MY ENGLISH – 2. LESSONS OF GROWING UP

I was sixteen when I first realized I wanted him.

I remember that evening in every detail: the smell of tangerines and pine needles, the twinkling of garlands on the Christmas tree, my father’s laughter at dinner. And him — Anton — who walked into the living room, brushing snow off his coat, and looked us all over as if checking that everyone was in place. And when his gaze lingered on me, I felt an electric jolt run down my spine.

It happened during the New Year holidays. Anton flew in from Boston — as always, unexpectedly, with a suitcase full of gifts and his easy, American smile. I remembered him from childhood — he came every two or three years, would tickle me when I was little, toss me up to the ceiling, give me dolls. Back then he was just “Uncle Anton,” my father’s friend, kind and funny. But at sixteen, I looked at him differently.

I sat across from him at the table and couldn’t take my eyes off him. His hands — long fingers, confident, strong — gripped a glass of cognac. He brought it to his lips, and I watched his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. I felt hot, even though the room was cool.

He walked into the living room, brushed snow off his coat, looked at everyone — my father, me. And his gaze lingered on me a second longer than a family friend’s should have.

I didn’t understand then what that look meant. But inside, somewhere deep, a spark lit that I couldn’t extinguish.

Back then I wore short skirts and painted my lips with gloss. I already knew that boys looked at me. But for a man — grown, handsome, foreign — to look at me in a way that lit something inside. That was new. Scary. Sweet.

We sat across from each other at dinner. I caught every movement he made. How he drank cognac — slowly, savoring it, tilting his head back. How he laughed at my father’s jokes — leaning back in his chair, exposing his neck, firm, with an Adam’s apple. How he adjusted his shirt cuff — long fingers, confident, strong.

I looked at him and imagined those fingers touching my skin. How his breathing would grow deeper when he looked at me. How his lips would approach mine. These fantasies were my most shameful secret.

After dinner, when everyone went out onto the terrace to greet the New Year, he lingered by the Christmas tree. I walked over.

“Aren’t you cold?” he asked, looking at my bare knees.

“I’m used to it,” I replied. “How is it in Boston?”

“Cold. But at least there you know what to do with the cold.”

He smiled, and I noticed the wrinkles around his eyes — not aging, but making his face alive, warm. I wanted to touch his face, run my fingers over those wrinkles, but I held back.

“How’s school?” he asked.

“Good. And you?”

“Work. Money. Loneliness,” he chuckled.

“Loneliness?” I was surprised. “But you have…”

“No one,” he cut in. “I have a business. And continents between me and the people I care about.”

He looked at me — long, intently, already not in a friendly way. And in that look I read something that made my heart beat faster. But then he reached out and ruffled my hair, like a child.

“Grow up, Victoria. You’ll be the most beautiful girl in Moscow.”

I was offended then. I didn’t want to be a “niece.” I wanted to be something else for him. A woman.

From that evening, I began to imagine. How he takes my hand. How he kisses me on the lips — not on the cheek. How his fingers unbutton my blouse. How he undresses me — slowly, unhurriedly, examining every inch.

At night I would close my eyes and see his face. Hear his voice. Smell his scent. These fantasies were my most shameful secret. I never told anyone about them — not even Inga, my best friend.

I fell asleep with them and woke up with them. And I waited.

I waited for his next visit for two years. Two years that lasted an eternity.

During those two years, I changed. I grew taller, thinner. I learned to put on makeup so my lips looked full and my eyes huge. I wore short dresses and high heels, caught the glances of men — grown, serious — and took pleasure in it.

But none of them were him. None made my heart beat faster.

I kissed boys at discos. Once — with Inga, under tequila, just to try. Another time I let a guy from the eleventh grade put his hand up my skirt. It was pleasant, but not it. Not what I imagined when I thought of Anton.

I hadn’t slept with anyone. All my friends lost their virginity at fifteen or sixteen, bragged about details. I stayed silent. Inga thought I was scared. Vika thought I was waiting for a prince. Anya thought I was frigid. I didn’t correct them. I just waited. I knew: the first time would be only with him. Or no one.

I secretly kept his photo from the family dinner — he was standing by the tree, glass in hand, smiling. I looked at that photo before bed, sometimes for a long time, studying every feature.

I knew he would come again. I knew that this time I wouldn’t let him go. I would do everything so that he saw in me not a girl, but a woman.

Today I turned eighteen. I opened my eyes without an alarm — I just felt that the day had arrived.

The room was quiet and bright. Sunbeams broke through the curtains, creating golden paths on the floor. I lay looking at the ceiling and felt something new, grown‑up rising inside me.

My phone buzzed under the pillow: friends sent voice messages, cards, promises to party. I didn’t answer. I lay and stared at the ceiling. Tonight — a family dinner. My father had invited partners, friends. I would put on a long dress, put on a bored face, and wait.

I knew he would come. Not because my father had said so. Not because I saw his name on the guest list. I just knew. I felt it in my skin days before, when the air suddenly became different — like before a thunderstorm, though there wasn’t a cloud in the sky.

He was my father’s childhood friend. Ten years younger than him. The one who tousled my hair when I was twelve and I still didn’t understand why his hand made me catch my breath. The one who came every two or three years, and each time I waited for him as if summer depended on it.

I remembered how he laughed — head thrown back, exposing his neck. How he drank cognac — slowly, savoring it, holding the glass in his long fingers. How he looked when he thought I wasn’t watching. How he smelled — expensive cologne, tobacco, and something else, his own, masculine, that made my lower belly warm.

I even remembered things that never happened. Imagined them. How he would take my hand. How he would say my name — not “Victoria,” but differently, huskily. How his lips would meet mine.

He would come. I would sit across from him at dinner. I would wear the dress I had chosen specially for him — silk, ivory, with a slit up to mid‑thigh. I would make my lips cherry‑red. I would look at him so that he understood.

I got out of bed and walked to the closet. The dress hung on a hanger, and I ran my hand over it. The silk was cool and smooth. I imagined how it would fit me, how his gaze would follow the slit, how it would linger on my legs. Everything inside me tightened with anticipation.

I pulled off my T‑shirt and dropped it on the floor, and was about to head to the shower, but for some reason I paused in front of the mirror. I just stood and looked.

First the face — sleepy, pale, without makeup. Gray eyes with a misty look, long dark lashes, slightly damp from sleep. Bow‑shaped lips, swollen, pink, untouched — no lipstick, no gloss, only their natural, soft tint. My nose slightly turned up — it made my face look capricious, but not stupid, rather lively, with character. I knew I looked younger than my age. That sometimes annoyed me — especially when people mistook me for a schoolgirl — but today, on the day I was seeing myself differently, it actually pleased me. There was strength in this youth, a freshness, a purity I hadn’t yet spent.

Then my gaze dropped lower. The skin on my chest was white, almost translucent, with a faint bluish tint — thin blue veins showed through, like rivers on a map, feeding my body with life. My breasts were small but already round, firm, with protruding nipples that had hardened from the morning air or from my own attention. I ran my fingers over them, and they responded with a slight shiver that rolled down my stomach and settled somewhere lower, in that place that was already beginning to pulse in time with my thoughts.

Down there, it was empty and free — I didn’t wear underwear when I slept, and now my body was open, vulnerable, but not shy. I spread my thighs a little wider and looked at myself in the mirror. A thin triangle of light hair, smooth skin around it, a wet gleam that had appeared from just looking. My waist was thin, stomach flat, without a single crease — I arched slightly, and the mirror reflected a smooth curve that made me look like a woman from a painting, one standing against the sea or in the shade of a garden, unashamed of her nakedness. My hips had rounded over the last year, but they hadn’t spread — they had become softer, more feminine, while still keeping their slenderness. My legs were long, shapely, with a slight bend at the knees that made them not just beautiful but alive.

I turned sideways, then almost fully around. My butt was round, firm, with two small dimples at the base of my spine — I had always liked that spot; it made my back look long and beautiful, creating the very line that artists love to draw and men love to study. I ran my palms over my thighs, feeling my skin respond to my touch, the muscles beneath tensing and relaxing.

Eighteen years old. I looked at my reflection and for the first time didn’t search for flaws. I accepted myself completely. Young. Smooth. Alive. And a little wicked — because inside me something had been ripening for a long time that I hadn’t dared to name aloud. It wasn’t just a body — it was my body, my story, my strength. I smiled at myself — not coquettishly, not sadly, but calmly, accepting everything I saw. And in that smile there was a promise — to myself, to my future, to those who would see me like this. I was ready.

I smiled at my reflection — not coquettishly, not sadly, but calmly. Then I took a deep breath and stepped into the shower.

The water was hot, almost scalding. I stood under the stream, eyes closed, and felt the drops run down my face, down my neck, down my chest, down my stomach, between my thighs. And in that stream of water, it seemed to me that everything that had been before was washing away. All the childish “don’t”s I had wrapped around myself, all the “be nice”s I had heard from my father. Only I remained.

I dried off and put on what I had prepared two weeks before my birthday. A long ivory silk dress. I saw it in a window on Tverskaya and fell in love immediately. The silk slid over my skin — cool, smooth, like water. The dress hugged my chest, waist, hips, and below it flowed in a light wave. In front — a slit up to mid‑thigh. Modest and at the same time provocative.

I brushed my hair, left it loose — damp, with a slight wave. Makeup almost imperceptible: foundation, mascara, and only my lips — cherry lipstick. I applied it slowly, watching every movement. My lips became bright, juicy, as if I had just eaten a berry.

“Well then,” I said to my reflection. “Meet me, adulthood.”

I still had the whole day until evening. My father let me go out with the girls.

I stepped outside, and the cold air hit my face. Moscow was gray and noisy, but it seemed to me that everything around was glowing — shop windows, streetlights, the faces of passersby. I felt new. Grown up. Ready for what was about to happen.

We met at five at “The Chinese Pilot.” Inga had booked a VIP booth. Anya, Vika, and Dasha were already there when I walked in.

“Victoria!” they shouted in unison. Hugging, kissing cheeks, giving presents.

I smiled, hugged them back, but I was thinking of only one thing. That tonight he would be there. That I would see him. And that I would do everything to make him understand.

Two bottles of champagne were brought. I watched the waiter open the first — a dull pop, white smoke, bubbles rising to the rim of the glass.

“To you,” said Inga. “May you have everything you want.”

‘And what if I want what I shouldn’t?’ I thought. But aloud I said:

“To us.”

The champagne burned my throat with a sweet bitterness, and warmth spread through my body. Then came tequila. I licked the salt from the skin between my thumb and forefinger, tipped back the shot — the fiery liquid burned my throat. I chased it with lime.

We kept drinking. Gin and tonic. More champagne. I danced right in the booth, to the music from the speakers, to the deep bass, feeling the alcohol loosen my muscles, make the world softer, simpler.

At some point I caught myself looking at Inga. At her lips — painted with pink gloss. At her neck — long, white, with a small mole. I wanted to kiss her. The alcohol removed the prohibitions, made desires loud.

“If I were a guy,” I whispered in her ear, “I’d have already fucked you.”

Inga blushed, laughed, and pecked me on the cheek.

“You’re drunk,” she said.

“A little,” I agreed.

At one in the morning we stumbled out of the club. I caught a taxi, flopped into the back seat, and let my head fall back against the headrest. Night Moscow drifted past the window — lights, shop windows, wet asphalt. My head was buzzing, my body felt light. I wasn’t thinking about anything important. And I didn’t want to.

At home it was quiet. The clock in the hallway showed after one. My father and Alice were probably already asleep. Jean in his room behind the kitchen. Silence, only my silent steps on the carpet.

I was about to go upstairs to my bedroom when suddenly a muffled sound came from the kitchen area. Jean lived there, my father’s driver and handyman. Strange — at this time he was usually asleep. Curiosity won. I tiptoed past the kitchen, stopped at his door. It was slightly ajar, and a dim nightlight glowed through the crack.

I looked inside — and my breath caught.

On the bed, her back to me, a white, young female body writhed. Alice. My stepmother, my father’s young wife — he was almost sixty, she was only twenty‑five. She had appeared in our house a couple of years ago, a dancer from a variety show my father had brought to spite my mother and prove he was still a catch. She was only seven years older than me — fresh, flexible, with a body that seemed to glow in the half‑darkness. She knelt, her back arched, her long blond hair swinging in time with the thrusts. Her skin in the dim light looked like porcelain, almost luminous — so white I could see her even in the darkness.

And behind her, holding her hips with his huge black palms, Jean was pounding her. That same Jean — my father’s driver, who had been living in Russia for ten years, having come from Senegal to study, then stayed to manage the household in this house, tend the garden, sometimes help in the kitchen. His body was nearly two meters tall, broad‑shouldered, with powerful arms and a chest gleaming with sweat. I had never seen a black man naked — and certainly not in such proximity. His black skin caught the light and shimmered blue in the dim glow of the nightlight, muscles rolling beneath it with every movement, and I couldn’t tear my eyes from the sight, in which strength and plasticity, crude male power and almost animal grace mingled. He was nothing like the guys I was used to seeing at the gym or on the street — there was something ancient in him, something primal, that made me watch, holding my breath. He wasn’t just fucking her — he was taking her, owning her, and she responded, pushing back, as if she knew it was right, that it was meant to be.

I looked lower — and my eyes felt uncomfortable. His cock was huge, unnaturally long. He entered Alice roughly, with full force, and each time my stepmother let out a dull, voluptuous moan.

I was disgusted. But I couldn’t look away. Somewhere deep inside, in my lower belly, a strange, pulsing warmth arose. I felt my body respond to this wild, forbidden scene, felt how between my legs it became wet and hot. I was ashamed, but I couldn’t stop. I stood and watched, feeling this image burn into my memory, change something inside me, something that could no longer be undone.

Then, coming to my senses, I quietly stepped back from the door, feeling my cheeks burn. I stood for a few seconds, steadying my breathing, and on wobbly legs walked toward the stairs to the second floor.

I went up. At the end of the corridor, a light was on. The guest bedroom, the one always prepared for Anton. The door was ajar.

I stopped in front of it. My head was buzzing — from champagne, from tequila, from what I had just seen. I suddenly wanted to just go in, see him, say hello. So what if it was late. So what if I’d been drinking.

I pushed the door open.

He sat in an armchair by the window, in an unbuttoned shirt, a glass of cognac in his hand. On the table — an opened bottle. The TV was on without sound. He looked up at me.

“Victoria?” He didn’t sound surprised. “Why aren’t you sleeping?”

“I was out with friends,” I said, stepping over the threshold. “My birthday. We celebrated.”

“I see,” he smiled slightly, looking me over. “Had a drink?”

“A little,” I entered the room and stopped by the bed. “And you?”

“Jet lag. Acclimatization. And cognac in solitude.”

I looked at him. He was approaching forty, but looked younger — fit, no belly, with a touch of gray at his temples that didn’t age him but made his face more interesting. His shirt was unbuttoned two buttons, exposing his neck — smooth, strong. His Adam’s apple moved when he swallowed cognac.

His hands. Long, confident fingers. I remembered those hands from childhood — strong, reliable. But now I looked at them differently. I imagined those fingers stroking my skin. The stubble — light, dark — covered his chin and cheeks. Not carelessness, but an evening shadow that made him older and more masculine.

He looked at me point‑blank — tiredly, but attentively. And in his eyes — gray, with a steely sheen — something flickered that made everything inside me tighten.

I flopped into the armchair opposite, tucking my legs under me. My dress rode up, baring my knees. I didn’t fix it. Let him look.

His gaze followed my legs, then quickly turned to the window.

“Victoria, it’s late…”

“I’m eighteen,” I cut him off. “I’m an adult. I decide when it’s too late for me.”

“It’s not about age,” he set down his glass and ran a hand over his face. “It’s about who I am. And who you are.”

“You’re my father’s friend. I know.”

“You know, but still…”

“I still want you,” I blurted out. “I’ve wanted you since I was sixteen. Since you tousled my hair.”

He froze.

“You’re drunk,” he said hoarsely.

“A little,” I agreed. “But I know what I’m saying. Look at me.”

I stood up, turned slowly, like on a catwalk.

“Do you see a child?”

He was silent. I heard his breathing — deep, uneven.

“Victoria,” he said hoarsely. “It’s wrong. You understand that.”

“I don’t care,” I answered.

I leaned forward. My hand landed on his knee, slid higher, up his thigh. The fabric of his trousers was warm. He didn’t pull away. Then I leaned toward his face — slowly, giving him room to move back. He didn’t move.

I kissed him. First — timidly, just lips. His lips were dry, with a hint of cognac and tobacco. Not at all like the boys at parties. The taste of a grown man.

For a second he didn’t respond. Then his hand went to the back of my head — long fingers tangled in my still‑damp hair. He kissed me back — hard, with pressure. His tongue slid into my mouth, and I forgot to breathe.

I didn’t notice how he lifted me by the hips. Strong arms easily lifted me off the floor. I wrapped my legs around him, feeling my dress ride higher. He pressed me to himself — so tightly that through the fabric of his shirt I felt the heat of his body, and there, below — his cock, hard, pressing into my stomach.

He carried me across the room. Then — a soft drop. The bed. The sheets smelled of lavender.

He hovered over me, resting on his elbows. I looked up at him. The dim light of the nightstand outlined his shoulders, fell on my chest, which rose too quickly.

“You… never with anyone?” he asked hoarsely.

I shook my head.

“No one,” I whispered. “Only you.”

He closed his eyes for a moment. Then opened them, and in them was something dark, almost desperate.

His fingers slid to the zipper of my dress. He pulled slowly, and I felt the silk slide off my shoulders, exposing my collarbones, my chest. First the air touched my nipples — they had already hardened, and from that touch a shiver ran through me. Then the dress slipped lower, baring my stomach, my hips. He pulled it down to my knees, and I helped him kick the fabric away with my foot.

Now I lay before him in just my panties — white, lace, almost transparent. I watched his gaze travel over my body: over my chest, rising and falling too fast, over my stomach — flat, smooth, over my thighs.

He looked for a long time. Silent. I felt his breathing deepen. And I wasn’t ashamed. On the contrary — I wanted him to see.

He quickly unbuttoned his shirt. It fell to the floor. I studied his torso: broad shoulders, dark nipples, a trail of hair from his chest down to his stomach, disappearing below his belt. On his side — a white scar.

He unbuckled his belt, the button on his trousers, the zipper. His trousers slid down. He was left in black briefs, under which a firm bulge was visible. I froze. He caught my look, smirked at the corner of his mouth, and pulled off his briefs.

For the first time in my life I saw a grown man completely naked — not on a screen, but alive, right in front of me. His cock stood erect, pointing upward. It was large — much larger than I expected.

“Afraid?” he asked quietly.

“A little,” I answered honestly. “But I want it more than I’m afraid.”

He leaned down and kissed me — not on the lips this time, but on my neck, just below my ear. His lips were hot, moist. I arched, tilting my head back, and he kissed further — down my collarbone, down my chest, until he reached my nipple. I dug my fingers into the sheets when his tongue touched the hardened peak.

I moaned — quietly, through my teeth.

“Ready?”

I nodded, biting my lip. He went lower. His fingers slid over my stomach, to the edge of my panties. He paused for a second, looking at me questioningly, but I nodded again. He pulled my panties down — slowly, carefully. The fabric slid over my thighs, over my knees, and I was left completely naked.

His gaze traveled over me from head to toe. He ran a finger along my inner thigh — lightly, barely touching. I shuddered, muscles tensing.

“Relax,” he whispered. “I won’t hurt you.”

He spread my legs with his knee. His fingers touched me there — first just resting on my pubic mound. Then slid lower, into my cleft. I was wet — I felt that warm wetness when he parted my folds. He found my clit and pressed it with his thumb. I arched, crying out.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Don’t rush.”

But it was too late. My body was living its own life.

“May I?” he asked.

I didn’t understand what he meant. Then he withdrew his hand and rose on his elbows, hovering over me. I felt the head of his cock at my entrance — hard, hot.

“Yes,” I breathed.

He entered. First — just pressure, alien, almost frightening. The head parted my folds, and I felt him fill me. Tight — so tight it was a little painful, and I held my breath for a moment, feeling my body stretch, accepting him. He didn’t thrust all the way in. He stopped, giving me time to adjust, to feel him inside me, to feel this new, strange fullness. I breathed rapidly, clutching his shoulders, feeling the muscles tense under my fingers. I felt him inside: hard, hot, alive, pulsing in time with my heart.

Then — a sharp, brief pain. I cried out, clenched, digging my nails into his skin, and he froze, letting me get through that moment.

“It’s over,” he whispered, pausing. “The worst is past.”

I lay still, feeling my body gradually get used to him, the muscles relax, release the tension. Fullness. Warmth. The pain receded, replaced by a deep, pulling pleasure that spread from somewhere inside, filling me entirely.

“Go on,” I said, and my voice trembled — not from fear, but from anticipation.

He began to move — slowly, barely withdrawing, just rocking inside me. With each movement, the warmth grew stronger, rising from my stomach, spreading through my thighs, my chest, my fingertips. I wrapped my legs around him, pulled him deeper, and he moved faster, his breathing deeper, more rhythmic.

He quickened. His cock slid easily inside me — I was wet, hot, my body had accepted him, adapted to his rhythm. I felt his hips slap against mine, the wet smacks echoing in time with his movements. He braced his hands on the bed on either side of my head, and I looked at his face — focused, eyes closed, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple. His lips were parted, his breath faltering, and I could see him holding back, trying not to come too fast, to prolong this moment. I watched him and felt something new building inside me, something I had never experienced before. I closed my eyes, giving in to the sensation, letting myself dissolve in him, in his movements, in his breath, in this moment that was only ours.

Suddenly he opened his eyes, looked at me, shifted the angle slightly — and every stroke became deeper, sharper. Inside, everything clenched, then released — and I was swept away by a wave, hot, uncontrollable. I screamed into the pillow, thrashed, trembled.

And he froze. His cock inside remained hard, pulsing only stronger.

He slowly withdrew, lay down beside me, breathing heavily. I turned my head and looked at him. I understood why he pulled out. He was afraid to hurt me. Or didn’t want me to get pregnant.

I remembered the porn I’d secretly watched. The girl on screen was on her knees. She took it in her mouth, moved, and at the end the man shuddered and came. Back then I found it both disgusting and curious. And now, looking at his living cock, I suddenly understood: I wanted to try.

I sat up on the bed, brushed the hair from my face.

“Can I…” my voice cracked. “I want… with my mouth.”

He opened his eyes, looked at me in surprise.

“You don’t have to,” he said hoarsely.

“I know,” I answered. “I want to.”

He sat up, leaning back against the headboard. I lay on my stomach, feeling the cool sheet against my chest and stomach. His cock was right in front of my face — large, hard, with a pink head, slick with my wetness, still pulsing after being inside me. I took the edge of the sheet and carefully wiped the shaft and the head, feeling him twitch at each touch. He shuddered at the touch — light, almost weightless, but enough for me to understand how sensitive he was.

Slowly I leaned in, feeling my hair fall over his thighs. First I just ran my tongue over the head — brief, timid, tasting it. It seemed salty. Unfamiliar. But I didn’t want to stop. I did it again, more confidently, and felt him stir under my tongue. He groaned — restrainedly, through his teeth — and I understood that he liked it.

I grew bolder. Parted my lips, circled the head, took it into my mouth. The skin was smooth, hot, pulsing, and I felt his pulse beating under my tongue. Then I began to move. Up and down, not deep, getting used to his size, his taste, his smell. He put his hand on the back of my head — not pressing, not guiding, just holding, and I felt his fingers sift through my hair, stroking, soothing. I sped up, using my hand at the base, squeezing the shaft, moving in time with my lips.

His breath caught, his hips tensed. He gripped my hair a little tighter, and I knew — now. His fingers dug into my head, but not painfully — just asserting that he was here, that he felt good, that I was doing it right. He froze, arched, moaned loudly — low, guttural — and a warm stream hit my palate, burning, filling my mouth. I flinched from surprise but didn’t pull away. I swallowed the first spurt, then the second, feeling his semen slide down my throat — warm, alive, real. It was thick, slightly salty, with a faint bitterness, and I felt it run over my tongue, fill my mouth, leave its taste.

He came for a long time, in spurts, his body shuddering, and I felt his pulse weaken, gradually subside. I didn’t hold it all — I pulled back slightly, and the rest landed on my lips, on my chin, on my neck. I didn’t wipe it off right away — let myself feel his taste, his warmth, his presence. I closed my eyes for a moment, feeling his semen run down my skin, mingle with my saliva, his breath gradually calm. I opened my eyes, looked at him, and he looked down at me — with surprise, gratitude, and something else I couldn’t name. I didn’t know what to say. Words seemed unnecessary. I just lay there, feeling his presence, his warmth, his taste, and knew that this moment would remain in my memory forever.

He leaned back against the pillow, breathing heavily. I lay on my stomach, legs stretched out, and felt his cock pulse one last time, gradually softening, his breath steadying. Then I turned my head sideways and wiped my face with the back of my hand, feeling his sperm mix with my saliva, leaving a sticky trail on my skin.

He opened his eyes, looked at me with some new, unfamiliar tenderness. Reached out, ran his finger along my cheek, collecting a white drop, and brought it to his lips, licking it. I looked at him, feeling warmth spread inside me, and knew that this moment would remain in my memory forever. “You’re… incredible,” he whispered, and I smiled, pressing my cheek to his thigh, feeling his fingers stroke my hair, feeling he didn’t want to let me go, just as I didn’t want to leave.

I smiled. Then leaned in and buried my nose in his shoulder.

We lay in silence. Outside the window, dawn was graying.

The next day, my father held an official dinner in honor of my eighteenth birthday. At the table it was stuffy — from the looks we exchanged across the tablecloth, from the smell of his cologne. Stuffy from the fake smiles, from the fact that I had to look at my father, nod, drink champagne, while everything inside burned.

I sat and felt his gaze slide over my shoulders, my neck, my lips, and from that touch of air my breath caught. My father made toasts, everyone clinked glasses, laughed. I smiled, raised my glass, but only one thought was in my head: how to get alone with him as quickly as possible.

My father sat at the head of the table, pleased, slightly drunk. He made toasts. I smiled, raised my glass. Anton sat opposite me, two places away. His white shirt with rolled‑up sleeves revealed strong forearms. He didn’t look straight at me — only out of the corner of his eye. But I caught every movement.

I wore a short linen dress the color of dusty rose. My hair was pulled into a loose bun, baring my neck. Under the table I slipped off my shoe — a thin‑strapped stiletto — and stretched my leg. My foot touched his shin. He flinched. I ran my toes up his calf, his knee. He didn’t pull away. Then I went higher, to his thigh. And felt his hand reach down, cover my foot, stroke my ankle.

The dinner dragged on endlessly. I sat, smiled, nodded, feeling between my legs pulse with tension.

When dessert came, my father suddenly lunged in for a hug. He pecked me on the cheek, told everyone what a smart and beautiful girl I was. Tears stood in his eyes. For a second I felt ashamed of what I had planned. But only for a second.

I went upstairs. My heart pounded. I locked the door, slipped off my dress. On tiptoe I went to the bathroom, turned on the water. I stood under the spray, closed my eyes. Water ran down my face, down my neck, down my chest, down my stomach. I soaped a washcloth with neutral gel. I thoroughly washed my skin, especially between my legs. Dried off, rubbing until it was slightly pink.

I put on a short silk nightie — white, almost transparent, with lace. Under it I put on lace panties. I left my hair damp, loose. No makeup.

The hallway was dark and quiet. I walked barefoot on the cold floor. I passed my father’s bedroom, stopped at his door. A moment of hesitation. Then I pushed the door. Unlocked.

The room was lit only by a nightlight. The curtains were drawn. It smelled of his cologne. He sat on the edge of the bed. Already shirtless — only trousers, unbuttoned at the top, barefoot. He saw me — and smiled. Reached out his hand.

“Come here.”

I went over. He took my fingers, pulled me to him, sat me on his lap — sideways. His hands landed on my waist — hot, confident. He pressed me to his chest, buried his nose in my damp hair and inhaled deeply. And paused for a moment.

Then he ran his palms down my back, up and down, slowly. My skin was cool from the shower, his hands were hot.

He kissed my neck — just above my collarbone. I arched. The nightie slipped off my shoulder, baring my breast. He ran his thumb over my nipple, then leaned down and took it in his mouth. I gripped his hair.

“Lie down,” he said.

I stood up, he helped me lie on my back. He hovered over me. His cock pressed into my thigh through the fabric of his trousers.

He kissed me on the lips — greedily, long, with such force as if he wanted to take me entirely. I opened my mouth, letting his tongue in, feeling it slide over mine, tease, trace, deepen. My hands stroked his back — wet, hot, feeling the muscles roll under my fingers. Then I slid lower, squeezed his buttocks, digging my fingers into the firm flesh. He moaned into my mouth — deep, with vibration, and I felt his body tense at my touch. He pulled back, quickly unbuttoned his trousers. His cock sprang out — hard, large, wet from the drop already beaded on the head. I looked at it, feeling everything inside me tighten with anticipation.

I sat up, wrapped my hand around the base, feeling him pulse in my palm, ran my tongue over the head — slowly, tasting, feeling him twitch at my touch. I took it in my mouth, sucking, then took it deeper, feeling him fill me, his pulse beating on my tongue. I moved slowly, rhythmically, savoring every moment, feeling him grow harder, hotter.

“Enough,” he rasped, his voice trembling. “I want to be inside you.”

He pushed me onto my back, spread my thighs with his knees, and I felt the head press against the wet fabric of my panties, against the most sensitive spot. He pushed the fabric aside, and his cock slid over my folds, teasing, making me arch toward him. I froze, feeling my body wait for him, pulse in anticipation.

He entered. Easily — because I was wet, ready, waiting for this since the moment he kissed me. Deeply — in one smooth motion to the hilt. Not painful. Only fullness, heat, tightness that filled me completely, from my fingertips to my scalp. He paused. Didn’t move. Looked down at me, and I saw his eyes gleam in the half‑darkness, saw him hold back, giving me time to adjust.

“Does it hurt?” he asked quietly, his voice hoarse, cracking.

“No,” I answered, feeling my body accept him, wrap around him, pulsing around him.

I moved my hips, and we both moaned — from that movement, from how he slid inside me, from how my body responded to him. He began to move — slowly, almost withdrawing, then plunging again, letting me feel every motion, every touch, every pulse. I wrapped my legs around him, pulled him closer, and he moved faster, deeper, and I felt something new build inside me, something I had never felt before.

“Harder,” I asked, feeling the tension rise, my body wanting more, clenching around him, begging for more. He quickened. I bit my lip — too thin walls, my father next door, in the next room, and I was afraid he would hear my moans, sense what was happening in this room. He pressed his palm to my mouth, and I bit into his hand, feeling his skin yield under my teeth, feeling him freeze for a moment from the pain, but he kept moving, not stopping.

He moved faster, harder, and I felt everything inside tighten, tension peak, ready to come, but he didn’t let me. But suddenly he pulled out abruptly — right at the peak, when I already felt the wave about to crash over me. I didn’t have time to protest — only opened my mouth to say something, but words stuck. He rose on his knees, squeezed his cock at the base, aimed at me, and I saw his hand move over the shaft, squeeze it, ready to come.

And he came. Hot, thick. The first spurt hit my stomach, leaving a warm, sticky trail on my skin. The second — on my chest, on my nipple, and I felt it run down my breast, mixing with my sweat. Then on my neck, on my chin, and I reflexively opened my mouth, and a little landed on my tongue — salty, warm, alive. He moved his cock up and down, coating me in sticky trails, leaving white, thick marks on my skin. Another spurt covered my face: eyelids, cheeks, lips — I felt it run down my cheeks, pool in the corners of my mouth, mix with my saliva.

He kept coming, covering me from my pubic bone to my hair. I felt his sperm coat my body, run down my skin, leaving sticky, warm trails. I felt completely other and at the same time — his. I was his, all of me, covered in his seed, his scent, his presence. I didn’t move, didn’t wipe — just lay there, feeling his sperm slowly cool on my skin, his breath gradually calm, as he lowered himself beside me.

Then he got up, brought a warm, damp towel. Sat beside me, wiped my face — gently, carefully, wiped the sperm from my eyelids, my lips. Then my neck, chest, stomach, thighs. He wiped me tenderly, like a child.

“There,” he whispered, tossing the towel aside.

I opened my eyes, looked at him. He smiled, and I buried my face in his chest.

We lay in silence. I stroked his stomach.

“I want more,” I said.

“You’ll kill me.”

“I’ll kill you, but with a smile.”

I leaned down and took his cock in my mouth. It was still hard, though no longer fully erect — I felt it pulse under my lips, its warmth mingling with my breath. I ran my fingers over it, feeling every millimeter, every vein, every beat of his pulse. Then my tongue over the head — slowly, tasting, feeling him twitch at my touch. I took it in my mouth, wrapped my lips around it, sucked in my cheeks to create a vacuum, and he moaned — quietly, with a delay. Then I took it deeper, feeling him fill my mouth, his head pressing against my palate. I moved slowly, feeling him harden further, his body tense under my hands, holding back so he wouldn’t come too soon. He threaded his fingers through my hair, not squeezing, just holding, stroking, and I felt his fingers run through my strands, touch my neck, my shoulders.

I took him deeper, using my hand at the base, squeezing the shaft, moving in time with my lips. He arched, but didn’t ask me to stop. Only once he whispered hoarsely: “Don’t rush.” I wasn’t rushing. I moved slowly, rhythmically, feeling him grow harder, hotter, his breath falter, his fingers tighten in my hair, but he didn’t hurry me, didn’t thrust — just let me do it the way I wanted, the way I liked.

But in my lower belly everything was already burning. My thighs clenched, muscles pulsed, and I felt moisture run down my legs, my body demanding attention, demanding more. I knew that in a little while I wouldn’t hold out, that I needed more, that I wanted him inside me, to feel him, to sense his presence in me. I raised my head, looked at him, and he met my gaze — and I knew he knew what I was thinking. He knew what I wanted, and he was ready to give it to me.

I straightened up.

“I want you inside me. On top.”

He nodded.

I rose, slipped off my panties. They were wet, sticky.

I sat on him from above, took his cock in my hand. It was hard, hot, pulsing in my palm, and I felt it waiting for me, his body tense with anticipation. I guided the head to the entrance, feeling it touch my wet folds, my body shudder at the touch. I lowered myself slowly, feeling his cock enter me, part me, fill me. I paused halfway, getting used to the fullness, feeling my muscles clench around him, feeling him pulse inside me. He didn’t move. Only looked at me — from below, with admiration, with desire, with something new I couldn’t name.

I took a deep breath and lowered myself all the way to the base. His cock entered fully, and I felt it touch something deep inside, making a shiver run through me. I paused, sitting on him, feeling him fill me completely. Only breathing — deeply, rhythmically, feeling my body get used to him, accept him, want him. He looked at me and smiled — that smile that said more than any words, said he was happy, that he was here, that he wanted this moment as much as I did.

I began to move. Slowly, smoothly, rising almost to the tip and lowering again, feeling him slide inside me, his head touching the most sensitive spots. My breasts bounced with each motion, my hair fell across my face, and I brushed it back, feeling like a goddess, feeling I owned this moment, that I controlled his pleasure, that I was giving him ecstasy. I quickened, feeling the tension rise, my body wanting more, wanting to move faster, deeper. He moaned — low, guttural, and I heard his breath falter, heard him hold back not to come too quickly. “Don’t stop,” he whispered, and I didn’t. I caught a new rhythm — rocking forward and back, changing the angle, feeling him touch new places, my body answering every movement. It was sharp, almost too much, but I didn’t want to stop.

I moved faster, almost frantic, feeling everything inside me tighten, approaching the finish. But suddenly he sharply but gently gripped my hips and lifted me. His cock slid out with a wet sound, leaving a feeling of emptiness, and I felt my body clench in vain, demanding his return. “I can’t come inside you,” he exhaled, and I understood he was afraid to hurt me, or didn’t want me to get pregnant. I looked at him, feeling everything inside still pulsing, my body demanding more, and I knew this wasn’t the end. I knew we would find another way, that we wouldn’t stop, that this night wasn’t over yet.

He rolled me onto my back. I fell onto the pillows, feeling my hair spread across the white pillowcase, the sheets cool against my heated skin. Between my legs it was empty and hot — my body still pulsed, demanded more, but I knew he had something else in mind.

He knelt, spread my thighs, and I felt his hands slide along my inner thighs, spreading them wider. His cock was hard, gleaming, wet with my juices, and I looked at it, feeling everything inside me clench with anticipation. He moved closer, and the head touched my lips — warm, smooth, pulsing. I opened my mouth, took him in, and he slid inside, filling me with his taste, his warmth. I wrapped my lips around it, ran my tongue over the head, feeling him twitch at my touch. He sighed — deeply, with a pause, and I knew he liked it.

I took him deeper, moved my head, feeling every millimeter with my tongue, every vein, every pulse. He didn’t thrust. Only slightly rocked his hips, giving me control, letting me do it my way. I heard his breath quicken, his fingers tighten in my hair, his struggle not to come too fast. He moaned — low, guttural, and I felt his fingers tighten a little more, his body tense, ready for the end. “Now,” he whispered, and I sped up, using my hand, squeezing the shaft, moving in time with my lips. And he came. Hot, thick. The first spurt hit my palate, and I swallowed, feeling his semen slide down my throat. The second — on my tongue, and I tasted him — salty, warm, alive. The third — deep in my throat, and I coughed, but didn’t release his cock, kept taking him, feeling him pulse in my mouth. Sperm ran down my chin, dripped onto my chest, my collarbones, and I didn’t wipe it — I took everything, letting him come to completion, letting myself feel every pulse, every spurt.

He came for a long time, in spurts, and only when he stopped, when his body went limp, did I release his cock from my mouth, feeling his semen run down my chin. He lay, breathing heavily, his chest rising, and I looked at him, feeling my body gradually calm. Then he opened his eyes, reached out, and pulled me to him. I buried my nose in his armpit, smelling him — sweat, arousal, life. I felt his hand on my back, his breath in my hair.

He flew away the next day. I heard the car door close downstairs, the engine purr. I stood at the window and watched his figure get into a taxi. He didn’t look up.

The taxi disappeared around the corner. I sat on the bed, hugged my knees, and cried. I understood that this was how it had to be. He had his own life. I had mine. We had crossed paths for a few days by chance, and that miracle had already happened.

But I didn’t regret it. I was grateful to him. For not being afraid. For making my first time not painful, but such that now I knew: sex is not shameful, it’s a celebration of the body. He opened a door for me. I walked through myself.

I wiped my face, stood up, walked to the mirror. Smiled at my reflection through tears.

“Thank you,” I whispered. “I’ll take it from here.”