13. Arkadiy
13
ARKADIY
A s flashes of Mara’s gorgeous face roll through my head like a movie, I squeeze my eyes shut and tighten my grip on my cock. I couldn’t find Mara’s shampoo; it wasn’t where I left it, but I don’t need it to bring myself to climax. Having her here, under the same roof as me, is all the incentive I need.
In a way, my plan is as brilliant as it is dangerous. I get to help Mara by giving her a steady, stable income, and her presence will ensure I keep my hands to myself— literally —which will keep both Fyodor and media-hungry harlots like Veronika off my back.
My unexpected brilliance sees me stroking my cock faster. It reacts as if it is Mara’s fingers circling my shaft, jacking me off like she is hungry for my cum.
I’m seconds from release and moaning like there aren’t a dozen guests in my den, drinking my liquor and partying like I took the lead in the polls instead of a dive.
The fact I’m stroking my cock instead of mulling over votes still a year from being cast is already lurid, but doing it here, in a bathroom, blows my mind.
Only a week ago, if you had asked me about the possibility of me getting myself off, I would have deemed it impossible. My fear of touch isn’t solely fixated on strangers. It is, as a whole, for both strangers and me.
Yet here I am, stroking my dick for the second time today, in a shower of all places.
My shock should have my cock sitting limp against my thigh. It shouldn’t be rocking in and out of my fist at a pace quick enough for release to be imminent. But since my focus is on her, the woman with eyes that seemingly can see through to my soul, my balls pull in close to my body as my cock pulsates with want.
Mara’s scent, pert tits, and fuckable body feature heavily over the next several minutes. I think about how she looked up at me when my hand slid inside her panties and how she moaned my name when my thumb found her clit. I think about her smell and how I used her shampoo as bodywash for days to ensure I didn’t lose it.
“Fuck.”
I’m right there, on the brink of release, picturing how she’ll moan my name when I take her bare for the first time.
It won’t be with a stutter.
Her voice will be crystal clear and without fear.
“Oh…”
As I strangle my cock, desperate for a quick release so I can get back to the party before Mara leaves, my spare hand braces against the sparkling clean tiles of my office bathroom. My hips piston as I think of all the ways I could take her without the restraints my hookups are never without.
Her tits will bounce when I take her hard and fast, and her lips will be cracked and swollen from the number of kisses we’ll share.
She’ll taste so good.
Moan so hard.
She will fuck me as much as I will fuck her.
And I won’t punish her for her sneaky touches, scold her, or end our exchange when her desire to touch grows too rampant for her to ignore.
I could encourage them. That’s how unhinged she makes me. How unique. She makes me think I can have my cake and eat it too.
The theory wouldn’t be in limbo if she weren’t a mother.
That is the only thing holding me back from going gung-ho on Rafael’s suggestion to make Mara my wife.
It may make me seem like an ass, but you can’t judge me until you’ve walked a day in my shoes.
My childhood was… fuck .
My cock softens.
“No.”
I thrust my hips faster, trying to strangle both my dick and my thoughts back into submission. I need this release more than my lungs need air. I won’t have a single lucid thought if I don’t release the lusty deluge Mara’s presence forever causes.
Nothing works.
My cock is as limp as it was meant to be only moments ago, and I’ve washed too much of Mara’s scent off my skin for it to convince my head into a second hiatus.
Frustrated, I throw my fist into the tile before relishing the snippet of pain it rewards me with. I’m not a sadist by any means, but pain is a salutary reminder of my goals and why I strive so hard to achieve them.
With my shoulders hanging as flaccid as my dick, I switch off the faucet and exit the shower. Blood is pissing out of my hand from where it split while colliding with the tiles. It dots the vanity sink with droplets of crimson and has my thoughts shifting back to my youth.
There was so much blood then, so much gore, yet the silence was the most painful part.
It still haunts me now.
Talking about silence, the noise booming from the den before I entered the bathroom no longer exists when I dress before entering the central part of my office to search for something to clog the graze on my hand. It soaked through a hand towel in less than a minute, so I don’t see cotton swabs doing any better.
My apartment resembles a graveyard at midnight.
It is deadly quiet.
Blood drips on my desk when I hit the intercom button and say, “Rafael?”
I don’t get a response, so I try again. “Rafael?—”
“He left twenty m-minutes ago,” replies a voice I would immediately recognize even if she hadn’t stuttered.
Mara’s throat works hard to swallow when I march to my office door and swing it open, stealing her temporary cloak of invisibility. My third-floor office hovers above the den, a perch to overlook all the debauchery below, so it can’t hide the emptiness of my apartment.
It is just Mara and me.
My cock roars back to life as the scent I’m becoming obsessed with filters through my nostrils.
I drift my eyes away from the ghost-town-like den to Mara when she says, “Y-your hand. What happened?”
She doesn’t give me a chance to reply. Quicker than a heartbeat, she pulls me into my office, plops me onto my chair, and then empties her purse onto my desk.
It’s brimming with an assortment of items—including the Band-Aids I sought when she slipped on wet tiles the night we met.
I huff, amused, when she commences ripping open a strip of Band-Aids. I entered my office seeking a stapler. A sterile strip isn’t going to cut it.
“Y-yes, you’re right,” Mara says, tilting to my right to ensure I have no trouble hearing her whispered words. “You need something more d-durable than Band-Aids.”
Her search ends when I nudge my head to the stapler, and then her cheeks whiten.
“We can’t s-staple your wound together.”
“Why not?” I ask. “I’ve handled worse than a staple piercing through skin.”
I cuss under my breath when sympathy sparks through her eyes. I said too much, but mercifully, Mara is as adapt at making people feel comfortable as she is beautiful. “Be-because every seamstress knows you only pin before s-sewing to ensure you get the perfect seam.”
I’m lost on her metaphor until her hand moves for a mini sewing kit hidden under a travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer.
When I nod, approving of her plan, she opens the lid and threads one of the needles. Once she has everything ready, she moves in close and gathers my injured hand.
Her briefest touch jolts electricity through my body. Mara’s response seems the opposite. A rush of nausea makes her giddy, and she sways uncontrollably.
“Are you okay?”
She stumbles before nodding as if she didn’t. “I just realized I can’t st-stitch your wound. My kit isn’t sterile. You should probably go to the h-hospital.”
“I don’t want to sit in the ER for hours for a handful of stitches.” The shield she is trying to force between us slips away when I curl my uninjured hand around her stuttering ones, and I say, “And as I said previously, I’ve endured worse.”
I stare at her, and she stares back, the intangible string between us growing stronger with each passing second.
Honesty does that. It has you knocking down barriers you were certain would never topple.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” she eventually whispers, her dour tone incapable of weakening my excitement that she’s more concerned about me than the reason she stutters.
He isn’t on her mind right now.
I am.
With the knowledge of that sending all the blood to the lower extremities of my body, my wound seems more superficial than life-threatening. It doesn’t drip a droplet of blood when I raise my hand to Mara’s face to free her lip from her menacing teeth.
Her moan when I drag my thumb over her lips coagulates my blood, mending both my wound and my heart. Not an ounce of consideration is given to any consequences I may face when my thumb fills the gap between her parted lips.
My cock knocks at my zipper when she sucks on the tip of my thumb before she swivels her tongue around it. When I picture her mouth doing the same to my cock, another first I can’t wait to experience with her, it leaks pre-cum from the crest.
Almost desperately, I lunge for her.
My kiss is violent. Needy. It shows how unhinged she makes me and how desperate I am to let go of the reins as Rafael is suggesting.
I’ve lived my life governed for years, long before I started my political career. Not a single decision I made was for me. It was to keep my family’s secrets and bury them deeper than anyone could find them.
It was to hide years of shame.
They aren’t featured in my exchanges with Mara. Nothing matters but how many moans I can entice from her and my hope that they’ll be delivered without a stutter.