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The first time Naia sees him, it is in the mirror of her compact at the Black Narcissus Bar. She is scrutinizing her lipstick, pouting at a reflection gone wan in a year of late nights like this one, when suddenly an elbow jostles her arm and she sees a face across the room, caught in the tiny circle of her mirror. She angles the compact to frame him to the best advantage, as though she were looking through a camera lens. He's too thin to be handsome, she decides. The only fleshy thing about him is his mouth, which has a kind of Botticelli pout. The rest of his face has been pared down to little more than spirit and bone. Perhaps it is that very look of the ascetic, of the saint in his celibate wilderness that makes her pussy suddenly wet. It has been a long night. Naia's lipstick is smudged and provides a perfect excuse for keeping the mirror open a little longer. She sees the manipulation of brush and color as a kind of foreplay, the careful stroking as a seduction. She paints her lips like a geisha, leaning on her elbows and watching him through the corner of her eye. He has not noticed her. When she can stand the tension no longer, she rises from her seat. The skirt she wears is long and tight. Her legs are pressed together beneath the sheath of merino wool like the nether portions of a mermaid. When she walks, her steps are necessarily small; she glides, shackled by her hem. The hobble skirt is a necessary ingredient of her desire. The sensation of being sealed and constrained is an aphrodisiac to her. Her thighs, pressed tightly together, cradle between them a throbbing nest of liquid heat. When Naia approaches his table, glass of wine in hand, he at last looks up at her, but only for an instant. Determined, she stays, her hip leaning into the edge of his table. She sets her wine down in front of him and asks if the seat beside him is free. It is a ridiculous question. The bar is no longer full. She could easily sit somewhere else. But he looks at her again and nods, and this is all the invitation she needs. In a moment she has swiveled her hips neatly down onto the ancient banquette. Her arm touches his as she reaches for her wine. The swell of her breast, uplifted, shows very plainly a hardened nipple, pushing through the thin silk knit of her shirt. He drags on his cigarette. How funny it looks, she thinks. He's like a schoolboy showing off. He is very young, early twenties at most. The sweater he is wearing, up close, seems shabby. He smells of smoke and the sharp tang of unwashed hair. She is not sure why, but this derelict mixture only increases her desire. Now he is aware of her too. Naia sees the quiver of his flaring nostrils as he breathes in her perfume. L'Heure Bleu. His eyes lock on hers a long moment, and the tension in his face starts to relax. She smiles at him and pushes her wine glass across the table in invitation. As he drinks, she studies him, wondering what it is about him that has made every nerve in her body raw. His face is full of history, like all European faces are. In the lines of his high cheekbones she can trace the dusty treks of Magyar invaders, the long-silent scream of a woman raped on the shore of the amber sea. His long fingers are stained with what looks like old paint. Underneath his nails there are fine lines of dirt. Naia, refined and meticulously groomed, ought to be put off by this, but instead feels her arousal intensify. She wants the roughened edges of him, the stubbled cheek that will make her thighs raw. They don't talk. When she tries to engage him in conversation, he only nods and gives her a fleeting smile. She is not sure he understands either German or English. In a Bohemian bar buried amidst the warren of cobblestoned streets close to the river, it is entirely possible that he does not. Most of the regular patrons are foreigners. The dislocation is part of the anything here. After an hour and two more glasses of wine, all she has gotten from him is his name: Krisjanis. It sounds Slavic and old, one of those names from a country beyond the pale, a hinterland. She gets him to write it out on a napkin. His thigh against hers is warm and hard, spare of flesh and wiry with muscle. Naia can feel the tension in his body. Her eyes slant downwards, traveling over his worn black jeans, his crotch. He looks uncared for, like someone unloved for a very long time. She likes thinking that about him, likes imagining his long unslaked desire, all the hotter for his youth. She imagines him furtively touching himself in the darkness of a night train, a third class compartment hurtling west from Cracow or Riga or Prague, the gasp of his furtive orgasm silenced against his fist amongst a throng of snoring passengers. Maybe he had a girl back at home who let him fuck her standing up in a stairwell, in an empty studio after-hours, against a crumbling wall on a deserted street. Maybe that was only what he dreamed about. Naia, staring serenely into his passive face, glories in a vision of that same face contorted in orgasm, and pushes away the image of a long-legged Slavic girl. Instead, she shudders involuntarily as she imagines him spending copiously, jet after jet of hot cum, into her own perfectly painted mouth. Now he is looking at her more or less steadily, exhaling smoke, a long lock of hair falling over one eye. Head cocked to the side, he studies her as though she were a lump of clay he wanted to shape with his fingers. Naia is sure now that he must be an artist. It explains his intensity, his abstraction, and his grubby appearance. She returns his stare boldly, her smile sphinx-like. He must know that she wants him. His thigh against hers presses harder. The bar is very loud, music and laughter blending into a more or less monolithic wall of sound. Conversation would be impossible, even if they spoke the same language. Naia makes a little helpless gesture with her hands to convey this thought, and Krisjanis rewards her with one of his rare, crooked smiles. She leans close, as though to whisper in his ear, and?changing course?kisses him instead. It's a long kiss. After the first tentative touch, Naia captures his head in her hands and drinks from his mouth, heedless of anything beyond the penetration of his tongue. She is thirsty for him, too thirsty not to plumb him to the depths, even here in the Black Narcissus, with people all around them. Krisjanis tastes of wine and smoke and the stronger euphoric of youth. He shifts slightly in his seat as the long moments drag on and they don't stop kissing, not even for air. She imagines him hardening in his jeans, his smooth boy's cock begging for a night with a woman, a night on clean sheets, straddled and stroked to satiation. The reaction of her own body is every bit as acute. Under her tight skirt, she is half-crazed with the desire to part her thighs, to take his hand in hers and guide it to her sex. He is fondling her nipple through her thin black silk shirt, a little awkwardly, screened from view by the back of the banquette and the wealth of her wine-red hair. The sense of stealing towards a public orgasm takes Naia to the verge of having one. "Come with me," she whispers breathlessly. She fumbles for money in her bag, and leaves it on the table as she stands. He understands from her actions that she is leaving, not that she has extended an invitation. He looks disappointed, so disappointed that it is almost comical, but then she takes his hand in hers and pulls him to his feet. It isn't far to her flat, but even so they have a hard time getting there. Alcohol and sex together make them unsteady on their feet. They have to stop several times en route, whenever a shadowy corner presents itself, to kiss again. He presses into her, his cock hard against her belly, and pulls her shirt free of her waistband, making her squirm as the cold night air touches her skin. Naia leans her head back against the wall, thighs straining against her skirt, and lets Krisjanis draw her shirt upwards into a clumsy roll of cloth, until his fingers have closed on her breasts. He breaks the kiss then, but only to move his mouth lower, sketching a wet trail with his tongue over her straining torso. The river is not far off. She can smell its cool dankness, the sexual effluvium of naiades. The lapping of the deep green water hypnotizes her like the lapping of his tongue. Minutes may have passed, or hours. She is conscious only of the burgeoning tension between her legs, the slippery flow of hot secretions overflowing from her vulva. She is a nymph in a honey river; a gasping gartered nymph with a boy's paint-stained hands yanking at the hem of her skirt. He has not understood that she has a flat. He means to take her here, in the street, she realizes. Naia struggles, trying to push him away. She needs to make him see that only a block away there is a room where they can indulge every sexual whim, all night, without fear of interruption. He kneels at her feet, kissing her ankles as his hands stretch upwards as far as they can go. His fingers behind her knees make her shudder and her words of protestation die in her throat. The skirt is too narrow to push past her knees. Naia can feel his frustration as he tugs at the expensive cloth. Once more she tries, incoherently, to tell him that she has a room with a bed, that it is only a few steps further down the street. Breasts half-bared, nipples wet with his saliva, she breathes the night air raggedly, unable to catch her breath. She is helpless, too far gone to make him understand anything beyond the imperative of her desire. Down by the river, swans are fluttering their wings. She can hear their oddly discordant voices as they preen themselves on the mossy bank. Krisjanis hears them too. He lifts his head, looking towards the river, as if to pinpoint the place where the sounds are coming from. Naia, eyes half-closed, presses her fist to her belly, trying to relieve the agony of her womb. He takes both of her hands in his, rising from his knees slowly. On theway up he pauses, burying his face in her skirt, breathing the strong exhalation of her arousal, molding his mouth to her cleft through the heavy fabric. For a wild moment, she wants him to tear her skirt from hem to waist. Never mind that it is her favorite, never mind what it cost. What she wants right now, with excruciating urgency, is his mouth on her cunt. He is breathing like someone who has been running hard. In the moonlight she sees that he is painfully distended, his jeans bulging below the hem of his sweater. Visions of her bed no longer tempt her. She wants him now. Crazily, she reaches behind herself, trying to unbutton the waistband of her skirt. It's utter madness. The old woman who lives upstairs will probably call the police when she hears them having sex through the open window (as Naia is sure she will). They are in a shadowy corner, but out in the open where anyone looking could see them. It will be an ugly scene; Krisjanis will probably end up deported. Naia doesn't care as long as she comes first. And then, miraculously, Krisjanis lifts her up in his arms. Homeless, a stranger in town, he is taking her somewhere. He carries her across the road and pushes through the line of trees along the river's edge. Wet poplar leaves hit Naia's face. Branches catch at her hair. Swans, seen from upside down, loom all around her. The grass is littered with glass bottles and sweet wrappers, the detritus of tourists come to see the castle and the bridge. Krisjanis picks his way to the verge of the river and lays Naia down in the midst of curious waterbirds. Naia moistens her lips. The dignified white birds, after a momentary flapping of wings and craning of long necks, settle down into silence. They are oddly comforting, ranged around the human pair like feathered sentinels, guardians from a fairy story. She hears of the rasp of Krisjanis' zipper and reaches out her hand to touch him. His penis is long and uncircumcised, a pulsing column of flesh arcing upwards like the throat of a swan. Half-swooning in her narrow skirt she lets him bury himself in her mouth, one hand pulling his foreskin back. Her geisha lips, smeared from too much kissing, close around him and begin to move up and down. He kneels with his legs apart, straining to keep himself upright as her tongue makes him jerk and groan. Naia opens her eyes and looks up at him, wanting to watch the mounting frenzy in his face, the transformation of his tranquil features as the orgasm approaches. When he parts his lips and closes his eyes, she can feel wave after wave of fresh lubrication surging from her vagina. For her, his face is pure pornography as sex distorts it into a rigid mask. She takes hold of his narrow hips to steady him, and feels him bucking into her mouth, pushing himself so deep that he chokes her. He is clutching her, his fingers bruising the flesh of her shoulders. He doesn't come fast. Naia's cunt is so engorged that she feels she will explode into a fountain of hot blood if he does not take her soon. The frenzied movements of her mouth on his cock are masochistic and pleading. With every stroke of her tongue, she fears his release. She is sobbing, squirming in the grass. Krisjanis takes her breasts in his hands and begins to pull at the long, thick nipples that protrude from the lace of her brassière. He means it as solace, but it only increases her agony. There are tears in her eyes, as much from her own frustration as from the penis crammed down her throat. As she runs her tongue up and down his distended shaft, she squeezes her thighs together in desperate rhythm, needing to rub against something; needing his hand, her hand, anything. Blood pounding in her clitoris, penis pounding in her throat, she drops her hands from around his waist and reaches behind herself, pulling at her own zipper so hard that it breaks. He pulls out of her suddenly, his cock still blessedly hard. In the patchy, shadowed light of a half moon glimpsed between trees, his slanted cheekbones are streaked with sweat. He has pulled his frayed sweater off over his head, and straddles her, his penis raging. All around them, swans stir curiously. Naia feels like Leda, awash with lust amongst the reeds. Now, finally, the skirt peels away. Krisjanis tugs at it, none too gently, and her long white thighs emerge in black silk stockings with lacy tops. She wears no panties, and he growls like an animal as she spreads her legs, offering her open sex to him beseechingly. He takes her ankles in his hands, drawing her legs up over his shoulders. Crushed in the grass, with swans rising restlessly all around her, Naia lets out a long hoarse cry as he shoves himself, his whole magnificent length, into her up to the hilt. And now at last she gets the rough, raw sex she needs. She wallows in it, pinned obscenely by a boy half her age on a riverbank littered with garbage. The sum total of reality is her vagina, plowed raw; his penis, ramming deep. It's symbiotic. They feed on each other, over and over again, both ravenous, both gluttons. When Krisjanis finally comes, biting her shoulder to stifle his cries, Naia feels herself nourished; a desert replenished. On his back, in bleeding glyphs, her long nails carve out the cantos of her passion. |
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12.07.06: Scarlet Letters -- in case it isn't glaringly obvious -- is currently
on an extended hiatus. The web has changed, we've changed, and
we're trying to figure out how we both fit together now, which isn't a process we want to rush. If you're looking for more current SL-related content, you can
have check out upcoming books from editor Heather Corinna and previous co-editor Hanne Blank, check out Heather's current sexuality sites, or explore sites through the femmerotic network. We hope to be back with you soon, as fresh, challenging and
unexpected as ever.
In the meantime, by all means, enjoy our years of past content,
all of which still remain in the public and subscription areas.
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