Day 11Analiese
Day 11
Analiese
“I can’t believe I’ve lived in Phoenix for twenty-two years and this is my first time in Flagstaff,” Camilla mutters, staring around in wonder at the boutique tea house where I was able to schedule a table for two at the last minute.
Well, Vasily scheduled it.
Probably Artyom, if I’m being honest. As we were coming in, the hostess was apologizing profusely to a pair of red hats for accidentally overbooking today. I have a feeling that Artyom pulled some strings for me. The hostess has a pronounced Russian accent.
She’s looking nervously between the two men standing quietly in the foyer that doubles as a gift shop. I’m not sure who’s more menacing, Kostya or Frankie. Kostya’s definitely more pissed about being stuck bodyguarding me. Frankie’s a good pal of Camilla’s, has been nearly as long as I have. He scored the bodyguard gig by being as gay as the day is long, and he’s proudly bragged to us both that the only reason he spends so much time at the gym is to pick up other guys.
He looks big and bad, and I wish this was a situation that could result in him duking it out with Kostya, but they’re on the same team right now whether they like it or not.
“Trust me when I say this is not the Flagstaff I’ve been staying in,” I chuckle as I use the dipper to drizzle honey into my tea cup. It matches the saucer it’s on, but nothing else matches. Mine has an English rose painted on the side of it and gold leaf on the rim. Camilla’s is shaped into a sunflower that’s barely functional as a teacup, but she demanded it when it was initially set in front of me.
It’s all too precious for words. I’m so glad I found this place online last night while we were eating Chinese in a half-abandoned strip mall. The food was great. The leftovers were just as good when we reheated them two hours later after Vasily practically split me in half for being on my best behavior in Phoenix. But I realized if I was making Frankie drive Camilla all the way up here, I needed to make it worth it.
Ergo, novelty tea house. We’re getting a traditional high tea for four, and I can’t wait to see Vasily negotiate itty bitty tiny finger food when I bring him the leftovers.
“Well, tell me about the Flagstaff you have been staying in,” Camilla says. “And why isn’t your guy here? I wanted to meet him.”
I frown and hyperfocus on the cup. There was that blink of time that he spent the day with me, and I wish I hadn’t used it to antagonize him. And once he told me that he’d been covering for Dima with the daily truck, I thought that meant I would have him for at least half the day. But we were lucky we took advantage of the empty apartment the moment we got home from our trip and dinner because he only got a couple bites of those leftovers before he was called back out and I was dropped back off at Kseniya’s.
“Aww, Laces, is it bad?”
“Not like that,” I say quickly. With a sheepish laugh, I add, “They have a lot to deal with here, I guess, so he’s forever running off and coming home bloody, and one of their guys got beat up really badly on Sunday, so he hasn’t even gotten to spend the night with me since then. I just miss him.”
Camilla laughs so hard she has to cover her face with her cloth napkin to keep from squirting tea out her nose. “Oh my god, you guys are disgustingly cute together.”
“You’ve never seen us together!”
She’s grimacing slightly as she lowers her napkin back to her lap, and it hits me that she has.
“Oh no, that doesn’t count.”
The grimace intensifies. “Don’t be mad at me, but once you gave me the back story on the video, I watched it again.”
“What is wrong with you?”
“It was sweet, actually. Like, hardcore as fuck and not okay on a lot of levels, but then I was watching how you touched him and he touched you and yeah, sweet.”
I groan and lean against the wall next to me, thankful we asked for this table when the boys exchanged a nervous look when we were initially led to a middle table.
Seriously, we’re not anyone, and we’re at a niche tea house on the posh side of Flagstaff. No one is going to randomly look in the window and see us and decide to take us out.
“There was so much in that video. So much .”
She laughs and takes one of the finger sandwiches off the middle tier of the display of snacks between us. “It was hot. You could sell that shit. You should make more.”
“Speaking of,” I say more softly, not sure if our voices are going to carry up to the lobby, “did you bring it?”
She pats her giant purse. “Of course. But seriously, I did a ton of research on these things. Gino’s probably going to shit a kitten if he looks through my browser history, but they don’t really mean anything. I mean, you two are fucking like bunnies.”
“We are not!”
“That face, right there, is the face of a woman who lost her virginity a week ago and has been fucking like a bunny ever since. This test is for people who aren’t fucking like bunnies.”
“I wish you’d stop saying that.” Seriously, Camilla might not be anyone, especially in Flagstaff, but she has the looks of a supermodel. Her make-up is straight out of a runway tutorial, her clothes are all custom designer, her hair is a rockstar mullet that, with her build, just adds glamour, and she has that playful, sexy smile that I’ve never been able to replicate.
I’ve only ever been the good girl.
She’s always had a reputation. In our teens — well technically, I’m still in mine, but when we were in high school together — the only reason Tony let me hang out with her is that her family is every bit as powerful as ours and everyone insisted she wasn’t nearly as bad an influence on me as I was a good one for her. She did everything wrong, bragged about all her notches on her bedpost.
And in the end, despite the twenty years between them, she got a good match with Gino. He knew exactly what she was, and he was smitten.
I’ve never thought much on it, but what Vasily said the other day when I admitted my motivation for the video has stuck with me. Gino and Camilla are proof enough that a video where it looks like I’ve been raped by a Bratva second-in-command might not damage me all that much. They say they care about virtue, but that’s another generation they’re parroting the words but not the actions of.
Which is why I need what’s in Camilla’s bag right now for my own peace of mind.
“I just need to know if it’s worth me hoping for.”
“Are you still sure this is even what you want?” she asks me. “You didn’t sound completely confident in Vasily last time we talked.”
“He’s not perfect,” I tell her. “But I understand him better now, and I think . . . I think there’s room to grow. I think I can help him.” I hope I can, and not just for selfish reasons. “But I don’t think he’s ready for this, you know? We don’t talk about it, about the situation between us, but I don’t think he’s considering not sending me back.”
Camilla shoots me a peevish side-eye. “Why don’t you talk to him about it?”
Because he’s going to say no, and I’m going to be devastated.
I don’t say that, of course. That will make me look weak. I am weak. Camilla knows I’m weak. But I can’t show it now.
Instead, I shrug helplessly. “It’s complicated. Everything’s complicated, right? If I push too hard and he rejects me, where will that leave us if I do get pregnant? And I can’t stress enough that there’s no way he’d willingly get me pregnant.”
“Hates kids?”
“I don’t know, actually. But the family thing is complicated. He thinks his family is cursed. Like, that they’re all doomed to die young. So I know not to talk about having a baby.”
“He literally said he was going to put a Russian baby in you.”
“And I literally came when he said that,” I admit. It was hot. I don’t know. I don’t get my brain anymore. “But he thought I was on birth control. Which I have for you, by the way.”
“Maybe you should keep it.”
“But you need it.”
“If Vasily doesn’t want a baby—”
“He’ll do the right thing if I get pregnant,” I insist.
“But is it the right thing?”
I stare down at my pale gold tea, my goat cheese stuffed hibiscus flowers, my crab canapes. This isn’t going to be my life with Vasily. If we have a baby, we’re going to struggle, and not just financially. We’ll make it work, and we’ll work well together, but it’s going to be a lot of stress on him that I already know he won’t handle well.
If he finds out I baby-trapped him, he’ll resent me whether or not he cares about me.
No, this isn’t the right thing, not for him. Nico wouldn’t like this either, and he’ll be the one I have to confess to. My Catholic church wouldn’t mind, as long as we got married, but I don’t think I’ll be right in the eyes of the Lord.
But if this is how I gain control of my life, it’ll be worth it.
“I see that face, Laces,” Camilla grumbles. “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”
I shake my head. “I’m sorry you’ll lose my birth control if I get pregnant, though. We’ll figure something out.”
She sighs and sits back in the frilly wood chair meant more for a kitchenette than a restaurant. “No, no. If you’re having a baby, I guess I’ll suck it up and have one too. Dima will shit himself with excitement, probably take me on a Tiffany spree.”
I doubt I’ll be getting any push presents, but I’m okay with that.
Kostya drops me off at home— well, at Vasily’s condo, which I probably shouldn’t be referring to as home, but nothing has felt more like home since I lost my father— and I’m excited that means Vasily’s home. I don’t need to be babysat by Kseniya and Miguel. Not that I haven’t had a wonderful time with them or that they’re treating me like a child or a burden but, well . . .
Well. This feels like home, and their place doesn’t.
I walk into the apartment to find Dima in the kitchen, chowing down on some Doritos. I pass through to Vasily’s bedroom, but it’s empty.
“He’s not here,” Dima yells coarsely, the kindness shown after my near-death experience having fizzled out into something between disinterest and hostility. I think the Tagalongs were his.
“When will he be home?” I ask.
“Not my business to know.”
Again, maybe disinterest, maybe hostility.
I tell myself not to be grouchy about this. I’m not the most extroverted person. A lot of people think otherwise since I love being on stage, but I have a script on stage. Every line is rehearsed. I know what’s expected of me. I know exactly what to do to satisfy the audience. I haven’t had much time to myself the last couple of days, and I do have a ton of homework to do. It would be more comfortable to sit at a table, but I make do on the bed, jamming one pillow behind my back and propping my computer up on another.
I lose track of time as I work through a script, only realizing that night has fallen and I’ve missed dinner when my tummy rumbles. I hear Dima moving around in the kitchen and debate holding out until Vasily gets home, but that could be hours away. With a resigned sigh, I set my laptop aside and wander out of the room.
Dima is by the fridge, the freezer door ajar, with two broad, flat boxes in his hands that his gaze flicks between. He knows I’m standing here, but he doesn’t even look my way.
With a flip of one of the boxes, I see that he’s debating between which TV dinner to make for himself.
Yes, a part of me wants him to have a shriveled, freezer-burnt Salisbury steak, mealy mashed potatoes, wet green beans, and a cherry cobbler that even the microwave can’t thaw for dinner. I’m not mad at him for what happened with the fruit salad. On the contrary, the way he’s acting toward me now shows just how horrified he was to have hurt me before. But he’s being a dick tonight.
And he’s just sort of a scary dude. His nose is crooked, broken too many times for it to ever go straight again, his lip also slightly twisted. He dresses in all black even now, at home in his comfortable clothes. There’s a gun on one hip and a switchblade on the other, even in his comfortable home. I’ve already witnessed him pull both those weapons in situations that did not call for them. In short, he’s a scary guy. And a part of me says scary guys don’t give a shit about what they eat, so what point is there in giving them something better than nasty frozen food?
But that’s not who I am, not really. And as grouchy as he’s been in our few interactions since the kiwi incident, I don’t think that’s who he is, either.
So I take a hesitant step forward and say, “I was going to make pierogies, if you’d like some.”
He looks up at me, I’m thinking with curiosity, but then he glances back to the fridge. He jabs his thumb in that direction. “We don’t have any pierogies.”
I didn’t realize they were something that even came pre-made, but I don’t say that. I don’t want to sound weird.
Which is ridiculous. He saved my life. He probably watched Vasily and me have sex. Twice, if the hand job on the sofa counts as sex. It felt like sex.
I smile brightly, no point pitching attitude about frozen food at him. “That’s why I’m going to make them!”
He raises one eyebrow. I’m not sure if it’s surprise or skepticism. “Is this something that you just do? Tuesday night, so fuck it, let’s make pierogies?”
“Well, no, but I learned how to make noodles the other day and managed raviolis pretty well, so I figure I’d try pierogies next. Vasya said they’re his favorite.”
Dima nearly cracks a smile. Nearly . I see that lip twitching, and I’m positive that’s the only thing that could mean. He’s silent for a long time, which seems weird for him. I’ve only talked with him a couple times, and I haven’t gotten the idea that he’s needlessly impulsive, but he’s quick-witted. The fact that he’s silent for so long tells me that whatever he’s about to say has a great deal of weight behind it.
Finally, after that forever, he opens a cabinet and retrieves a bag of flour. “If you’re going to learn how to make pierogies, you should be taught.”
I don’t get it at first, but then it feels like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulder. Dima is inviting me to cook with him.
We go through the stages of prep cordially but absently, washing up and getting water boiling, making our own batches of pasta to compare. I don’t actively watch Dima, but from the corner of my eye, I see him soften in increments, clearly enjoying himself as he kneads the dough. It takes me a long time to build up the courage to ask anything that isn’t related to the preparation of a pierogi, but finally I blurt out, “Have you always cooked?”
“I never cook,” he says, frowning enough that I think I’ve misstepped on my first attempt at being friendly with him, but then he adds, “I don’t know why, though. I used to love it. There was a point where everything just changed, and I forgot it was something I could do.”
“When Artyom took over?”
“Artyom is a great leader.”
I cringe, knowing I definitely misstepped on that one. “I didn’t mean that, I just wasn’t . . . I don’t know how exactly you’re related to Vasya. I didn’t want to bring up something bad.”
“Like the deaths that put Artyom in the avtorivet seat?”
I nod.
“It was a difficult time for us. You’ve, ahhh, you’ve met the entire brigade,” he says carefully. We’re both brushing delicate subjects— as in, my brother selling my virginity for $150,000 without any say from me — but that makes us even. “We lost many men our first years here, left us without much for experience. We made it up as we went along. Artyom had to figure out how to lead on his own. And he did a great job of it. But we all had to give up on a lot of stuff to made it happen.”
“Vasily said he was in college.” I don’t mention the part about how he wanted to leave Flagstaff forever. I don’t know how well received that would be.
“He was. So was I.”
There I go stepping in it again. “Oh, I wasn’t trying to make his sacrifices worse than—”
“I know.” His voice softens by another measure, like my poor choices of words are actually endearing me to him. He gets to work ricing the potatoes while I make a sauce for them. “We both wanted out,” he admits. “He told you he was going to go to LA, yeah?”
“He didn’t say where exactly, just that he wanted out of Flagstaff.”
“What else did he tell you?”
I shift uncomfortably under Dima’s gaze. He looks genuine— as genuine as he can, at any rate— but I can’t trust that. I can’t trust him. I can’t trust anyone here. Not even Vasily, and he certainly shouldn’t trust me. I won’t betray what he said to me in confidence, but I’m already betraying him by using him the way I am. Something good may come from that, but nothing good will come from me telling Dima what Dima doesn’t already know.
So I shrug noncommittally. “Just about his dad and his girlfriend dying in that accident. Or . . . bomb, I think he said. And that it was really hard on him.” Since Dima’s gaze doesn’t fade at that, I add what I think is the most confidential bit that’s safe. “He said that’s why he does so many drugs.”
“That’s why?”
I’m an actress. I know how to play all manner of duress when, on the inside, I’m loving every second of it. I know how to laugh when I’m getting torn apart by stress. I turned the tears over my father’s death into tears of joy, and the audience ate it up.
But it’s just Dima and me here.
His eyes are narrowed onto me.
He’s analyzing everything about me.
And I can’t reasonably believe that he misses the way I reflexively swallow at the lie settling on my tongue.
Still, I say, “Yeah, that’s what he told me,” like I’m just parroting his words but don’t know if I believe them or not.
Dima takes my bowl from me, tosses the potato mash into it, and mixes it all into a thick paste. I roll out the dough to cut it into circles. We’ve both already sealed up our first pierogies when Dima says, “And not the voices?”
I purse my lips as I throw a scoop of filling into the next circle and run a wet finger over the rim before folding it and sealing it. No point hiding it now. “Yes, the voices too.”
Dima seems like the kind of guy who hates being lied to. But he smirks and shoves me instead, a playful nudge of his shoulder against mine that has me cracking my own wry smile. It’s not funny. Not even a little bit. But the effort I went to when Dima was telling me he already knew is silly.
“ The voices too. No, just the voices. There’s nothing else. And they’re not even real.”
“No, of course not. They’re in his head.”
Dima drops the first pierogi in the oil, the sizzle nearly covering his words when he says, “They’re not even there.”
My fingers freeze on the pierogi I’m shaping. I want the pierogies to be perfect for Vasily, but it takes just those words from Dima to get me wondering if he deserves perfect. If he’s every bit as duplicitous as I am, after all.
“You mean he’s been lying to me this whole time?” I snarl at Dima.
To his credit, he’s not even a little taken aback by my outburst. He’s smooth as anything with his, “No, not lying. He just thinks they’re voices, and they’re not.”
“What does that mean? How would you even know? Cripes, Dima, why would you say something like that? He’s obviously hurting.”
“He is, yeah.” Instead of picking up any of the other prepared pierogies, he takes the one in my hands, stopping me from working it any further. “And he’s entitled to that hurt. I don’t judge him for hurting. I don’t judge him for being self-destructive. But that’s just it. He’s not schizophrenic or whatever label he’s put on himself. He’s self-destructive, and the voices he hears aren’t hallucinations, they’re his . . . bad conscience? I don’t know the word. He’s told me enough of what he’s heard for me to know that. They’re the same thoughts I have. And I’ve done really stupid things because of them. The only difference is that he’s convinced himself they’re something he can’t fight because he thinks he’s too weak to fight them.”
“Well, I don’t think that’s true at all!”
Dima doesn’t ask me what part of that I think is a lie. I don’t think he has to. I see the shadow of a gnarled smile there as he nudges his pierogies over.
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “I didn’t think you liked me.”
“I like you. I just don’t know you.”
“Then why are you telling me this?” I ask again.
“Because you’re making pierogies for Vasily. So whatever lies you’re telling me or him or anyone else, I have to think you believe they’re for the best for him. You’re the sort to want to help, and you want to help Vasily. Now here, try this pierogi. It’s delicious.”
I’m just dozing off when Vasily gets home, another horrifically long day.
The fertility test came back positive, even indicated that I’m at the beginning of my fertility window and I’ve got about six good days, which Camilla said was a lot. I am built for making babies, apparently. So despite the firm lecture Camilla gave me about how small a component this truly is and how even if I could get Vasily tested and his sperm are top notch, I’ve only got a twenty percent chance of this working, I’m hoping he’ll insist on keeping his cock inside me all night again. I feel like that will definitely help the odds, so when I hear him come in through the front door and take off his coat, I work on making myself look as snuggly as possible.
He immediately goes out on the porch, ostensibly to smoke a cigarette. Huh.
He washes his hands in the kitchen, and then there’s a solid minute where I think he’s just standing there. I don’t hear any movement. No cupboards opening like he’s grabbing a snack or anything. Huh. Maybe he’s responding to texts.
When he comes into the bedroom, I pretend to be sleeping, thinking the best time to ‘wake up’ will be once he gets in bed. If he holds me, I’ll wiggle into him. If he sticks to his side, I’ll pull the yawn oh hey did you just get home thing. I got this. I can seduce Vasily.
He goes straight to his closet, closing the door most of the way so the light doesn’t disturb me. I can hear the rustling of clothes and opening of drawers, which is weirder because that means he’s not just undressing, he’s changing into something else. Lame, he’s probably going back out.
When he walks up to my side of the bed, I consider reaching out and pulling him down, hoping I can convince him to stay home. But before I commit to it, Vasily announces, “We’re making another video.”
I’m surprised enough that I jerk myself up. “Oh? When?”
“Now,” he says gruffly, scooping me up and throwing me over his shoulder. “No safe word this time. We do this right.”
“How does that make it right?” I cry out. I wouldn’t have used it, but that doesn’t make any sense.
“Because you wanted to show everyone that there’s no point in trying to negotiate with Tony for you, right? You want to make sure that Tony knows he’s not getting anything for you so he may as well let you go. And so far, all you’ve done is shown all his boys that you’ll suck a dick like your life depends on it even if you’re being forced to do it and that you’ll come as readily as anything all over your rapist’s cock.”
“We didn’t do that video right at all, did we?” I huff. All the boys are going to be lining up around the block after that.
“Nope. So I’m going to ruin you. And you don’t need a safe word, because if you tell me to stop, I’ll stop. That’s it.”
He carries me back to the gym. This time there’s no rope, no hook on the ceiling, nothing except the foam mats with two cameras pointed toward the ground and a computer on a bench. He sets me on my knees on the mat, so the cameras aren’t even catching my face. I don’t understand what he’s planning other than to lay me down and pump into me — which, awesome, that gets his sperm in me, which is really a better basket for me to put all my eggs in than the sex tape ruination — but then he picks up another camera and stands in front of me, pointing the lens right at my face.
“Smile for camera, zvyozdochka ,” he says as he strokes my chin with his free hand.
I give it a great big smile, but only because it’s directly between my face and his.
“There you are. You love being on knees for me, don’t you, Analiese?” Using my name in case anyone questions this.
I make a grab for his sweats, where I see his cock starting to bob there.
“You want to show boys new tricks? Go on, then.”
I don’t know who the boys are. But I want his dick, and at the end of the day, as long as everything else goes as planned, it won’t matter what they think of me. Honestly, if it all goes as planned, I won’t even have to worry about more classmates seeing it; it’s not like I’m going to continue going to college in Phoenix if I’m pregnant.
So yeah, I want his dick, and I give him the biggest smile as I pull his pants down and he steps out of them.
He’s not hard yet, but he’s getting there. He says, “Go on, show what good girl,” but I’m feeling like experimenting. Instead of drawing back his foreskin and gripping him between the rungs to warm him up, I lift it with my palm, stick my tongue out, and lick the bit of tip exposed within the sheath.
“Being playful, baby?” he coos, bringing his hand back behind my neck for support.
I dip my tongue back in, this time delving into the crevice to ring the crown hidden in there.
The response is immediate, his cock jumping on my palm while he curses quietly. “You come much tonight,” he murmurs. “Did you think up yourself, or did little friend teach you?”
I shake my head. “I like it when you let me play.”
“Do you think little friend watch? I sent link.”
Crud. But I nod anyway because I’m sure she is and she’ll call me out for lying whether she sees it now or later.
“Say greeting to friend?”
I shake my head quickly. Nope, not at all where I want to go with that.
“ Da , you talk to later. Now show her trick.”
His cock is nice and tall now. I grip it the way he likes and suck his tip into my mouth, working it the way I did yesterday. He hasn’t tried to thrust into my mouth since the first time, but this is better for me. I don’t like gagging, and I think I’m going to always be obsessed with the feel of the flesh sliding over the meat.
I press one piercing gently, just enough that I feel his thigh tighten under the hand I’ve rested there for balance. I meet his eyes as I reach around him to squeeze his ass, too— he has a very squeezable ass, but it goes as rock solid as that thigh— and the only thing I’m sad about right now is that I don’t have a camera, too. I want them to see the way he looks at me.
If his goal is to make sure everyone sees I only have eyes for him, I want them to see the feeling is mutual. I want them to know if they try to take me from him, he’s far more dangerous than I could ever be.
“Lick my shaft, zvyozdochka . Let them see you love my cock.”
They’re all going to see my eyes widen at that, so I have to make up for the shock on my face by confidently pushing his cock up toward his belly, loving the way the piercings strain at his flesh.
Tomorrow, I’m going to make him stay home for a little while during the day just so I can play with his cock in full sunlight. I need to learn everything about it.
“Fuck, such good cock whore.” I can’t even get offended with the term, not once he says, “But only my cock.”
“Only yours,” I repeat as I take the liberty to hold his balls between my fingers, resting my middle finger on the seam and fanning my other fingers across them. I finally run my tongue up his shaft, slow and even the first time, counting all seven bars against the flat of my tongue.
On my second pass, I coil my tongue around each capture ball, sliding the bars the fraction of an inch the piercings will allow.
“You see this, boys? Think you ever have chance of shot with my zvyozdochka , you must put enough metal in dick that TSA fondle every time.”
I slide the sheath over his tip and back down again. “Foreskin, too.”
Vasily’s laugh is robust, and the fact that I can feel it in his balls makes my sleep shorts go damp. “Ah, sweet thing, cannot demand that. Once gone, is gone.”
I bat my eyelashes at him, my great big puppy dog eyes working their magic. “Some of the girls in school said they’d never sleep with a man with foreskin, so why can’t I say you have to have it?”
He grabs my chin again, this time so he can bend down to kiss me. “Absolutely feral, zvyozdochka .”
“And you adore that about me.”
“You see, boys. You see what hellion she is. The praise she demands?”
I refuse to look anywhere but Vasily’s eyes as he straightens back up, giving me a chance to lean even more closely and take one of his balls in my mouth.
A clear, thick splash of cum splatters over the bridge of my nose. “Fuck,” Vasily groans. “You want me paint face?”
I shake my head with a pout.
“Hungry?” He traces my lips with his cock. “You want me feed belly?”
I shake my head again, this time keeping my lips on him, though, so I can feel the tremor he’s unable to hold back.
“You want me fill your belly other way? Make nice and fat with baby?”
I grin at him again and sit back on my ankles, expecting him to come down to me.
“Ah, ah, ah,” he says. “Not so fast. Your shirt.”
I take it off immediately, finally accepting the glimmer in Vasily’s eyes — actually blue this time, so he’s at least mostly sober, although his pupils have been dancing with arousal — as honesty. I don’t know why this of all things was the hardest to accept.
“Such tiny tits,” he says, and just like when he called me a cock whore, a shiver of pleasure takes me. I chew on my bottom lip in anticipation for what he’s going to do next.
I’m not expecting his free hand to go around my neck. His grip isn’t enough to fully close my windpipe, but he’s putting pressure on it.
“You trust me, zvyozdochka ? Even when I’ve got your neck?”
I nod the little bit that I can.
“If I want to breed you, I can?”
I nod.
“You want me to breed you?”
“Yes,” I squeak out.
“ Da, so good. And you will be mine, yes? You have my baby and let me make another? You give me all the babies I want?”
His thumb works my throat, and I moan with the vibrations of his voice. “Please, Vasya. Breed me!”
“We keep your tits big and full of milk for my babies?”
Oh God. It’s so dirty when he says it at a moment like this. Yeah, I suppose they’ll get bigger, although I don’t know what happens when there’s no longer milk. I have a feeling Vasily wouldn’t care, though. I think even if they got weird and saggy, if they deflated into little fleshy pancakes, he’d still love them.
He’d still love me.
I swallow, and I feel my throat bob against his hand.
He feels it too. Concern clouds his eyes, like he thinks nerves have gotten me. “Zvyozdochka?” he murmurs questioningly, urging me to speak.
I remain silent, beaming up at him instead.
His lips slam into mine, and then he’s dropping to his knees and pushing me down to the mats with that hand on my throat, laying himself flat over me to rub himself on me until I’m panting and desperate, wrapping my legs around his waist and attempting to line us up properly, instead grinding my clit against the ridge of hard, laddered flesh until I’m seeing stars and screaming his name. He finally lifts himself off me, sitting back on his ankles and hoisting my ass up onto his lap.
“You are cat in heat,” he purrs.
“Please, Vasya!” I whine, again wrapping my legs as snugly around as possible, giving no care to the fact that he’s tilted the camera down to my wet pussy rubbing all over him, fucking myself for the world to see. “Give me your cock, please!”
“You beg so nicely. You show the world you come as nicely?”
I prop myself up on my elbows to see better the way his cock slides up and down my folds, his cum and mine both smeared over it, gathering at the capture balls in a slick foam. “For you. Only for you.”
Finally, he caves and takes hold of his shaft, sinking it into me and thrusting deep. Once his hand is back on my hip, he leans just enough that he can work me slowly with shallow motions. Balanced the way I am, I can’t touch him unless I lower myself to the ground, and his other hand still holds that damn camera, which seemed like a great idea until this moment. I was digging it, whatever that says about me, but now I want more contact and can’t have it.
“Vasya,” I whine again, giving him my saddest pout and biggest eyes. “More.”
He chuckles darkly and pivots the camera back up. “You see this, yes? You see she crave. She want this. But she is viper. Uses her bottom lip and her eyelashes to lure. Will you bite me, zvyozdochka?”
I bite that bottom lip he calls a trap instead because yeah, I kind of do want a nibble.
“ Da , you hypnotize. Just like viper.”
He sets the camera down none too gently, the gadget bouncing on the mat but landing the right way to still catch us. He’s already over me by then, and yep, the moment he leans close enough, I snap right up to sink my teeth into him. I aim for the earlobe, that way our chests are forced together. I’m not trying to manipulate Vasily, I just need him touching me everywhere right now, and that gets him there. Once he’s lying on top of me, the facade slips away and he starts riding me hard enough that I have to dig both my teeth and my nails in.
“That’s it,” he groans as my vision goes white and I toss my head back with the force of my orgasm. He doesn’t let up for a second, which is perfect because I don’t want him to. I’m happy screaming his name and whatever other gibberish spills out of my mouth.
Especially when Vasily finally gets physically rough. He grabs my throat again, along with my knee, drawing it up high to split me wide open for him to fuck into mercilessly. My eyes flutter open, and although it’s hard for me to focus, I’m able to see the computer monitor from here. The feeds from all three cameras play, and the two that were staged in advance are decent, but the one that’s been tossed to the side, with its sloppy angle and slight tilt, shows off the heavy cords of muscle all along Vasily’s body and the glistening of sweat coating his skin.
Oh God.
Holy hell.
Watching that has me breaking all over again.
Vasily seems to get it, coming with a roar before finally relaxing back down to smother me as he fills me with cum and licks my neck.
“You are mine now,” he rumbles against my ear. “Your body, mine.”