Analiese
Analiese
I’m discharged within a couple hours. An exam, some prescription strength antihistamines and a new epi-pen, a strong lecture about not eating food I’m allergic to, and that’s about it. I’ve been through this before, and every time, the lecture gets a little more embarrassing. When I was a kid, they were all sweet and encouraging. Now, my first time going through this as an adult, it’s got a you-know-better vibe to it.
I do. The longer I sit there in the hospital gown, the stupider I feel. I swear I’m never drinking again. Alcohol makes me dumb.
Once we get home, the rest of the day feels awkward and forced. Vasily and Dima are unified that I need to go right to bed, and neither of them will accept the fact that I’m not sick and could probably run laps around the building. I had to go to the hospital; therefore, I’m an invalid.
Dima reviews my list of allergies at least a dozen times despite it being a whole four items and buys me about twelve pounds of fruit to prove he understands the list.
I know his name. He wasn’t one of the ones in the car with Tony and me on our way up to Flagstaff from Phoenix, but his name is whispered about in hushed tones like he’s the devil himself. Tony even said it that day, that he was thankful Dima wasn’t in the car with us. But he’s a sweet man. He even sits next to me on the bed and reads lines with me while Vasily is out picking up Chinese takeaway for us.
I apologize for stealing his pillow, but I don’t offer to give it back. He tells me I can keep it, and I breathe a sigh of relief about not having to commit the faux pas of refusing to give it back.
Seriously, though, I don’t know if dry cleaners even take pillows, and I’m horrified at the thought that I might have left a stain on it because of Vasily.
Despite spending the day in bed, I’m exhausted after dinner. I have to remind myself I did have a late night last night and never did anything to address my hangover. I need to talk to Vasily, but Dima hangs out all day. And when I eat my fortune cookie, announce that I’m going to bed, and give a meaningful look to Vasily like he should follow me, he just gives the back of my hand a squeeze and tells me he’ll be in later.
But he’s not. I’m still alone when I wake up at one in the morning. I’m hopeful he’s out working since he does keep these late hours, but I can hear quiet conversation in the living room. Strangely, it’s not in English or Russian. I don’t understand any Russian, of course, but the past week here has given me a crash course in its cadence. No, this very much sounds like gibberish.
I peek out of the bedroom to find Vasily sitting in the dark on the sofa, staring at the TV with a video game controller in his hand.
He’s a scary guy. Maybe he doesn’t have the reputation that Dima has, but I just saw him go berserk on Dima. He was so kind and apologetic to me at the topless bar, but in the gym? He would have been terrifying if I hadn’t trusted him. And I’ve found blood on his clothes most days.
Two days ago, there was something solid, too. I think it was bone. I will never ask him about it, but I’m fairly sure he’s killed someone this week.
But right now, he’s just a guy doing guy stuff, staying up too late playing a video game. He has a bag of potato chips and one of the sodas Dima brought home next to him. There’s a chilly draft nipping over my toes; he’s got a lit cigarette between his fingers, and he’s trying to get the smoke to blow outside after I spent the week battling the stench in the fibers of the furniture.
It’s so painfully domestic that I could kiss him.
We need to talk, but not right now. I sit on the sofa next to him and pluck the cigarette from his grip, holding it to his lips to give him one last drag before stubbing it out. Since it’s late, I carry the ashtray outside and stand there another minute to let more of the smoke get whisked away.
My brother likes the violent driving games where they’re running over pedestrians and having shoot-outs with the cops. Sometimes when his friends are over, they play the war games or football. I figured Vasily would be playing something like that, but with the volume down to keep from disturbing me or Dima — oh, his door’s open, so I guess he’s not even here — but actually, he’s playing a life simulator.
It’s a family of four going about their day, the kids sitting at desks doing homework while the dad cooks food and the mom gardens outside the invisible walls. It’s raining, so she’s grouchy about that. He’s attempting to flip pancakes with his fingers and complaining about the heat.
I’ve played this game before and designed my characters to have wild hair and historical clothing, their home impractical with a pool that killed most people who jumped into it and not enough beds. But Vasily’s characters are just normal people with normal lives. The kids are both straight-A students. The mom’s an accountant and the dad’s a librarian. They have two cats.
As he’s scrolling through them to set up their next actions, he gestures for me to come back to the sofa. I close the door and curl back up next to him.
“You should be in bed, zvyozdochka, ” Vasily murmurs, his voice low and smooth with just a hint of gravel, like he’s smoked too many cigarettes tonight but is balancing it by speaking softly. His eyes are deeply hooded, his smile lazy. I’m sure he’s high, but I think he’s mostly sleepy.
“Hmm, so should you,” I point out. I’m not about to ask him if he’s avoiding our bed because he’s still upset about yesterday, but I want him to come to bed.
His grin brightens. He kisses my forehead. “I thought I’d sleep out here tonight.” He says it sweetly, like it’s not meant to be rude and he thinks I need that space.
“I’d rather you sleep in our bed.”
He makes the coziest rumbling sound that reaffirms what I just said as he calls his computer-simulated family to the dinner table. “I like how you say that. Our bed.”
“Why are you sleeping on the sofa?”
He peels his eyes off the screen to level a serious look at me and says, “Do you promise not to be offended?”
Oh, no. But I nod because it’s better to get this over with if that’s the only way for him to get a good night’s sleep. He’s much too big for the sofa, and I think even if he’s still mad at me, he’ll fight me if I offer to sleep out here.
“You were . . . sleeping loudly,” he says delicately.
My cheeks go hot as I face-plant on his shoulder. “Oh God. My breathing’s all messed up from earlier today. I’m sorry. It’ll be back to normal tomorrow, I promise.”
He kisses my forehead and sets the next string of commands in. “No apologies. Dima snores like a feral hog, and it usually doesn’t bother me. My brain’s just been racing, so it was latching onto any sound.” He smiles at his own thoughts. “And then when you stopped snoring, the silence bothered me just as much. This is me.”
Looking at him now, I swear I can even hear the wheels turning in his brain, the metaphorical hamster running fast enough the wheel’s about to snap off the stand and send it barreling right out his ear canal. I need to help him get to sleep, and I don’t think the sofa is going to do any better than the bed did. It’s not the sound, it’s him.
I need to quiet his mind.
He’s focused back on the game. I cozy up more snugly against him, and I’m rewarded with an arm around me. When I tease my fingers at the waistband of his sweatpants, he makes a soft sound but doesn’t respond any further.
He grunts when I dip my hand in. “You don’t need—”
I cut him off with, “May I?” because I know I don’t have to do this. I want to do this, but — and I realize how ridiculous this might sound considering how I ended up here — I won’t if he doesn’t want me to.
His jaw tightens, and his pronounced Adam’s apple bobs as he nods.
That’s enough encouragement for me to shimmy his waistband down. He leans forward to let me slide it under his butt so it doesn’t get in my way.
I’ve seen his cock before. Of course. Not at the club because of the blindfold, but in the gym? I got a really good view of it. And I’m fully aware that flaccid and erect look different, but I didn’t fully understand the difference. I had no concept of how it would look other than smaller.
It rests against his thigh, slightly bent as though it’s curled up, sleeping. His testicles are like a pillow that’s lost its loft over time. His piercings have gathered somewhat, understandably. If he’s not at his full length, they’re not going to have that length to stretch over. What I wasn’t expecting, though, was that rim that he enjoyed me tucking my lips under to suck and lick at the cum beading on the divot in the tip is gone.
I run my finger over it, and two things happen.
The first is his cock hops. Enough that I lean back and glance up at his face to see if he’s okay, but the only change is a mischievous curl at one corner of his lips. I guess this is normal, and yes, it definitely moved about when he came, but I honestly wasn’t sure how much was his cock and how much was him moving in a way that carried into his shaft. This was definitely the penis moving on its own.
The second thing is I discover that extra flesh has gathered over the head of his cock. It’s soft and wrinkled, and when I probe it, nudging my finger inside the opening at the end of it, I find the smoother, spongier flesh that I’d been expecting has been engulfed by it.
Also, sticking my finger into the loose skin has Vasily shifting in his seat and his cock plumping rapidly. I’m fascinated watching it jerk as it lifts itself up and expands, the ladder of piercings spreading out.
“ Zvyozdochka, ” Vasily says, his voice strained. “You are killing me.”
I believe him, too. But I have to ask, “What is this? Is this always here?”
“My cock is always here, da .”
I giggle. “Not that!”
His grin tells me he knew all along. “Is foreskin.”
The thickening of his accent and the imperfect English does happy things in my belly. He always seems very much in control no matter what’s going on, but he’s relaxed and letting me take charge here, and that makes him different. I like that. “Ooh,” I say, unable to resist leaning down to get a slightly closer look. “Why haven’t I seen it before— on you ,” I add quickly before he gives me another sassy response.
“Put your hand around me like this,” he says, guiding my fingers around the tip to cup it loosely. “And now pull it down.”
Together, we snag the excess flesh and pull it back, revealing the head I was expecting. I’m delighted to find that the foreskin is just snug enough that when I let go, it stays where it’s supposed to be. “That’s so cool!” I squeal, cringing afterward because I don’t want him to think I’m not . . . impressed or whatever by his dick. Very manly. Such virility.
But oh my God, with the right amount of pressure I can pull it right back over and back down again.
“I’m glad you like it,” Vasily says tightly. “Some American women don’t.”
That’s just crazy to me, but to each their own. “Is this how you, umm, masturbate?” I ask, dragging the skin back up. “Since the piercings can’t . . .” Ulk, I sound like a toddler. It’s embarrassing that at nineteen, I don’t know the words to use. Also, I’m going to be setting some poor priest’s hair on fire in confessional after service tomorrow. This is going to be, like, a hundred Hail Marys, I swear.
Vasily is in no way bothered by this. “The piercings don’t get in the way at all,” he tells me. He speaks calmly, but he’s taking deep, perfectly timed breaths now. I think he’s trying to get his control back, and I love that, for once, I get to be the one driving him wild. It’s been very unbalanced.
I’m the one who brings our eyes and our lips together as I rise up on my knees and say, “Show me.”
Whatever Vasily says to that is definitely not English, but I can’t say it’s human, either. Probably Russian, I know, but it’s a dark, guttural sound that I swear goes right between my legs.
As though knowing exactly where that sound went, Vasily finally gives up on the game, setting the controller aside and placing me on his lap, my knees straddling his thighs. He guides each of my fingers around his shaft individually, resting them between the rungs as though the distance between them was designed just for this. Not my fingers, though, I could probably fit two in each space and I feel weirdly like I’m back in my piano lessons with the way my fingers deliberately fan, but Vasily’s fingers are so much bigger than mine. I bet they fit just right.
“I want to watch you jerk yourself off,” I blurt out, and when my cheeks warm over saying something so explicit, it’s Camilla’s voice in my head saying put your big girl panties on, Laces .
Heck yeah, I want to see it. This great big man sitting just like this with his cock in his hand, stroking himself until cum spurts out, splashing all over his chest? As he stares at me the whole time? That sounds sexy as all get-out. I even feel the crotch of my pajama pants dampen and cool at the thought, and I’m not ashamed at all. These are my big girl panties right here.
The way he startles me by lurching forward with a rough kiss, demanding access to my mouth, tells me he’s also interested in this. His body even starts to move beneath me, his cock forcing its way through my grip. Something damp slithers down the back of my hand, and once he gives me space again, I look down to see pre-cum leaking from his tip.
“Not now,” he says. “You do this now.”
“How?” Of all the sexual things I’ve wished I had some instruction on, I never in a million years guessed that this would stymy me — because I didn’t know penile piercings were a thing.
He once again engulfs my hand in his, his fingers aligning between mine so we lock together without him adding pressure. His cock is warm in my hand, throbbing, the skin silky, but my grip is more on the capture balls. When he lifts my hand, it’s the piercings that are moving, lifting the skin with them.
It’s different from the foreskin, but even this flesh slides some over the mass within. Vasily’s thighs tense up beneath me. His head tosses back, and I have to kiss his silly grin as he lets go of my hand to let me work him on my own.
“Is this a good speed?” I ask. “Am I squeezing too tightly?”
“ Zvyozdochka , you can work me however you want. My cock is yours.”
Well, crud. That sounds really nice. Yeah, I do want a cock of my very own, and this one’s so nice and big and thick and festive.
I giggle at that.
“You think this funny?” Vasily asks, all lazy smiles and easy thrusts to show me how he likes it without being demanding about it.
“You decorated your cock for me,” I laugh.
“Fuck, it sounds hot when you say cock.”
“Does it feel good, the way they rub inside you like that?”
He nods. “I told you they’re for me too, remember? Especially when you’re coming on my cock and that tiny pussy of yours tightens up so much I can barely pull them out of you.”
I want to torment him. Just a little. So I inch my middle finger up to push the long, embedded bar in more deeply.
Vasily barks out a harsh sound.
“Does that feel good, too?” I whisper, shocked at how sultry my own voice is. When did I become this girl? When did I become so wanton that I feel like I’m on the edge of orgasming myself just watching Vasily?
“Harder,” Vasily groans, and I lay more fingers over the bars.
He grabs my shirt and flips the front of it over my head, fully exposing my chest, and immediately his eyes focus there. He goes quiet, but he’s still panting hard enough I know he’s going to come soon. I can’t ignore the way his gaze turns molten as he stares at me and finally reaches up to massage the soft, petite mounds.
And yeah, that fills me with sweeter, gooier feelings. “You really don’t mind how flat I am?”
He looks back up to meet my eyes as he leans in and captures a nipple between his lips. Is this how I looked when I was sucking him off, I wonder. Could everyone see the affection plain as day like I can now?
“You are so beautiful,” Vasily whispers reverently as he shifts to the other nipple. His hand goes to my waistband, but he holds there to say, “May I?”
It’s not been lost on me that he hasn’t touched me since I started my period. I have no idea if it’s because he’s not comfortable with that or he assumed I wouldn’t be. Either way, I’m thankful he refrained. Yes, last night was awful, but we had a few days to simply be comfortable with each other, and it was what I needed to decide if I’m making a good decision betting on him.
I’m going to need to tie him down to the bed so we can have a serious discussion about his drug use. I don’t know how I’m going to get through this in confession tomorrow to make sure I’m still alright with God, considering everything I’ve said and done and thought this week. I don’t even know him, not really.
But I’m still betting on Vasily.
I nod, and instead of attempting to lower my pants what little they’ll go, he simply sneaks a hand in and winnows it right between my legs. No overtures, no warm-ups tonight — they’re definitely not needed — before he pinches my clit between two fingers.
“Don’t make me come yet,” I say through gritted teeth. “I want you to come first.”
He beams at me as his fingers tease me so slowly I think I could sit in a bliss on the edge of orgasm for hours. “I want to come here,” he says, swiping one nipple and then the other. “And here. And here.” His finger traces a line down from my collarbone down to my navel.
I debate about if I want that. In my mind, this was going to end in him coming on himself, but he still has his shirt on and we’re too tangled up at this point to do anything about that, so I guess I’ll settle for myself this time.
He wiggles his fingers. “And then afterward, I’m going to clean you up with my tongue and take you to bed, where I’m going to curl up so snuggly behind you that my cock is going to spend the entire night in your pussy, and I’m gonna fuck you and come inside you every time I get hard again.”
I buck on top of him, unable to control my muscles. He’s gracious enough to groan as his cock suddenly kicks in my palm and ruptures, flinging ropes of sticky white cum all over my chest.
We’re both silent for several seconds, and then he shoots me the purest, most innocent grin. I curl my lips into my mouth to keep from laughing, but it sputters out of me until we’re both laughing loudly and then kissing, no protests from Vasily when I lean down and get his cum all over his shirt anyway.
“For fuck’s sake, would you get a room?”
I gasp and sit upright to find Dima has just walked in. It’s clear from the bags he’s carrying and the way he’s kicking his boots about that he wasn’t even sneaking in. We just weren’t paying attention.
And I’m upright for at least two seconds before Vasily puts his hands on my boobs to cover them.
“It’s not like I haven’t seen them,” Dima huffs as he walks by and goes into his room. “The entire state of Arizona has seen them.”