Around him—and everywhere—lay the limp green leaves of the birch branches.
“Should I do it?” I whispered.
“I would.”
“Come with me?”
“Obviously.”
We approached the man in his pink chair. He nodded formally at Ian, and the three of us went off to the dry sauna. While the wet sauna had been bright and tiled, with silver vents, the dry sauna was darkly lined with cedar, reminiscent of hell, if hell were a cabin on the shores of Lake Michigan with the thermostat cranked to a hundred and twelve degrees.
“Is your first time?” the man asked. Up close, the pink rolls of his belly were damp and gleaming.
“Yeah.” Ian settled himself on the top riser—he seemed immune to the heat—and cupped his chin in his palm. Mischief gleamed in his eyes.
“I will be gentle,” the man promised. “Not too hard. Is too hard, you tell me. Okay?”
I said I would, and lay down on the middle bench, belly-down. As the man picked up the branch, I heard its feathery flutter. “You tell me, is too hard,” he repeated. I closed my eyes.
Now, the sauna is hot. I know you know, but let me tell you: this heat cooks you. It has nothing to do with August, or the tropics. This is the kitchen’s heat. Either you fight it, or you go limp. I went limp.
Crack, the branch came down and lingered on my scapula. “Is okay?” the man murmured above me, lost in steamy clouds. The leaves held the heat, making a glowing bloom on my back. Then, with a gentle suction, as if it yearned to linger, the branch—and the heat—lifted up. The patch of coolness left behind was divine. Smack! The leaves came down on my other shoulder blade, and again that warmth, again that cooling spot.
Carefully the man worked his way down my back and over my legs, asking if I liked it. He gave a delighted laugh when I said yes, and pressed the birch branch firmly against my ass. “Is okay?” he whispered. I nodded, my eyes closed.
My insides were baking. I was gloriously relaxed, as soft as a puddle of mush, and yet, when I thought about Ian watching me laid out, nearly naked, flogged by a fat Russian man, a delicious golden lead flooded my cunt.
“Turn over,” the man said, and I did, offering him new territory: my breasts, my stomach, my thighs. Not rushed, but methodical and thorough, he covered me with his wet, hot smacks. To finish he pressed the branch between my legs, like a seal. Stamping me. I couldn’t help it, I moaned.
“Is okay,” he told me. We were done.
I sat up. He disappeared, then returned carrying a wooden bucket brimming with dark water. “For the heart,” he declared, and, with much ceremony, dumped it over my head. Icy cold. I gasped, stifling a shriek. Both men chuckled.
“Thank you.” Speaking felt strange, like becoming a person again.
“You are very welcome. Very good for the heart,” he repeated. Then, with another courteous nod at Ian, almost a genuflection, he was gone.
We stood there smiling. “What was that?” I whispered.
“It was fucking hot, was what it was.”
Playfully I swatted him. He caught my arm and twisted it behind my back. From behind me he whispered, “You liked that, didn’t you?”
I nodded, my head hitting his chest. He pressed against me, his dick nestling my ass crack. “You like being beaten,” he said into my ear, and then he was bending me over, and tugging aside my swimsuit; then he was squishing himself inside. I thought I might faint. Deeper into me, and faster, he fucked: I shivered with pleasure, and a black poppy bloomed in the center of my vision. His cock slammed my brain, scrambled my cells, while he incanted, “You like that, you like that,” and blackness swam before my eyes. I was glad to do this for him. Do this to him. Take away his speech: now only moans were coming from his mouth, sharp noises, and then he was coming, gurgling, so deep inside me that my elbows buckled and my forehead hit wood.
In the sudden stillness there was only the sound of panting. Slowly I waddled forward until he slid out. Coyly I turned around. His face was a mottled red.
“God, it’s hot,” he exclaimed, and half-rolled, half-collapsed onto the bench.
“We should get out of here.” I giggled a little as I pulled my swimsuit back into place. “It’s a miracle no one came in. At least as far as I know.”
He didn’t respond. I sat beside him and stroked his hair, rocking back and forth, feeling his cum pool in my bikini; everything was sweat, everything was cum, everything was water here in this room. The black poppies were constant now, dark flowers unfurling and exploding. It was so hot. “Let’s go. Let’s get out of here.”
“Where do you want to go?” he mumbled, his eyes still closed.
A vision: his clean apartment, a shower, those big towels, his white Christmas lights. “Your house.”
“What?” He shuddered a little and pinched his temple.
“Come on. Let’s go back to your place.”
He sat up, shaking the sweat from his hair. Beneath the pink flush of his skin there was now a grayish hue. “I can’t tonight.” He wiped his eyes. “I’m busy.”
My heart jigged. “You’re busy? You’ve got plans?”
“Yeah,” he said shortly, using the tone he always used with me when I asked for too much. “I’ve got plans.”
And then, all at once, I understood. It was obvious. “You’re going to her place, aren’t you?”
He put his head in his hands. He was so wet and soggy and magnificent, a rumpled lion. “Look, Rose. I’m really happy to see you. It’s really nice.”
“It’s nice? What we just did was nice?”
He looked at me warily. “Yeah, it was nice. It’s a good thing.” He was turning the color of cardboard.
“Do you feel okay?” My heart seemed to be pounding all over my body—my head, my chest, my hands.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” He squeezed his temple again. “My head hurts, though. I should get going. I’m already late.”
He stood, and there it was, hot tears sliding down my eyes, tears and sweat and cum in this room. “I just thought,” I pulled him back down to the bench, “I just thought that, when I heard you hadn’t gotten back together with her, I mean, since that always was the main obstacle with us, I mean the main reason we weren’t—” I couldn’t tell the difference on my face, what was sweat, what was tears.
“Oh, honey,” he tightened a wet grip on my thigh, “that’s not the reason.” His voice was faint and airy.