Chapter 3 #2
Encouraged, I picked up the pace, deep-throating him as much as I could, my saliva coating his length in slick trails.
Tears pricked at my eyes from the depth, but I reveled in it, in the raw power of making him unravel.
His fingers tangled in my hair, gripping firmly as he began to thrust, fucking my mouth with shallow, controlled pumps.
I matched his rhythm, humming around him to send vibrations through his cock.
"Goddamn, Elena, you're gonna make me come so hard," he growled, his breath coming in ragged bursts. "Swallow every drop, you hear me? Be my good girl."
With a final, possessive yank on my hair, he surged forward, his cock pulsing wildly as he erupted, shooting thick, hot streams down my throat. I swallowed eagerly, milking him dry, savoring the salty taste until he shuddered and finally pulled out, spent.
Grinning with wicked satisfaction, he grabbed my hips and hauled me up effortlessly, positioning me to straddle his face. "Now it's your turn. Sit on my face and ride my tongue like you mean it."
I lowered myself onto him, gasping as his strong nose pressed against my clit, rubbing back and forth in teasing grinds that sent electric jolts through my body.
Then his tongue—thick, powerful, and insistent—thrust inside me, lapping at my soaked folds, delving deep to taste every inch.
His stubble scraped against my sensitive inner thighs, a prickly burn that bordered on pain and amplified the pleasure, making me grind down harder for more.
"Igor, oh fuck, yes!" I cried out, my hands bracing against the headboard for support as waves of sensation crashed over me.
He hummed deeply against my core, the vibrations pushing me to the edge. His tongue flicked relentlessly at my clit, sucking it between his lips, devouring me with expert precision until I shattered, screaming his name as my orgasm ripped through me, my release flooding his mouth.
He gave my ass a playful slap, the sharp sting making me yelp in surprise. I knew exactly what that meant—time for doggy style. Obediently, I flipped over, getting on all fours with my ass raised high, offering myself to him completely.
He knelt behind me, his gaze fixed on my glistening pussy, lips swollen and dripping with need.
Even my tight little asshole was slick with arousal, winking invitingly.
His fingers traced the puckered ring, rubbing it teasingly.
"This beautiful little hole is going to waste if we never use it," he murmured, his voice dark and full of filthy promise.
"What do you think, baby? Ready to let me in? "
A thrill of nervous excitement shot through me. "Lick my fingers wet first," he commanded, holding them to my lips.
I turned my head, sucking his digits into my mouth, coating them thoroughly with saliva, my tongue swirling around each one.
He pulled them back, pressing one slick finger against my ass, easing it in slowly.
I gasped at the initial stretch, the strange fullness invading me.
He added a second, pumping them in and out gently, scissoring to open me up.
"Relax for me, Elena," he cooed, his free hand stroking my back soothingly. "You can take it. Imagine how good it'll feel when it's my cock stretching you here."
The burn was intense but mingled with pleasure, making me moan. He pushed for a third finger, but it was too much—the pain sharpened, overwhelming everything else. "Igor, please stop... It's too much, it hurts," I whimpered, my body tensing up.
He withdrew his fingers carefully, pressing a kiss to my spine. "Okay, we'll hold off this time. Next time, I'll get you a nice plug. You can wear it around, get that tight ass used to being filled. Stretch it out for me slowly."
The idea sent a dirty shiver through me, equal parts intimidating and arousing.
Shifting focus, he gripped his cock and lined it up with my dripping pussy, slamming in with one powerful thrust that filled me to the hilt.
I moaned loudly, my walls clenching around him.
He grabbed my hips, pounding into me from behind, the slap of skin on skin echoing through the room.
His hand came down on my ass with a sharp smack, heating the flesh and making it swell under the repeated impacts, the pain blending seamlessly with ecstasy.
"Take it like the good girl you are," he grunted, spanking me harder. "Your pussy's so fucking tight, squeezing me like it never wants to let go. You love this cock, don't you? Say it."
"Yes, Igor, I love your cock!" I gasped, pushing back against him. "Fuck me harder!"
He obliged, fucking me like a machine, his hips pistoning in relentless thrusts—over a hundred deep, brutal strokes that had me coming undone repeatedly.
I lost track of my orgasms, my body quaking with each wave, screams tearing from my throat.
Finally, he leaned down, sinking his teeth into the curve of my ass as he buried himself deep, growling as he pumped his hot seed inside me, filling me with thick spurts that claimed me from within.
Exhausted and sated, we collapsed together, his body draping over mine protectively.
He used his body, inch by inch, to wipe away every lingering doubt and insecurity from my mind. I surrendered once more, lost in the tempest of desire he orchestrated. I abandoned all thought, left only with primal instinct and an insatiable craving for him.
The day before Christmas was also the six-month anniversary of when Igor and I first met.
Sunlight streamed through the cheap blinds, casting mottled shadows across the room. Igor had left early that morning, saying he'd be swamped but promising to return for our celebration. I chose to trust him.
I'd been preparing for this milestone for weeks.
I snagged some high-quality cowhide from a thrift market and spent several weekends hand-stitching him a wallet.
My skills weren't expert-level—my fingertips got pricked bloody by the needle more than once—but every stitch was infused with my affection.
In the bottom right corner, I branded his initials with a hot copper stamp: I.V.
I nestled it into a carefully wrapped gift box, tied with a deep blue ribbon in a perfect bow. I imagined his expression when he opened it. Would he like it? A man accustomed to every luxury.
I shook off the insecurities. I'd even finagled two hours off from the hotel manager so I could leave early and prepare a lavish dinner for him.
That afternoon, in the staff locker room as I changed into my uniform, my coworker Susan sidled up, brimming with secrecy.
"Elena, have you heard?" she whispered, her eyes gleaming with gossip.
"Heard what?" I replied, pulling on my uniform while my mind wandered to the evening's menu for Igor.
"Tomorrow night, the Royal Hotel is throwing this enormous private party. They've booked the entire ballroom floor and all the presidential suites!" Her voice rose with excitement, drawing curious glances from the other staff.
"Really? What kind of party warrants that?" I asked casually, adjusting my tie.
"It's prep for some Russian family's engagement bash!" Susan said, her tone dripping with envy. "Can you imagine? All of New York's elite might show up! My friend who works there says the security is insane—tighter than a presidential visit!"
Russian family... The words struck like a hammer to my chest. An inexplicable unease gripped me, Igor's chiseled face flashing into my mind uninvited.
"And," Susan continued, oblivious to my reaction, lost in her enthusiasm. "The groom's from the Vorontsov family—their heir. He's really invested in this. My friend said they ordered five hundred bottles of Ace of Spades champagne! God, the expense!"
Vorontsov. The name didn't ring a bell, so I let out a breath, chiding myself for being paranoid. New York was full of Russian moguls; it couldn't be that coincidental. The nagging thoughts dissipated.
I pulled out my phone to check if Igor had replied to my morning message. The screen lit up with his text: [I'll pick you up at the hotel by 8. We'll celebrate back at the apartment.]
My suspended heart settled back into place.
I replied immediately: [Okay, I'll be waiting!]
Another vibration—a WhatsApp message. I opened it to the familiar avatar—an endless field of Tuscan sunflowers. Marco Bernardi.
Marco: [Elena, Christmas is coming up. How have you been lately?]
Marco was the boy I'd grown up with in the slums, like a brother to me. A few years older, he'd always looked out for me, my steadfast support through my turbulent teens. He'd gone to Italy for medical school, and we hadn't seen each other in years, keeping in touch only sporadically online.
I smiled and typed: [I'm doing well. How about you? Everything going smoothly in Italy?]
Marco: [All good here. I'll be back in New York this Christmas to visit my grandma. Want to grab dinner?]
Me: [Absolutely, just let me know when!]
Chatting with Marco always felt light and nostalgic, like stepping back into those carefree childhood days.
I pocketed my phone and threw myself into work. The thought of celebrating with Igor gave me a burst of energy that carried me through the shift.
At seven, his text came in and shattered all my anticipation. He had an emergency meeting; I should head home alone, and he'd finish up as soon as possible to meet me at the apartment.
Disappointment hit hard, but I convinced myself to be understanding. His world was so complex; he had obligations he couldn't escape.
I left work early, returned to the apartment, tied on an apron, and got busy in the kitchen.
I started with the steaks. Butter sizzled in the pan as soon as it hit, and I added the meat, the savory aroma quickly filling the space.
Once they were done, I plated them elegantly, mimicking tutorial videos with Italian-style garnishes and fresh greens, aiming for that high-end restaurant feel.
I lit scented candles and decanted his favorite Burgundy wine.
Everything ready, I slipped into the black silk gown he'd given me, applied a flawless makeup look, and sat at the table, heart full of eager anticipation for his arrival.
But the minutes dragged on.
Eight o'clock, nine, ten...
The steaks had gone completely cold, a greasy film congealing on the surface, no longer appealing. The candles had burned down to nothing but waxy stubs. My messages to Igor vanished into the void, unanswered. My calls rang straight to voicemail, the mechanical female voice repeating monotonously.
The apartment was eerily silent, the ticking of the wall clock mocking my endless wait.
Just before midnight, the doorbell finally rang.
I sprang from the chair, rushing to open it. A rush of overwhelming joy and grief flooded me; I'd even rehearsed how I'd throw myself into his arms and complain about how late he was.
But it wasn't Igor standing there.
A stranger in a black suit loomed in the doorway, his face impassive. Tall and stony, he was clearly one of Igor's associates.
"Ms. Jensen?" he asked in heavily accented English.
"...Yes, that's me." My heart plummeted, my voice sounding alien even to myself. "Where's Igor?"
"I'm the boss's assistant. He's handling urgent matters and can't get away." The response was rote and emotionless. He handed me an elegantly wrapped gift bag. "This is the anniversary gift he asked me to deliver."
I accepted it numbly, my hand lingering in the air for a moment.
"Did he... have any message for me?" I asked, clinging to one last thread of hope.
"No." He gave a slight bow and turned to leave.
I closed the door and mechanically unpacked the bag. Inside was a box from a top luxury brand. I opened it: a pair of earrings encrusted with rubies, nestled on velvet, sparkling brilliantly.
They were stunning, exorbitantly expensive—worth more than several years of my salary combined. But I didn't have pierced ears.
What was more pathetic: that my boyfriend was too busy to select a suitable gift himself, relying on an assistant, or that he'd forgotten such a basic detail about me?
The wallet with his branded initials still sat on the table. Looking at it now, I couldn't muster the courage to give it to him.
That night, I had a nightmare.
I dreamed I was in a grand Gothic church, stained-glass windows casting eerie, colorful shadows. I sat among faceless guests. Igor stood at the altar in a sharp black suit, his features etched starkly in the light. But he wasn't there for me.
Beside him was a bride in a pristine white gown, her long veil obscuring her face. I couldn't make out her features, only the intimate way she looped her arm through his, sending sharp pangs through my heart.
The priest intoned the vows, the sacred words twisting into malicious curses in my ears, making my head reel and the world spin.
"Igor, do you take this woman to be your wife?"
He nodded without a hint of hesitation.
"I do." His voice was as low as in our most intimate moments, but laced with a resolve I'd never heard before.
I wanted to surge forward, to confront him, to yank off her veil and see who had taken my place. But my feet were rooted like lead, immovable. I was trapped in my seat, forced to watch as they exchanged rings, as Igor slowly, tenderly lifted the veil.
Just as it was about to reveal her fully, I jolted awake, sitting up abruptly and gasping for air. Cold sweat drenched my nightgown, sticking clammily to my skin.
The room was pitch-black. I reached out, feeling the other side of the bed. It was empty and cold. Igor still hadn't come back.