I lick his head as I move my hand up along his shaft, and his soft groan is like music, a plea for more.
I want to do more. I want him deep. I want to drive him crazy the way he does me, so I start slowly sucking him into my mouth.
“Oh, fuck yes,malyshka,” he says in Russian. “Fuck me with your mouth. I want to brand you everywhere. Fill you so the world knows you’re mine.”
His words should make me laugh because they’re so over the top, but I love them, and I want him to do that too. I want him to do all the dirty things that he can think of.
Brand me.
Use my mouth like a cunt.
Come down my throat so deep that I won’t be able to breathe.
I want to be his in all the ways.
My body is fevered, wet, ready. I suck him deep, taking him in as far as I can and then pulling back all the way to the tip.
His hot steel fills my mouth, stretching as he enters each time, and there’s room to slide my tongue to the underside, to suck him hard, to slam him into the back of my throat. My gagreflex triggers, and from the sounds he makes, my involuntary swallows heighten his pleasure.
He thrusts upward, going deeper, harder, his movements growing jerky. I’m ready. I squeeze his tight balls?—
“Alina.”
With effort, he pulls me off him, throws me to my back, and slams into me. Hard.
And shudders. His entire body vibrates, taut as a steel wire.
“Just… Fuck. Give me a moment. Wicked littlemalyshka.”
I want him to come. I’m on the edge just from giving him head. Ripples of pleasure already race through me, like pebbles over water.
But that’s not his plan.
Finally, he relaxes, and then he kisses me as he starts to move.
And I lose myself in him, matching his moves, the thrusts and pulls, the ebbs and flows, the pleasure that rains down on my desire until I’m just a singing mass of ecstasy.
When I come, it’s with him, and it just happens, like some kind of chain reaction.
I shatter, the spasms setting off the spurts of his seed, the twitch of his shaft.
And when I come back down, there’s only happiness and Ilya.
My tea waitsfor me on the kitchen table. Though Ilya’s tucking into a bowl of something as he looks at his phone on the counter, Albert stretched over his dog bed in a patch of sun, there isn’t any food for me.
“I didn’t know if you were eating or what you wanted. I can make your usual—some toast, eggs, whatever.”
“Did you fire Svetlana?” I pick up my tea and wander over to him.
“I can make breakfast. She’s not my slave,” he says with a laugh.
I pull down his bowl and look into it. “What’s the sludge?”
“Porridge. Oats are good for you.”
I take his spoon and try some. There’s a little maple syrup on it, and a dusting of cinnamon, but it’s bland enough to taste good.
He hands me the bowl.
