Varian Krylov (9 page)

Hard. Impossible. Her legs wouldn't move. Until one corner of his mouth curved upward in an amused grin that was more inspiring than a dare. Her face flushing hotter by the second, her heart hammering, she parted her knees. Spread her legs.

Over the arousing, terrible thrill of her own vulnerability and embarrassment she sensed his excitement when he looked up from her exposed sex to her eyes, and his smile faded and his breath quickened. Fuck. Why had no one before Galen done this to her? Made her feel this way?

Watching her face, he settled his hands lightly on her knees and slowly pushed her legs further and further apart. When the pressure of his hands relented it was hard 78

to resist the urge to pull her knees together. Slowly, so lightly it nearly tickled, he ran his fingertips down the insides of her thighs, down, down, until she sucked in her breath, anticipating his touch on her sex, but just before he would have, his fingers drew back, as slowly and lightly as they'd descended, caressing their way back up to her knees.

While she watched, then, he licked the pad of his thumb, leaned forward, and touched her clit, rubbing in languorous, delicate circles while he studied her face.

Spread so wide, with him so close, feeling his touch, she wanted to pull him down, pull his mouth against her. Beg him to lick her.

He took his thumb from her clit and it thrummed, missing his touch already. Still watching her face, Galen took his middle finger deep into his mouth, glanced down, spread her sex with his other hand, and slowly drove his wet finger up inside of her. His gaze flicked back up, locked on her eyes as he slowly fucked her with his finger, then slid out of her, painting her pink folds with the wetness—her wetness, now—coating his finger. Unable to be still, she wiggled under his touch, and he smiled. But he was still breathing hard.

When his eyes swept over and back, they drew her gaze along with them, to the two vaguely penis-shaped items on the table beside him. Her throat closed. Her stomach dropped. Her skin went cold. She was wrong. She couldn't. If he picked up the black one, the one he'd made her touch in the store, she'd have to say no. Even now, after all the hours she'd spent with him, after all the things they'd done, she honestly wasn't sure he'd take her “no” for an answer.

He picked up the other. The vaguely translucent white one. The one for her cunt.

He brought it between her legs, lifted it close to her sex, pressed the fat, round tip of the 79

milk-colored cock to the her opening, locked eyes with her, and pushed it inside her.

She sucked in her breath at the startling sensation of six thick inches of cold silicone inside of her. She couldn't resist looking down, at his hand gripping the base of the toy, the smooth cream cylinder disappearing inside of her. While she looked he drove it a little deeper, until the little protruding nub bumped against her clit and she let out an involuntary whimper.

He began to fuck her. Slowly. His eyes locked on his hand, the toy, her cunt for a while, then flicked up, met her eyes, lingered, reading her need and pleasure. He'd tease her for a while, drawing the toy almost completely out of her, slowly pressing just an inch or so of the thing into her, pulling it back, driving it, again, just a teasing inch or two, before finally thrusting it in to the hilt, filling her, then pulsing it inside her, hitting her depths, bumping against her clit again and again with the soft nub.

He had her gasping. Wiggling. Her ass and hips flexing in small, involuntary spasms. Weird, being touched by him this way, but not touched. Not held, not kissed, not caressed. Just the piece of rubber in his hand fucking her, only as warm as her own body had made it. But, fuck, she was going to cum.

"Uh uh uh," Galen chided, pulling the pseudo-prick from her, leaving her empty.

Wanting. "Not so fast, sweetie."

He set the thing on its base on the table beside him, stood, undid his fly, slid his pants and briefs down, just to the top of his thighs, and resumed his seat. The sight of his hard-on doubled her arousal. She wanted. She needed. She willed him to climb atop her, go inside of her. Hold her. Fuck her.

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Instead, he wrapped his long fingers around his thick shaft, and began stroking himself. Instantly, she was mesmerized. The sight had such an immediate, visceral impact it was almost as if her was touching her.

Slowly, gently he stroked himself, up and down his shaft, between the smooth, trimmed thatch of his hair and the elegant dome of the head. Then, with two fingers, he caressed the underside, swirled around the head. She watched the sensuous touch she'd felt. Loved the look of the way he touched himself.

He stopped. Now he'll fuck me, she thought. But he reached over, grabbed the toy, and held it out to her.

"I want you to fuck yourself while I watch."

No. No way. She couldn't.

Or yes. Of course. How fucking hot. Why hadn't she ever done this with another lover?

She took the proffered toy, put it to her sex, looked at his face, at what he was doing to his prick, and drove the silicone cock into herself.

"Close your eyes, Vanka. Imagine you're fucking a lover. A stranger. Anyone you want. While I watch, fuck yourself the way you'd like to be fucked.”

The mingling heat of embarrassment and arousal warming her face, sure that she was more embarrassed and more turned on than she'd ever been, she closed her eyes, the image of Galen sitting between her legs, stroking himself, lingering as she began to fuck herself for him. Pulling the dildo up, into her cunt, surprised at the amount of pressure required to drive it in, Then out. Then in again, and she pulsed it there, where it was buried in her as deep as it could go, feeling the pain-like pleasure of the tip 81

prodding at her depth, and the exquisite pleasure of the pulsing pressure of the nub rubbing at her clit. She was writhing around the toy, thrusting fitfully under the hand controlling it.

Close. So close. Then the gentle, stilling touch of his fingertips at the back of her hand.

"Wait."

She waited. Opened her eyes, met his intent stare. Watched him move toward her.

Leaning in, he planted one knee on each side of her, straddling her thighs.

Cupped her jaw in his hands, gave her a soft, lingering kiss. Then a deep, hungry kiss that grew in intensity until it was almost violent as he sucked and bit her lips with sudden ferocity. Then he stopped. Backed off. Ran his thumb over her inflamed lips.

"You like giving head."

"Yes," she breathed, once again startled, frightened, exquisitely aroused by this strange man.

"You use it to claim, to exert your power."

Sometimes. She just gazed back at him.

"I'm going to take your mouth, Vanka. Understand?"

She wasn't sure.

"I'm going to fuck your mouth. Like a cunt. And while I do, I want you to fuck yourself, get yourself off."

He didn't wait for an answer. He rose up on his knees, until his erection rocked before her like the mast of a tethered ship. With one hand he cradled her jaw, and with 82

the other hand he took hold of the base of his prick and pressed the smooth, rounded tip to her lips. Instinctively she opened her mouth, tipped her head forward to take him in.

His hand curved against her jaw, he pushed her back, until the back of her head was pressed firmly into the sofa cushion. He leaned in, then pressed the head of his prick to her lips again and pushed himself into her mouth. Not to the hilt, not enough to make her gag, but enough to trigger a little panic because her mouth was so full, and because she wasn't in control.

He stayed like that, buried midway between her lips, as his hand left her jaw and his fingers raked into her hair, twining two fistfuls into thick, tight reins. Slowly, he drew the thick shaft of his erect prick back, the ridged flesh sliding over the tight ring of her lips, vacating her mouth, until the flare of the head was all that remained in her mouth.

Then, slowly, he drove his cock back in, between her lips, over her tongue, to the very back of her mouth, threatening her throat. Again his thick length receded, slipping almost entirely from her before he pulsed his hips forward and his prick filled her mouth and slid into her throat. She fought her body's gag impulse, struggled to calm her sporadic breathing, to will her panic away. This was nothing like willfully swallowing a guy's sword to impress and thrill him. Her body had no notion of her mind's consent. Her body felt like it was being attacked.

He pulled back. She caught her breath. He thrust in again. Faster. Harder.

Deeper. Went still. Her body fought, and she fought her body. Soft. Calm. Sshhh. Again.

Again. Until he pulled out, all the way, sank down, brought his face close to hers.

Reading her eyes.

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"What's this?"

His thumbs traced the crooked lines left by her tears.

"Are you crying?" he asked very softly.

"No," she huffed in a little laugh.

Her eyes almost always watered when she gave head. He seemed to get it.

"Good girl," he purred, grinning.

He kissed her. His lips soft. His tongue went deep, gentle and tender. Then he rose up onto his knees, and drove his cock between her lips once more, and began rhythmically fucking her mouth.

"Fuck yourself, Vanka," he panted down to her.

It wasn't easy, pulling her attention from what he was doing to her mouth, focusing on taking it, on letting him in, on breathing. She moved her hand, doubting the effect. Slid the fake cock somewhat mechanically in and out of her cunt. Her mind stayed firmly latched on the real cock in her mouth. On the growling breaths of the man pumping his groin against her face, locking her head still with vice grips on her hair as he fucked, driving the erect length of his cock between her lips, prodding her throat with the tip.

Suddenly she was aware of the sound of her breathing, that every exhale carried with it a little moan, a little muffled sigh. That she was giving voice to a pending climax she hadn't realized was building. Now it was overwhelming, unstoppable. Now, even though it was her own hand working the silicone cock between her thighs, driving it into her cunt, she felt it was all being done to her, all strangely out of her control, and it was her powerlessness that made it so undeniable, so overpowering.

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He heard her. Sensed it. His grip tightened, aggravating her sense of helplessness, intensifying all the sensations, all the emotions converging on her, converging in her pending climax.

"Good girl, Vanka. I want to hear you. I want you to make yourself cum while I get off in your mouth."

It felt like someone else was controlling her hand. Or like the hand gripping the dildo wasn't hers. She was being fucked, something thrusting into her, deep and hard, over and over. Her pelvis was twitching and spasming against that insistent alien hand while Galen kept her head pinned to the sofa and diligently fucked her mouth. He groaned a loud sound of torment and as the first convulsive spasm of orgasm gripped her, she felt warm wetness spray into her mouth. As if the feel and taste of cum on her tongue, the thought of him ejaculating in her mouth was a trigger, her orgasm exploded.

She was loud, uncharacteristically, unfathomably loud, despite her cries being muffled by the ejaculating cock stuffed into her mouth. The final few spurts of his semen plopped onto her tongue. She swallowed, sucked, and swallowed again as he slid from between her lips.

He was stroking and kissing her face, and she realized her eyes were still closed.

When she looked, he was watching her as if in anticipation. She smiled, and he smiled back. Then he kissed her. Caressed her lips with his, parted them, licked, gently sucked them, and slid his tongue between.

"What?" he laughed softly as she recoiled a little. "Numbers one through four afraid of the taste of their own cum?"

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His words shocked her more than his kiss. At this moment, she liked Galen immensely. Her affection and her embarrassment made her smile, and they kissed again.

* * * *

He didn't invite her to stay. That was fine. She needed to get home. Well, to the hotel, anyway. And, as she ducked into the convertible and he pushed the door shut after her, grinning at her oddly through the side window for a moment before turning on his heels and strolling back to his house, she was struck by an unsettling feeling that she'd . . . gotten away. Escaped. As if, had she stayed, something very bad would have happened to her.

She started the engine and, as she backed out of his driveway, tried to shake off the icky, prickly feeling tingling on the back of her neck, between her shoulder blades, down her spine. Because it made her want to go back in to him.

The hotel wasn't so bad. Living in one little room—dubiously labeled a “suite” on the hotel's website by virtue of the refrigerator, stove, sofa, and second television that were stuffed into the same room with the bed and dresser—with little more than she'd managed to cram into a couple of suitcases, had a certain romantic flavor. Like she was a runaway. Or a fugitive.

That was it. She was a fugitive. She dug her laptop out and booted up, and while the fan hummed to life and the monitor flickered through the startup protocols, she found her cell phone at the bottom of her bag and, with a sigh, tossed in onto the cheap laminate beside the computer.

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She'd been ignoring—avoiding—her e-mail and her phone messages for days.

Since she'd left David. There was nothing to say. To David. To anyone. But she'd have to say things. When she returned the calls. Answered the e-mails. She couldn't hide out forever. From her friends. From her brother. Her guilt wouldn't let her.

She dispensed with her guilt quickly and cleanly. Like a coward. Listened, with a detached feeling of impatience, to the concerned, sympathetic, and alarmed voices expressing their understanding, alarm, and consternation at hearing—from David—that they'd broken up, and telling her, one after the other, that they'd have to get together for coffee, for drinks, for dinner, and talk about it. Then she sat down at her computer, crafted a pathetically generic message about being OK, about needing some time, and sent it, again and again, to everyone who'd called or written. As she clicked her messages one by one into the ether, the burden of her guilty anxiety lessened, until she felt alone and free.