*~The First Lesson~ Comes to a close~*

The look, I knew, accused him – lustily – of abandoning me.  The burn in my stomach, I now understood, my fuel, like a coal burning hearth. I suddenly understood the steam engine nature of my being, and felt the fires, suddenly rekindled by his sudden departure.  My chest heaved as I struggled to feed oxygen starved blood.  No longer empty.

Legs flung over his shoulders I felt myself giving in to everything I had been fighting.  Arms about him, breathing in time with his thrusts, my hips sore and bruised and exquisite in every little twitch and pull.  Our chorus of moans and purrs and grunts suddenly exploding into a gutteral roar from somewhere in the depths of his sexual being.  Silk and cotton no longer at my back, pressed against him as he lifted me to him, using my own weight against me. Pure bliss, but it was only momentary.  Suddenly too full for even my senses to handle.

My teeth sank into his shoulder, and I felt the cool kiss of a tear at the corner of my eye. Quietly I struggled with the feeling of being torn open in a new way before my mind took control. Mikhail, I can’t. . . it hurts. . . Said between his thrusts, my body going into defense mode as it tried desperately to push the painful intruder away.

Relief as cotton and silk found my skin again, cool and welcoming against my furnace of a body.  I found my hands at my tummy, clutching the tender spot, once on fire and aching for something I had only just uncovered, now screaming for a different sort of relief. Pain and pleasure. I wanted more, but my nerves sang with pure pain, already satiated momentarily, they needed a break.  Mikhail was still nestled firmly inside me, and I breathed slowly, enjoying the fullness.  Taken aback when he leaned to whisper to me, I felt him sink deliciously deeper into me and it manifested in a sob from myself.

Lips, warm and soft against my skin, he breathed in my ear softly. just try to relax, sweetheart. I can’t continue until you do. Trembling beneath his touch.  The world seemed to spin as I shook my head no, unable to respond to his touch without sniffling or mewling.  It felt like a flutter at first, and built to a throb as he pulled out, and pushed gently against me. I am not done, so neither are you.

Much gentler this time, slow and precise, as I gave in to him. Legs about his strong hips, arms around his neck, he was kissing and nibbling at my throat, his hot breath rekindling the burning feeling in my tummy. Suddenly the doors were opened again, my body hungry for his and I trembled and quivered at every sensation that flooded through me from his newer gentler thrusting.

All at once he felt larger inside me, hotter, as if he might explode and I felt him pulling me closer to him, tighter to him. Pushing deeper.  Sensations I had never felt before in my life, and suddenly enjoyed unlike anything I thought I would. He came for what seemed like hours, and it seemed to sooth my abused insides, quelling the thirsty fires inside me as it carried us both away.  We were kissing again, unsure of who kissed who first, but enjoying it very much.  I felt impossibly tiny beneath him, wrapped around him, feeling full inside and strangely satiated at the feeling of our climax as it trickled from the smallest crevices it could find around him.

Until now I hadn’t noticed our breathing, labored, short, hot.  I felt wet, glistening from a mix of both of us caught up in a torrent of passion.  Masha had disappeared and I felt my eyes fluttering, lids heavy, possibly from the effort, or the lack of oxygen left in my body.  Mikhail didn’t pull out, but rather pulled me to him, enjoying the intimate embrace, stroking my hair from my face and kissing my cheeks and throat and chest as I drifted.  The music faded, and slowly I became less aware of the tender spot between my legs.  Suddenly, Valentines day in Russia didn’t seem so bad. A toast to Mr. Bond, from Russia with love indeed!

Prost!

*~The First Lesson~* (.cont. II)

It was more than a tremble, a convulsion perhaps, feeling his rough large hands crawl over my hips, and up to my lower back. You’re too big! Thought and vocalization had become one, I hadn’t thought to keep my mouth closed.  Predatory chuckle, shivers throughout my body as he lazily traced the curve of my inner thighs. You’re not being practical, sweetheart.  His rough fingers now between my legs, stroking tender flesh.  Fire.  As quickly as he had found my soft folds he was pulled away from them, perhaps burnt from the blaze in the pit of my stomach.

I felt his lips across the curves of my back, kissing along the gentle depression of my spine. Large, warm hands exploring first my throat, then ribs, and my breasts.  I fit neatly in the palm of his hand, small breasts, my nipples like taut little sand castles in his hands now, easily crushed by the encroaching surge.  I don’t like forced sex. I’ve never had an unwilling partner.  His hand, snake like, tracing my belly. My body reacting against me, my legs spread a little wider, hoping for more intimate touches. But if I got what I was wishing for, he would find out my dark little secret.

He’s still too big, I thought to myself, feeling him pressed against my thigh, his hot flesh alive and waiting.  While I wasn’t a virgin, I certainly wasn’t used to the sexual lifestyle either, and my extent of sexual experience had been a clumsy fumble on my birthday that lasted all of ten minutes.  I was embarrassed to admit this to myself, but thought it best to accept that in the most skewed sense of it, I was still a virgin compared to what this man could do to me.

The fire in my stomach quelled slightly at the feeling of his intrusion. Not the tearing pain I had expected, but soft, circles of pleasure. His hands had found their intimate touch again, and he had found me to be reluctantly wet.  He purred, his breath hot on my back as he explored me with just a finger, knowing my inner workings, each and every twitch and grasp and whimper.   Please. I wasn’t quite sure what  I was asking for. More?   You see? I can be as gentle as you’ll allow me to be. Something about the incentive in his voice, the way I understood his intent. Be kind to me, and I’ll pleasure you. Anger me, and I can make it hurt. Either way, he was going to get inside me. You’re so fucking beautiful. But his next words were lost in the whimper that managed to sneak past my defense. I felt his exploring finger press deeper into me, the sensations working like trade winds in a forest fire, carrying me over the edge. okay! Had I thought it, or said it?

Slowly I felt less full, his hand exploring more of my body. Stomach, breasts, ribs. The instant pressure on my side telling me to turn over. Absolutely! Facing him brought back all my childhood inhibitions about boys. The look I was greeted with, no longer hungry, but calm, collected, methodic. No longer the feeling that made me worry I would be overpowered by him, crushed and torn under the sheer size of this muscled machine of a man. But the sight of what my insides really feared, standing at attention, hot and waiting rekindled the aching burn, my mind screaming to get a grip. It must easily be the size of my wrist, I thought to myself, my thoughts only half terrified as he kissed and licked and bit my inner thighs.  I was exaggerating, I had to be.

Mikhail’s tongue found it’s way, inching gently from the crease where my thigh met my hip, to my soft folds, exploring focusing its heat on my clit. I lost control, rolling my hips against his tongue, soft whimpers becoming more audible as my body betrayed me and I understood the wet heat between my legs was my own creation not his tongue.  Inhibitions slowly started to fall away as I felt him eagerly press himself into me, his tongue exploring every inch, pushing into me, tasting me and I lost control of my voice.

Strong, vice like arms underneath my legs. All too quickly he removed himself, pushing me back onto the bed and I started to feel the nervous ache in my stomach.  Any moment he’d be tearing me apart. He kissed my belly, the hair on his chin no longer scratchy and brush like, but somehow more pleasurable than that, adding their own curious sensations to it all.  Hands fondling my breasts in their own silent admiration for pert youth.  Each kiss and nibble like new, no longer trembles felt in inevitable unexplained fear, but their own hidden knowledge of pleasure.  My chest was breaking out in a blush, heat, pink against the caramel tone of my skin.  His body pressed against mine now, not quite so intimidating and large as it had seemed in fear now, but impressive, passionate, each ripple of movement strong and protective.  He kissed along my shoulders, pressed my arms above me and continued down the soft underside of my arm, back to my breasts, exploring again with his tongue rather than his hands this time.

I don’t remember where or how the kiss started, but I found myself pressed right up against him, caught up in his arms and dangerously close to my predator. I could taste myself, not at all as strange as I thought it would be, but rather sweet.  Breaking the kiss, I felt him urge me to turn over, on all fours.  A thrill went through me. He kissed my shoulder, grabbed the hair at the back of my head, just long enough for a handful, tight grip, still gentle somehow as he encouraged me to bare my neck to him. His kisses were hot, practically bites lingering at the sensitive flesh of my neck, and trailing towards my hips. He found the dimples at my back where my hips flared, the tapering muscles of my back meeting with my arse,  and kissed them, evoking a strange tingle from me.

Perhaps I had been right about his size, feeling him press it hotly against my inner thigh and then up to my arse, teasing as he avoided the area I knew he wanted.  Fear as it sunk in just how large he was in comparison to my little opening. But perhaps my mind was exaggerating again.  My fear put on hold again as he bent to kiss my back again, his tongue trailing down, meeting with tender flesh again, delving, tasting, enjoying the tease.  Lost in the moment, I found my hand between my legs, only a moment of pleasure before he tugged my hand away,  pulling me until I was on my back again, facing him.

Pure heat, not my own this time, but his, pressed against me in the most intimate of ways. I felt it pushing at me, trying already to stretch me around him, and my body shuddered in a mix of fear and excitement. No exaggeration to be had now, he really was as big as I’d thought, and it scared me. Pleading hadn’t done any good in the first place, but he smiled as he saw it in my eyes. I decided to give it another shot. Please. . . My words covered by his mouth, tongue searching for my off switch as he kissed me passionately.  No more teasing, the moment of truth was practically sitting on me.

It felt nothing like losing my virginity had. Somewhat more painful, my body becoming spasmodic as it tried to accommodate just the first of many inches.  I tried to focus on the thought that it couldn’t hurt like this the entire time. Burying my face against his neck, he smelled like cloves and sandalwood, strong and masculine, and somehow sweet.  He pushed me back onto the bed, kissed me again as he pushed a little deeper. Copper, the taste of blood as I bit his lip, trying to mask the pained cry I felt rising.

To say I saw fireworks is not only cliché, but also an understatement.  The world was wavering, black and foggy, painful and yet somehow fulfilling. The heat in my stomach was wearing away, and I felt it wash out of me in the first wave of an orgasm.  Intense. That’s the word to use. He was no where near finished and my body had already thrown in the towel.  A growl against my lips, satisfactory as he gained a bit more freedom, losing control and forcing himself the rest of the way.

Reality no longer wavered in steamy black lines, the world went black for all of a moment, eyes clenched shut and I heard a cry like nothing before. So instinctual and pained, the undertone of pleasure taking over. For what seemed like forever it felt as if I would burst, and something inside of me wanted me to. Incredibly full, the fire in the pit of my stomach licking at the new found sensation. Breathless, voiceless, and then release. Slowly becoming used to him, I felt a slow surge of relief, relaxing as he gently parted my legs wider. I hadn’t any strength to fight him. Incoherent whimpers.

I hadn’t realized, yet, just how springy the bed was until he was using it to his advantage. Taking full advantage in fact. I felt stretched and filled in a way I’d never conceived before. Pain became pleasure, a mesh of confused sensations in my mind. Moaning and screaming unsure if it was in pleasure or pain, only that it felt natural, wonderful somehow. Bruised hips, bruised insides, and a new sensation. Something completely foreign. It moved with each thrust, like a barrier, protective force against intruders.  It wasn’t possible. He couldn’t possibly get that deep. Of course, my perception and understanding of boys and their anatomy had slowly faded away with today’s lesson.

The walls were crumbling, paint flaking away, the black wavering again, fireworks in the corner of my vision. Another hot wave. He stopped, hands tight on my hips, pulling me to him, our hips completely entwined, buried to the hilt inside me through the throws of my second orgasm.  I heard him chuckle as I struggled to regain composure, shocked and angry all at once when I felt him pull out, quickly and rudely. Empty.

*~The First Lesson~* (.cont.)

The second coat came free much quicker, and the third. Satisfaction in the waiting eyes of my audience, Masha’s hands making quick work of hanging my coats and scarves while Mikhail readied his camera.  The music melted into my mind, washed over my senses and caught me up in a rip current of swaying motion. It was easier to focus, and in the tide of sound that flooded my ears, I found the courage and pomposity I had felt at the bar.

One button down, twenty-four to go.  Hips swaying, crashing slowly on a musical shoreline. Sixteen buttons to go.  I felt the material slide from my shoulders. My skin prickled as the air hit me, while still warm, it was much cooler than the air beneath my clothing had been.  A foreign audible click at first, over and over, it’s own drumbeat I soon picked out as the camera. No flash.  Ten buttons. Five.  Transformation, no longer a dress but a cape now, sliding away from my body, air touching my bare breasts.  I closed my eyes and hummed along to the music, reality wavering at the edges of my trance, threatening to strike with frightening reality.

Count the clicks, hips moving in time with the music, cotton against my bare skin, I could hear them mumbling about my panties.  White cotton, boy short cut, clearly not the lingerie he had hoped for.  Arms above my head, a nervous tick as I ran my fingers through my curls, just short enough in back.  Short enough for Floridian summers, angled cut, the sides of my neck were always warm, the back vulnerable to all weather, especially in Russia.  I could feel his eyes as they trailed from my finger tips, knotted in the curls of my hair, to the back of my neck, down the fine line down the center of my back, and back up, lingering at the swell of my breast and ribs.  Warmth spread through my blood stream, and I fought hard with my shy nature to obtain control. If I had control over this situation, it would run smoothly, and quickly.

Eye contact. My best attempt at meeting his wild, savage gaze, shattered as I closed my eyes to the music feeling both of their eyes trailing my body.  Jaw, throat, breasts.  More clicks, the shutter speed picking up, catching my every move, every ripple of muscle, every breath on film. Thumbs hooked in the waistline of my panties, a tease at first. Slowly over the rise of my hips, to my thigh, clamped shut around the thin material keeping them bound at my most secret parts.  A gentle slope of the body and I pulled them off, cold air caressing vulnerable flesh.

I caught his gaze, the hungry look in his eyes and felt suddenly vulnerable. The gnawing feeling at the pit of my stomach returned and feebly my arms went out to cover my nudity.  I cupped my breasts, covering both small mounds  with my forearm my second hand nestling between my legs. Soft flesh, freshly shaved that morning. A small caress and I felt my body jerk to attention, purring in its own internal way at the attention.

Each motion caught on camera. Gentle steps towards the bed. The feeling of silk, brocade, cotton, washing over hyper-sensitive skin. Everything I touched became it’s own reseviore of pleasure, a new sensation burning in the pit of my inner most being. Move your hands, spread your legs. His growl of a voice urged me, somewhat gentle considering his demeanor.  The throb in my stomach became a dull ache, fiery hot at the touch of my hand against tender flesh. Refusal. Acceptance.  A few more minutes of posing and I was running short on seductive looks, resorting to coy, shy glances at him through  soft eyelashes.

A moment between he and Masha, and Masha disappeared.  Regain focus, think about the music, relax. His warmth was closer now, Masha had taken back her position, the camera ready, her dark hair spilling over her shoulders. He was snapping photos, closer now, from above. Smooth heat, much like the feeling in my belly as he approached.  With deer like reflexes I felt my muscles tighten at first as if I might spring out of this little box, this close quarters with my predator.

The camera made a heavy thud-clunk as it rested on the table near the bed.  Mind racing, senses heightened, seething hot fire inside me, my body becoming a battlefield in some foreign land, unknown to my mind.  Jeans in a heavy denim pile, the creases and folds careless and quick.  Chilly air, my hands had fallen away from their protective posts, I rested on my elbows now slack jawed and terrified as I looked up at the exposed man at my side.  Much larger than I had ever seen him, more terrifying and exciting than I had ever imagined.

Worlds crashed around me. Strong warm hand, squeezing my wrist. Fear. Flight. Twisting and pulling, the perfect, un-mussed  linens on the bed now becoming a twisted torrid mass of cloth.  Fireworks in my flesh, soft quilting, calloused rough hands, their strength like viper bites.  Freedom.

He was on me in an instant, his weight squared on the small of my back, arms pulled back painfully close together, and I imagined this must be what a butterfly on a pegboard feels like.  Surely he local fire department had registered the heat I felt inside me, threatening to light me up,  I was sure I was glowing. Sure that if I looked towards my belly it would be warm and golden, like an ember.  A tremble as he spoke, his rough chin hair scraping against my jaw, and neck, his lips pressed against my ear. The cotton of his shirt was sending sparks dancing across my back, lighting me up in the most peculiar and terrifying way.

I can make you feel good Moki, or I can break you. I felt tremors shoot from my finger tips to my toes.  His voice boomed in my head, so powerful and seductive. Surrender. My mind was screaming warnings, sirens ringing behind my eyes, my body completely surrendering to the predator on my back, his rippling thighs pressed painfully against my ribs, pinning diminutive frame beneath his.  Freedom.  I heard the shift of his shirt peeled away from his body, the slide of his shoes on the polished stone floors.  Bare flesh on mine, hot and rough, amazing.

The first lesson

As it turned out, lust and hangovers, in the right situation, can have many similar attributes and symptoms. There’s the ache, that gnawing feeling at the pit of your stomach, and an insatiable hunger that just won’t go away, no matter how many times you feed it. Luckily, lust does not come with the instinctive need to purge, so I was spared regular visits to the porcelain palace.

For a while I contemplated calling Masha, the name of the woman he’d been with last night, and canceling due to hangover.  Mikhail doesn’t like to be disappointed. And how often does a seventeen year old girl get to say she was discovered by the devil in a bar and offered the chance to model. It wasn’t like I hadn’t modeled nude a couple times for fellow artist friends, or for the occasional art class.

As was standard practice, I wore something light and attractive but easily removed.  A shift dress, cotton,  sky blue and buttoned up the front; much too light to wear in a place like Kiev in the middle of winter.  I bound myself up in jackets and dusters, a scarf piled around my neck. Despite bare legs, I expected I wouldn’t be in the cold more than the moments it took from my car to the studio door.

The cars’ interior scratched the backs of my legs, itchy like wool. It took forever for the engine to warm up, and I sat, shivering, lips blue, until it did to turn the heater on. A blast of cold air froze the breath in my lungs, made me gasp for the few morsels of heat lingering in the air to melt the icicles forming in my throat.  To my approval, the sun had managed to sweep away most signs of ice from the windshield, revealing Kiev in a peaceful, snowflake like landscape.  For a few moments, all the perverseness seemed to leave the universe.

Palms sweaty on the steering wheel as I neared the address on the card.  Two stony figures guarded the entrance. Mikhail, like a wall, his broad shoulders stretched between the pillars of the large house. He seemed so much larger and more powerful than I had remembered, his cold gaze fixed on the car as I pulled in to the lot, his hair caught on blustery wind, cheeks kissed pink by the mid-winter frost.  I tried to picture him as a burlesque romance novel hero, shirt open to the wind, head thrown back in a victorious pose, but the burst of cold air that greeted me shattered my vision almost instantly. I felt the water in my eyes become ice and my breath catch again.

Without the drunken haze, Masha looked much larger than the waif of a blur I had seen the nights before. Tall, slender, beautiful really, with dark hair framing her angular jaw line. She was almost reminiscent of a sexy librarian I had seen in a bad cinimax movie once.  I wondered for a moment how she had managed to survive with the cold nipping at her bare legs and throat as a frozen hand found purchase on my skin through an invisible open pocket in my layers of clothing.

It took my legs sluggish moments to react to my synapses. Move! I told them.  Masha leaned in to whisper something in his ear, and in the beaming sunlight I watched the hairs on his neck and chin stand at attention, his skin suddenly prickling with goose bumps.  He stared me down once my legs were moving. I felt like a deer caught in the headlights of a fast moving vehicle. No, not just a vehicle, a train.  Jaw set in a Cheshire smile at the sound of my heels moving up the walk, then the stairs. Standing before him, looking up at his flared nostrils, cold eyes, rosy cheeks.

A shiver of a different sort went through me as he opened the large doors, ushered me inside to the warmth of the large home. Ancient home, it seemed to yawn and creak with years, pained by the removal of some of its bones, obviously renovations made by Mikhail. Most definitely the feel of an old vampire movie. Marble floors, or was it fake?  I rapped on one of the tall pillars, relieved – in a peculiar way – to find that it was light plaster, a mock up of ancient times.

Masha busied herself behind a desk in the corner of the large room, cleared out obviously for studio purposes. Video cassettes lined one wall, a neat little library of unmarked videos, or perhaps unused videos. Lights were set, aimed this way and that. Bare walls, no sheets, or canvas or screen, just cold stone. It was unusual at first to not see a pre-set background.

A large four poster bed sprawled in a small alcove, draped with expensive looking linen, the sort you’d find in a store display, untouched, unruffled.  Rich colors, burnt orange, a silky purple, and a color that reminded me very much, of dried blood, that dark, brown maroon color.  Against he dark would frame the set up was beautiful. A set, I figured. It looked too perfect to be anything but.

Vaulted ceilings, daunting in their height, housed large scale windows, and hid the loft spaces above.  Natural light, amazing colors through the winter ice blanket that coated the thin glass.  Rough, animalistic, Mikhail cleared his throat, catching my attention as I caught and held his gaze.  I was still wearing the four coats I had come in with.  Had that music been playing when I walked in? Strange, underground sort of beats, ultra modern, and yet, somehow, tribal and sensual.

The scarf went first. I handed it to him, playing coy, trying desperately to get a hold of my nerves and mind. It left my hand quickly and it felt as though he had snatched away a security blanket.  Eye contact as I slowly unbuttoned my jacket, hands somewhat shaky like a new surgeon in his first procedure. My fingers were working against me, quick and eager despite my own sluggish hesitation. The first coat was gone, my armor shed away from the world, and very few thin layers protected me from the reality of the situation.

*~Teacher’s Pet~* (.cont.)

For a moment it was hard to decide if the murmur in my chest was my heart or the throb of the music coursing through the bass speakers. He sat, cold blue eyes shining dully in the ill lit corner of the bar. Stubble dotted his strong jaw line, and his hair, while messy,  framed his strong features properly. He was, to say at the very least, very attractive.  In the most cliché way, I was the moth, and he was the flame, smoldering, fiery hot, but so very hard to ignore. Frozen in place, it was hard to believe that of all the women in the place, I had caught his attention, even after my best rubbish bin impression.

Slow motion. A scene out of a bad porno, or perhaps a B-rate vampire movie. He beckoned me with one finger. A simple gesture, and yet it felt as though he had had his fingers entwined within my being tugging me towards him; some shy little marionette for his amusement.  Camera still pressed against me, so tightly I was sure the keys would be embossed on my skin when and if he managed to pry it away from me.  He tapped a stool next to him and I sat myself down, more obedient than I had ever been in my life.

Moments were spent in silence as he poured me a shot of vodka, clear, no smell, crisp flavor.  Another shot, not to be the rude guest, I followed suit, and soon we’d finished the bottle between the two of us, silently. When he spoke, his voice was booming (or was that the base again?) a low purr, or perhaps a playful growl. I heard the words, understood the Russian equivalent of “what is your name” but my lips wouldn’t respond, frozen at the chill that rushed over me from his voice.  A little less than smooth he asked again, rough English, thick with an accent, a glorious accent that sent warm fingers down every vertebra in my spine, and every nerve ending in my body.  When my answer didn’t come he just smiled and waited, his fingers tracing the shot glass in front of him, carefully placed upright, upside down – I had learned – meant something completely different.

My voice cracked at first, lazy in it’s arrival, like a diva waiting for her fashionably late entrance. And then I stammered. Mo-mo, slow lazy, lackluster. I shut my mouth, lips pulled tight against teeth to prevent the spilling of more incomplete syllables. Later, I blamed it on the vodka. Conversation was easier after that, tech talk about cameras. In a slightly drunken stupor I recall leaning forward, pressing myself against the bar, each little movement catching his eye, and a look of approval in turn.

He asked me about modeling. I think I scoffed at it, thinking it was nothing more than a line. Cool fingers across my brow, brushing curly strands back from my eyes. Heat in my cheeks. Vodka, I’d said, it was all the vodka.  A finger left to trail, brow, cheek, neck.  He touched the scars on my now exposed shoulders, ran endless marathons over the silhouettes of my small muscled  arms.  Only half hearing myself, the conversation over the pumping of the blood in my veins, I felt the gnawing ache in the pit of my stomach. Most definitely the vodka, it had to be.

Just outside of Kiev. . .I wasn’t quite listening to what I had agreed to. A shoot. He was serious about modeling. Nude?  Well why not?  I felt a thrill go through me. I had never been brave enough to something like this. Perhaps it hadn’t been bravery. Maturity, that had to be the answer. I was matured far beyond my years intellectually, but physically, emotionally I sometimes wondered.

Be there. Crisp card paper between my finger tips. I watched as he stood up. He was massive, perhaps not lumbering, or stout, but broad, light and heavy at the same time.  A woman next to him gathered her things, winked at me. Had she been sitting there the entire time? She handed me a card. Call if I needed reassurance, Mikhail didn’t like to be disappointed.  The bar felt suddenly cold without his heat there, the last remaining embers scattered when the door opened.  That gnawing pain, I had decided, would have to be hunger.