He seemed to me to be well versed in the rules of engagement, in the rules of action, as if for him it wouldn’t be a novel experience.
My nakedness didn’t feel awkward under the close-up monitoring of another person. Our mutual nakedness or perhaps convoluted desire canceled out any bewilderment that might have arisen under circumstances.
I stepped into the water. It was welcomingly warm. I slinked down, water whelmed me in cozy, translucent clothes. Timidly, I spread my legs out. Esther lowered herself down and her own legs touched mine. Her skin was suave. The imminent future was mercilessly preordained.
There was something reptilian in our cautiously ministered hug. For Esther it was, doubtlessly, an age gap that fed her with restraining orders, for me, it was the stark novelty of the sexual touch. Yet neither of us had possessed sufficient capacity to thwart the kiss, a bolder enterprise by far, with Esther’s tongue perforating my eager mouth, tingling the palate, rippling my skin with waves of sensuality. My left hand snaked over Esther’s shoulder, while the right resumed its exploratory exhibition into the hidden world behind the black triangle.
Esther moaned again when I forced my finger into the lubricated crevice. The insides were tight and sleazy, and they beckoned with insane necessity. “I want you to fuck me.” Esther said breathlessly. “Have you done it before?”
Hearing the word “fuck,” recently commiserated into Russian colloquial vocabulary, tapped into yet another dry region of my awakening sexuality, the one, which is being exploited by phone sex businesses. My “little Piotr” twitched and bobbled, instilled with fresh power. Its uprightness was becoming precipitously at risk to be abated by a discharge, but since I wasn’t a prior conscious witness to such event, I believed in the omnipotence of its longitudinal stand.
“No. But you show me,” I answered in my deteriorating from excitement English.
“Silly boy,” Esther said playfully, the stern professor gone from her voice, “of course I will.”
Now it was her turn to charter the terrain of my teenage body. Her hands were adept at recognizing and indulging the contours of male body. I’m ticklish, but the film of water buttresses the uncomfortable sensation of physical nervousness, whereas I could fully enjoy Esther’s caresses. Esther imitated my descent to the lower part of the body, where she paused to examine and familiarize herself with my pulsating penis, admiring its uncircumcised head. She then took it in her hand and drew the foreskin down the shaft, impassively as if she unwrapped a bar of milk chocolate. “I never liked the American circumcised ones,” Esther chided the virtual American male audience.
She drew my body to hers in a more confident embrace, her hand scaling my back, rubbing my buttocks in circular, hypnotizing motions. She took me by surprise by jabbing a full length of a phalange of her forefinger into my ass cleft. The stars plodded and obscured my eyes with sensation of sheer blissfulness. Esther stroked my skinned penis, simultaneously gyrating her forefinger, prodding deeper into my nether hole, as I exhaled and uttered a prolong groan of pleasure run amok.
“Let’s go to my bedroom, silly boy.” Esther said directly into my ear, proceeding to lick its labyrinthine canals, winding down in its epicenter.
Water trailed off Esther’s body, as she snatched a towel from the rack and held it in her outstretched hands, offering it to me like some sort of fetish sacrifice to the altar of sensual delights. “Wipe me, please.”
In my enthusiasm to obey the command, I tripped on the slick tiles and had to grab for the toilet tank to hinder the fall. Esther didn’t comment on an incident, and eased towards me. She twined her hands comfortably around my shuddering body, pressing her tummy to my skin that had regained its ticklishness. In a chaster manner I placed my hands on Esther’s wet hair, black with wisps of gray, and patted it affectionately. I took the offered towel and bent down to wipe her feet, her legs, undersides of her parted thighs, the matted pubic hair. I threw the towel around her back and pulled it from side to side, grating her spine dry.
Esther brusquely repossessed her towel and tossed it on the floor. “I want you badly,” she said, her voice firm. Then she continued speaking with slightly irate intonation. “From the first day I had you here, I fantasized about having sex with you. It wasn’t what I had in mind when I invited you to live in my house. To be honest with you, I thought only of surrogating my migrated sibling.”
Hand in hand we walked to her bedroom, as if in slow motion, as if we were actors in a pornographic flick, being watched in a cadre-by-cadre regime of play by a pervert, who was relishing every small detail. The totality of my out of body experience was stunning. This intrepid march towards the eradication of my virginity was and was not happening to me.
Penumbra of the bedroom shaped into panic that sluiced through my defenseless mind, giving out vague, malodorous odors of immorality and indecisiveness, suggesting to run away, perhaps in the precise manner of Esther’s wayward children: the faster and the farther, the better. But that was a late call -- the inner protests had flagged under the rebounded assaults of lust, the instrumental force for cohesiveness of life on this planet.
As I lay sandwiched between silky sheets, groping insatiably at Esther’s body who meanwhile prepared to straddle me in a decisive, grotesquely unilateral fashion, I felt overwhelmed with peculiar fuzziness. Rays of languor shot through my nerve ends and mollified their edginess. Instantaneously I became infinitely torpid in my light-headedness. In the state of this utter docility I desired, with the remnants of my will, to be overpowered and fucked, but not crudely, lest I would be snatched out from my dopey litany.
My penis slackened, but didn’t lose its momentum as Esther’s bent her head and encircled its baldhead with her lips and resolutely sucked on it. After a few model strokes, the slacker was on high alert again.
For a moment, she withdrew from my touch, and I could see the silhouette of her slim body projected against the curtained window, dimly aglow with the streetlight. She planted her knees firmly apart, arched her buttocks and lowered her black triangle, her cunt, to my thoroughly demented “little Piotr,” my Petya, my glorious and soon to be experienced organ in recreation, and some day procreation, a carrier of my DNA, a holder of ineffable carnal pleasures, an uncircumcised, white Russian phallus.
Gently holding my penis at its base, Esther eased it into her wetted cunt, until it entered her to the hilt. She squeezed and squeegeed the engorged shaft, as if she were a grounded airplane being fueled for those extra miles. Contrary to my insipient assumption, logically based on the joy of the foreplay, the initial thrust caused me an aching sensation at the foreskinned globular diaphragm, ultra sensitive from under-exposure. It grated against the vaginal walls, and ruptured with sharp, but bearable pain. The lubricated velvety insides of Esther’s cunt blunted the inflammatory sensation with inculcated gyrating motion: there is definitely something transcendently mollifying about the in-and-out propulsion of morphed male and female bodies.
A friend of mine, who had served a year-sentence of self-exile as an exchange student in Seattle, referred to a life-long restlessness of “Little Piotr” as to a car seeking a parking lot. If to seek parking lot was the singular goal of mine too, then that night it precariously double-parked.
Meanwhile I had migrated within my internal migration, sacked down the manhole to an unmapped terrain, suavely tripping down with an impending collision quivering at the dissected crust. Esther seasoned her sonorous groans with dirty English words; her head shoved backwards, the inwards of her hips -- succulent pistons, accelerating its revolutions per second. For a brief moment it appeared to me she had devoured me in my entirety, seeping me out into her womb, like a cup of coke through a plastic straw, and then spewing me out upon the silky sheets, where my deconstructed self kneaded a genetic pool, from which my identity had to reconstruct itself molecule by molecule.
I must have faded, dazed by the intensified propulsions, administered by thrashing in passionate frenzy Esther, very briefly, I believe, for I had been injected to consciousness by Esther’s emphatic words. “Now you fuck me, silly boy.” She pulled out and exhausted, sprawled on the sheets, panting like a greyhound that had just delivered a shot rabbit to the feet of its hunting master.
With my sweaty hand I took my penis that trembled perceptibly, as if an earthquake transpired under its fundament. Its shaft was densely covered with sticky tarpaulin of Esther’s vaginal emanations. They reeked with malodorous, *mal de mer odor disorienting my vertebrate. I fumbled in the precarious penumbra of the queen-size bed, seeking out the target, flaunting my penis as if it were an unsheathed sword, or perhaps a semi-automatic assault rifle.
“Right behind ya, silly boy.”
Esther’s hands snaked down my shoulders, her fingers twiddled with my nipples, while she diligently licked my neck. I recoiled, swept by a violent impulse, as if the axons of my nipples were directly wired into the macho side of my brain, and grabbed Esther by the flunks. With my left hand wedged under her buttocks, and right directing my penis, I rammed into Esther, simultaneously prostrating her against the duck-felt pillows with the weight of my body.
Meeting no resistance, I lunged, in now familiar, *practiced in-and-out motion. I administered three thrusts, when enormous lightness overwhelmed me, depriving me of control power. Ridiculous thought flashed in my mind: I can fly.
And immediately a fall commenced. A confident finger burrowed into my anus, crescent of a nail scraped against the tender wall, an electric charge pierced through the center of the agonizingly thrashing penis, detonating it. The explosion was accompanied by an implosion. The database of information: memories, emotions, experience, languages, understanding unloaded with a zillion megabytes per split moment through the miniscule slit at the apex of my penis.
My groans were unrecognizable to me, they sounded altogether feminine. It was like I had been at great pains to wane my build-up, relinquish my desire, utterly unwilling to come.
I slackened, my ardor ebbing away, and resolved to disengage, but Esther pulled me back. She said, “I want to suck up all of you. Lie still.” Then she said sorrowfully, “It’s always such a pity to feel it shrink, die.” Then a second or two later, “I haven’t been with a man for so long, I almost forgot how good it feels.”
Finally I pulled myself out and rolled out to the side. I was spent, emptied, wasted. I let time and space conundrum return to its normalcy. I lay still, staring at the ceiling, gazing into the darkness -- the streetlight behind the window was ominously off.
Esther said from her side of the bed. “Don’t you fall in love on me, Stas. I didn’t bring you from Russia for this. I promise you right now, this will not happen again. I’ll be on guard from now on. Don’t worry I won’t go after you or anything. And also.” She paused, carefully choosing her words. “I want you to promise me that you won’t tell about this . . . incident to anyone, not even to your mother.”
I was smiling, couldn’t help it: serotonin had secreted in indecent dosages in my brain. I said. “I won’t say. Promise.”
Next day Esther and I took our habitual walk up the ridge. She pointed out at the houses that had been rebuilt after being consumed by Great Oakland Fire back in ’81. When we were passing by a kindergarten, Esther stopped, wedged her fingers into the mesh surrounding the perimeter of the backyard and said, not really addressing me, but rather her own brooding, post-coital self. “I wonder if these adopted children are being sexually abused by their foster parents. I wonder why those parents never bothered to have children of their own when they could. I wonder if it’s the way of modern desire, to be perennially stimulated, but spent out on nothing. I wonder if these children, when they grow up, will hate their foster parents for their selfishness. I wonder, time and again about it.”
Esther then turned to me. There were tears in her eyes. In the light of day, I couldn’t help noticing that her body was aged, in fact unattractive. She opened her mouth, words already formed in her mind, but she wouldn’t blueprint them into speech. She just stood still, her body heaving with sobs.
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