My arse is his.
He removes his hands and I hear the uncapping of the bottle. I can’t seem to stop swaying my hips from side to side, enjoying the slight friction of the smoothed suede under my stomach.
‘Hey, keep still.’ He lets a lubed thumb glide between my cheeks. ‘Don’t move a muscle.’ He says this last in a deliberate American accent, which comes off exaggerated and wrong, but I still picture him in a cowboy hat, ready to aim and fire. ‘Now enjoy.’
He runs slippery fingers up and down the crease, pressing into my inner cheeks, an act that releases startlingly pleasant sensations. My muscles seem to tremble and twitch a little, as if they know what’s coming. In a way, perhaps, they do. This kind of stimulation has an inevitable purpose. Does it trigger ancient human memories for them? The cavewoman, worn out with childbearing, offering her caveman an alternative? The wife of a Roman senator, jealous of his preference for boys? Or the woman through the ages, wanting her man to know her in every possible way? This act is as old as the hills, and practised only for pleasure, not for any other motive. People do it because they want each other, just like me and Dimitri.
Now I am calm and lulled by the idea of all my forerunners opening this part of themselves up to their lovers as an act of faith and trust. It’s nothing new. It’s safe, as long as I’m in the right hands. And I’m in the right hands.
‘Now you feel this,’ he murmurs, bending to my ear. I tighten my muscles as one cold fingertip circles dangerously close. ‘How does it feel?’
‘Oh, nice,’ I say. ‘But it’s so close. I’m worried.’
‘Don’t worry, hush. Keep it open, relax.’
The fingertip is on me now, ready for the first push forwards. I think about asking him to put more lube on it, but then I force myself to trust him. He knows what he’s doing. Let him do it.
I can’t hold back a tiny whimper, though, as my ring stretches to accommodate the end of that long slim finger. I pant quickly, the breaths high up in my chest, trying to quantify the unique feeling of penetration. It’s not like having a finger in my pussy. It feels bigger, stranger and a little uncomfortable, though not at all painful as yet.
‘I am in you,’ he says, curling it a little, swivelling it, feeling his way.
I unleash a manic giggle, flexing my ankles and feet, experiencing something akin to being tickled, but not quite.
He digs deeper, sliding in to the knuckle.
‘All the way,’ he says in a sing-song croon. ‘All the way inside. Oh yes. You can take it.’
‘Ugh, ugh, ugh,’ is my only response to this. It’s not painful, not even unpleasant. It just feels very wrong, like my body and his finger are in deadlocked opposition. But he will win.
While his finger wiggles in its new home, he kisses my captive bum cheeks, passionately, then he pretends to bite them, sucking marks on to their pristine pallor.
‘Oooh.’ I grip the worn suedette with desperate nails. I know I can’t come like this, but it feels weirdly as if I might. Maybe all the information is wrong?
Then, with a rude pop, his finger is out of me and my muscles contract as if offended by his sudden exit.
‘Oh.’ It’s a little moan of protest, and he knows it, for the next thing he does is to insert two fingers. This makes me open my eyes wide and kick up my heels, but he is firm in his intent and he continues his impaling mission until I feel that pain I have been dreading. But it’s not really the dreaded pain – it’s a pale shadow of it, a vague smarting halfway along the passage, which flares and then as quickly fades.
How does the width of two fingers compare with his cock? I find myself trying to perform a frantic estimation task in my head. His fingers are long and bony, his cock is long and not so bony. Quite thick, in fact. How much more will it hurt? What’s the factor?
He thrusts with the fingers for a while, letting me accustom myself to the invasive feel of them, the push in and the drag out, then I hear his breathing over mine and it is heavy, ragged, on the edge.
‘I take you now,’ he says. I shut my eyes and utter a silent prayer, pushing up my bottom, offering it. ‘But you must turn over. Lie on your back. I want to watch your face.’
‘Oh no!’ This really is beyond the pale. He can put what he likes up my bum, but he mustn’t look at my face while he does it! Nobody must ever see my face.
‘What?’ He removes his fingers, comes around to the side, seeks my eyes, which are pressed into the padding. ‘Look at me. Hey, Rosichka. Now.’
I turn a pouty face to his. ‘It’s too embarrassing.’
‘But I need to see you. Or you might be in horrible pain and I don’t know. You might hate every minute and I think you love it. This is important for me, to know that you are happy with how I fuck you.’