While I’m eating her out, I’ve released my cock from my jeans. It’s like a steel rod in my hand, so hard I can barely feel it anymore. But when I start stroking it, the sensation comes rushing back. I’m so fucking horny it’s as much painful as pleasurable. My need for release is desperate.
But I’m determined not to cum until Lara does. I’m licking her, fingering her with my right hand while stroking my cock with my left. Luckily, I don’t have long to wait. I can feel the tremors in her thighs. Her legs are tightening around my head, squeezing and shaking. She bucks her hips against my tongue, her panting gasps getting faster and faster.
Then she grabs my head and presses hard against my tongue, her fingernails scratching my scalp. She lets out a long, shuddering moan. Her sweet wetness floods into my mouth.
I explode into my own hand—a load of hot, boiling cum that shoots out of me at rocket speeds. I try to catch it all, but it overflows onto the floor.
I don’t want to take my face out of her pussy. I don’t want this to stop.
But Lara gently pushes me away, standing up and starting to pull on her clothes again.
Her whole body is trembling. I’ve never seen so much color in her face.
When she sees the mess I’ve made, she blushes all the more and grabs a packet of tissues from her purse.
“Here,” she says, thrusting them at me. She’s too embarrassed to look me in the eye.
I clean up as best I can, zipping up my jeans once more.
Then I grab her and pull her close to me.
“Did you like that?” I ask her.
I can feel her heart racing through her clothes and mine. She doesn’t want to look at me. I tilt up her chin to make her look in my eyes.
“Tell me if you liked it,” I demand.
“I loved it,” she breathes. “It was the best moment of my life.”
I kiss her again, crushing her lips against mine. Letting her taste herself on my mouth.
“Meet me again tomorrow,” I say.
She can see the madness in my face. She knows I won’t accept any answer but yes.
So all she can do is nod.
“I will,” she promises.
When we exit the change room, there’s a very embarrassed cashier standing behind the desk, blushing almost as red as Lara.
I throw the pile of shirts down on the counter.
“Wrap these up, please,” I say.
Lara is too embarrassed to protest. I buy her a dozen shirts, throwing down a wad of cash to cover the purchase, plus a hefty bonus for the cashier to cover any mess we might have made.
“Keep the change,” I tell him.
“Thank you,” he mutters, not daring to meet my eye.
Out on the street, I kiss Lara again. I can’t stop kissing her. I already want more of her. I want to taste her again. I want to run my tongue along every inch of her skin, top to bottom, front and back. And I want to do so much more than that to her . . .
I hand her the bag of clothes.
“Meet me right here tomorrow,” I tell her. “And don’t keep me waiting.”
12
Lara
In spite of everything I shall rise again: I will take up my pencil, which I have forsaken in my great discouragement, and I will go on with my drawing.
Vincent Van Gogh
The next few weeks pass in a blur of insanity.
I am addicted to Dom. To his scent, to the taste of his lips, to the feeling of his big, rough hands all over my body.
I never imagined I could feel pleasure like that first orgasm crashing over me. I never knew my body was capable of such a thing.
But it’s so much more than physical, this thing growing between us.
It’s the talking, and laughing, and everything he does for me.
It’s fucking kindness.
At first when Dom would compliment me, or try to do something nice for me, it made me uncomfortable. I was looking for the ulterior motive. The reason he was showing interest in me.
But as we keep meeting up again and again, I’m actually starting to believe that maybe he just . . . enjoys spending time with me. As impossible as that might seem.
In fact, the next time I meet Dom, he tells me he has a surprise for me.
He takes me over to Kazanskiy Ostrov, just south of the Blue Bridge.
It is a pretty, shaded lane, with plenty of boutique shops, cafes, and bars where they often hold open-mic nights or other live music events. A lot of students come here from the State University and the Institute of Technology. In fact, the street is full of couples and friends, laughing and talking with their book bags slung over their shoulders.
Dom and I could be mistaken for a couple ourselves.
Dom has a rougher look than most of the students—he’s so tall, with his sandy-colored hair getting so long that he has it pulled back with a leather thong today. He’s wearing a hoodie instead of his leather jacket, but the same jeans as usual.
However, when he throws his heavy arm around my shoulders and pulls me close against his side, we just look like all the other young people in love. I mean, if we were in love . . .
I assume Dom wanted to come here so we can grab something to eat, but instead he pulls me inside a narrow, unmarked doorway and up a dark and winding flight of stairs.
“Where are we going?” I whisper to him.
“It’s up here,” he says, pulling me up after him.
We’re obviously going to the top floor of the building, above a stationery shop and a tea store.
The dark stairway opens up into a surprisingly bright and airy space. It’s all one large room, with bare boards on the floor, plain plastered walls, and a bank of windows looking down onto the street. Sunlight streams through the windows, bright enough that I can see the little specks of dust floating in the light.
A woman with gray-streaked hair and a kimono-style top comes over to shake hands with me.
“Are you here for the two o’clock class?” she asks me.
“Yes,” Dom says at once, before I can speak.
“Welcome, then,” she says. “I’m Nataly, I’ll be instructing today. You can get your easel over there, and set it up anywhere you like, facing the center of the room. Will you be drawing, too?” she says to Dom.
“No! Just watching,” he says.
“That’s fine.”
“Is it a sketching class?” I whisper to Dom.
“Today is figure drawing,” he whispers back. “Later in the week they have still life, watercolor, landscape, abstract . . . If you like this class, we can come back for more.”
I’ve never taken a real art class in my life. I learned out of books, from my brother, and from the occasional YouTube video.
I feel bizarrely nervous as I grab one of the communal easels and try to set it up in the farthest corner of the room. I can see a raised dais in the middle of the floor, where I assume the teacher will put our subject. I can’t imagine they use real humans—maybe a mannequin?
While Dom helps me set the easel in place, more students are clamoring up the stairs. Most are young, in their early or middle twenties. But there’s a few middle-aged people as well and one older gentleman.
Most of the other students seem to know each other. I feel awkward and shy, until a girl with dyed-black hair and a nose ring comes over to introduce herself.