Precious

This one is more or less a sequel to the two stories I've already posted on this site. You may enjoy it on its own, although you might find yourself at a loss over a few details. Same warning I gave for 'The Balcony' applies though: while far from being what some might call decent, I don't think it's strictly porn. After posting it, I got a few really sweet comments and emails requesting the entire romance story, but since the entire story is fairly long and not in English, this is only another part of it. Depending on how it's received and my free time, more will or will not follow to complete a real sleazy, passive-aggressive, love-conquers-all sort of fairy tale, so if you've got something to say, please don't hesitate.

In short, if you've got the dinner ready, wine breathing and you're on slow simmer waiting for Tiger to get home, read on. If you're here looking for something more along the lines of 'Friday', I hope to have that posted soon.
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Elena

The teachers give you the official version of history, a proud and righteous one. Some five or six centuries ago, as the Ottoman Empire expanded, a wife of a nobleman is captured by one of the Turkish officers. A couple of months later, her husband manages to come to her rescue, only she doesn't want to be rescued. She's shamed and defiled and begs him to end her life, so he splits her open from her navel to her throat.

Now, doesn't that strike you as a little odd? If she wanted to die so much, she could have gotten her hands on one of the sabers or a dagger or swallowed broken pottery or bitten off her own tongue as it seemed to be fashionable those days; in any case, there was no need to wait for her husband. More importantly, why would he kill her the way pigs were killed in those days? If you wanted to kill someone you love, beheading them would seem to be a more merciful way of going about it.

You know what I think? I think she liked it. Whisked away, tied up probably, object of attention of a warrior of unusual, swarthy looks and that puppy-like ceaseless horniness that is so often seen in Turkish men. When her husband came, a man caring more for his lands and wealth than his wife, he was likely told he needn't have bothered, so he killed her. In a land ravaged by war, where able-bodied men were quickly becoming scarce, it would have been far easier for him to find another wife, than means to wash away the insult.

Of course, I'd have to be an idiot to say all this out loud, even now that it's all history—especially now that it's history—and get myself gutted too, probably.

"Elena? Are you listening to me?"

It was about seven years ago. It was the last days of the last year of high school, and it was a history class, so no one was paying any attention to the lecture except me.

"Ah, yeah," I said, turning my attention to my friend. How nerdy was I, listening to a lecture when Tash was trying to tell me about the previous weekend. Her parents had left her home alone and she'd planned to invite someone over. "How did it go?"

"He never came," she said. Tash has such an irritatingly clean and creamy complexion, a blush on her looks as plain as red wine soaking into the finest white bread.

"No? Why not? What happened?" Something had to have happened for Alex to refuse such an offer.

"Um... We had, you know, phone sex. Sorta." She squirmed in her chair, eager to share her excitement but nervous to expose the sordid details. Alex didn't say much, usually, but what he did say had a way of nesting in your mind, his juicy wording and clipped accent somehow making it sound raw and most times angry. Snarl or whispers—whispers that would set stone on fire, as long as it was sculpted as a woman—nothing else could be expected if he opened his mouth; his throat seemed made for expressing emotion and not much else.

"You lucky goose," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, then spent about two minutes trying to appear as though I was listening to the lecture instead of feeling sorry for my teacher who was obviously dejected at having lost even my attention.

"Elena?"

"Mhm?"

"Do you think I could be...? I mean, do you think Alex could...could ever be satisfied with one..." She bit her lip. "Never mind. Never mind."

I pretended I didn't understand what she wanted to ask. When two of your close friends are in a sexual relationship, and both come to you for advice, you end up in a rather delicate situation.

Tash said she didn't think she was enough for Alex. Alex said she was more than he deserved. Of course, they didn't say it to each other, they said it to me, hoping I'd pass it along, so they could have the benefits, if there were any, and blame me for being rejected, if it came to pass. I decided to keep silent and let them squirm for a while. Most people will tell you they think love more precious than anything, but when push comes to shove, they'll readily sacrifice it to save their pride.

          ~ ~ ~

Alex

It took years for me to realize how special Tash was. I don't know if it was the influence of that bitch that Tash proudly referred to as 'my friend Elena' who was, er, wild, in a sneaky sort of way, or of Natasha's emotionally disjointed family, but all her energy seemed to coil and then pour out through sex. Things she did blew my mind.

Other women came later, and while each was a precious gift, while each was riveting to watch and manipulate, something was still missing. It might have been a cultural difference, I don't know; Tash would tell you I don't know much about culture and I couldn't dispute her on that. They were all too shy, too hypocritical, too timid, at least compared to Natasha. She gave herself without boundaries, on the deepest, purely biological level. Oh, we had fun expanding the limits, but that was just foreplay, and to be honest, sometimes mine would be tighter than hers. Sometimes she simply didn't feel shame where by rights she should have. There was something active, aggressive almost, in her, and I could feel it strongest at the moments where others turned most passive. What she was after, was to be had by a man. It was that simple. To me, it was irresistible.

She was only a teenaged girl when we met; I'd forget that at times, carried away by her boldness, only to be reminded by an occasional childish demand from her. She called me one day—she'd call me, usually; I rarely called because I didn't want to talk to her parents. They had a wise habit of answering phones personally, including their only daughter's cell phones. They could be nice; her father on rare occasions when he had the time for it, her mother when she'd just had the pizza delivery boy. I didn't want to be exchanging pleasantries with them while having lecherous thoughts about their daughter, which was any time I thought of her, really. Anyway, she called me up and told me she was alone at home for the night.

"So," I asked, "what are you up to, precious?"

"Mmmm... Do you know where I am?"

There was nothing on the other end of the line but her voice, so my guess would have been in either one of about million rooms in that monstrous house of hers, except that that was not what I would have expected on a weekend night. "No," I said. I'd been hard before she'd called, but now... "Where are you?" It was knowing that something good was coming, or it could have been that mmmm from her that sounded like she was in a very good mood; either way, her voice had turned a lonely campfire into raging fireworks.

"I am... in my parents'... bed," she told me, probably bouncing on it too, her words now interrupted by faint creaking of the bed and rustling of sheets. "The biggest... one... in the house, Alex." Which is to say seriously big. Oh, I could just picture it.

"What are you doing in your parents' bed, naughty little girl? Wouldn't Daddy be mad if he saw you right now?" I'd meant it as a joke, but her sigh told me I'd hit a soft spot.

"He'd be furioussss," she hissed. "I'm not... supposed... to be... here." Huh. I wonder why. Not much indecent happened there, judging by the way her mother eyed anything male in sight. Tash said nothing for a while but I could hear her breath, quick and a little ragged. There was no way to tell if it was from bouncing on the bed or something else, but it was getting to me. I was barely breathing myself, trying not to miss the faintest sound she might make.

"Alex..."

I waited. It was always like that; my name in a husky voice, followed by a shy but outrageous demand.

"Come fuck me here, Alex. Now. I'm so hot right now..."

I chuckled. "Such language." Now was not an option; it was a twenty minutes' drive to get to her, even this late at night, provided I didn't cause an accident, blinded by desire as I was. Plus, having sex on her parents' bed seemed too childish and revengeful. "Rich bitch's got an itch, huh? Why should I care?"

"Please..." she breathed almost imperceptibly, "...please... I've been waiting for hours for them to leave... I can't wait any longer... I need to be fucked"—a whisper turned to a sorrowful moan—"now." And let me tell you, she might have asked for it, but I would have bet anything she'd like it even better if I refused. We'd been doing this for months and months; I was learning the value of having the upper hand.

"Don't feel like driving now, gorgeous. Besides, if I did, I'd have to discipline you for being where you're not supposed to be. For your foul language too, maybe."

Silence. Not even breathing met my words. I guessed I've succeeded in shocking her for once. The thought was amusing and frightening at the same time. I didn't want her breaking it off with me because I've said something too weird. "So," I bluffed, "I'll tell you what we'll do. You'll get off that bed right now. You'll take the cover off and spread it on the floor."

She said nothing, but I heard her move and do as I'd asked. I stifled a sigh of relief.

"Now get on it." Nice and soft, I imagined, but hard underneath. The sort of surface you want under your ass when fucking really hard. All she had to do was ask me to come over one more time and I wouldn't be able to resist. "On all fours... filthy little slut," I added, glad none of the anxiety I was feeling could be heard in my voice. I might have overdone it, though.

"Alex?" Her voice was trembling.

"What is it, precious?"

"You're not really angry with me? Are you? I thought... you liked it when I was bad. I didn't mean to... I—I'm just so horny and I thought... well I thought you'd like it. Other guys—"

"Don't. I don't care to know what other guys want from you." This wasn't true, I realized as soon as it came out of my mouth and she shut up. Nor did I mean for it to sound harsh, but the thought of her with others—those whose last names her parents knew and hoped to join with her first name—always tied a hard knot inside of me. If it ever came undone, there'd be a whole lot of helpless anger and unwanted possessiveness spilling all over her. I heard her whimper on the other end of the line. I hoped she wasn't about to cry, yet hoped she was. Guilt mixed with triumph, because knowing I could make her cry...

"Are you touching yourself?" I asked quietly. There was another whimper. They could have been sounds of arousal, or the first one might have been desperation and the one just now relief. Sex was the only thing we had to make each other feel good and accepted.

"No. I... No."

No. She was waiting for me. Holding one hand in the other, squeezing it, her toes curled, biting her lip. I knew the sight; I'd seen it often enough, and once would be enough to remember it forever. For a second, I reconsidered driving over there, feeling my cock twitch at the thought, but I'd had too much to drink and even sober, with her words echoing in my head, it was always difficult to concentrate on driving. It wasn't the thought of my own safety that held me; it was the memory of an accident a long time ago that I didn't care to remember, that came up any time I even thought about drinking and driving in the same sentence.

Besides, she loved being played with, and I was addicted to the sounds of her pleasure. They made me hard; they gave me a powerful feeling of having her, all of her, at least for as long as it lasted.

"What are you wearing?"

"A nightie."

"A nightie." I let the silence finish the thought for me: ...and nothing else.

"So," I said slowly, "if I were to lift it up over your hips, would I find a bare pussy? A wet pussy?"

"Yes." A whisper, no more.

"Did you forget to put your panties on, Natasha?"

"No." Even softer. "I...took them off."

"Took them off." I waited for a moment, a moment for her to enjoy being exposed, then let her hear how I really felt about it. "That's my naughty girl. You really need me, don't you?"

"Yes." The delightful thing about talking to Tash was, she had the habit of pressing the phone almost into her mouth. I could hear it all, every change in her breathing, every little sound she made, every molecule of moisture coming out of her mouth and almost crackling when it hit the receiver.

"Say it. I want to hear it."

"I need you, Alex."

"All of it." My hand, the one holding the phone, was sweating.

"I need you to fuck me."

I stretched on the couch, feeling like one lucky bastard. "Oh, such a dirty girl. I want you to do something for me."

"What?"

"I want you to cup your pussy with your hand..." I heard her move and sigh. The image of her beautiful body on her knees and elbows danced before my eyes. Her breasts pressed against the bed cover. Her most intimate parts hidden only by her small manicured hand. Waiting for me to say just about anything. I didn't even have a plan. Possibilities swarmed in my mind but I didn't feel like choosing. I wanted it all to happen, even if it couldn't.

"...and tell me..." I asked, "which is hotter; your hand or your pussy." Sometimes I did that, closed my palm to warm it up and then cup her cunt, so it'd feel like my warm, hungry mouth on her skin.

"My hand." As I expected. Because she'd been squeezing it in the other, and because she was wet, her juices evaporating, saturating the air and cooling her skin. But inside...

"Stick a finger in."

"Mmmm..."

"I bet that's hotter than your hand."

"It is."

"I want you to fuck yourself with that finger, and to concentrate on it. On how it feels... on your finger. Forget your pussy. Feel it as I'd feel it if I were touching you inside."

She was panting now. I listened to her for a few moments, but she was taking us both too far too quickly.

"Slow down, gorgeous... slow down. Slow down, I said." I had to raise my voice to get her attention. "God, you're a horny little slut. Easy. We have all night." Her breath had caught at the crude words, but now it raced on at the thought of what might come next. "Good. Better. Tell me how it feels. Tell me... if it were my cock there instead of your finger, tell me...what I'd feel."

"Ohhgh..." she wailed. "Why won't you fuck me, you bastard?"

"Oh I want to... If you were here right now I'd be pounding into you like a madman."

There was a wistful little intake of air on the other side. "I'll come over," she offered, but even in that state, I could hear she thought it was a waste, her luxurious home empty, while we'd be in my small, rented, bare-necessities-only lair. Snobbish little slut, even on the verge of crying for it. She'd been here once; she'd taken one look around and her lips had curled in distaste. She didn't get it. She was the only luxury I cared about; the silk of her skin, the gold of her hair, diamonds in her eyes just after she came. The rest were minor details. I never wanted money until I realized that she was on sale—and I didn't have enough to buy her. So I borrowed her, for the time being, each second the sweetest torture. One day, some little punk with a stupid capital city drawl would flash his Daddy's wealth or a business school diploma and I wouldn't exist any more.

I swallowed my anger. I was fine as long as I was able to do that. Sometimes there'd just be too much and it'd show, sometimes even when I wasn't aware of it. I didn't want it to show. Sooner or later, she was bound to realize it was nothing but inverted longing for her. She despised weakness. I kept my voice firm and cold. "No, you won't come over. You'll stay right where you are. You'll fingerfuck yourself by your Daddy's bed. And you'll tell me what I want to hear."

"I hate you."

"Not what I want to hear."

I let the silence drag on. I needed her more than she knew, more than she needed me—and I was pretty sure it wouldn't be a good idea to let her in on that particular dirty secret. She loved the idea of lusting after a crude, unfeeling bastard. The crude part was no problem. The unfeeling I couldn't seem to master. One of these days she was going to turn into her mother—a well-polished, ill-fucked trophy wife giving her daughter's date dirty looks before going to a cold bed. Me, I'll probably still be fixing things. That's what I did. The repair man. The one always elbow deep in some broken greasy mess. She loved it though. For anyone else, I'd shower and change between work and a date, but Tash got a kick out of it. I ended up deliberately staining and tearing the clothes, like an actor preparing for a role, like in the theater, overdoing it to the point of being unconvincing, and she loved it. She never even saw my best clothes. She wanted black, oily stains on her milky skin, the scrape of an unshaved cheek and a rough grimy hand. No problem.

I felt around the couch for the remote that I'd tossed away when I'd heard her voice and pressed the volume button carefully once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Again. I heard her hold her breath, listening. Once more and...

"Are you alone?" she asked suspiciously.

I smiled to myself. "All alone, snot."

"What were you doing when I called?"

I couldn't help but smile again. "Just watching something."

"Really? What?" When I didn't answer, she asked, "It's porn, isn't it?"

"Yeah."

"Don't you have better things to do on a weekend night?"

The question was, what was she doing talking to me on Friday night? "Well, the opera tickets were all sold out, so..."

There was a pause; I imagined she was trying to decide whether she ought to be insulted by me talking to her while watching porn, or to let her curiosity take over. And of course, Tash being Tash...

"What exactly are you watching?"

I heard what I expected to hear in her voice. Curiosity, and something that I didn't know the name for but could understand. Same thing I felt when I knew she was going out with someone else; not jealousy, not exactly. I never had her heart; she'd never acknowledged me as her boyfriend, and I had no right to be jealous. Still, I was her sexual partner. Knowing she was having sex and not sharing it with me was offending. She wouldn't talk about it; she kept repeating we were not a match. I was not the kind she was supposed to marry; I simply had no rights to anything, but as days turned to months, years even, I couldn't help but start feeling she was, in a way, mine, and she wouldn't even tell me if she'd had sex with another. There are ways to tell though, aren't there? Little things she wanted, tricks she'd learned, tiniest changes in habits or vocabulary that showed her fantasies were feeding on more than just us.

That witch Elena, she wouldn't tell me about the others either. She told me my jealousy was crossing over into pathology, which I already suspected anyway. There is something masochistic in attempting to find out if you're being cheated on. Only Tash wasn't cheating, she'd just never promised to be faithful. No, it wasn't jealousy; I could have dealt with her dating others, I just wanted to know all about it. I just wanted to be privy to all her secrets. And I loved the opportunity to turn tables on her. This was something I enjoyed and didn't need her for, or at least that's what I hoped she'd think.