Light skin powdered to paleness, her mouth a scarlet slash as her perfect teeth close around the last bit of whip cream, a trickle of cherry juice looking blood red against her napkin as it spills off the spoon. Only after closely her eyes, slowly running her tongue over her lips, and sighing does she speak. Her accent is eastern European; her way of finding fault, Russian to the core.
"Back home, it is much better." A mischievous grin as she looks at me, her head tilted down but her eyes meeting mine through the curtain of her black bangs. "Back home, such a small piece would be for the children, and the old. We have appetites, you know?" I hoped I did. I thought I would be able to stretch her...appetite even further this evening.
She leans forward, her smooth shoulders rounding slightly as she reaches to touch my sleeve. I light her cigarette, and marvel at how her pale skin and black hair have such an effect on me. I don't even smoke, but now I carry a lighter so I can light her cigarette whenever she asks, or hopefully, before. It is only in such moments, when she unconsciously takes her first lungful of smoke, that she is relaxed, at ease. A moment only, then it passes, and the mischief is back in her eyes.
"Tell me, do Americans always do things in little pieces? I thought America was the land of Big Things, Big Ideas, Big Buildings, Big everything!? All I have seen here is little. Little deserts, little people, little ideas." She is teasing. We have just finished a long walk through a cold night away from a party, one that we didn't arrive at together, and shouldn't have left together. People will talk. On the walk, we talked of religion, of faith, of joy and of guilt.
We skated the dangerous ice of morality while sitting down at the last open café in town, a small place with only a few tables. One that I had never seen before, but we saw as we crossed the street toward her apartment. We ordered something sweet, and now she smoked, and mocked the grand ideas I had brought up about the world and the universe around us.
I tell her that it is not a question of big or little, but intensity, of intimacy, of savoring the little you have which is all the more sweet because it will not last long. Indeed, sometimes merely the anticipation of the last bite is more pleasure than the bite itself. She laughs at me, leans back, her silver earrings catching the light the same way as her eyes do.
"And you," she asks, "do you have big appetites or are you a little man?" I smile at this, she knows the problem is that I am both. For all that we barely know each other, this contradiction has been evident in me from the beginning. What she doesn't know is that I always control which side of me gets to "come out and play"
We leave, and she puts her arm through mine. This is bold, and a little daring. She knows about the other, indeed, has an "other" of her own, yet still, she puts her arm through mine and her perfume makes me dizzy. We have already begun another conversation about joy versus guilt, one that is spoken by our words and yet acted out by our fingers as they touch.
Instead of her apartment, we stop at a park, where rustling branches of trees allow the wind to speak to us. On a bench we sit and watch the stars, and she tells me that men never understand detail, never see the little things. I tell her that maybe women never get the big picture, I teach her the expression "you don't see the forest for the trees". At this she laughs, gets up, and approaches an oak tree that is further in the shadows. "You mean a tree like this one?" I follow her to the tree, we can still see the stars but the streetlights are hidden, the passing cars just an addition to the breeze.
It begins as always, a hesitant kiss on the forehead, something that can just as easily be a stroke of affection as a gesture of things to come. When she presses against me, I begin to show her what kind of appetite I can have.
Her legs are around me, hips grinding through clothing as I press her into the tree for support. I am at her neck (no marks is the unspoken rule), her hair, her lips. A small sound of protest turning to pleasure as I bite the inside of her lip. No marks, but she'll remember me in the morning as she takes her first sip of the scalding hot coffee she drinks at breakfast. She holds my head to her now naked breast, and this is where the first blood is drawn, a place that is hidden from everybody, from every "other". She tries to push me away when she feels my teeth on the soft skin below her nipple, that secret place where the breast meets the rib cage. It is there that my teeth meet through her skin, and the pressure of me against her forces her hands up, around my neck, and what was an attempt to stop me becomes an urgency for me to continue.
I turn her around, shoving her face into the soft moss that covers the trunk. My hand pushes her skirt to her waist, and, before she can say anything, I have to fingers pressed deep inside her tunnel, which I can feel beginning to contract with pleasure. She gasps as I slip my thumb into her other hole, and I can feel the pressure of my other fingers across a wall of flesh. She cries out, a small sound lost in the breeze, and Russian phrases tumble out of her mouth. Because she has put her hand over mine and pressed me deeper into her, I have no problem with the translation.
Her dark hair reflects the starlight, and her pale skin is hot under me free hand as I bring a stinging slap to her left cheek. She stiffens, then grinds against me harder; another slap, and she is moving faster. I can feel her juices covering my hand. It even feels like her tight circle is lubricating, my thumb is deep inside there, clenched by her tight muscles but able to move inside her. A third slap, and she gasps again, wordlessly. Her orgasm sends another gush over my fingers, I grab her head and I wipe my hands on her hair, she will have the scent of her own pleasure around her for days.
For a moment or an eternity, we are still: she against the tree, gently sucking a finger I have put in her mouth; me against her, supporting her and covering her from the cold.
At last she gently moves a hand behind her to stroke me through the stiff fabric of my jeans. I open my zipper, and she rubs her girl-cum on my staff. She holds it, turns her head so she can whisper to me "Something sweet..." and she slowly presses back onto me, her cheeks parting and a momentary resistance, and then I am in her deeply, her other tunnel, tight and unexplored this way. My early movements had relaxed the muscles enough to allow me to thrust into her without too much pain, but when she gives a sharp gasp I drive in harder. My appetite is nearly filled, but she is what has to be consumed, consumed in her own sensation.
With both hands free, I move her out from the tree so I can stroke her breasts. Her nipples are long, and stiff from the cold and her own orgasm; on my next thrust, I pinch her hard, and am rewarded with another cry of pain. I squeeze harder, as if I am milking her like the animal I am making her into, while I shove in and out of her back door. Soon, another orgasm rips through her, muscles contract around me, and I explode into her, so deep I can't imagine where it is all going,,.only up into her.
Too soon, we are unlinking in front of her apartment and she will call when she comes back from Russia. Her breath is like honey and musk when she pulls me to her, mindful of watching eyes, and whispers "When I come back, we'll go out again, for something sweet..."