongue. He hasn’t killed me yet. A psychotic laugh from deep within my body tugs at all the energy I have.

  “Pahlezzzz, pahlezzzzzz,” I beg, feigning for the fighter. Heat and pressure tightens at my second set of lips until my pussy is twitching like crazy. I twerk on his tongue because that’s all the motherfucker is offering, and it’s enough to get me off a thousand times over.

  Out of nowhere, I feel one finger caressing my perineum; that silky soft patch between my ass and pussy. More tears flow like rivers from my cheeks. Vassili is meticulous in the movement of his finger along my swollen lips. He goes gliding across my inner walls, and the crackhead in me, that just got her fix, sniffles back tears.

  “Ohhhh, Vassili,” I scream as more fingers begin to sooth my trembling pussy. This time my hips rock along his fingers until a peaceful moan tumbles from my mouth.

  He climbs on top of me now. My mouth caresses across his stubble, reassuring him. His hand clamps against my thigh, he pulls it up across his hips. Internally, I tell myself not to hyperventilate. He's gonna kill me. I feared sex. His sex.

  My core is wet, and my labia heavy with his taste. Yet it twitches as his crown glides against it.

  “Mmmm…” My eyes instantly close in delight. His dick is smooth and slides along my moistness so perfectly. His cockhead rubs along my arousal and then stops against my shell and I relax as his mouth descends over mine, stealing away my anxiousness. Vassili’s tongue circles around mine.

  “You are so fucking beautiful, Zar.” His eyes are on mine as he slowly stretches me.

  The pain is enough to bring tears to my eyes, yet I savor each second.

  “You are perfect. Too fucking perfect for me,” he reaches down and kisses me, “but that shit doesn’t matter. Now all of you belongs to all of me.”

  Vassili

  Fuck, I was gone over this woman the moment I laid eyes on her. She was just that beautiful, and she stole my heart while fighting for justice. Now, as my cock is gripped inside of her wet, tight pussy, I stroke and I look into her beautiful eyes. She has transformed from a beautiful face and a glorious body to being my possession. I spent seven long years, waiting to get inside of Zariah Washington’s panties and all I give a shit about is her.

  The brown sugar taste of her pussy is coated all over my tongue, my mouth, the stubble along my jaw. I can’t stop licking my lips as I stroke deep inside of her body. Her pussy is such a hot glove, grabbing my cock in ways that no other girl has been able to do.

  Hand clasped against the back of the headboard, I gain leverage. Never take my eyes off hers. Zariah has to enjoy every single second of this. I cannot hurt her. And don’t be a bitch, Vassili, don’t nut just yet.

  My hands run along her body, every touch and I’m thrilled by her curves. I kiss her delicate neck, while stroking her nipples with one hand. “Oh, Vassili, baby… damn…” she starts cussing like earlier and I have to control myself.

  Her pussy tightens, eliciting more wetness, as my cock glides in and out of her entrance. I fuck her deeply, going into her tight pussy. Forcing myself to control my shit no matter how wet, sweet and ultra-tight she is. As I mold in her pussy, I learn how to make her moan. My hand comes down and swats at the dark sensuous hip. Her innocent mahogany orbs widen, and then Zariah is gripping my shoulder’s begging me to go deeper.

  “You are so fucking tight,” I growl, grabbing a fist full of her hair.

  I lean on my elbows, but Zariah claws at my biceps, pulling me deeper into her soft body.

  “Mmmm,” she moans. Fuck, her eyes are wetting with tears. But I can’t stop myself from impelling her slick, fitted folds. It’s like I’m addicted to this shit. Though it pains her, it fucking bruises my cock too, yet I continue to stroke, hollowing out her pussy. Molding her to my perfect fit.

  I tongue her deeply, before working my way over her jaw and down to her breast. Pounding increasing with the sound of her crying out, “Vassili, I… I… Jesus, damn….”

  This time, I drive my cock so deep inside of her tight pussy. Her cum drenches all over my dick as she cusses, “Lawd, damn, Vassili, baby… oooh … oooh… Vassili.”

  In less than a second, the tightness from my nuts is instantly relieved. My cum explodes, gushing against the condom, nearly perfect. Would’ve been nice for this shit to soar into her thick, little frame.

  A thought hits me like a roundhouse to the chin: shit, I’m never letting this one go. This incredible feeling that will forever be engraved in memory, wraps around my large frame, further turning me into her bitch. Concerned for my girl, I lean up o
n my forearms, but Zariah worms her tiny arms along my waist as if her body is screaming for mine. I’m fucking crushing her, yet she holds me there. I move strands of hair from her forehead, and kiss the soft, dark skin.

  ###

  We trade in the bedroom for the top deck; the hearth casting shadows across her luscious mahogany skin. Across from us there are a few stars tossed across darkness that I hadn’t even noticed until she pointed them out. Zariah is leaning back against me on my old leather couch I couldn’t give up during the move here. I rub the back of my neck, comprehending just how off the deep end I’ve gone. All for a taste of Ms. Washington.

  “So, Venice Beach,” Zariah speaks, as the bubble of her ass is nestled against my sore cock.

  “Yeah, this place is a few miles from the gym.” I pull her closer, could never get her too close, while pointing north. “I got tired of fighting for a parking spot. Parked my Harley a few lots up, saw the for sale sign, and thought fuck it. Might as well take it off the market.”

  “Ha, so you purchased a two million, maybe even three mill, home on the beach for good parking…” her voice trails off.

  “Yeah.” I agree with her, waiting for her to finish her train of thought. Yet, she doesn’t. “Speak, sweetheart, what else were you going to say?”

  “Nothing at all.” She starts to arise, thick, kinky strands of hair flying every which way.

  I grasp her wrist, and her voluptuous ass slams back against my cock. I almost wince, she was so tight a while ago. “No need holding anything back from me,” I respond, before I even fully consider the ramifications of my comment. Zariah has turned me into her bitch. I’m an idiot for that one, because she sure as hell isn’t ready to know that I’m Anatoly’s son.

  Zariah scoots around in her seat, to face me. There’s something amiss from her eyes, but she kisses me then says, “Umhmm, Vassili. How about you just feed me, now.”

  I huff. A part of me doesn’t want to be a selfish mudak. It wants to be truthful and to see if Zariah will still look at me with those big, innocent eyes of hers. Yet she’s already sauntering back into the bedroom. She flicks on lights, as most of the candles have doused in their own wax. I arise, following her ass down the hall.

  She pauses, eyes sweeping around the kitchen as if she’s viewing it for the first time. Earlier, her nerves were shot. My hand glides across the small of her back as I recall how her legs shook when she came in my mouth.

  “Vassili, I must not have an imagination because I can’t even fathom cooking when you said tonight was all about me.” She brushes away my hand and glides toward one of the barstools.

  I chuckle softly. This woman, I could fall for her. I was in love with her from day one, but I could love her like MMA one day. The thought punches into my gut, lingers there. Loving her as much as the cage. Adoring her more than blooded knuckles and pulses weakening within my grasp during the art of submission.

  Yeah, I could love her that much one day.

  Zariah clears her throat. “That wasn’t a lion in case you’re wondering. I am hung-ray.”

  I rub my hands together. “All right, feed my girl. What can I feed you?”

  “Boy, I was under the assumption our night was all planned out.” She arises from the stool and stalks around the island to the subzero refrigerator like a prosecutor stepping toward the stand to interrogate an eyewitness. She argues all the way, “What exactly do you mean, ‘what can you feed me?’”

  I watch in amusement as the first girl to ever enter my home, has become more comfortable than I ever could. I wasn’t lying about purchasing the home for location. Besides my Harley, I could give a fuck about material possessions. All my workout gear and the expensive ass weight room I have down the hall doesn’t count. She leans back on her heels in order to open the heavy, stainless steel doors. Glancing into the clean refrigerator and back to me, Zariah huffs. “See, you and I were on one accord last week when I had little drumettes for dinner at The Red Door.” She lifts up a cartoon of eggs. “I even enjoyed some of the Russian food, but damn it, I will fight you over some meat. No seafood required, but beef is a must. I see fruit, vegetables, eggs for days! Where is my marinated steak? C’mon Vassili.”

  Hands coming to rest on my head, I admit the truth. “To be honest, I got caught up purchasing candles. Do you know how many weird looks I got from motherfuckers in Walmart as I wheeled a cart full of candles out of that bitch? I’ll make you eggs anyway you like ‘em.”

  “Humph, it’s my night. I was going to pass on the shrimp and lobster combo, but maybe I’ll have you jump into the ocean and catch me a fish, since you’re immune to cold weather,” she says, leaning into me.

  “If that’s what you want.” I step a few paces backwards toward the sliding glass door which leads to a deck.

  “You’re naked,” she grasps my hand.

  “Does it look like I care? You want fresh fish, sweetheart you gave me something that no other man can have, I’ll catch a baby shark between my teeth, put that bitch on a bonfire. You’re hungry, I got you.”

  By now, Zariah is tugging my hand and giggling. “Don’t you dare go outside with your johnson swinging everywhere.”

  “Why not? We already showed you how beautiful your pussy was, Zariah. We’re two beautiful motherfuckers. My cock is a masterpiece.”

  She chokes on her laughter, and I almost laugh with her. Damn, I could freeze this very instant, rewind it and listen to her chuckles forever. “Dang you, Vassili. You arrogant bastard.”

  An hour later, Zariah offers a weak, confused smile. “My hunger has passed. Besides, it’s almost one in the morning, and what are these extra fluffy pancakes?”

  “Oh, you're no longer hungry, sweetheart? You at least have to try it.” I order. “Yeah, it’s like a fried pancake, but say syrniki. You’ll eat this tonight, we work out tomorrow morning.”

  “Work out in the morning? It’s morning now,” she huffs, picking up the fork, and saying syrniki perfectly.

  “Good. Eat. I slaved in the kitchen.”

  Her mouth hitches up to the right. “Thank you,” she says before forking up a bite.

  Zariah

  Blinding sunlight burns the inside of my eyelids. I rub a hand over my warm, sun kissed face, roll to my side and expect to be met by hard, steel comfort. Instead it's all firm, Temper-pedic mattress. Damn, how did I ever survive sleeping alone?

  There's a note on Vassili’s pillow. I breathe in musk and strength while leaning on an elbow to read it.

  Went for a quick run to the pier. I placed workout clothes for you in the bathroom and a smoothie in fridge. Join me.

  “Humph, so sure of yourself. I could choose Good Morning America with a cup of coffee instead,” I mumble, stifling a yawn. I contemplate crossing paths with Vassili on the way back from the pier, depending how far he's gotten while arising from the bed. The limestone is temperate and comfortable against my feet as I meander toward the bathroom.

  A heavy wood chair next to the balcony catches my eye. There's a built in bookshelf below the armrest. My eyebrow lifts as I glance through Vassili's choice of reading material. Most of the books are about MMA technique. Then there are a few books by Fyodor Dostoevsky. I wonder if this is Vassili's favorite author as the spine of each book is warn more than the rest of the other fiction books. Bypassing the classic, “Crime and Punishment” I pick up the most tattered one. The damn thing is thicker than a good number of my grad school textbooks. It's called “Idiot,” and the cover pulls me in with intrigue. Wow, I recall in college when Vassili would ask me how I was doing. He wasn't just shooting the breeze. He'd listen as I told him about my favorite professors. Something about this man blows me away each day. When I fall in love for good, I want the man to astonish me every day. I don't think I'd be able to fall out of love so easily like the example I grew up with.

  I place the book back between Dostoevsky’s ‘The Possessed’ and another fighter strategist manual.

  On the thick chair across fr
om the vanity there's a bright pink and black shirt. The same skull, with a cigarette cocked out of his gritted teeth and crown on his head, that is tattooed on Vassili’s neck is on the front. “King Karo,” I mumble the words, which are splayed across the chest area. I pick up the shirt and notice that it's dangerously cropped. The tight shorts, also with King Karo, will have my ass cheeks falling out.

  “Hell to the no, Karo!” I smirk, tossing the outfit back onto the chair.

  The Nike box has shoes which would match the outfit, and are just my size. I pick it up. And then I opt for the new toothbrush which was placed out along with a thick terry cloth face towel that Vassili was thoughtful enough to place atop the vanity.

  Back in the bedroom, I press against the limestone wall were two slabs come together. It doesn't move. I push at another spot and the wall retracts to a walk-in closet. In the center, drawers are stationed. On top are more spotless designer tennis shoes than one man should be allowed. I open drawers, nodding at how neatly folded Vassili’s clothing is until I find a simple white t-shirt and a pair of black sweats. Bingo… the backpack full of clothing I put together didn’t include a single workout item. I glance across the sweats. At least the King Karo isn't brazen across the ass area, only the same skull symbol. White boy gangster….

  Dressed in Vassili clothing, I tie the pants draw string when I enter the kitchen. I open the refrigerator and gawk at a glass full of thick green muck, a smoothie. I close the refrigerator, pick up a bottle of water and head to the sliding glass doors.

  With a deep breath, I saunter down the hundreds of steps. My new Nikes welcome the padding of the sand and it almost feels good when I catch the grove of running. Until I realize I actually am not a fan of this.

  This god-forsaken Pacific Ocean is an ugly muddy brown, not enough visual stimulation to keep me interested. With a huff, I stop, gulping a lung full of air like a fish out of water.

  “Zariah Washington!” My name is carried by the seaweed, salted breeze from a couple of yards ahead.