FARTHER: An Erotic Romance by Jorja Tabu

by Jorja Tabu

  All images and text Copyright 2011. All rights reserved by the author. Unauthorized reproduction or works derived therein are impermissible under US Copyright law.

  FARTHER

  AN EROTIC ROMANCE

  BY

  JORJA TABU

  1.

  Reykjavik, Iceland, 1998. I am about to embark on my very first assignment: to travel the world—me, exclusive sexplorer Lucy Landers, exhibitionist and international diva-- and record every luscious moment.

  Well, that was half true. I was definitely an exhibitionist, and I was hell-bent on traveling the world. And as far as first paragraphs go, it could’ve been much worse. After all, my job was selling sex on one of the most widely read blogs in the Western hemisphere. This was catchy enough.

  I can do this, I thought. I’m nineteen years old, 36-24-36, and always chosen dare instead of truth. Maybe the world isn’t ready for me, but that’s not my problem. I’m going to go to the top of the world and fuck as many Vikings as I can before I dip into the Blue Lagoon on my way back to the airport. Four days, four men? Let’s see.

  But it didn’t quite work out that way; let me explain.

  I never drink more than two Cosmos when I fly, and this was no exception. On my way to the restroom, a tall man with a bristling black hair and piercing grey eyes watched me like a circling hawk. Or whatever predatory animal there is in Iceland that devours desirable prey—because I certainly enjoyed the attention. Something about the reserve behind his gaze gave me a chill, but not in a bad way…More that in his visage I could clearly see centuries of warrior lineage. It was more than evident in his every movement. As I returned to my seat, he stopped me with a word.

  “Reykjavik.” I gave him something more to stare at as I bent carefully towards him, exposing the tops of my fleshy breasts. Thank you Victoria—not that I really needed the extra oomph, but in this case all my ammo was better present.

  “Excuse me?” I gave him a coquettish smile.

  The corner of his mouth turned up as he took in my cleavage. “Reykjavik. Iceland. You are American, correct?”

  “Yes, how could you tell?” Everyone else was asleep; my job was graciously allowing me access to first class through a marketing deal with the airline—Ice Blue, people! Best flight I’ve ever had!—but nearly all the other passengers wore the unmistakable mark of ‘business,’ whatever that might mean. I could tell they spent a lot of time in front of computer screens, but not what language they typed in.

  My conversational friend wasn’t American. His accent was clipped, precise, but the starkness of his vowels made him seem even more exotic than his bright eyes and weathered tan. Whatever’d brought him from his island homeland clearly was more interesting than simply ‘business.’

  “Your skirt,” he said, and to my shock one of his hands moved unapologetically towards my thigh. My brand new Pucci, inherited from a daring friend, bore a side slit that spoke volumes about my access points. His fingers, rough to the touch, crept behind my knee and moved slightly north. His hand was so large it almost wrapped around my thigh.

  “You’re bold,” I said, trying to stay cool. His hand stilled midway to my entry point. Someone snorted two rows back.

  “My people are impatient,” he said in a low voice. “Volatile. Virile. Bold is the American word, but in our language, those who do not wait for heaven are called Islenska.” The cleft in his chin drew my attention to his full lips as much as his words did, and seeing my own slightly part, feeling the moisture beginning to gather at my heated core, his hand traveled further north.

  “You are impatient,” I said, teasingly, but my voice caught on the last word as I felt the fever rising. “In America, we like a little privacy. A little dinner before the movie, if you catch my drift.” I was too distracted with the tidal wave of desire the man stirred in my belly to care whether or not he would understand the turn of phrase, but he did. His fingers gently stroked the back of my thigh, his thumb running up and down from my knee to the fine skin just below my pussy.

  “Let me show you the ways I can wait,” he said slowly, leaning closer to me, his eyes sweeping over my breasts, my throat. “I will put your pleasures before my own, I will be patient, if you will let me…” His fingertips brushed the edge of my panties, one rough tip surreptitiously breaching the border and running along the edge of flesh where it became ass instead of thigh. Just an inch of difference, but it sent an electric chill up my spine. He didn’t miss it. “Come with me, American,” he said in his low, commanding voice, and I could hardly disobey.

  The first class bathroom is not much more impressive than the cattle stalls back in coach, and with a full-size Viking trapped inside with me, it only seemed smaller. But that caused us to be even closer, and he took advantage of it immediately. His massive frame was hidden under the austere suit he wore, but he didn’t seemed concerned with getting out of his own clothes; instead, he promptly sat me on the narrow sink, threw both my ankles over his left shoulder and sank his fingers into my wet hole. “Oh!” The sudden-ness of the movement made me gasp, but he wasn’t rough; instead, he merely let them linger inside of me, stretching the skin taunt simply by being.

  “You are wet,” he whispered. I shivered again, arching my back so that his large fingers slid in a little further, but he pulled them out again. “And eager. Perhaps Americans are just as impatient as we.”

  “No,” I said, panting slightly. My nipples were pressing against the material of my bra so hard I could feel them straining on the delicate fabric. “I can wait for something, when I know it’s worth it.” My own hand reached towards his body and slid around his waist, searching. He laughed and turned his torso toward it, allowing me to finally seize his cock through his pants.

  Big. Very big.

  “Is it worth it?” He cocked an eyebrow mischievously, as if he knew, of course, that it was. His cockiness shouldn’t have been sexy, but what can I say--I giggled.

  Well, okay. I certainly hadn’t giggled. No one that knew Lucy Landers—excuse me, the real Lucy Landers, not the intrepid sexplorer—had ever heard me giggle, and if I had my way, no one ever would.

  But other than that, almost everything was true.

  Well, everything that happened in that cramped little bathroom, anyway.

  I certainly hadn’t been exaggerating about my appetites.

  “Give it to me,” I said, suddenly hungry for cock. “Give it to me hard, right here.”

  But you can’t boss a Viking around, I found out. He just laughed again, that small smile on his lips once more. His fingers teased me, pulling out further, but when I tried to arch my back towards him again, his muscular arm pinned me easily in place. I was folded in half on the sink, my toes practically hitting the ceiling. “Fuck me,” I begged again, and his eyes grew hooded even as his smirk told me that impossible phrase.

  “Not yet,” he said, and twisted his palm so that his thumb now rested against the swollen bud of my clit. He pressed on it, gently.

  “Please,” I begged, my eyes shutting as the pleasure increased with each passing second. “I thought you were impatient!”

  “I told you I could wait to enter heaven,” he said softly, rubbing a slow circle over my enflamed flesh bulb, the heat and electricity coursing through me with every casual rotation. My pussy clenched his fingers, and he withdrew them just for a second, just enough to tease me and ease the tide. He didn’t want me to cum quiet yet, apparently. “You told me you were patient,” he chided. “So far, I seem to be most willing to wait.”

  I grabbed his cock again, swinging my torso slightly towards the left to do so; I squeezed it, my thumb cruising across the head of it mercile
ssly. His body froze, his eyes tightly shut; I knew he wanted this just as bad as I did. “I can wait,” I said smugly, trying a lighter pressure as I stroked the underside.

  His eyes opened and mirth quirked his mouth up. “Good,” he simply said, calling my bluff, and before I knew it, my legs were spread in a v and plastered on either side of his head. In a flash, his pants were unzipped, the huge head of his cock peeking out; he gently guided it towards my exposed pussy as his clever hands wrapped around my thighs, and then applied the barest pressure as he rubbed it against my slit, not entering.

  “Oh God yes,” I purred, feeling my wetness spreading to accommodate him. Even the top half of his head was so big my hole had to open for it; instead, he once again pulled out. “Please!” I begged him shamelessly, so ready was I to feel the stretch inside me.

  Once again, the mirthful smile. “So ready to cum?” He made the words light, but between his swollen cock and the catch in his voice, I could tell he was ready to fuck. I nodded, my voice hitching as another sigh escaped me. He was pressing that thumb on my clit again, beginning another slow stroll around, across, all over it. I closed my eyes.

  “Please,” I begged again, feeling the tremors gripping my body. My back arched of its own accord, the massive head of his cock once again widening my hole; once again, he cautiously eased back. This time, I cried out, but the pleasure thrumming from my clit disoriented me further. “Please, please please—“ I didn’t even know what I wanted. The ripple of heat and desire began to build, crashing towards ecstasy with or without my permission, and my back arched yet again as it continued to build inside of me. My nipples scorched my bra, and my hands let go of the Viking to rip open my shirt, desperately pawing at my breasts, freeing them just as the first wave took me over.

  The Viking’s stare pushed me through the orgasm mercilessly, witnessing my pleasure with a vivid hunger buried beneath his still mirthful mouth. “Take it,” he said softly. “For your journeys, little American.” His free hand moved across my now bare stomach, seizing one of my breasts, squeezing the nipple in time to the slow circular movements of his thumb across my clit.

  When I felt the final shudder leave my body, I finally opened my eyes. I was greeted by the same hooded expression in his elegant grey ones, a thousand year old smile on his face. His thumb gently tapped my clit, as if telling it he refused to let it go to sleep yet. I smiled. “Take what? When I, when we—take what with me on my journey?”

  “This memory of heaven,” he said, and laughed his low laugh. I became achingly aware of the broad head of his cock, still positioned to enter me. His hand on my nipple gave me another teasing sweep, and I felt desire growing inside of me once again. My pussy was so slick with moisture I could probably…Just…Slide…He laughed and pulled out once more. I laughed with him.

  “Give me another one,” I said with all of the coquette I could muster. His smile grew more animalistic, his hands slightly more tense. “Give me you to remember, Viking.” Instead of the sharp laugh I expected, a tenderness appeared in his eyes.

  “We will create this together,” he said softly, and I felt his body begin to edge closer to mine. It occurred to me that I didn’t know his true length, and I forced myself to relax as the wide head pushed past my outer lips. “This will be a new path to heaven,” he said, his smile returning, but not replacing the new gentleness. I gasped as the massive head encountered my slender canal, slowly stretching me to accommodate it. “Can you endure?” He watched me, waiting.

  “Give it to me,” I said, my voice husky, excited. New territory. The broad expanse of a new land before me, I braced myself for his entire cock. His lips parted slightly, one thumb gently continuing its former slow but constant attention to my now growing clit, one huge hand cupping my breast, delicately pinching a nipple between two massive fingers. Desire was painted all over his face, and still his cock continued into me.

  I felt the final stretch as the base of his cock planted itself against my completely engulfed pussy, my clit pulsing beneath his thumb. I panted against his neck as he showered my face with kisses, gently easing himself out, then once again opening my body with his cock. I could take him. I wanted to take him. I felt him realizing I was up to the task as he latched a hungry mouth on my nipple, then reared back to look at me once again with his scorching eyes. He sank himself in me deeper, faster, harder, until I nearly exploded with the pleasure. I felt the cock expanding inside of my walls, the pressure building inside of him as he scaled the same heights, and finally, our eyes locked and his hips slamming against the backs of my thighs, my ankles by my ears, we both surrendered to heaven.

  And that, my friends, is the only way to get to Iceland.

  Well, it certainly wasn’t the worst thing I’d written during the decade long, international “tramp rampage,” as my best friend, Trish, had termed it.

  “It’s because you were always the good one in high school,” she’d told me knowingly, looking carefully over the photographs documenting my travels. It was earlier, much earlier, than this week when the prodigal daughter returned, and not today, when I was lonely and reliving my travels through my long ago article collection. Perhaps seven years ago. Even then, her hands were scarred from slipped knives while cutting the crusts off of sandwiches, her smile lines deep for a twenty year old. “Now look at you. Tramp on the rampage—a tramp rampage,” she’d said, grinning, jealousy glinting behind her bright eyes. “That’s what this is.”

  “Don’t hate me because I’m beautiful,” I’d said in return, thrusting my low cut shirt at her, tossing my hair, and collapsing in hard laughter. We had the same color eyes, but hers were always brighter; she’d gotten knocked up our senior year of high school and had married the Bad Boy, Jonathan Braden. Who turned out to be quite good, actually—devoted father of three, bringing home the bacon. All that small town stuff.

  Because that’s what we were: standard issue American girls from Middle America, corn-fed and silly and sweet. But I’d always dreamed of adventure, and college had introduced me to both smut and the internet, a heady combination; my career path, so daring at the time, so brazen in our small town world, was set. Trish shook her head. “I wish I could go with you,” she said quietly. I knew what she meant. She didn’t have any real interest in leaving Johnny, who was a great man. She just…She wished she could see the world too.

  But she couldn’t have handled my job.

  “I take these pictures for you,” I told her, and shoved the book in her lap again. “I fuck these guys for myself. Half of them are worth it, kind of.” We laughed again.

  “Well, at least I can talk to you about fucking now,” she grinned. “When we were in school—“

  “Oh gosh,” I interrupted, rolling my eyes. “Don’t remind me.”

  “And poor Mike,” she’d continued, roughly nudging my ribs, “bless his sweet soul and his perfect ass, waited day and night for you to put out.”

  “I have told him I was sorry a thousand times,” I said, nudging her back. She was in better shape than me—forget that mommy tummy, it was rock solid from all that running after the boys—and when she pushed me I slid right off the couch, laughing all the way.

  “In postcards!” She swatted my shoulder for good measure. “Who does that?”

  “Apparently old girlfriends from high school do,” I said, and she swatted me again before sliding down beside me.

  “You know, he’s still single,” she’d said. Maybe it was eight years ago. Maybe five years after I’d left our small town, and five years before now, this week, when I’d finally come home.

  “I know,” I said, remembering every inch of his frame, his perfect cheekbones, the warm color of his skin. The way he smelled like summer pastures, even in January.

  “It’s because he still loves you,” she said seriously, and then we both got to dwell a little bit on things that never were, never could be, for a few minutes.

  “Well, you should show him my next piece,” I said smoothly,
leaning over her to drag the rough hand-written pages towards us from the coffee table. “And I think that will definitely cure it.”

  “Tramp Rampage,” Trish said, her finger running under the actual title while she ignored it and inserted her own. I snickered. Her eyes went down a couple paragraphs. “Jeez, Luce,” she said slowly. “I know you work for the online branch but…What kind of magazine do you write for again?”

  “A very rich one,” I said, exhaling. “A very…”

  “A very dirty one,” she finished, and I nodded.

  “Wow,” she said, and that was when I knew she knew I wasn’t kidding. I wasn’t going to ever be a housewife now, find a nice husband who loved me for me and settle down. There was no such husband. There was no settling down.

  I’d wanted adventure, but it had come at a higher price than I’d imagined. Three boyfriends had left me as soon as they found out where I’d worked; the one who got excited and wanted to be with me even more was worse. “Do you do anal?” He’d asked, an unsettling kind of eagerness in his eyes—worse, an expectation. “When you’re out there, slutting around, do you ever take pictures?”