для читателей старше 18 лет
Dedicated to Marietto
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events, is purely coincidental.
Those who are called by you “pleasure-lovers” are “lovers of the good” and “lovers of the just”, and practice and maintain all the virtues
Marcus Tullius Cicero
Following his successful negotiations, Marco idled in a luxurious restaurant. While his eyes were wandering about, his thoughts were fixated on finding a chick to fuck tonight. And although his secretary was frantically bombarding him with provocative pictures on WhatsApp, the already-familiar pouty lips sticking out of her endless selfies no longer aroused him the least bit. His most recent flame, with whom he had spent a couple of nights last week, also kept calling and checking up on him. But with her half-baked, amateurish blow jobs, his interest in her had all but vaporized. Anyway a girl who fucks like a teenager and sucks dick like it’s her first time is always the one who tries to get compensated for it by becoming your wife or, at the very least, by making you to buy her something… He found her motives to be too obvious and wanted to give it all up in utter disgust and forget this next stupid adventure, if this kind of fucking can even be attributed to this enthralling genre.
Marco was clearly interested in taking part in this incredibly insane adventure. Still encaptivated, he started browsing the dating site again. Well, let’s see what kind of goodies they can offer him here … There is a Lena, 20 years old, with shapely legs, ears, and lips, casting that all-too-familiar predatory gaze of an experienced small-town girl. She will no doubt start by putting on the performance of being a “lady”, achieve “orgasm”, and afterwards, start blurting out shit like… I need some money for college. Hahaha, quite typical. As much as you would want to, you would not spend your hard-earned bucks on someone else’s fake orgasms or college studies … more … so … Then there is this Valentina. She looks too decent and simple. She is the type that, instead of being freaky and exciting in bed, would rather offer to do his laundry or make dinner. And when it comes to handling dick, she is either quite sloppy, or altogether not familiar with that way of pleasuring her partner. The very archetype of monotony. Then we come to Anette. Fuck, if only this transvestite had put in a little more effort. These people think that they can pull a fast one with their gender, and the men would immediately take the bait. Of course, we cannot miss the Adam’s apple, and then we begin really noticing the fake beauty. Personally, I have nothing against gays. But why on earth should I fuck a guy? In any case, if, in some parallel universe, it finally came down to that, I’d rather fuck a real man, and not a fake wannabe. Gosh, I’ve lived long enough to see my first gray hairs, and I am yet to really make love to someone in a normal, natural way. It’s called a fucking Megapolis. What can I do, then?! And they say Russia has the most beautiful chicks.
What about this beauty? A real doll, but not well groomed. It starts out with the pretensions, then the hang-ups, and then all else at once. I’ll have to pass on this one. Okay, so we need to wrap this up, or rather, speed up a happy ending. All we have to do is find a super-hot love mate, fuck her brains out, then make sure the bitch keeps coming back for more afterwards. Wait, there is this other chick in a hat, posing on a deckchair … Let see, the ass … wow! Her thighs…. and her breasts come as a full-package. Then her face …. although, with such a figure, how your face looks is really non-consequential, ….. Damn! Now, that is what we are taking about! Even Monica Bellucci cannot compete. Nice … let’s check out her name. Christy … Hmm. She is 35. Nothing on Christy looks 35. Wish she could be here right now. That would hit the spot… Marco paused, thought a little, then immediately started texting Christy his regular greeting:
“Hi, how r u?”
“I’m fine, babe. How was your day? It’s a bit windy outside…”
Hmm… calling me “Babe” already? Yeah, I was right about this one.
“I’m fine, baby. I’m Italian. Do u wanna meet up? I can cook for u.”
“Why not? I live not far from the city center. U can drop by later on today …”
Perfect! I know exactly what kind of “food” I’m gonna make you. I’ll ride you like you have never been ridden before, sweet Christy. You are going to be clinging on me and singing me delicious orgasms. And for dessert, I’ll pour you Italian sperm. How about that?
Marco immediately sent Christy a couple of pornographic pictures he found on the net to prop her up and get her in the perfect mood for an experience of a lifetime. To his surprise, Christy almost showed no reaction. This was quite different from the other girls whom he had earlier sent similar photos. She responded by saying that she is not a teenager and does not need any guidelines. She said all this in such a simple, confident and cute way that she left no doubt that she found these pictures childish. What the heck?
In a jiffy, Mark decided to pass through his place, take a quick shower and wear some decent cologne, all in preparation for his encounter with this Italian looking Russian amazon.
Fuck! What if it’s a set-up? Maybe it’s just a trap to get robbed or beaten up by a couple of Russian thugs. Quite probable. You cannot even hook up with a foreigner calmly these days. But, like she said, she had a baby. Oh well! Fuck it! Nothing will happen to him. In any case, he would either find something is amiss, or would have hell of an adventure. And this girl looks like an adventurous type.
I’m sure I can really spend some quality time with this lady, Marco thought, a huge bulge on his groin poking at the inside of his jeans. I’d rather get to this Christy quickly, he thought in the taxi. Then he walks up to a green door, then the intercom.
“Hi, it’s me, Marko.”
The third floor of an old house without an elevator seemed to be located almost at the height of the topmost floor of a skyscraper. What kind of houses are these? Not exactly what you’d expect in Italian city. Wait, where is this apartment located again? …
A pretty-looking girl met him on the threshold and smiled kindly.
“Hi, I’m Christy, nice to meet u. Come over.”
Fuck, what an ass! How I can’t wait to smash that! Marco’s smile stretched even wider than usual. He was literally holding himself back so as not to attack and rape this lovely Christy. He entered the apartment.
“Were you scared to come over? Don’t worry, baby. There are just two of us. My child and I.”
She beckoned the toddler and gently called out,
“Come over, honey. Come meet our visitor. Say hi to this nice gentleman.”
The little girl came running into Marco’s arms. Marco lifted her up, and she began stroking his hair. He had not expected such a reaction.
Being polite he smiled and greeted her, and even called her principessa. The ultimate goal, of course, was principessa’s mother and Marco thought a little about his obvious merits: how he was an educated, hard-working and knowledgeable man who was catastrophically unlucky both in love and in sex. Well, this, of course, is an exaggeration. When it came to sex, he was always extremely lucky. With his temperament and unquestionable amount of merits, his phone was jam packed with contacts of all kinds of young women willing to fuck, meet up, get married, have dinner or go to the theater with him. Marco would therefore sometimes just randomly dial any number on his phone, knowing fully well that at the other end of the line, some girl would be waiting for him licking her lips and stuffing her legs in stiletto heels. Haha. losing in sex is for losers. And what about love? Marco had already forgotten, or had successfully tried to forget about it and almost came close. In love, the feeling of disappointment was so strong every time that he did not ever want to get involved in matters of the heart again. Having it pump blood at an amazing pace through his body and, most importantly, to his penis while going crazy in bed was his heart’s most important role at the moment.
“You’re so charming,” Christy said softly, and her smile radiated an experienced invite to the bedroom. But then, the child….
Yet, again, although a call to mate is a call to mate, Christy is certainly keeping a clear distance. She is extra relaxed, making no effort to speed up the process, and is sure of herself; not like those twenty-year-olds who make themselves appear inaccessible and pretend they are “not that kind of girls”. She is obviously sexually experienced. Where is she calling him then, if not to bed? With such a mouth, perfect teeth … Mmmm.
I’ll make this mouth do wonders, Marco thought. Everything is all at my disposal.
Something has to happen, fast, or his penis will simply jump out of his jeans.
“Do you love Bocelli?”
After uttering these words, Christy turned to the computer and slowly bent over it, exposing the fullness of her impeccable buttocks in black jeans for Marco to see. Marco had already realized that he would simply have to enjoy his affective state, and no longer resisted. They talked about Italy and Italian music, then ordered pizza. But when Christy sat next to him, he could no longer restrain himself, and began gently stroking her knee, which, strangely enough, did not anger her at all. She calmly finished the pizza, kissed him on the cheek, and said that it was time for her to take the child to bed.
“Will I see u again?”
The Italian asked helplessly.
Christy’s hot tongue gently touched his lips, which sent an involuntary shiver down Marco’s spine. Obediently rising from the couch and going out into the corridor, he put on his coat. And already, between the doors, he could not stand still, and rigidly took Christy by the hip, biting his lips into her mouth. Then the little girl interrupted the moment and called out from the room,
“Mummy, I want another slice of pizza.”
Marco bade farewell and left.
With the taste of her lips still lingering on his mouth, Marco continued relishing the kiss.
Why can’t a man just pounce on any woman he fancies and have his way with her? Why all this courtship?
You want to feel the warmth of her body, deeply insert your cock in all her holes, ram her hard until she moans with pleasure, and reach the point when you are both immersed in a state of sweet languor, with that feeling of the inaccessibility of a person slowly becoming more desirable than unavailable. But who said that she is unavailable, if she actually kissed him first. How else can she show that she is available? The child messed everything up. I should have simply dragged her to another room. Stupid me! But how delicious that kiss was. And her ass was mouth-watering … these impeccable type of buttocks had seemed to only appear on the canvases of the best Italian painters. No, her legs are not crazy long, and her breasts are not size E. And why do you need these legs and tits, anyway, if they are neither warm nor cold? It’s hot here. Yes it will be very hot here.
Still pleased with himself, Marco sat in a taxi. It took him only a few minutes to reach the huge apartment that the firm had ceremoniously given him as befitted a badass foreign executive. He slept in seventh heaven. he next morning, recalling his conversation with Christy, Marco started remembering that she was divorced and worked as some kind of stylist or maybe photographer. Some kind of nonsense, anyway. And, although her career or job was interesting enough, all that Marco kept thinking about were her legs, her shapely buttocks, and her smile that made her mouth clearly spell out a promise of some excitement yet to be enjoyed, a pleasure yet to be indulged in. Standing in the shower, Marco could not help but take advantage of these memories and vividly orgasm under the jets of warm water gushing out of the sprinkler overhead.
Bitch! But one with class, of course. Not even a bitch, but maybe not that kind of a classy girl either. Marco found it difficult to find the right words to describe his new acquaintance. Something in between, maybe. He made up his mind and went to his office.
Coffee and some orange juice were already waiting for him at his desk. One of the secretaries was standing by the printer, shuffling a huge pile of papers in her hand. He remembered how he had fucked this girl a couple of times in the toilet. Shit! What’s her name again? He never seemed to remember it (he had to finally resort to simply calling her “sweetie-pie”, which made her inexpressibly happy, since the girl, unaccustomed to such treatment, believed that he had singled her out from an obvious crowd of female admirers, with her already ready to go and meet his parents any time.) She did not know that it was Marco’s custom to call all the women he had had encounters with at work “cutie-pie” or “sweetie-pie”, or some other fake name, and that the lower the status of a woman, the “cuter” or “sweeter” she was for Marco. This could be a waitress, a barmaid, a dispatcher, a secretary or a cleaning woman. Everyone was bound to be nice to this Italian macho with a dazzling smile and endowed with no less than a dashing male member. This is the way Marco lived his life in Russia, in great pleasure and indulgence. He lacked nothing to ticker his fancy or make his blood rush like a flood in his veins. Someone somewhere was always infatuated with him, wanted him, wanted to marry him, sleep with him, or put reins over him and forever domesticate this macho with animal instincts: women who had no idea that Marco loved only himself, his “younger brother” and money.
Yes, money is the engine of everything these days. Without money, no amount of snow-white smiles and sexual endowment can ever be appealing enough to women. One immediately falls out of their circle of popular friends; they lose their “macho” appeal and become ordinary human individuals. Marco knew this, and thus was successfully married to his work, and enjoyed his life.
Marco was ready to sign a contract for a huge amount of money. And even though he would later have to get stuck working his ass off somewhere in the Russian outback, where there is nothing to do, he did not mind. This money guaranteed him the right orgasms in the right place. Money guaranteed him unlimited excitement and real pleasures. Otherwise, it would just be masturbation, and that would be it. He never paid women money, and even rarely gave gifts. The very idea of being a successful Italian handsome who rides expensive cars made him God’s gift to women, and opened doors that were otherwise closed to others. As he calculated the possible benefits of the contract in front of him, he thought,
My life is all perfectly arranged.
He still needs to complete one or two of his work errands. Then there is this trip to this distant city for those millions. Leaving without a quickie lovemaking session is certainly out of the question. He called the secretary and briefly conversed with her some nonsense. Then he threw her onto his office sofa, had his way with her for a maximum of two minutes and, leaving the girl next to the used condom that he had thrown onto the sofa, drove to the airport, on the way making the necessary phone calls and calling for documentation.
All perfect. After dumping unnecessary sperm, the head always begins to work again as it should. What else can a real man, especially an Italian, want?
Damn! How do Russian women live here, with their men resembling brontosauruses? Of course, with such a limited selection of males, men could carry themselves around any way they pleased, which, in fact, they did. Handsome, with money and a great job, young, slender and fit, speaking five languages, proud holder of three degrees from reputable universities, owning the latest Porsche model and designer suits – perfect! He surely has no equal in this dense patriarchal state, where men of all ages smell of sweat and fumes. Certainly not. Coming across this kind of well-groomed individual of Russian origin here and there is possible, of course, but they are either gay or some egoists. Oh, and most importantly, they lack the all-too-magical Italian charm. Italian charm is the foreign touch that, with its sweet accent, makes girls from all walks of life squeal with excitement. Yes, Marco was a fully content man.
With a light heart, Marco looked at the passers-by in the waiting room. The girls were all in tight jeans, and almost all of them were in high heels. Loitering near them were potbellied men of all ages, who were pestering them, all too keen to get into their pants.
Quite a strange phenomenon. How, with such an abundance of gyms and beauty salons, can Russia produce such ugly men? Something is amiss here. Good thing I’m not gay. These old, haggard men have now fallen way behind in terms of fashion and the idea of self-grooming. Makes me sick even to look at them.
Marco buried himself into his phone, vigorously browsing through all sorts of dating sites, pornographic pictures and other things that might delight his soul and eye.
While Marco was busy looking for new hot dates, Christy was corresponding with a young German pilot who had sent her a stunning picture of his well-groomed Aryan body that was ready to embark on any mission that its owner would so desire to engage in.
Wow, why is it that women in Russia are denied the sensual and visual aspects of the love of the opposite sex. This comes with the seemingly shallow reality that men always tend to look at a female’s body a priori, carefully considering the minute details of each curve and contour, and only then, if everything was as perfectly aligned as they expected, could they look at her soul, or at least consider the substance of her brain. Why it is necessary to love old, pot-bellied or young, pot-bellied males in stupid T-shirts, or even worse, smell their scruffy bodies, talk about matters of the heart, then surrender to the clumsy hands of an egoist and say that sex was good, even if their penises were ten centimeters long and their filthy bodies smelled of a mixture of alcohol, cigarettes and a month-old sweat or, at best, selfishness? No!
Christy did not fancy this kind of arrangement. She chose her men herself: thoroughbred and ungenerous, but all the same stallions, men she adored. Only then would she look into their souls, if they had any.
The bed is the old age litmus test of a person’s sexuality. Here, the snot and the miser behave accordingly, and so does the noble, respectful of women and knowing how to please them. But then, the whole world is built on chemistry. Hardly in the animal kingdom do the females choose unattractive males simply because they have male sexual organs.
The male population is virtually absent from the Russian society, having been completely obliterated by historical cataclysms. In such an emotionally empty society, the patriarchal view that a woman is expected to possess super-exotic attractiveness, love and kindness, just as she is expected to be a well-refined sexual animal, is dominant. At the same time, even if it is worthwhile for a woman to be an excellent mistress, she is still despised for that. A decent woman cannot be experienced in bed. She should be a beautiful self-sacrificed virgin, living only to please her male companion and feed his ego. Russian men do not find female orgasms to be that much of a deal. They believe that if a woman fails to orgasm in the first two minutes that they spend in their awkward encounter, she must be almost frigid.
Following her endless rendezvous in which she constantly burnt her fingers on such simple and mediocre Russian men, Christy started preferring foreign males, with all their baggage. As for this instance, she knew fully well that although the connection with the German would be enchanting, no serious relationship would come out of it. And she did not need it.
What is a serious relationship? Seeing each other unwashed every morning, arguing about childish things like who will go to the store, or take out the garbage?
If two people were destined to meet in an ideal union, then this will certainly happen. All other unions are flawed a priori. With a grin of excitement pasted on her face, Christy gleefully enjoyed the explicit photos that the German had sent her, anticipating the sweetness of the minutes and hours of their planned meeting, which was to happen in a few days. Gosh, it just says “Das ist fantastish” … What’s the use for a 35 year old Italian, if there is a 25 year old German here?
Christy bit her lip, carefully analyzing the smooth skin and musculature of this Aryan lad. If my former classmates knew the flavor and fullness of my sex life, they would die of envy, kill their fat husbands and rush to the endless mating fields of the Amazonians. Let’s see his name … Marcel…
Mmm, that “L” at the end of his name… almost like in Nabokov’s Lolita. What a language! The main thing now is for him to be an expert lover. After all, a twenty five year old boy has no time for training. The handsome lad will just land his plane and fly away…
Just like how Muse plays its music: with emotion, professionalism, the mind, feelings, everything real. This is my music. With the pulse beating that way, my heart and lips yearn for kisses, and my body for love and sex. Simply geniuses! … Perfect! I’m going to be meeting this Marcel under the sweet rhythm of Muse.
I should get prepared. After all, there is a 10 year age difference between us…
So let’s see… manicure, pedicure, massage, swimming pool, Thai massage, facial masks, body masks, anything. I haven’t forgotten about my ten kilometer jog. Only by running like a wolf every morning in any weather can I develop such luscious breasts, thin waist and tight ass. All my peers have already fattened up sitting on their chairs all day long while I’m easily mingle with the young and beautiful. But that’s not all. I can go out with anyone I want; we can do whatever I want and how much I want until I get bored.
No, Christy had not always been such an Amazon. Raised in a strict home, she had long hoped to someday meet a worthy-enough person who would become her duly-wedded husband, the father of her child, and thus fit into the traditional model of family and women’s happiness. However, the males who came across her way, whether from the higher echelons of power and business or the clerical layer of ordinary Russian boys, all failed to meet any of her high expectations. The lost illusions forged a Superamazon, tender, passionate, woman who loved with all her heart for one night, a day or years; an Amazon who controlled her own body, priorities and desires herself.
As for now, she was looking forward to some passionate sex with the young and handsome German. She wanted his body, his muscular arms, and wanted to see these pilot’s volitional eyes close, and nothing could stop her. She methodically put on her white tracksuit and went on for the ten-kilometer jog, tearing through the admiring glances of passers-by. While running, her movements were perfect; her smoothly combed pigtail, tight leggings and sprint of a panther were highly visually appealing, even for misogynists, females, gays or just ordinary men.
Why do many women not use their body, their feminine qualities, or consider that their grimaces and jumps are resources for the female. They pretend to be weak and stupid, or move like male tanks or just unsophisticated females. Maybe it is because we are all hounded by everyday life, pseudo-morals, and bad sex or lack of it. Only the sensation of the female sensuality, the chemistry of bodies, sex and passion make a woman truly feminine. A lady who has at least once experienced the joy of orgasm, light footsteps, admiration, would never be able to give it up. Or she will commit a crime against her female self.
Christy involuntarily remembered the transvestites in London. Although it was clear that these were re-made men, they had chosen to go this way because they had felt a feminine essence for which they pay dearly with part of their lives, as the life of a transvestite is known to be 20–15 years shorter than that of a heterosexual. Their constantly need to refill their hormones, and some of them pay with a certain attitude against them and more often than not with broken dreams.
But how these women behave and carry themselves! Every female who does not understand that being a woman is a privilege given by God that cannot simply be washed away in the morning, crammed into the down coat and carried along in a shambling walk to work, where it is half-bent to drink coffee, grinned into a fist and the badly poorly colored hair straightened, should see this. If you were born a woman, please accept this privilege with pride.
So Christy thought, running her fifth kilometer. Every time, each moment she got closer to reaching the eighth kilometer, just when she was almost saturated with oxygen, or because of some other physiological causes in the body, she would feel an involuntary ejection into her brain of something reminiscent of coming, orgasm or something else like a rush. It was the delight of the possession- of the body, soul and all. A secret enthusiastic co-creation of her own physique and psyche.
Only, men’s eyes do not lie. Only, they are a real mirror. You can be even a hundred times beautiful, but if you don’t make men hard, consider your game lost. And vice versa; if they come in in droves, then it means there is something, and that something is sex appeal. Men, no matter how primitive they are, can always instantly read this. It does not matter how you are dressed; you could be in jeans, coats and sneakers, and all men could be turning around to look at your body with pure desire. The fluids of pleasure that a woman can give or not give are genuine. They are true, like real diamonds, whose brilliance is obvious, even for a layman.
The fact that men always think in terms of sex, Christy knew well. She understood sex perfectly, and could instantly see how good a man would be in bed. Having an excellent education and taste for everything beautiful, she happily engaged in painting, photography, stylistics, wrote scripts, and was pleased with how happy a person, who for decades has overtaken her compatriots by her thinking and perception of the beautiful, can be in Russia.
Now, however, she was fascinated by the sexual taste of the German, and therefore, creativity receded into the background. She was looking forward to Tuesday night, when this boy was supposed to be deep in her arms. Stockings, heels, corsets, the best underwear that the modern linen industry could provide was at her disposal. Christy was sure of herself more than ever. Her lips were red, her skin white, her hair dark and underwear black. Her silk sheets were yearning for hugs and touches, and the champagne was ready to explode …
“Hi, its Marcel,” Christy opened the door and literally dragged this enchanted wanderer in with her gentle hands. With no words spoken, just their lips touching, tongues and hands grappling each other, enjoying themselves on these silk sheets. Marcel poured Christy with champagne, kissed her, licked her body and enjoyed every inch of it, rejoicing at her sighs of passion, cries of pleasure and grateful smiles.
They had two hours of sleep before his flight. They seemed destined to be lovers since it was so natural and sweet for them to feel each other. No, this was not just sex, it was a loving meeting of friends, old lovers, two people who seemed to have known each other for a long time, who had a lot to talk about, laugh, and have love to spread …
Why do they write to me, come to me, fall in love and confess their love, then hate me, become jealous, leave, and then come back again kneeling and begging for love … these men, boys, husbands, youngsters… I don’t do women. I’m attracted only by male energy, the male physique, the male embrace. If I wanted, I could own them as my property, and no matter how long it lasted, I would enjoy it in full for the time that this romance or meeting would last, and then without regret, let the man go free on his way. I know that wherever he goes he would be dreaming of my embraces, because not everyone was given the chance to appreciate Christy just like that. Sometimes, months would pass before the men who had been in her arms came back and asked her to take them back, in any capacity, on whatever terms, and swore love and devotion, confessing that they had never had and would never have a better lover or better sex. Then Christy would always decide on response. Usually, the answer was “No”, and she would go ahead and block the bloke from all her social networks. Just because she would have lost interest. Sometimes, she would let some of these men to be her errand boys, but also without much interest.
The magic of sex and the aura of copulation were interesting to her. If someone did not understand the quality of what was happening at once, then he was not her person, even if everything was fine in bed. It meant that he was not as good as she was both mentally and spiritually. Sexual hedonism. That’s what Christy was interested in. And she was not going to stop with her experiments. Perhaps the other side of the medal was worth looking at, but Christy did not think about it, she liked to give up her mind and body to these young men, and she sincerely enjoyed the process.
Christy never really understood the whole concept of lust and love, so clearly divided into the bad and the good of the Christian religion. Nor did she understand the biblical democratic commandments about love and equality, with slaves and an obvious stratification of society both then and now. Probably, equality was applicable to a certain category of citizens, with the rest presumed to be unworthy of an equal distribution of earthly and sensual goods, and therefore had to obediently fulfill the obligations imposed on them by society and religion. What can be the instinctive call of the flesh, human chemistry and orgasms here, when you have to strap your once-upon-time “soulmate” to a pole and make him or her your “spouse”? All these “soulmates” from a past life only irritated Christy. Of course, there could be some pleasant memories, but there are no limits to perfection. Refining one’s brain, soul and body, a person needs a different level of being, including his or her sexual and spiritual perception. Therefore, it is perfectly normal that people break up. As one of the well-known modern classics said, no one leaves anyone. It is just that someone chooses to move ahead, and someone stays. Christy always chose to move forward. Perfecting her spirit and body, she always looked for the same hedonist, sexual maniac, intellectual who was ready for experiments. Of course, it would be great to find a genuine heart among these flawlessly built educated males, but Christy was aware that this would be the most difficult task. She tried to find just a cordial affection, but, funny as it sounded, these “big” hearts for some reason were always poorly educated, inexperienced or selfish in bed, had an unpleasant smell and lacked the “chemistry” that is so necessary in the relationship between the sexes. Therefore, paying little attention to the mundane desires of her heart, Christy admired herself and her attractiveness in men’s eyes, arms and embraces, and felt welcome and happy.
Sex is magic, shamanism, the incomprehensibility of the intelligible, the alpha and omega of this existence, darkness and light, and ecstasy that either comes, or does not. And is this not the animal-primordial call of the flesh to something more than a mere fusion of two bodies. Is it not he the progenitor of the love that everyone is looking for in this world, either hiding behind a desire to have it, or encountering disappointment all the time.
Sex is the chemistry between two bodies that transcends a person’s reality of existence; when the pulse, smell and flesh of another person’s become one’s own. And does it not lead to that great awesome … the love of the flesh, the love of the spirit, the soul. Acceptance, love, patience, adoration. It is quite unlikely that we can tolerate a person next to us with whom we do not mutually experience this animalistic overwhelming desire. Endure his character, see him in a different mood, forgive him for his mistakes. This is the basis of Christian patience. Human chemistry. Otherwise, it is a tear of human essence and consciousness, a conscious killing of ourselves for the sake of, in fact, a stranger to us.
Everything constitutes a powerful element, and among them, love is perhaps the most powerful, the strongest and the most invincible. Someone who is loved is always forgiven and caressed. Love unites what cannot be united, contrary to logic, common sense and public opinion. Love is always mutual. If you are overwhelmed with feeling, then you will always find reciprocity. It is only a matter of time. There would be another person who, just like you, is hungry for this feeling. Love is a living being that does not need to glued to the object of passion. The more you try to stick to it, the more you drift away from your object. Any movement, even towards one other, should come from within. You should never force love. You can sweep somebody off his or her feet. But you can never force love.
With these thoughts running through her mind, Christy lay on the couch for a Thai massage and enjoyed the silence of an Asian masseuse, her dexterous movements, the smells of musk and ylang-ylang… How perfectly soothing …
The pool, with its waterfalls and quiet at this morning hour, was beautiful, and looked like an oasis. No obese bodies and hags with appraisingly hateful eyes, although these women were invisible to Christy for long time, whether they are unsatisfied or satisfied. She had her own logic of life, her morals and her men, who adored her, adored her small nimble body, and therefore she did not perceive any women as competitors. Can there be a rival to the Amazon? She did not need to compete or fight with anyone. She took from life all that she needed, and those who needed her, without any effort. If someone left, she knew that this was temporary, and that they would come back again begging at her feet and only then would she decide whether to take them back or make them her past. Maybe this she simply did not need that person in her life, her algorithm of being.
After arriving at the Turkish sweat bath, she took off her bra, remaining in a bikini. Some five men who were peacefully lying by visibly got excited, expecting that she would at least give them some attention, but seeing complete indifference from Christy, they rebelled at first, then calmed down. Each of them probably remembered that he was fat, or maybe he was too young and inexperienced for a female of such caliber. Or that he was long married to a boring decent woman and had already forgotten how “it” was done. Looking around, everyone was sad, except for Christy, who went on and enjoyed her relaxation session while thinking about the German, his sensual lips and impeccable body.
At this time, Marco was in the toilet, groping another secretary whom he had met in the elevator of some office. Or not a secretary, maybe a Tanya or Lena. Frankly, he did not care about their names, or what they did. The important thing were these matings, which were necessary in-between meetings, on business trips and other working moments, so as not to go crazy with his Italian hormones. To relax, feel welcome, and drain his sperm and fuck the next Russian girl. He felt like a heroic inseminator, and could boast about his encounters in any male company without making things up. Not everyone can fuck anything that moves in this country. Fuck, yes, here, it seems everyone just dreams of getting laid with him. Another thing is that the quality of sex often left much to be desired, but this was quite enough for a quickie.
“By the way, talking of the quality of sex, I still have to fuck this Christy, the bitch who refused to put out on the first date, if that was even a date at all. Now is the right time to call her and arrange everything properly. 35 years old, single mother, and shows off as if she is … Anyway, she does have the right to show off like that…”
He browsed through Vkontakte and checked her latest photos. If some producer saw her, he would definitely dismiss all these other fake models and actresses. She was definitely fucking the camera … “Damn, where is her number? There…”
“Hi! It’s me, Marko. How r u? Do u wanna meet up tonight?”
“Oh, hi babe, I’m busy. I’ve been thinking about you, though. Bye.”
Fuck, what has she been so busy with that she does not want to either meet or even continue our last conversation? She’s probably fucking some handsome young hunk.
With a professional look of critique on his face, Marco began examining himself in the mirror. No, he was good. That is a fact. But, of course, he is not 20 years old any more, and overall, the endless business trips, promiscuous sexcapades, restaurant trips and an active nightlife were bound to leave their mark, even on the most thoroughbred and well-groomed Italian face..
“Huh! Maybe she is looking forward to something a bit more… interesting. Maybe drive up to her with one of my buddies and have a threesome with her. Let’s see now how she’ll take the more exotic proposal of having two Italian machos visiting her.”
“Hi, Christy. Would u like my buddie and me to come over? We can have fun together. He is very attractive. You’ll definitely like him.”
“Really? Is that all he can offer? A lousy Italian friend of his? Let me reply to him now. I’ll answer this bastard.”
“Baby, its very nice to know that u care about my sexual needs, but I’m waiting for young gentleman, beautiful one, whose brain I’m going to be fucking out tonight, and you can enjoy your friend on your own.”
“This piece of shit of a slut”, thought Marco, cursing to himself,
“I’ll show her what a real gentleman is like. But wait. Who is there in my notebook that I haven’t fucked for a long time. Now we’ll arrange an orgy. Fuck you and your boy. We are also going to have a blast and won’t even think about you.”
Marco made a couple of calls to his friends, and they decided to spend the night in nightclubs with all the ensuing consequences, taking on the way more and more new girls. They ended up, in full alcoholic ecstasy, at one of the guy’s posh apartment and everyone, thinking that it would be a perfect night of sexual fulfilment, proceeded to fall asleep on someone else’s shoulder under the sweet sounds of Italian music, spilling over the body of alcohol, drugs and bliss..
The next morning, Marco did not remember where he was and with whom. After hastily gathering his belongings, he jumped out of the ill-fated apartment and rushed off, first to his place to take a shower, then to the office. Leading such a kind of messy lifestyle, to him, work was of first priority, and at his workplace, everything was clear.
A hoe should just be fucked, maybe in a toilet or elevator. With life-long business partners, that is out of the question. Otherwise, they’d fuck you real hard out of business.
Afterwards, while browsing through his WhatsApp photos, he was surprised to find a photo message from Christy in a complete outfit – stockings, a corset, high heels. She was embraced in the arms of a broad-shouldered Aryan, and was capturing it all on the phone.