Part 1
Part 1
I missed Oksana. All the time. Her lessons. Her smell. Her voice. The way she’d say, “Let’s start with your ass.” The way she’d stuff her own panties in her mouth.
I jerked off several times a day. Wildly. Greedily. Like I was trying to burn her out of me. It didn’t work.
At night I’d lie there and listen to the silence. Her voice used to be in that silence. Hers and my father’s. Now it was just my breathing. And my hand. And emptiness.
I didn’t know what to do with the fire she’d lit in me.
Two weeks after we got rid of Oksana, my father said at dinner:
“Stas, I need a favor. My first love is visiting from America. I haven’t seen her in about twenty years. We had something very special, and I’d like to remember it. She’s bringing her daughter. About your age. They’re coming to dinner tomorrow. Your job is to keep the daughter busy. Give me half an hour alone with Zhanna. Show her a movie on the VCR or listen to some music.”
I nodded. A favor’s a favor. Keep a girl busy. Show her some videos. Half an hour.
I had no idea what I was getting into.
________________________________________
That evening my father set the table beautifully with food ordered from a restaurant. Crystal glasses. An ice bucket with three bottles of champagne. You could tell he was nervous. Shaved to a shine. Dressed well. Smelling of expensive cologne.
I stood in the doorway and watched him. He was checking the glasses. Adjusting napkins. Looking at the clock. I’d never seen him like this. He was always confident. Calm. Cold. And now he was nervous like a schoolboy. Like I was when I waited for Oksana.
I looked at him and thought: he’s handsome. Really handsome. Not the kind of handsome young men have — smooth, empty, meaningless. Something else. Masculine. Mature. He was past forty, but he looked thirty-five. Maybe thirty-three. Tall. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Dark hair without a trace of gray — he probably colored it, but he did it so no one noticed. Smoothly shaven. Skin tanned, even, expensive. Hands with long fingers, neat nails, no calluses — the hands of a man who doesn’t work with his hands, who only signs papers and drives a car.
He was wearing a dark blue blazer over a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar. No tie. An expensive watch on his left wrist. Shoes so polished you could see your reflection. He always dressed well, but tonight — especially. Tonight he was dressing for her. For Zhanna. For the woman he hadn’t seen in twenty years.
And I understood: he still wanted her. Not just remembered. Not just nostalgic. He wanted her the way I’d wanted Oksana. Hungry. Impatient. Like twenty years hadn’t changed a thing. Like he was still that boy who once loved her.
Nobody told me to dress up, so I was in regular jeans and a sweater. Next to him I felt like a kid. He was a man. I was his son. For the first time I thought: will I ever be like that? Calm. Confident. The kind of man a woman still wants twenty years later?
The doorbell rang.
________________________________________
My jaw dropped when I saw my father’s first love.
Zhanna was fire. Tall. Slim. Black hair to her shoulders. Bright brown eyes. Full, sensitive lips. She walked in like she’d done it a hundred times. Easy. Confident. Like she owned the place.
She was one of those women who don’t enter a room — they occupy it. Not loudly. Not rudely. They just take it, like it’s theirs. I looked at her and understood why my father had been nervous all evening. Why he’d shaved to a shine. Why he’d put on his best blazer. For her. For this woman. Twenty years — and he was still hoping.
Next to her — a girl. Very much like her. But the mother drew my eye more.
The girl was younger. Fresher. Thinner. But she didn’t have the mother’s confidence, her charm, her breeding. The mother walked in like a queen. The daughter walked in like her entourage. For now — entourage.
My father helped them off with their coats. Instantly my interest shifted to the girl.
Zhanna was in a beautiful black knee-length dress, cinched at her thin waist with a red belt. But the girl was in a white suit. A jacket with long sleeves and an absolutely short skirt, fully revealing her lovely legs in shiny Lycra.
The white on her was provocative. Screaming. White jacket. White skirt. White legs in shiny Lycra. She was like something just taken off a store window. Untouched. Smooth. And that made her even more desirable.
I looked at her legs. At how she stood. How she held her purse. How she looked at our apartment — with interest, but without surprise. Like she’d seen worse.
And the more I looked, the more I understood: I was lost.
I looked at her legs and felt something familiar rising in me. The thing I’d been burning out of myself for two weeks. It was coming back. Fast. Fiercely.
“Meet my son, Stas!” my father said.
“I’m Zhanna, an old friend of your father’s. And this is my daughter, Adria!”
“Nice to meet you!” I blurted.
Adria smiled at me silently, showing her perfect white teeth.
“Hi!” she said. “You speak English?”
“A little,” I said, feeling myself blush.
“A little is enough,” she said, smiling. “For tonight.”
I didn’t know what she meant. But something in her smile told me it wasn’t just politeness.
I liked her more and more. Big brown eyes. Cute cheekbones. Pretty lips. The same gorgeous dark-blonde hair as her mother.
I was already looking forward to being alone with her. Like my father asked. Keep her busy. Half an hour.
My father suggested the women keep their boots on.
“Thanks, we brought our own shoes!” Zhanna said, pulling them out of a bag.
The mother put on red high heels and got even taller and slimmer. And the daughter stepped into white heels, also high, and her beautiful legs pulled my admiring gaze even more.
I realized I was lost.
________________________________________
We sat down at the table, and my father opened the champagne and poured it into the glasses. For the first time in my life, he poured me alcohol. After what had happened with Oksana, he considered me a grown-up little rogue.
We drank to the reunion.
Zhanna raised her glass and looked at my father.
“You know, Michael, I regretted leaving for twenty years. Tonight — I don’t regret it. Because tonight I’m here.”
My father smiled. The way I’d never seen him smile. Softly. Without his usual coldness. Like twenty years really had fallen off him.
And then I realized Adria didn’t speak a word of Russian. My English was a mess — a C at best.
How am I supposed to talk to her? I thought.
I looked at my father. He was already looking at Zhanna. The way he used to look at Oksana. Hungry. Impatient. I understood my job wasn’t just to keep the girl busy. My job was to get her out of the way. Give my father what he wanted.
At the table, Zhanna and my father translated for her, keeping the conversation going. Zhanna laughed. My father smiled. He could be charming when he wanted to be. I looked at them and thought: twenty years. He hasn’t seen her in twenty years. And he still wants her.
The first bottle of champagne was finished. The food was gone. My father started signaling me with his eyes to take Adria to my room.
“Adria, go in my room. See video and music collection!” I said, straining to remember my English.
“Okay!” she said, and we headed to my room.
________________________________________
I was digging through my shelf of videotapes. Adria sat on the edge of the bed and watched me silently. I wanted to put on a movie, but they were all dubbed in Russian. Finally I found a tape of music videos.
Sitting next to her, I kept glancing at her gorgeous legs more than at the small TV screen. From nerves I forgot every English word I knew. It was obvious she wasn’t interested in what was on the screen. I understood. She was from America.
“Maybe champagne?” she asked, having learned a new Russian word that day.
“Okay!”
I went to the living room, where the glasses and an unopened bottle of champagne were still on the table. I was going to bring them back to my bedroom. But Adria followed me.
I opened the bottle and poured.
“Cheers!” she said, raising her glass.
“Cheers!” I repeated, not knowing what the word meant, but it was clearly a toast.
I downed the bubbling drink in one gulp. Adria finished hers too. I filled the glasses again.
“Shhh!” She put her finger to her full lips, listening.
Trying not to clack her heels, Adria walked to my father’s bedroom and, silently opening the door, froze. I, remembering how I’d watched my father and Oksana through this same gap, walked to the half-open door and stood next to her.
Over her shoulder, I saw a fascinating picture.
________________________________________
Zhanna stood on straight, slightly spread legs, her hands pressed against the wardrobe mirror. Her dress was pulled up to her waist. Black stockings down at her knees. Red thong pulled aside. And behind her, my father, pants down, was ramming his piston into her slit.
I froze. I’d seen this before. Already. With Oksana. Through this same gap. In this same room. But then it was Oksana. Now it was Zhanna. A stranger. An American. A woman my father hadn’t seen in twenty years. A woman he’d wanted for twenty years. And now he was fucking her. Against the mirror. Just like he’d fucked Oksana. Just like he’d fuck the next one.
What I couldn’t see from the side was perfectly visible in the mirror.
In the mirror I saw her face. Bitten lip. Rolled-back eyes. Parted mouth. Hair stuck to her temple. In the mirror I saw his face. Focused. Greedy. Younger than usual. Like twenty years had fallen off him in a single second. In the mirror I saw them both — and it was more revealing than anything I could see from the side.
Zhanna, biting her lip and rolling her eyes, moaned quietly. My father grunted with pleasure.
I admired the woman. Beautiful, well-kept legs. Round, firm ass. She was very sexy.
She was the same age as my father. Maybe a little younger. But her body was like a young woman’s. Toned. Smooth. Tanned. She probably went to the gym. Or swam. Or was just one of those women who don’t let themselves go. I looked at her legs and thought: this is breeding. This is class. Not like... — and I stopped myself. I didn’t want to think badly of Oksana. Oksana was different. Oksana was mine. But this one wasn’t. This one was his. And I was looking at her through his eyes. And I wanted her with his desire. And it was wrong. And that made it sharper.
And then I felt her. Didn’t turn. Didn’t look. Just felt. Warmth. Smell. Breath. She was standing next to me. Close. Watching. Where I was watching.
I knew she was standing there. Knew she was watching. Knew she saw what I saw. And she didn’t leave. Didn’t turn away. Didn’t call her mother. She just stood there — and watched. Like she was waiting. Like she wanted this. Like she was looking for the same thing I was.
She was just like me. Peeking. Wanting. Silent. And in that silence, we were in it together.
Suddenly I froze from a touch on my cock, which was straining against my jeans. Adria’s small hand was squeezing my bulge. I shuddered all over from the surprise.
I knew she was next to me. I felt her shoulder. Her breath. Her smell. But I didn’t expect this. Didn’t expect her to reach out. To touch. To take. We were standing and watching them — silently, like accomplices. And suddenly her hand was between my legs.
Thin fingers. Cool. Confident. They squeezed me like they’d done this before. Like they knew what to do.
She put her index finger to her lips and started unbuttoning my jeans.
“Watching is not enough,” she whispered. “Not for me.”
I looked at her. At her face. At her brown eyes. At her finger on her lips. And I couldn’t move. Not because I was scared. Because I didn’t want to stop her. Because somewhere deep, where there was no shame, no fear, no memory of Oksana — I’d been waiting for this. All night. All two weeks. All my life.
I was paralyzed by her bold move. She pulled my jeans and underwear down, and her hand wrapped around my hard cock. Taking me by the shaft, she led me back to my bedroom. I, holding up my jeans, obediently followed. Like a calf on a rope. Like a boy on a leash. Like a man who’d just realized he wasn’t the one in charge of this game.
I didn’t resist. I couldn’t. I didn’t want to.
I followed her and looked at her back. At her white jacket. At her short skirt. At her legs in the shiny Lycra. And I thought only one thing: Faster. Please. Faster.
________________________________________
She closed the door and sat me on the edge of the bed, where she’d been sitting five minutes ago, teasing me with her legs. She knelt on the bedside rug. Looking at me slyly, she bent down — and the next moment my aching cock was in her mouth.
I moaned quietly.
She sucked it with pleasure. With delight. Gently biting the head. Softly licking the shaft down to the base. Then she switched to the more classic kind of blowjob, using only her lips. She picked up speed, making me moan louder at especially nice movements.
I grabbed her head with both hands and controlled the speed, not letting her go too fast or too slow. I gently stroked her hair, which tickled my pubis pleasantly. Adria started helping with her hands, pulling the skin down the shaft to the end, and her head pushed against the roof of her mouth, making her gasp.
I looked down at her. At her brown eyes. At her full lips. At how her head moved up and down. And I thought: Oksana. You taught me. You prepared me. And now I’m here. With an American. In my room. While my father fucks her mother behind the wall.
She wasn’t Oksana. She was different. Younger. Greedier. Faster. She didn’t have that Ukrainian softness, that lazy confidence, that way of stretching out pleasure like a good wine. She took what she wanted right away. Deep. Rhythmic. Like she was in a hurry. Like she was afraid someone would come and take it away.
And that made it even hotter.
I felt her tongue working under the head. Her fingers squeezing the base. Her other hand stroking my balls. She did everything at once. Everything. Three moves at once. I didn’t know where to look. At her eyes. At her lips. At her chest, swaying under the white jacket. At her ass, sticking up while she knelt.
I looked at her and thought: I don’t know her. Not at all. I don’t know her full name. Don’t know how old she is. Don’t know what she likes. Don’t know if she has a boyfriend. I only know her mouth. And that’s enough.
Shame came back. For a second. Warm. Sticky. Like sweat on my back. I thought: What am I doing? I’m eighteen. I’m in my own room. I’m with a girl I’m seeing for the first time. While my father is in the next room fucking her mother. What am I doing?
And right away I thought: The same thing he’s doing. The same thing everyone does. The same thing they did before me and will do after. I’m doing what men do. And I like it.
The shame left. Dissolved. What remained was only the warmth of her mouth. And her eyes. And the way she looked at me from below. Like she knew what I was thinking. Like she understood. Like she’d done this before — and not with a first-timer.
I threw my head back. Closed my eyes. And stopped thinking.
I was ashamed. And I felt good. And the shame made it even better.
I didn’t understand it. How can that be? How can you be ashamed and feel good at the same time? And why doesn’t the shame spoil the pleasure but instead — makes it stronger? Why do I feel dirty — and the dirt makes me even hotter?
Maybe because I was doing something you’re not supposed to do. Maybe because my father was behind the wall. Maybe because this girl wasn’t mine. Not Oksana. Not someone I knew. But a stranger. A random American I’d see for the first and last time in my life. And that made it sharper. Brighter. Dirtier. Better.
After a couple more minutes of this, I felt I couldn’t hold the sperm in any longer. That I was about to come. A few movements of her tongue — and I felt the sweet urge.
It rose from somewhere below. From my balls. From the base of my cock. From the place where it gathers fresh every time — no matter how much you burn it out. I’d been burning it out for two weeks. Several times a day. With my hand. In the dark. Alone. And still there was something left. Still something to give. To this girl. This American. This daughter of my father’s first love.
At that moment I looked at her face. There wasn’t a trace of strain on it. Rather, her face expressed the deepest bliss. My cock began to throb in her mouth, pouring out the accumulated dose of sperm. With each spurt, her face lit up with some reverent and intoxicating pleasure. She swallowed my sperm in full gulps, like she was drinking well water on a hot day.
I looked at her and couldn’t believe it. She didn’t grimace. Didn’t pull away. Didn’t do me a favor. She drank me like she’d been waiting for it all evening. Like it was the best thing that had happened to her in a long time. And from that look — grateful, greedy, happy — I got hit a second time. A wave. Warm. Sweet. I arched, gripped the bedspread with my fingers, and gave her everything. Everything to the last drop.
Adria released my cock, which didn’t have a single drop of sperm left on it.
She licked it. Completely. Clean. Like a cat licking a saucer. And raised her eyes to me. Brown. Laughing. Satisfied. Like someone who’d just done something well.
“Champagne!” she said, licking her lips.
I pulled up my jeans as I went and ran for the filled glasses. When I came back, I handed her one. Adria took a sip, swished it around her mouth, and swallowed.
“Good?” she asked, grinning.
“Good, good!” I said, not believing the miraculous thing that had just happened.
“Eat?” she asked.
I didn’t understand and just stayed silent.
“Want? Repeat?” she tried, picking words for me.
That I understood. Of course I wanted to. Who wouldn’t?
I unzipped my jeans myself. Adria knelt again, but this time I was standing. She nimbly pulled my clothes down, and my still-soft cock dangled in front of her face.
I looked down at it. At myself. At my body, which had just fired and hadn’t recovered yet. At how it hung there — soft, wet, defenseless. And at her. At her face. At her lips. At how she looked at it. Like it wasn’t tired. Like it hadn’t given everything. Like she knew it would rise again.
I thought: good thing I stopped by the bathroom on the way back with the champagne and rinsed the tip under the faucet. Not because I was afraid she’d mind. Because I wanted to be clean. For her. For this mouth. For this moment. It mattered to me that she wouldn’t feel anything on me but me. Not the past. Not Oksana. Not two weeks of loneliness.
First the head of my cock felt warm breath. Then a soft tongue licked the frenulum. Then something soft and gentle sank my head into wet warmth. Adria took my cock in her hands and started stroking it, kissing it with her lips from all sides. I jerked and moaned.
I couldn’t get used to it. No matter how many times. Every time was like the first. Her mouth was warm. Wet. Alive. It moved. It breathed. It wanted. And I wanted. And that wanting made my legs weak.
It felt so good. The girl knew how to please. She ran her tongue along the whole shaft, tickled my balls with her nails, which had already drawn up to the base of my cock. My cock instantly rose and was ready for battle. Taking it in her mouth, she sucked it in and let it out just the same. In the light from the TV, I could see her cheeks hollowing.
I looked at her. At her head. At her hair falling over her face. At her cheeks, now hollowing, now puffing. At her eyes, looking up at me. And I thought: She knows. She’s done this before. Many times. With others. Maybe with her mother nearby. Maybe with her father. Maybe with someone I don’t know. And now she’s doing it with me.
And that thought — that she wasn’t the first and wouldn’t be the last, that she too was part of something I didn’t know — made me even hotter. Not because I was jealous. Because I understood: she was just like me. Just as hungry. Just as lonely. Just as thrown into this evening, this room, this wanting.
“Hey, kids, where are you?” I heard, and my father walked into the room through the opening door.
We shuddered in surprise. But Adria didn’t release my cock, continuing her sacred work.
I froze. Father. Now. Here. I didn’t know where to look. What to say. I expected him to shout. To hit. To throw her out.
He looked at us. For a long time. A second. Two. Maybe three. I saw his gaze slide from my face to Adria’s. Then to her lips. Then to my cock. And back. I couldn’t read what was in that look. Fury? Surprise? Envy? Something else?
And then he smirked.
“Well, no fucking way!” my father said, stunned.
He didn’t shout. He didn’t hit. He looked. And smiled. Like he’d seen something he expected to see.
Adria, without stopping her work on my cock, looked at the newcomer playfully.
She didn’t stop. Didn’t pull her hand away. Didn’t release the cock. She just raised her eyes. And looked at him. The way you look at someone you were waiting for. Someone you wanted. Someone who was supposed to come. Like she knew he’d come. Like she’d been trying to make it happen.
I looked at her. At how she looked at him. And something in me snapped. Something dark. Jealousy? No. Not jealousy. Something else. Something more grown-up. Something I had no name for. Like I’d suddenly become part of something bigger than just me. Like I wasn’t the main one anymore. And it didn’t make me angry. It turned me on.
My father didn’t wait for a special invitation. He walked up to us and pulled his pants down. His cock was still half-hard. Still hadn’t recovered. Still glistening. Still smelling of her. He’d just been inside Zhanna. Just came in her or near her. And now he stood here. In front of us. In front of me. In front of her. And his cock was rising again.
I looked at him. At my father. At his cock. At how he looked at Adria. At how she looked at him. And I thought: He’s not tired. He didn’t stop. He was just with one woman — and he already wants another. He’s not satisfied. He can’t be satisfied. And I’m his son. And I’m the same. And I can’t either.
Adria, releasing my cock, reached for my father’s tip, jerking my orphaned shaft with her hand. Taking his shaft with her free hand, she lifted it to her lips and wrapped her full lips around it.
My cock was left in the air. Wet. Hard. Abandoned. Her hand kept moving on it — slowly, rhythmically, like it was soothing me. But her mouth wasn’t mine anymore. Her mouth was his. And I watched my father enter the mouth of the girl who’d been sucking me a minute ago. And it was so wrong. And so good.
I didn’t know what to do. Stand? Watch? Leave? I stood. Watched. And felt her hand working me. Like it was saying: Don’t worry. You’re not forgotten. You’re next. And I waited. The way you wait. The way only those who’ve understood they’re not the main one in this game can wait.
“Where’s Zhanna?” I asked my father, glancing at the closed door.
I asked not because I wanted to know. I asked to say something. To break the silence. To not watch in silence as he fucked her mouth. To get my voice back. Any voice. Any at all.
“She’s in the shower... Wanted to freshen up...” my father answered, smirking.
Adria, like a gymnast on a bar, held onto both our shafts and showered each cock with attention in turn. She did it so skillfully that you could tell she had experience in these games. Not only were we in heaven — the girl was also reveling in her work, sniffling with pleasure. I, feeling and seeing the caresses of the pretty girl, was in bliss.
She did it easily. Without strain. Without hurry. Like she’d been doing this her whole life. One hand held my cock. The other held his. And she moved from one to the other so smoothly that I couldn’t tell where her mouth was and where her hand was. She’d take him in her mouth — and look at me. Take me — and look at him. Like she was checking. Like she was comparing. Like she was deciding which of us was better.
