Oleg
Story’s scent surrounds me. I dream I’m grinding against her a*s, one hand possessively cupping her breast.
No, not a dream.
I blink in the morning light. I’m in my little lastochka’s bed with a raging hard-on shoved between her legs like a heat-seeking missile going for home.
She’s awake. I know because she pushes her a*s back against my lap and moans softly. I pinch and rub her n****e between my thumb and forefinger, pluck it into a stiff peak. My hand is under her tank top—apparently it sleep-walked there. My d**k is still in my briefs, fortunately.
I’ve never wanted to speak so badly. Fourteen years since my tongue was clipped, and this is the moment that gives me the most pain. Because I have all manner of dirty-talk swimming in my head, and I don’t have a way to get it out.
