Excitement shakes me, like before the first date. Although where is it, my first ...
But today... Today everything is completely different. Our meeting is covered with medieval romance and heady madness. I'm going to your hotel, where you came specially for a few hours to see me. All you have in your pocket is change and a ticket for the return bus. I know it.
I know even more. I know almost everything about you: your fears and your joys, your dreams and your erogenous zones.
And yet you don't know anything about me except my name.
I go to the door and knock on it with a prearranged signal.
- Come in! - This voice trembles in anticipation of our meeting.
I open the door and look into the room. Everything is correct. The lights are off, the curtains are down. This hotel room was not chosen by chance, the bed is positioned so that you can only see my silhouette, but not my face.
- Ira, I'm here!
Stupid. I know perfectly well where the bed is on which you are now lying. In this room, I can move around with my eyes closed. I have a good memory for such things: this room was passed by me up and down, every corner, every pothole in the floor was remembered in it.
Now I'm standing at your head. My hand gently - for a fraction of a second - touches your lips and immediately pulls back, as if burned.
- Irochka... - Your voice is full of prayer. I understand you, dear girl. Too many conditions are placed before you. You are drawn to me, but my attitude is also alarming.
I pull out a piece of thick dark cloth from my pocket and hand it to you. You know what to do and dutifully put on a bandage over your eyes. You must not see me. We talked about this three days ago when we talked online.
The great thing is virtual reality. Without seeing a face, without knowing your interlocutor, so much can be said in a short fifteen minutes.
We met in some completely crazy chat. In all this virtual "chat" there were only two serious interlocutors: you and me. You, depressed by depression, wanted to say your word to this abnormal world. I needed material for my diploma in youth behavior, and therefore the interest in the chat was purely scientific.
I don't remember how we went from discussing Sartre and Dali to the topic of same-sex love. However, all these great writers and artists with their sin... It was then that you confessed to me. Do you remember my reply? Yes, you certainly remember. Quote from Crematorium: "She doesn't like men, she likes iced strawberries."
A year ago ... Go crazy, since that moment, twelve months have somehow passed unnoticed, rustled. And almost every day we wrote letters to each other. Or rather, you wrote. My poems, my prose, my valuable advice came from me in response to you ... And then you nevertheless found out from me where I live.
How difficult it was for me to explain everything to you. But I'm a psychologist, after all! And you are an absolutely plasticine girl, ready to do whatever I say. You want love from me. I want you not to see me. Only my hands, lips, hair should remain in your memory ... A random fellow traveler on this wild train called "Life", which rushes to the final stop at a wild speed.
Yes, it's insanely hard to give yourself to a stranger whom you won't see, hear or even touch. But I know: your main desire, your wild fantasy is precisely a date with a stranger. An equation with many unknowns - this is how my image should remain for you.
Oh, what a glorious girl you are... Your full chest with the sharp tops of your nipples rises and falls: your breath is erratic, and a mixture of expectation and passion froze on your face. My eyes are so accustomed to the darkness that I can even make out a dark mound between your long, slender legs. Thousands of men, daily seeing you off with greedy glances, surely dream of possessing you, so delightful in your nakedness, as you are now, when you lie before me, ready to do everything that I tell you.
But - alas, to them, arrogant males ... You will belong to me, and you will do everything that I say. Tear apart, tear you to shreds or elevate you to the heights of bliss - it's up to me today.
You know the rules of the tender and cruel game we have started, and you meekly follow my every gesture. I touch your elbow - and you obediently pull your hands up to the headboard.
- Ribbon on the nightstand - you whisper.
I take a tape - thin enough to break with a good effort, but at the same time relatively strong. I don't want you to touch my body. Binding your hands, I lean quite low, and your hot breath burns my neck.
You lie before me, completely exposed. The naked body whitening in the dark excites and teases me. But I know not to rush. You don't like speed. Everything will be slow today. So slow. The way you want. Just as I wish. And at the same time, you still don’t fully know who your night guest is.
Name... But does it matter? Perhaps my name is different. Completely different.
Figure... When my silhouette appeared in the doorway, you probably noticed that my physique is not feminine. Tall, broad shoulders - a memory of long workouts in the pool, a short haircut. You know from letters that long hair is not my style. However, once I had "dark curls to the shoulders." Then I had to cut it off.
Hands... Yes, I think they are rather feminine: a narrow hand, long fingers, soft and warm palms... Only the nails are cut short: the guitar does not like excesses. The six-string left tangible calluses on the fingertips, but I skillfully use them, as if by chance touching your tender nipple with a patch of rough skin.
A slight shiver runs through your whole body: from your neck to your feet. I feel her. You moan softly. Yes, girl, I know how sensitive and eager to caress your breasts. But she does not need rudeness, but subtle tenderness. I do not squeeze it, but only slightly squeeze it: my hands are large, and the soft hemisphere is almost hidden in the palm of my hand.
A half-groan-half-breath flies out of the half-open mouth, light as a sea breeze.
- More.
No, girl, no... Not now. It's time to touch your lips. My kiss will not be passionate: you are clearly not ripe for an exciting game of two languages, when your breath stops, and only the instinct of self-preservation makes you break away to take a greedy breath of air - and again rush into the abyss of pleasure, the oldest sweetness of the world ... I'm just hinting to what awaits you. My lips are dry and hard. You raise your head, ready to kiss them for a long time, but I won't let you.
... I lean in again. The prelude to the kiss is a little longer this time. For a moment. And then I break away again, albeit with obvious regret. Your lips taste like strawberries. Not the one that is sold at grandmothers in the market in baskets, full of chemical rubbish, but real wild strawberries, just washed by rain, soaking up the freshness of the air and the cheerfulness of spring water. Such lips are made for kisses, for long caresses. Who was your first man who, in his evil lust, decided to rudely violate their chastity and instill disgust in the whole tribe of hairy males? But it doesn't matter now. In this universe, enclosed by the walls of a small room, there are only two so far: you and me. And our passion, our desire, restrained, but ready to burst out at any moment, only emphasizes this solitude of two people - not by chance fellow travelers in a passenger car full of billions of destinies.
... One more kiss. Fast, like the previous two, but I put a lot more emotion into it. You respond to him; for a moment it seems that now this hard-to-hold barrier will collapse, and we will plunge into the abyss of pleasure, when hours seem like minutes, and a moment seems like an eternity.
You whisper softly, "I want you." But I cover your lips with my palm. You startle, and then stretch out to the side... Yes, girl, your body reacts to me according to all the rules: and even your sense of smell obeys the reflexes embedded in the body - who better than me to know that your favorite fragrance is "Sigar" cologne . I had to spend a lot of time to find it in our city, although it would seem that in this abundance of perfumery it is difficult not to find something.
It's funny, after all, how we relate to smells ... For example, I like the way wormwood smells. And the "Sigar" flavor is really something like a good cigar. You told me that your first man used this cologne. You didn’t even remember what he looked like: what remains in your memory after another drinking bout, in which all male faces merge into one, close to ideal, and at the same time far from it, like Alpha Centauri? And in a frantic dance, when you dissolve in a man's arms, you heard this voice: "Come with me."
And then - a small sofa in an unlocked room, where unnecessary witnesses can tumble in at any moment, the loud sniffing of your partner, who can not wait to get down to business, the long search for the forbidden fruit - "Sorry, baby, I'm now, but what is this. .." And a short dull pain, from which you sharply sober up, and only then do you realize that the very thing that has been written about in books so much, and that should happen by candlelight and be preceded by long unhurried caresses ... But - too late, your innocence becomes the joy of this unknown, who, of course, does not hold back for a long time, and by his sharply limp body you understand that, it seems, you have been exhausted.
Through some kind of fog you hear his words that he didn’t want to be in such a hurry, and would you like to try again later... which you will never return, because it is disgusting to you, like nothing in this world.
And only the smell of cologne for some reason will remain as a memory of something forbidden and therefore exciting to the limit.
- Ira, are you here?
I'm sorry, sweet girl. I shake off my thoughtfulness, lean over and kiss you firmly, firmly, and at the same time gently, with all possible passion, as if apologizing for all your men who clumsily and slobberingly drank into your lips, all those who killed your attraction to male semi.
Your tender tongue takes such an active part in the kiss that I even pull away. You are already excited to the extreme. Who would have thought that you can turn on so quickly. But what's done is done.
My fingers gently slide over your chest, stomach, going down and down. And when I get them to the very bottom, you experience the first orgasm.
Your body tenses, stretches, shivers run through it, and a cry rushes from your lips:
More, honey, more, more...
I have always enjoyed watching women finish. There is something absolutely cosmic about it. In a good way, I even envy you a little now. When the waves of passion running through your body subside a little, I touch my lips to the skin on your long neck. Then I kiss your collarbone, bend your arm, take your nipple into my mouth ...
Your body is an open book to me. And I read it by heart, knowing where to touch to excite you more ... even more ... more ...
I achieve a second orgasm from you quite easily. You tense up all over, and after the ecstasy passes, you whisper softly:
- Ira... Do with me what you want...
Ah, what a dangerous phrase! To say such a thing to a man is so simply tantamount to suicide: who knows what will come into the mind of an uncouth dork? And you are afraid of such words. You are very afraid ... Once you said them to your next boyfriend, and realized too late how wrong you were in this person.
And how you suffered later, in a dark corner of your bedroom, bitterly disappointed in your next "romantic story." Already when the door closed behind him, you realized that you saw him for the last time in your life, although maybe this is for the best. But, most likely, it was because of this man that you began to look at your girlfriends with a completely different look. And they shied away from you, like from the plague, without realizing that then you just needed care and attention.
But I can really do whatever I want with you. And when I begin to descend with my tongue down your body, you obediently spread your legs, offering me to caress you in all the forbidden ways that my fantasy is enough for.
... We both hate the word "cunnilingus". What a bad head came up with such a wild name for such a gentle and exciting caress?! I prefer the phrase read somewhere "a bee drinking the nectar of passion." But it's not a medical term.
Dear girl, how you are now moaning, how you are arching, with all your might bringing the moment of ecstasy closer. And I guide you, not allowing you to still reach the highest point of pleasure.
But of course I can't control your body completely. And at some point, as if an invisible force lifts you above the bed and throws you down with force, making the springs creak plaintively.
I hear a sob, and looking up, I see tears rolling down your cheeks. Grateful cry of joyful ecstasy.
Only once before have you cried during sex. But alas, they were tears of pain, not pleasure. Another drop of hatred in your piggy bank attitude towards men.
... Those three bastards you will remember for the rest of your life. And although justice still prevailed - which is rare in our country, you still shudder at the memory of that terrible night. Someone recently told you that according to rumors, one of them is no longer alive: the zone treats such people harshly, but this does not make you feel better.
One night of violence. She turned your cozy world upside down, in which everything seemed so stable. When rough male hands tore your dress, you screamed, and then only quietly wept, thrown to the ground, until each of them satisfied their lust. And then, when they forced you to have sex with them at the same time, you silently sobbed, swallowing bitter cum mixed with your tears.
You don't remember how you got away from them, or how you got home. A black hole remained in your memory for several months, while the investigation into this case lasted. Former classmates in the Department of Internal Affairs found these scoundrels in a matter of days, but you seemed to be in a protracted state of stupor.
... Then for the first time you went to a psychiatrist who spent three hours with you, but a conversation with him did not lead you to anything. And you remembered the easiest way: help yourself. What did this therapy give you, when the faces of new lovers changed every day, and life turned into a period of pseudo-fun, when no intoxication is able to displace a pebble from your chest, pulsing with unbearable pain? Did you realize then that you were tired of fighting every day for your place under the sun? This is not known to me. I only know that your first suicide attempt took place during these days.
It just so happened that you were in the same hospital room with a cute girl who offered you to try lesbian love. Maybe she was experienced, maybe you were tired of men, but from that day on, you turned one hundred and eighty degrees in your worldview, which once categorically refused to accept same-sex relationships.
- Irisha, how tender you are...
Tenderness. Perhaps you missed her the most in this life. You are more accustomed to rudeness and the fact that you have to fight back every second. Can anyone blame you now that you are left alone with the outside world, ready to snap at any unexpected attack?
And only you trust me completely.
I take your bare foot in my palms and kiss your soles. Weasel is rare and a little insidious, but you have already melted into our game so much that you are ready for anything. And your grateful moan is the best reward for my efforts.
It seems that I managed to awaken a woman in you in the best sense of the word. Your body becomes hot, turning into one erogenous zone, which I caress again and again, bringing you to the highest stage of bliss.
Passion can be quiet, it can be nervous and pulsating, or it can be spontaneous. And before the elements, you can only retreat, but not overcome it. And the craziness that we are now putting into our crazy, and from this even more attractive meeting is also an element. It seems that it is about to crush us and throw us out of space, towards unknown madness... But we are balancing on the edge, not allowing us to fall into the abyss, where sweetness and pain are combined into something indivisible.
I carefully run my fingers over the most delicate areas of your skin. At some point, my movements become stronger and rougher... And you yourself direct my hand with the movements of your body, giving yourself completely to me, flying away into the unknown and infinity.
... Your body is still trembling with a new orgasm when I silently get out of bed.
- Ira?
I stand in the doorway, looking at you, now satisfied and serene, ready to continue the game. But I have to go. I always know when to stop. Because otherwise I can't take it anymore. You are too beautiful to hold back for long next to your nakedness and humility.
- Ira, where are you?
I'm still here girl. But in a couple of seconds I will already be going down the stairs, leaving behind your voice, your bewilderment, your anger at me... And your gratitude. True, this feeling will appear much later, in years, when you still realize what this crazy and passionate night was for you.