A wish at the stroke of midnight

The champagne was crap, but Lera was drinking it for the third glass in a row just to keep her hands occupied. The party was raging all around her: someone was shouting toasts from the balcony, bodies were rubbing against each other in the living room to wild indie rock, and someone's whiskey collection was already being sorted out in the kitchen. She felt like a ghost—in her most revealing black dress, which was supposed to inspire confidence but instead only exposed her back and made her cringe at the looks. New Year's. Again. Noise, hubbub, false laughter. She leaned against the doorframe between the kitchen and the packed loggia, watching the glamorous presenters counting down the final minutes on the TV. Her head was pounding with alcohol and fatigue. Her last boyfriend, Artyom, had been an ex for six months, and their sex, frankly, had been as predictable as this party. Carefully, according to schedule, in the same position. No madness. No loss of control. "Fuck," she thought, taking another warm sip of champagne. "This is how you can live. Neat and boring." The crowd began to count in unison: "Ten! Nine! Eight!" An impulse, wild and drunken, was born somewhere deep in her belly and burst forth before she could even process it. Lera didn't shout it; she hissed it into space, as if challenging the universe itself, looking at the flickering garland: "I want to be fucked tonight like I've never been fucked before." Three. Two. One. "Happy New Year!" An explosion of shouts, the clinking of glasses, laughter. Someone hugged her from behind, a drunken kiss landed on her cheek. She pulled away, rolling her eyes. A stupid, naive fantasy. No one heard a word. She was making her way to the bathroom to collect herself when someone's hand gently but firmly grabbed her elbow. Lera turned around. A guy stood before her. A stranger, or almost a stranger. She recalled seeing him in the kitchen an hour ago—silently pouring himself a whiskey. He was tall, wearing a simple black T-shirt that was tight enough to show off his broad shoulders and well-developed arms. His dark hair, a little longer than fashionable, and his eyes… his eyes looked at her, not drunkenly, but with great concentration. There was no festive joy in them. "You said 'never tried,'" he said. His voice was low, quiet, but it cut through the noise of the music. "What exactly is included in 'never'?" Lera felt as if she'd been doused with ice water. Instantly sobering up, she felt a shiver run down her spine. Not from fear. But from adrenaline. "I... I don't..." "You said it out loud. Exactly at midnight. I heard it," he took a step closer, still holding her elbow. His fingers were warm. "I think New Year's resolutions should be fulfilled. Especially ones like this... specific." She should have been embarrassed, pulled away, called him crazy. But instead, a warmth lurched in her lower belly, wet and insistent. He heard. And he came. "Are you an expert on the untested?" she blurted out, trying to play it cool. The corners of his lips twitched. "My name is Kirill. And yes. Which room shall we go to? There are too many people here for the first time." He led her, without asking, but not dragging her. Her legs moved of their own accord, her heart pounding somewhere in her throat. They passed the dancers, the kissing couple on the sofa, and climbed the stairs to the second floor, into the quiet, dim light of a long hallway. He opened the first door he came to—it was a small bedroom, obviously currently used as a study/guest room. He slammed the door shut, and the muted hum of the party became mere background noise. His hands found their way to her hips, turning her toward him. The kiss wasn't gentle. It was demanding, possessive. His tongue immediately invaded her mouth, tasting whiskey and something else, masculine, wild. She responded with equal fury, her fingers tangling in his hair. He pulled away, his breath hitching. "Say stop if you want to stop," he whispered against her lips. "But if you don't… I will fulfill your wish. Completely." He didn't undress her slowly. The zipper of her dress came undone with a sharp click, the fabric sliding to the floor. His fingers dug into the straps of her black lace bra, and with a distinctive snap, it snapped. Cool air touched her nipples, and then his hot mouth captured one, greedily, biting lightly. Lera cried out, arching her back. The pain was sharp, sweet, unfamiliar. He moved on to the second one, while his hand slid down, under the hem of her panties. His fingers found her clitoris, already wet and swollen. He didn't caress, but pressed, rubbing roughly, knowing exactly what she wanted. “So… never?” he grumbled, looking up at her, his fingers still moving. "Yes, damn yes!" she moaned. He stood up, took off his T-shirt, and unbuttoned his jeans. His penis was already fully erect, large, with prominent veins. He didn't lay her down on the bed. He turned her toward the desk by the window, sweeping papers and stationery onto the floor. "Lean on," he ordered. "And arch your back." Lera obeyed, her trembling hands pressing her palms against the cold table. She felt him kneel behind her, his fingers spreading her buttocks. His warm breath touched her most intimate, forbidden spot. She froze. "Is this included in 'never'?" his voice sounded muffled. She couldn't speak, only nodded, her forehead resting on the table. His tongue touched her anus, gently, almost exploratory, and then began to work—insistently, wetly, obscenely. The sensation was shocking, wild, incredibly arousing. She moaned, feeling her whole body relax and open under this onslaught. He swirled his tongue around until she screamed with mounting, obscene pleasure. "Get ready," he said simply, standing up. She heard him spit into his palm, lubricating himself and her tight entrance. The tip of his penis pressed against her anus, where only his tongue had penetrated before. It was tight, burning. "Breathe," he whispered. "And relax." He entered. Slowly, with incredible pressure, stretching her. Pain mixed with an unprecedented feeling of fullness, of permissiveness. When he was completely inside, they both froze, breathing heavily. “God... it’s so tight,” Kirill said hoarsely. He began to move. Short, tentative thrusts at first, quickly becoming deeper and harder. Each thrust drove her into the table, and she heard her own growls mixed with his heavy breathing. The pain gave way to something primal, animalistic. He fucked her ass, just as she'd asked—in a way she'd never experienced before. No sentimentality, no tenderness, just pure, rough, breathtaking sex. The organ crept up unexpectedly, a wave of spasms gripping her from within, causing her to scream, burying her face in the table. He didn't finish with her. Pulling out, he turned her over and sat her on the edge of the table. His eyes were burning. "We're not done," he said. "The party's still going on." He led her back out into the hallway. Now she followed him, almost running, her body sticky and hot, her mind empty of everything but the desire to continue. In the bathroom on the second floor, someone was washing their hands. Kirill, without breaking stride, pushed open the next door. It was a dark walk-in closet, smelling of mothballs and old wood. He pressed her against the wall, kissed her again, and his hands fell to her neck. Not squeezing, just holding, possessing. The feeling of helplessness, of losing control, hit her head like a drug. "Mouth," he ordered. She knelt on the soft carpet and took his cock, still hard and wet from her, into her mouth. She sucked him aggressively, deeply, gagging but not stopping, swallowing deeper with each stroke. He cried out through his teeth, his fingers tangling in her hair, guiding the rhythm. She felt used, depraved, and it was delicious. He pulled his cock out of her mouth, lifted her, stood her up, turned her around, and entered her again from behind, this time into her vagina. It was hot and sensitive from anal sex, and every thrust was a bright flash. He spanked her buttocks, and the red marks of his palms burned on her skin. The dressing room smelled of sex, sweat, and their breath. When he finally came, erupting inside her in a hot throb, he leaned against her back, breathing heavily. They stood there, locked in the darkness, listening to the distant sounds of music from the first floor. A few minutes later, without saying a word, he pulled out his penis, found her dress in the darkness, and threw it over her shoulders. He pulled on his jeans. They went downstairs. The party was winding down. Someone was asleep in a chair, a couple was kissing in the corner. Kirill stopped at the front door and turned to face her. His gaze was different now—tired, but calm. "Is 'Never' over?" he asked quietly. Lera touched her swollen lips, her buttocks still burning from the spanks, the inner emptiness where the echo of his movements could still be felt. She looked at him and smiled slowly, weakly. "That was just the beginning," she said. "Happy New Year, Kirill." He nodded, and a ghost of a smile touched his face. Then he opened the door and stepped out into the cold New Year's Eve, leaving her standing on the threshold with a mixture of devastation and an incredible, feverish fullness inside. Her wish had been granted. Literally. And now everything was different.