13. Vasilisa #3
My pussy clenches around his fingers, a desperate, greedy grip, and I can feel the smile against my lips, the smug, masculine satisfaction of a man who knows exactly what he’s doing to me. I want to be angry about it, I want to fight it, but I can’t. All I can do is feel.
He moves down my body, a slow, deliberate descent, his lips trailing a path of fire down my neck, my chest, my stomach. He pushes my dress up the rest of the way and pulls down my underwear, and then he’s between my legs, and I’m completely exposed to him.
He looks at me, and the look on his face is something I’ve never seen before. It’s not just hunger. It’s reverence. Like he’s looking at a masterpiece. Like he’s looking at the last surviving copy of a sacred text.
“Vasilisa,” he says, and my name is a prayer on his lips. His breath’s warm against my pussy, and I tremble with anticipation. “You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
And then he tastes me.
His tongue is a rough, wet drag against my clit, a shock of pure, unadulterated pleasure that makes me cry out.
He licks me slowly, thoroughly, learning every fold and crevice, and it’s the most intimate, most possessive thing anyone has ever done to me.
He’s not just tasting me, he’s claiming me, marking me, branding me with his mouth.
My hands fly to his head, my fingers tangling in his hair, holding him to me.
I grind against his face, a desperate, mindless seeking of more, more, more.
He takes what I give him, and then he gives me more, sucking on my clit, a hard, rhythmic pressure that builds the pleasure to an unbearable peak.
My orgasm breaks over me like a wave, a tsunami of sensation that rips through me, leaving me shaking and breathless. He doesn’t stop, he keeps licking me, drawing out the pleasure, until I’m a quivering, overstimulated mess.
He moves back up my body, and he’s smiling, a real, genuine smile that transforms his face, making him look younger, softer. “You taste like winning,” he says, and he kisses me, and I can taste myself on his lips, a musky, salty flavor that is undeniably me.
I want him inside me. I want it with a desperation that is almost painful. I reach for the button of his pants, my hands fumbling with the zipper, my eagerness making me clumsy. He pushes my hands away and does it himself, shrugging out of his pants and boxers in one smooth, efficient motion.
And then he’s naked, giving me a good look of his fully erected cock. It’s perfect, he’s perfect, all hard lines and smooth skin, a weapon and a promise all at once.
He kneels between my legs, and he looks at me, and there’s a question in his eyes.
I nod. A single, decisive dip of my chin.
He enters me slowly, a slow, steady stretch that is both a pleasure and a pain.
He’s big and thick, but my pussy takes him, a perfect, aching fit.
He seats himself fully inside me, and for a long moment, we just stay like that, joined together, our bodies pressed against each other, our hearts beating in a frantic, synchronized rhythm.
He starts to move, a slow, deep rhythm that is both a claiming and a surrender. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, my heels digging into the small of his back. We move together, a dance as old as time, a dance of power and passion, of pain and pleasure.
I’m close again, the pleasure building deep inside me, a coiling spring waiting to be released. He can feel it too, I can tell by the way he’s moving, the way his breath is hitching, the way his hands are gripping my hips.
“Look at me,” he says, and I open my eyes. “I want to see you.”
I look at him, and I see him. I see the man who put a knife through a man’s hand for me. I see the gambler who bet on me. I see the animal who is claiming me. And I see the man who looked at my broken body and saw something beautiful.
He speeds up, his balls slapping against my ass, a rhythmic, primal sound. My pussy clenches around his cock, a desperate, greedy grip. My orgasm rips through me, a white-hot explosion of pleasure that leaves me shaking and screaming his name.
He follows me over the edge, a hoarse cry torn from his throat, and I feel him come, a hot, wet pulse inside me.
He collapses on top of me, and I welcome his weight, the solid, reassuring pressure of him. We’re both breathing hard, our bodies slick with sweat, the air in the room thick with the scent of us.
His cock softens and slips out of me, and I feel a pang of loss, a sudden emptiness. He rolls off me, but he doesn’t let me go. He pulls me into his arms, my back to his chest, and he holds me, a simple, possessive embrace.
I lie there in the dark, listening to the steady beat of his heart, and I feel a strange, terrifying peace. I’m in the bed of a dangerous man, a man who bathes in blood and calls it bookkeeping, a man who has claimed me in the most primitive way possible, and I have never felt safer.
The thought is a betrayal. A betrayal of everything I thought I was. A betrayal of the woman who thought she wanted a teacher with calluses on his fingers from chalk dust. But I can’t help it. I can’t deny the truth of my own body.
He’s not the man I thought I wanted.
He’s the man I need.