Chapter 18
Davian
Velina
I Never Asked You
Atli ?rvarsson
My trembling finger glides over your whisper-light lips.
They are so delicate, yielding to the pressure of my thumb. They part. Delicate rose petals opening their blossom to a deceptively gentle intruder.
Oh, Velina...
I want to lick the dew from them. Fill them with my honey until it runs down your entire blossom.
I can't resist...
A dewdrop forms on my glans. Greedily glistening.
Carefully, I press it down against your lower lip.
Your fragile breath hits my tense skin.
You force me to do this, Velina, leaving me no other choice...
My glans brushes along your dry lips, moistening your parched petals, which have been waiting for my rain for ages.
Oh, how beautifully they glisten now...
But a new dewdrop forms.
I'm afraid there's more...
What should I do, Velina? I'm too weak for this... There's only one way...
I push myself between your lips, carefully, slowly... and you welcome me with the wet tip of your tongue, kissing the dew from my sensitive hardness.
The tip of your tongue skillfully circles the edge of my glans and I tremble slightly.
The sparkling gray of your eyes tells me that you think you have control over me.
I would like to tell you the truth. That you have always had control over me. But I grab your flowing midnight brown hair, wrap it around my fist, and pull your head back.
My throbbing glans brushes against your neck, ready to spill its warmth upon you without restraint until your petals stick together and my nectar drips down your body.
Overwhelmed, I jerked my fingers away from the typewriter, clenched my hands into fists, and jumped up, determined to put as much distance as possible between myself and the only way to calm my racing thoughts.
The voice begging me to finally throw this typewriter out the window and end this years-long suffering, which had intensified over the last two weeks, screamed relentlessly.
This was torture. Torture that pressed against my pants in the form of a throbbing erection. One that just wouldn't go away.
You can't do that, Davian. She's your daughter's friend. Your student.
For two hours now, I had been trying to forget how goddamn inappropriate I had been touching her down there before too much had happened at once, which I had not yet processed, let alone understood.
Everything in me had wanted to ask her to stay, to listen to her.
There were cuts on her arm that she had undoubtedly inflicted on herself, and something in my rusty heart had broken.
I had been inches away from taking her in my arms again and not letting her go this time, no matter how much dishware that damn puppy destroyed.
But somehow, I had managed to grab hold of the last thread of reason and let her go back to Lara's room.
It had hurt. But it had been the right thing to do.
Being near my daughter was the only place where she was safe from my tainted thoughts.
I should put some distance between us, ask her to attend a different lecture. But who was I kidding?
She was everywhere. Her ink trail spread deceptively slowly across the life I had tried so hard to hold together.
What if she was just proof that I had made a mistake? What if I should never have stopped writing?
Foolish thoughts like these only came at five in the morning.
My writing was rubbish. If I had been destined to be an author, my first books would have been bestsellers and could have fed my family. Giving up had been the only right decision.
And this? God, what was I thinking?
At first, it had felt good. The only solution to stop thinking about Quill, until I had realized in the middle of the writing process how wrong I had been.
She was in my head. And my cock declared war on me. A war I lost the next moment.
I ran my hand through my hair, pulled at it, squeezed my eyes shut.
I have to.
As I sat down on the edge of my bed, pushed the waistband of my pants over my hips, and closed my fist around my aching erection, I tried to push her out of my mind, tried to imagine Velina, but Velina looked more and more like her.
“Fuck,” I groaned, tilted my head back, and began to massage my cock.
I groaned through clenched teeth, fighting against all the images and memories of our second encounter, determined to get this over with as quickly as possible.
This was so wrong. So fucking sick. But if I didn't release this pressure, I would fill more miserable pages of a book that would never be allowed to exist.
I could only hope that my body would relax after all this and that I would never look into her eyes for too long again.
Everything inside me tensed up. And for a moment, I gave up.
With a sigh of relief, I allowed myself to remember what had happened earlier, imagining myself cumming on her lips and, inhaling sharply, spilled my release into my fist.
My whole body was shaking. My chest rose and fell heavily. A bead of sweat ran down my temple.
Breathing hard, I opened my eyes.
And I knew I was doomed.
A tornado was still raging in my chest. The drizzle was still tickling my stomach, while tingling gusts of wind left goose bumps on my arms.
Quillon Veritas was a storm. Until now, I had fled from every storm in my life. But something told me that this storm was already too close. It was only a matter of time before its presence mercilessly tore at the facade of my house. And I could only hope that my walls would withstand it.
When everything inside me urges me to burn my
lines, I fold them into paper birds and watch as
phoenixes rise from the ashes of my words.
But even that has not appeased the shadows
deep inside my head, which seem to have taken
a liking to my ink birds.
– Leaking Batteries Diary