Varian Krylov

by Hurt

  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.

  * * * *

  Her sex kept nagging. And she kept giving in. Dipping her finger into the slick seeping from between her tender, swollen lips, rubbing that sensitive little knot of pink flesh. But the feeling of that delicate heat inside of her, it felt so soft. So vulnerable. It almost make her sick, touching it.

  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.

  * * * *

  “Today you are in a strange mood,” Khalid told her as she pondered the gleaming, salmon-colored pulp of her grapefruit, sliced into a smooth plane radiating thin beige spokes.

  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.”

  “That one, in particular. It's so imagistic. The whole time I'm reading, I'm storyboarding every shot. I can't help it.”

  “You want to make this film?”

  “I've never done a feature. I've never even done anything narrative. But, yes. I want to make this film with you. I've been thinking about it for weeks.”

  “It is a strange idea, for me, this thought of seeing actors saying and doing the things I have written. But I will think about it.” He stood up and stripped down to his trunks. “But for now, I want to swim. Will you swim too?”

  “No.” She stroked the soft flesh of her arms.

  Khalid's lithe, umber-hued body seemed to belong there, a part of the seascape as he slipped into the gray and whi
te foaming swells. Sleek as a seal, he dove under the first big breaker and swam for the sun.

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  Vanka had always been a strong swimmer, fearless in big waves, at ease in uncertain depths, not minding the brush of seaweed and fish against her calves. She'd been scared, though, to go out with him. She didn't trust the strength of her muscles, the capacity of her lungs. Now, watching Khalid, she felt sure, if he needed her, she could swim out and get him back.

  She never took her eyes off that black head, that brown shoulder, his powerful arm cutting through the surface, pulling him forward, parallel with the shore, striking south, then north, then turning in, chasing the swell and break of the waves until one rose up behind him and drove him toward shore.

  His lithe frame only a little rounded with exhaustion after fighting the waves and the current for thirty minutes, he rose up from the shallows and came toward her. Khalid let her wrap his wet body in the heavy terry beach towel, sank down to the sand, and let her hold him in her arms, giving him her heat.

  * * * *

  It was beautiful. An abstract sculpture in clear acrylic. All smooth roundnesses—

  its surface, its structure. Its body long and thick and solid, its neck delicate, slender and curved, its head a modest, elegant oval.

  In her palm, the weight of it was comforting. Inspiring.

  Cool and smooth under her fingers. Against her cheek, her lips, her belly.

  On her back, she spread her legs. Contemplated her mound with its sparse coat of fair fuzz. Watching, she pressed the oval to her arousal-slick opening, first just feeling the cool roundness touching her, then the pleasant pressure as the oval opened her, little by little, as her cunt enveloped it, holding it, cool and smooth and round, deep 313

  inside her. The delicate neck curved and emerged from between her pink, downy lips.

  And, just below her clit, the full, graceful swell of the base of the phallus, which rose, thick and long and translucent, hovering over her belly.

  Her cock.

  When she flexed her PC muscle, the tip of her cock lurched upward, and when she relaxed, it fell back to hover an inch or two above her belly. When she did a quick burst of flexes, it bounced up and down obediently, the weight of her cock rocking the acrylic egg inside of her.

  Getting on all fours and looking down the length of her torso, her cock aimed itself right at her, then performed its tricks all over again. Only the brush of the egg inside of her teased with a slightly different pressure. Vanka sat back on her heels and, admiring how eagerly it pointed at the ceiling, wrapped her fingers around her cock. And she smiled. Almost laughed.

  Her grip skidded up the length of her thick, clear shaft. On the downstroke, the egg tried to escape the grip of her enveloping muscles. Vanka stretched for the nightstand drawer, snatched up a bottle of lube, shot three squirt into her palm, and coated her cock. Now her grip slipped up and down, and the egg gave up its efforts at escape—it just bumped pleasantly against her knot of nerves when she pulled up, and relented when she pulled down.

  Loosening her grip, she caressed the subtle curves of the base, the center, the tip, enjoying the cool, smooth glide of it against her palm, under her fingertips. If she fisted her cock, fast and firm, the egg tapped against her with a delicious, staccato rhythm. Could she come, just like that?

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  It surprised her how soon her arm got tired. She caught herself smiling. On impulse, she'd wrapped her other hand around her gorgeous, glass-hard shaft, and was pumping her hips into her grip in a slow rhythm.

  The first time the fat swell of the base glanced off her clit a shock of pleasure rippled through her sex and after, she heard her own startled little sob. Now she started swiveling her hips as she pumped them, working for that thrilling contact, thrusting her cock into the slick tunnel of her grip, rubbing and bumping her clit against the hard swell of acrylic.

  Now her thighs were burning with the effort of levering her weight up and down, forward and back. She collapsed forward, onto her knees and one forearm, fisting and fucking, jerking her cock with her hand, thrusting her hard shaft into the grip of her fingers. Over and over the egg inside of her bumped against that knot of nerves, while she desperately humped that gorgeous hardness by her clit.

  Yes, please, yes, she was going to. The maddening little thrill of her clit rubbing and sliding, dragging up and down that crystal hill, each thrust hitting her G-spot, prodding that deep, strange pleasure. Please, there, yes, the want, the ache swelled and swelled and burst and spilled as she bucked, again, again, and collapsed, panting, her thighs and arm muscles burning, her cunt throbbing around the egg-shaped root of her cock.

  * * * *

  Her hands and feet were cold, and there was a queasy knot in her belly, but her sex was pulsing insistently around the bulbous root of her cock. The water had only 315

  been running for a couple of minutes, and as Galen had told her once, before she really knew him, Khalid took long showers.

  He wouldn't laugh. But he might . . . what? Get that amused look on his face.

  Stand there feeling sorry for her, try to get out of it without hurting her feelings. It was sort of funny; she was so worried about how he'd react to the dildo, she was hardly thinking about her chest.

  As she walked across the room, her cock bounced a little with each step, and the hard acrylic egg rocked inside of her. She perched on the armchair at the far side of the bed. The chair where Khalid had waited for her that first night, before they'd even met.

  Deep breaths. For the thousandth time she chastised herself for not just talking to him first, as she arranged the folds of her white kimono robe.

  The hum of the water cut out. Her heart paused, then pounded, thump thump thumping fast and hard. At the last second, she changed her mind about sitting. She rose, smoothed the gathers of her robe, and straightened beside the chair. Willing herself to stay still, she watched the bathroom door open.

  When he stepped into the room, naked, the setting sun bathed him in its tangerine light. His golden eyes fixed on her, and he smiled. The pounding of her heart, the pulsing of her sex, everything dialed up as Khalid approached.

  “Do I understand, Vanka? You've come to me?”

  “Yes.” Her face went hot because her voice had broken on the word.

  “But look at you.” There it was, his amused look. But his gaze was tender. “You are so nervous.” Gently he stroked her fine growth of hair. “You have not come to me too soon? Before you are ready?”

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  Vanka turned her head, “no.”

  He went on, gazing at her, as he caressed her, fingertips faintly touching her neck, her shoulder, her throat—just where her robe left her skin bare. His soft lips brushed her temple. Her cheek. Her ear. Little shivers shimmered down her body and pooled, thrumming, in the swelling heat of her sex. Then he kissed, his warm lips touching hers. Soft. Waiting. Again.

  His kiss. She wanted to sink into the sweet heat of his mouth, but every pulse of her wet cunt against the hard stem of her cock worried her.

  “Just . . .” She halted.

  His golden gaze was so warm, so kind. “Tell me, Vanka.”

  “I . . .” She tried again. “You might not . . .” She was being so ridiculous. Her fear broke over a helpless laugh. “I have a surprise. And it's okay, if you don't like it.”

  “Yes?” he purred, smiling.

  She took his hand, noticing he was already half hard. Her heart seized as she pressed his palm to the silk of her robe where it veiled her acrylic erection.

  He sighed. Nearly groaned. She watched as he curved his fingers around her shaft and gently, slowly slid the white silk up. Then down.

  “Vanka.” It was a low growl.

  Their foreheads tipped together, the both looked down as he parted the skirt of her robe, revealing her translucent prick.

  “C'est jolie, Vanka,” he breathed. “Like a ghost. An impression of a cock.” He opened the skirt wider, exposing her nak
ed hips. “No . . . le mot? No straps?” He paused. “So, it is inside you?” he sighed, finally.

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  Khalid's cock had risen up beside hers. Almost touching.

  “And when I touch, like this . . .” He curved two fingers behind the swell of acrylic at the end of her cock, and gave two gentle little tugs, rocking the orb up inside of her, “.

  . . you feel this touch?”

  “Yes,” she breathed, the sight of him doing that magnifying the rousing sensation.

  He half sighed, half laughed, leaning into her, his warm breath moist on her cheek. “And this,” he ran the pads of those two fingers along the length of her shaft, “it excites you?”

  “Yes.”

  “And,” he sighed, his golden eyes sparking in a way she'd never seen before,

  “you want to fuck me with this cock of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  Khalid came on, sinking into her kiss with a fervent heat that was new, to her. A surge of need swept away her anxiety. She forgot everything except Khalid's hungry kiss, the heat and the faint quivering of his naked body against her, the delicious slickness of her cunt as it pulsed around the hardness inside her.

  They surfaced from that deep, urgent kiss. Gentle, now, Khalid took her lips in soft little kisses, delicately danced his tongue against hers. Then he slipped away.

  Looked at her a moment. Came back with another soft, sweet kiss.

  His hands converged on the loose knot at her waist, his long, delicate fingers untying the cord. She tried to meet his gaze with a smile. The knot undone, he held her gaze as he slid the silk from her shoulders and her robe slipped to the floor.

  "Now tell me my scar is pretty."

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