“Tamara, darling, when is your mother getting home?”
“In an hour, Mr. Ivanov, the usual time. As soon as I finish these dishes I start supper. You know that.”
Mr. Ivanov was an old family friend. My mother trusted him to look out for me after school, even though I was a senior now. Still, he’s been good to us since Father died when I was twelve. He takes us out to dinner, brings flowers once a week, and sometimes helps pay a bill, or ‘loans’ my mother money. He promised my father he’d see me through high school, even help me with college.
Mr. Ivanov’s in his fifties, and actually rather good looking—for an older man. He’s very pale, jokes that he’s a real ‘white’ Russian, and has very dark blue eyes like lapis lazuli, and distinguished looking, slightly graying black hair. Even my friends think he’s handsome, for a grownup. He’s lean and very tall, six feet four. I’m five-ten, and enjoy feeling a ‘normal’ height with him.
After my father died, I started to have dreams about Mr. Ivanov in a way that bothered me. Even though I knew I couldn’t control what I dreamed, I began to feel strange, nervous around him, especially when he kept me company in the kitchen because that’s where my dreams always took place.
Typically, he comes up from behind while I’m at the sink or fridge, and rubs against me, up and down, back and forth. He blows on my neck or kisses it and I shiver and sigh, but I keep scrubbing the big soup pot (it’s always that big pot) or holding onto the fridge door. He speaks in Russian and though I don’t understand it, and it can’t really be Russian because I don’t speak it, I know what he’s saying—and it’s not nice.
In the dream he doesn’t do more than hold me and talk, or try to kiss me, but I become very aroused and always wake up frustrated and anxious, yet full of wonder about the man. And about myself.
* * * * *
I’ve never managed to retain the feelings of my dreams. I touch myself and wriggle about my bed, but end up only more frustrated. But—this evening it happened. My dreams came to life.
Mr. Ivanov came up behind me just as I finished rinsing the last teacup. He leaned into my back and reached over my shoulders to take hold of my breasts, bending down to blow softly, warmly, on my neck, behind my ears. He licked and nibbled at each lobe and blew on them to make me shiver.
It all seemed to happen as if in slow motion. I felt as if I were in one of my dreams but for his imposing erection above my ass—it curved against my spine, its base at the small of my back. His hands moved slowly all round my breasts, lightly but firm of purpose. Though I did nothing, simply stood still, I knew he could feel my hesitation, my stiffened posture.
“Tamara, let me do this. Please. Don’t speak, don’t do anything. Let me touch you. Let me give you pleasure.”
Honestly, I didn’t know what to say—or do—but I felt my crotch become damp, so I willed myself not to let him know how I felt. His breath seemed to make me quiver all over, as if little waves were moving under my skin. I felt my nipples tingle and get hard. I had to work at keeping still and quiet, but I could not control my rapid breathing.
He went under my shirt, quickly pulled my bra over my breasts and started rubbing my nipples, lightly, circling them as if his fingertips were feathers. I don’t know why, but I tried to hold my breath.
“Darling, your breasts are marvelous. I knew they would feel like this, I have studied them for years, watched them grow from little nubs to this. How I used to dream of kissing those newly budding pips when you barely reached my chest, and now my hands cannot hold them fully. Good lord, your nipples are large, and so stiff—like a real woman’s. You may just be eighteen, but your body and its responses are far beyond your youth—my lovely Tamarushka.”
He took each nipple between a big thumb and finger, squeezed a little, pulled out fast, then let go. He did this several times and finally I could not help myself—I actually squealed, yelped aloud, like a frightened puppy.
“Oh, god, please. Stop, Mr. Ivanov. Please, oh god… god… god.”
But I didn’t want him to stop, and he knew it.
He squeezed, pulled and pinched a few more times, groaning low into my ear, leaning his erection more forcefully against my spine. With each letting go of my nipples, my pussy throbbed, quickly soaking my panties through. I felt the heat between my legs, caught my scent rising up. He caught it too.
“Yes, darling girl, that’s your cunt. That strong, beautiful odor is your sex, the desire I have imagined and dreamed about for years. Let me touch it. Let me look at it, taste it.”
I could only moan my consent, my confused lust, yet I was frightened when he said taste it. I’d never imagined such a thing. Even in that moment I could not think what he really meant. Was it just a way of talking to women? Why would he want to even look at it?
He turned me around and pulled off my t-shirt, released my bra. Instantly I remembered the way he used to help mother put me to bed, how one night she told him to wait until I’d changed into my nightgown before coming into my room. I began to feel embarrassed then, but I did not know why. Now I wonder when his desires began. Did I know it, did I begin to want him then, at such a young age? Did I begin to fashion my dreams that long ago?
“Look at you. What a goddess you are—my own sweet tsaritza—I know you will be delicious.”
He led me out to the dining-room table, lifted me easily and laid me out flat on my back. With his right hand, he clasped my nearest breast and squeezed round so that a dome of it was squeezed upwards. He bent over and took the little hill into his mouth. It felt as if a big fish had latched onto it, his mouth was so warm and wet, his tongue dancing on my nipple. His thick lips opened wider and I thought he was trying to take my whole breast in his mouth, but he sucked hard, pulled up fast, and released my nipple the way he’d done with his thumb and finger.
He repeated the sucking and release, endlessly it seemed, while pulling and rubbing my other nipple with his left hand. I was moaning intensely now, and groaning ‘oh god’ and other tired words and unintelligible phrases. The pulsing in my cunt accelerated and my legs involuntarily stiffened, my toes curled under.
“Stop, I’m going to faint. Oh, god, help me. Stop, stop. What’s happening? God, stop.”
It makes me laugh now to think of my illiterate and blasphemous lust.
“Tamara, I want you totally, but there isn’t time for me to take you properly.”
He paused, seemingly unsure for a moment. I became anxious that he really was going to stop.
“My dear, I do know you are virgin.”
Virgin. I was stunned at the sound of the word. I shut my eyes tight. How could he know that? How could he presume? I was an American girl of eighteen with no father. I lived in North Hollywood. I’d had two real boyfriends. He knew that, he’d met them. Brad and I had been dating nearly three months now. I felt like crying.
“Darling, what is it?”
I opened my eyes and looked into my seducer’s eyes for the first time since he’d come up behind me. I was lost to him in that moment.
“Yes, Mr. Ivanov, I am a virgin.”
Then I burst into tears.
“Shush, shush. My sweet Tamarushka. Do not be shy. Do not be embarrassed. You are virgin, yes, but you are ripe—for me, for life. I am now completely certain you are ready. You trust me, yes? Breathe now, slow. Be still. We continue.”
I trembled, trying to relax my body. I looked into his glittering eyes and smiled.
“Good, good, my beauty. Now—I am going to satisfy you quickly, my dear. You will experience something truly wonderful, like magic.”
He undid my jeans, pulled them off along with my wet panties, and placed me so that my pelvis was at the table’s edge. He knelt on the floor and put a leg over each shoulder. I could feel his breath as he neared my crotch with his face.
I suddenly realized I was completely naked and laid out on the dining-room table, Mr. Ivanov’s head was between my legs, and my mother was due home in thirty minutes. I felt trapped and perfectly vulnerable. It excited me.
“Bless you, my sweet, bless you for not shaving. I know it’s the fashion, but I prefer a big natural bush. The thick hair holds your scent, your great wetness. You are already nearly soaked. I will drink you full up.”
He breathed heavily a few times then plunged in.
I kept up my incoherent moans and pleas while Mr. Ivanov ate me out. That’s what it’s called I now know, but while it happened I knew nothing, simply felt as I’d never felt before except in my dreams—beyond my dreams. I can remember the moment I stopped thinking.
I clasped my mouth tightly with both hands to keep from screaming, and would have bucked myself off the table if my thighs had not been held so firmly. My entire body shuddered for what seemed a small eternity of sheer heat and pleasure that was near pain for its intensity. I felt my clitoris pulsating to implosion beneath the tip of his tongue. I did scream, behind my palm, over and over until the pleasure-pain began to ebb.
“Darling, your capacity for sexual joy has exceeded my imaginings. Our time is nearly up, so I shall bring you out a little more, then you must get dressed for your mother’s arrival.”
He continued with tender laps at my cunt—licks and kisses only. I felt my pleasure recede, then flow again, recede, flow, and die finally with the last tender buss to the swollen lips of my vulva.
* * * * *
“Mr. Ivanov, you are always generous, but why Champagne tonight?”
Mother and I were treated to a celebratory dinner that evening, supposedly for good news on a new business deal. That was his excuse for my not having started our supper.
“Mrs. Larin, it’s my pleasure to share my good fortune with you and your darling daughter. Please, both of you—drink, eat.”
He looked directly at me while filling my glass.
“Let us each look forward to life’s near delights.”
My fear returned suddenly so that I could feel my cheeks begin to redden, and had to look away. I could barely swallow a few bites. I drank slowly, afraid of losing the slightest bit of control. I could not look across the table at Mr. Ivanov and actually began to wonder what I should call him now, even mother did not use his first name after all these years. I wondered if mother had the slightest hint about us, about me, but I also knew I did not really care.
He and mother spoke as usual, of old times, their mutual friends and the old Russia. When they become nostalgic, they always revert to Russian. I was grateful to not understand. I sipped my Champagne and began to feel warm and relaxed, despite myself.
“Tamara, sweetheart, I have to work very late tomorrow so our dear friend is going to take you shopping for new shoes for the Winter Festival dance. Mr. Ivanov has offered to get you the shoes of your dreams. He will pick you up at school, so don’t dawdle with your friends, be outside at two-thirty sharp.”
My dreams? Oh, mother, if you only knew.
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