773 - The courage of rising lust
He just gazes for a while. “You know… I thought you’d be all brown down there like the rest of your skin… but the inner parts are all pink, same as a fair-skinned person, like your nails or the inside of your mouth.” I laugh. Arko’s greatest sexual sophisticate, talking like a child seeing a wonder for the first time. Because he is. “You know, you don’t need to tell me where the most sensitive spots are… I think I might like finding out for myself.” As if by accident he breathes a zephyr over me. I can’t help but writhe a little. There’s the skill that Chevenga was telling me about. Ama Kalandris… what is this going to be like?
“No teaching is like practice,” I say. My voice has gone husky.
“But not yet… I should not neglect the rest of you.”
Oh my Aba, Piatsri… is he good at stroking. I’d never say this to him but he does it with professional skill. His fingers move and you barely feel it, like fur or a feather, so even and smooth, like oil. He’s better at it than Chevenga, actually, except that with Chevenga I can always feel the fire of his love right through his hands, which makes up for anything. With Skorsas… it gave me a feeling like floating wingless on a warm cloud. And so cherished.
I forget most of the time, because he’s the party maven and the fashion flame and the one who rules the house with an iron fist… but he’s training to be a healer. It did not feel as if he loved me—the love in his gaze, though it was on me, had been for the women of Arko, in that healerly way—but it did feel like he cared for me enough to take total care with his touch.
I am lying back too much. I run my hands over him. His muscles are not like Chevenga’s or Kallijas’s, thick and gnarly, but long and slender and sheathy under his pure pink-white skin. He’ll talk about how he must not do too much lifting in case they get too massive. His skin is like a child’s, it’s so smooth, from those creams and ointments he rubs into it every morning. He has only the finest, almost-invisible hairs, except the golden tufts under his arms and a little thatch on his chest, a bit like Chevenga’s except for the colour. And the lovely luxuriant bush between his legs, in which his penis nestles sweet and pink… well, to be fair, it’s not exactly nestling now. Not since I “accidentally” brushed a finger over his nipple.
He smells deliciously like very pricey musky Arkan scent. I pull him close to me, where we are sitting on the edge of the bed, breathing that in along with his lovely young man’s fragrance from his neck. I nibble his throat and the sharp edge of his jaw and his ear-lobe, pulling a bit on his earring with my teeth, which makes him yelp delightedly. Then we join our mouths together and twine tongues. When I’m kissing Chevenga and I take his throat in my hand, the fire flares in him, but Skorsas’s tastes don’t run that way so I just slide my hands over his cheeks and hair and shoulders, adoring with touch. Piatsri, he is beautiful. I will never not see him as beautiful again, no matter how mad at him I am. Well, I never said he wasn’t, did I?
You know, you learn a lot about what a person likes by being near him having sex, even you don’t have sex with him. For example, if you flick both of Skorsas’s nipples at the same time with a bit of nail, he’ll do one thrash with his whole body then fall back on the bed gasping, helpless and open. I’ve seen Chevenga do that to him many times. I caress his narrow waist and the set of six muscles bunched, more delicate and flat than Chevenga’s, hard under his skin, then slip my hands up and flick. “Aiggh!” he goes, and flops backwards across the bed, his head arched back and his arms half-spread. I push his knees firmly apart with my hands and grab his manhood, first in my hand and then in my mouth, sucking in his head, hot and surging.
“Aiigggggghhhhh no wait!” he says. “I… I want to… you know…” Can Arkan men not articulate sexual things to women even at this point? “Take you in my mouth before I’m spent.” While he still has the courage of rising lust, he means. I slide my body up between his legs and my breasts across his chest, making sure one of my big black well-sucked ama-nipples bumps over one of his tiny pink man-nipples, making him gasp, and stretch out on the bed beside him.
He gets between my legs, and again studies, fascinated, his hair like two white-gold curtains hanging down, softly touching the insides of my thighs. Then he begins to explore me with one tender finger.
This is the undiscovered country now. I’m his guide. I set my voice utterly free, holding back nothing, so he knows what I feel. He tangles his fingers a bit in my bush then strokes down one of the outer lips, and then the other, with his perfect expertise. I make distantly-pleased sounds. He slips his two thumbs between the inner and outer lips, and my hips can’t help but writhe a little on the bed. With infinite gentleness he slides a finger between the inner lips, finding me very wet, and I start moaning.
Oh, Piatsri… it’s incredible, feeling such skill and such unfamiliarity, both at the same time! As I start rolling my hips and breathing harder, he probes me thoroughly, making sure he doesn’t miss a finger-width, even in every crease. He likes the complexity... in his heart, in his bones, he knows he is seeing what is natural and right. There’s something about being examined like that that makes me want him wildly, makes me want to grab him and yank him into myself hard so he can’t help but start thrusting, the way I do Chevenga. But I don’t think he’d like that, he’s too Arkan, so I go on moving to his hands. In their wanderings three of his fingers find their way deep inside me, making me thrash and whisper-yell. Then his golden head lowers between my legs and I freeze still. After what seems a century, I feel the faintest licking on one of my inner lips of the hot flame of his tongue.
Oh, Piatsri, once he found my clitoris… once I told him to press between it and the spot on the inside so that he had the root of my ecstasy trapped between his tongue and fingers… Piatsri, it was incredible. He learned so fast, how to drive me beyond the sky! I could do nothing but scream and thrash and feel as if my body were turning to water and my spine to fire. And then… my Ama Kalandris, does he know how to sustain it, how to bring you almost there then pull you back from the brink so part of you wants to strangle him except that you know how much more intense the next one will be! I am squirming again in this chair as I write, thinking of it.
As he’s lifting me on the branmoy again, something makes me turn my head and look toward the door of the bedchamber.
Standing there, naked except for the one pair of gloves, their hair still wet from the shower, gazing at us with stupid-drunk grins on their faces, are Chevenga and Kallijas. My omores has tears all down his cheeks.