Authors: Hurt
Leaning forward onto her hands, she dipped her back, offering herself. His stiff cock nestled into the cleft of her ass, his flexing hips sliding his erection up, then down.
Khalid bent over her, wrapped an arm around her, pulling her up against him.
“You tremble tonight, Vanka.” No helping it. She tried to calm her breathing. “It is the first time. Do you want me to leave you alone?”
“No.”
“Then come with me.”
He took her into the bedroom, stood her at the foot of the bed, her back to him.
“I want you naked,” he said in his softest voice.
Shaking, she slid her panties off her hips, bent forward, and slipped them down her legs, and off. She straightened and stood, frozen, her fingers clutching the hem of her T-shirt. Khalid was still and silent behind her. Closing her eyes, holding her breath, she willed herself. Flexed her arms and pulled the T-shirt off.
“Tonight, Vanka, I want to take you like a lover,” he whispered. “May I?”
“Yes,” she breathed, feeling light-headed.
Against the back of her neck there was a faint, warm touch. His lips. Brushing, parting, his breath tickling her nape, shivers raining down the length of her naked body.
His fingertips tickled down her back, over her bottom, sending a thousand butterflies fluttering in her belly.
“Lie down on the bed, Vanka.”
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She crawled forward from the foot of the bed and laid down. Khalid climbed up behind her, but there was no touch. She waited.
Finally, his touch feathered over the bottom of her foot, teasing over every toe, the ball, arch, heel, breezing up her calf, across the ticklish crease at the back of her knee, waking a throng of eager nerves even before he touched up the back of her thigh, her ass cheek, teasing across the startled nerves at the top of her cleft, and down the other side.
Under her, the mattress pitched as Khalid shifted his weight to straddle her calves. The warm weight of his balls settled between her legs, their fur tickling her. The smooth heat of his chest pressed against the backs of her thighs. His breath breezed over her bottom.
Warm, wet, his mouth was on her, lips brushing over the curve of her bottom, a gentle bite making her suck in her breath, the touch of his tongue cinching a thread in her belly. His mouth teased one cheek, then the other, played over the backs of her thighs, teasing toward the center.
His weight came off her, his heat left her hot skin vulnerable to the cool air, and his hands closed over her ankles and slowly pushed her legs apart. Just a little. Then wider. Wider.
He sank down between her legs, slid his hands under and wrapped his arms around her thighs, forcing her legs even further apart and palming her ass. His teeth raked over the tender flesh of her inner thigh. He bit and sucked, making her thrill and writhe.
“Vanka, lover, you smell like you want to be fucked.”
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The surprising ache in her cunt flared up. But why was she so fucking scared all of a sudden?
“Do you want me to fuck you, Vanka?”
She opened her mouth, but stayed quiet. Khalid dug his fingers into the firm flesh of her ass and spread her. She gasped out loud and dug her nails into the pillow and Khalid's warm, wet tongue slid up the crack of her ass, and she panted, wiggling helplessly as he diligently tongued her asshole.
“Do you want me to fuck you, Vanka?” he asked again, sliding a single finger into her ass.
“Yes,” she sighed, her fear mysteriously ebbing away.
“Yes?” he breathed by her ear as he molded his lithe, warm weight to her her body.
“Yes,” she sighed back.
“Tell me.”
“I want you to fuck me,” she whimpered, earnest, desperate. “Please, Khalid.
Please. Fuck me.”
There was the chafe of wood on wood—that same sound she'd heard that afternoon weeks earlier, when Galen had her bound, when she'd thought, for a few moments, that she was being raped. And now, for a flashing second, it struck her as strange that she could only be calm, only confess to Khalid how urgently she needed him to fuck her, now that she was sure he'd take her ass, and not her cunt.
That seeking pressure opening her, then his body—his heat, his strength—
curved against hers, his lips, his teeth, his tongue teasing, torturing her ear, her neck, 305
his fingers weaving between her fingers, his voice saying, “Vanka. Je t'aime, Vanka,” as he worked his cock into her.
“Please,” she breathed, “I need you, Khalid. Love. Khalid,” she groaned under his fucking.
His arms wound around her, holding her hard to him as he flexed into her, his legs spreading and holding her, his fingers clinging, his mouth biting into her flesh.
“Oui, Vanka. Amour. Nous avons besoin. Nous aimons.”
After, they curled up, close, naked. Khalid gazed at her, his tranquil smile bending his lips, but some little flicker disturbed his placid eyes. She waited.
“You see there is something I wish to say to you,” Khalid said. “But there is no reason to look so worried.”
He found her hand under the covers, brought it up, kissed the back of a finger.
“My dear Vanka,” he breathed, “you have given me so much. I do understand.
You wanted to . . . you have . . . given to me precisely everything Galen could not.
Hmmm? So maybe it will seem ungrateful. But I would like to ask something more of you.”
“What?” she asked, her throat so tight it was hard to speak.
“Today, when you bound me. And tonight, I smelled your want. It was the first time in a long time, no?”
“Yes.”
“I will give you a little time. I will wait for you to come to me. But the next time we are together, Vanka, I will ask you to let me give you pleasure.”
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Chapter Ten
Tentatively, she slid her middle finger between the flushed, full lips of her cunt, into her slick heat. Lately her sex was always swollen and wet, perpetual arousal making up for all the weeks of numb indifference.
Going still, her finger buried deep inside her, she felt the water on her skin, strumming staccato on her scalp, on her shoulders, on her neck and back, delicate rivulets trickling down her face, her arms, her chest, her belly, her thighs.
She pulsed her finger once, her cunt feeling that filling pressure, her finger feeling the slippery strength of her enfolding muscles. When she slid her finger from her cunt she lifted it to her face. The fluid coating her finger looked so clear, so innocuous, but the pungent smell of her sex worked on her, making her want to touch.
When the tip of her finger brushed along her slit, her nerves fired off a volley.
Untouched for weeks, almost two months, her cunt was more sensitive, more responsive than she remembered it ever being. The tiniest touch made her gasp, made her grunt, made her twitch her hips, her body shuddering away from that unbearable pleasure, then going after more.
But the whole time her sex was swelling, coating her finger with her honey, aching, throbbing for more, her mind was slipping helplessly down into some dark, cold hole. Each spark of pleasure between her thighs was echoed by a tender pain, like a bruise, that swallowed her whole core. Threatening shadows moved at the back of her mind. Fear, hurt, cut loose from any source she could name, pulled at her. Vanka curled up into the end of the tub, sobbing, letting the cold porcelain dig into her ribs, letting the hot water pelt her.
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As she wiped at the steam with a hand towel to clear a swath of mirror, she thought that the sight of the scars slashed into her chest would make her start crying again. But that wasn't what bothered her.
That was not her body. Her breasts were gone. Fine. She'd signed on for that.
But who was that soft, smooth girl in the mirror? Where was her strength? Where were her muscles? Her sculpted biceps? The delicate definition of her belly? The strength she'd carved into her back with years of climbing and yoga?
And there. That blue-gray swelling over her right eyebrow.
She'd tripped. On nothing. Hit her head on the edge of the kitchen counter.
She was supposed to be getting better. Stronger. But she couldn't even walk on the smooth plane of the hardwood floor without falling down. She was clumsy. Weak.
Some thread that was holding her together quivered its stress, then snapped.
* * * *
One day she dug up the toy she and Galen had bought together. Maybe fucking herself with a silicone cock would feel a little less like vivisection. Being flayed and laid open. Again. But driving that pale phallus up into her sex felt like an invasion. An assault.
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She came, finally, rubbing herself through the wet crotch of her black cotton boyshorts, the way she'd done it when she was a teenager, and ever since. Until she'd met Galen.
It was one of those blinding, strength-sapping orgasms. But, except for the soulless nerves of her cunt that only wanted to be rubbed and rubbed until the spasms hit, she'd felt more sad and frustrated, working for it, than aroused. And after, she felt like a ghost. Weightless. Dead.
* * * *
She looked up at him, at the golden eyes that seemed to be warming her with his gaze, rather than the morning sun, then busied herself sawing the wedges of her grapefruit apart, separating them from their delicate membrane and the thick whitish rind. This morning she was almost nervous with him. Around the house he rarely wore more than a pair of snug, dark boxer briefs. Always, lately, she was painfully aware of his body, his smooth, umber skin, of how his body moved, lithe, almost fluid, his strength like water, too, invisible, subtle as a rip tide. When they were close, when she could feel his heat, smell his piquant scent, her body would warm and pulse. Her want haunted her.
Her blood thrummed through her, hot, heavy, when Khalid rose from his chair and she felt the warmth of his naked abdomen press faintly to the back of her head.
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Caressing fingers combed through her baby's growth of new hair, brushed up her arms, over her shoulder, over her neck, tingling her whole torso.
“Finished?”
Vanka opened her eyes. Focused. The gutted grapefruit half lay on her plate, just a misshapen and dessicated rind, now, its fruit devoured, its tart juice drained.
“Yeah.”
Khalid took her plate and his and disappeared into the house. A sob rose up in her throat. No, a scream. Something. Fuck, her want wound through her, prickling and prodding her. Not just that low, throbbing need between her thighs. Khalid. She wanted him. Wanted to have him, to give herself to him. But she didn't even know how to touch herself anymore. How could she go to him, like this?
She went in. Got a glass of juice. Khalid rinsed the suds from a plate and slotted it into the rack to dry. Wiped his hands on the dish towel. Took her hands and gazed down at her.
Fuck, please, just do it.
“Will you tell me what is bothering you?” he asked.
Frustration swelled her throat. Stung her eyes.
“I think maybe you are angry with me,” he said softly.
“No, Khalid,” she swore, stung and sorry. She kissed his palm and smiled up at him. “No. I am angry. But not at you. Just angry.”
He hugged her, pulling her against his warm, smooth chest. The feel, the smell of him made her want and her hurt swell up, spilling into each other. For a long while he held her. Then he opened his arms and kissed the crown of her head.
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“I would like to see the sea today. Feel the sand under my feet. Would you like to come with me to the beach?”
They waited for the L.A. sun to wane, and at four were crossing the Venice boardwalk, navigating through a stream of rollerbladers, skateboarders, and joggers—
many attached by a length of leather to tiny or enormous dogs—and clumps of ambling tourists; middle aged men and women with sunburns herding their sunburned toddlers and teens among stalls offering henna tattoos, handmade jewelry, and folksy renderings of celebrity likenesses.
Beyond that seething strand of humanity, the sand and shore were sparsely populated. They pried off their shoes and carried them over the expanse of glittering sand, gritty and warm and shifting under their bare feet. The low sun sparked off the chop and roll of the water, making Vanka squint behind her sunglasses. The briny, life-and-death smell of the sea seeped into her. In the wet sand, three naked children methodically filled and upended their buckets, putting up their prefab castle, tower by tower, while the incoming tide chewed away its foundation as they built.
“It is still strange to me, how much this is like the beaches at home, “Khalid mused. “Only when I look back and see the hotels and apartment buildings am I sure I'm not in Algeria, in Tipaza. I look at those little children, and I remember my father teaching me to swim. Feeling the power of the sea pulling at my body and my father's strong hand holding my arm so I would not slip away from him. And after, my mother wrapping me up in a blanket and holding me, so my wet body would not be chilled by the evening breeze.”
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Khalid smiled, serene as he told her about his brothers, the games they would play together, the childish things they would argue over. How could he find happiness in memories of his family, of their love, when it had all been torn away from him so cruelly?
For a long while they sat, not speaking. She listened to the cry of the gulls and the shrieks of the children and the roar of the waves. Felt the sinking sun warming her skin, the wind tickling the fine hair on her forearms.
“Khalid? Your novel, Tomorrow, do you know it would make a beautiful film?”
“You think so?”
“Have you ever thought about it?”
“A film made from one of my novels? No.”