Chapter 3

We cuddle drunkenly, semi-random touches on nipples, wrists and thighs.

Here we are in the dressing room, doors slamming shut, lips open and breath hot in my face. A long kiss, and I tug down my shirt and bra and fondle the small breasts with firm nipples with my fingers. Hard as unripe, tiny grapes.

The intoxicating smell of light sweat of a healthy horny girl. It turns you on more than any fucking video, visual and auditory scenes are inferior in their power to influence the ancient olfactory centres of the reptilian brain. Crazy rock hard boner.

Now chirping lightning on her trousers, feeling the girl between her legs already wet. Trembling and eager to be fucked by this mature male looming over her. A flower beneath the bee. A spring.

Pulling down my jeans, hers and mine.

“No, no, don't," she says.

Nice. One last female resistance. I've got it. I pull down her knickers, turning her face to the wall, my fingers already inside her wet, burning vagina.

“Oh...”, the girl obediently relaxed, and I adjust the head to the elastic bosom and enter from behind.

The sweet child.

Her palms has pressed against the wall.

While I bit her neck and fucked her like it.

Was the last time I'd ever fuck her?

Then flopped into the chair with her ankles spread on the armrests.

Torturing her tight pussy.

Arina's breathing was loud and gusty with sobs.

While hovering over her like a rock, the goodness of hot breath against her neck.

Slender fingers crumpled the red cloak on the cushion of the chair.

“Uncle Paul, godfather... Wha-what are you doing...?”

"It's so nice to have her like this," a lonely spark of thought flashes through my mind.

Then, copulating, i reached over to the bar for the uncorked bottle. A couple of good sips of champagne from the throat, to treat myself and my magical partner in crime.

Behind the wall, the mother chats with the Great One while the daughter with her legs spread moans, taking in her mother's once favorite. What's not a deliberately wonky moral offence?

The girl shamelessly reached for the cock with her lips: dared from excitement and alcohol. Skillfully caressed it for about ten minutes, rhythmically smacking and speeding up the movements of fingers at the wide-open glossy lips. Good girl. That's a lot of spunk. You could teach courses on "The Art of Loving" or "How to give pleasure when you're nineteen and he's forty-five".

Someone knocked insistently on the door twice, then gave an obnoxiously goofy chuckle and got the hell out. Who was that moron? Bottles and glasses clinked behind the wall.

The muffled music that seeped from the dance floor mingled with my growls of pleasure as I cum in Arina's mouth. My knees shook, it felt so good.

I love orgasms with a sensual new girl. Love, love, love. Isn't that one of the meanings of life? Right, not an eight-hour unbearable workday with a boss and a hierarchical cuntocracy of alpha male sixes, office owners, corporations and other shit.

It's hot in the room, and we're happily sweating and catching our breath, reclining on the couch, smiling and smoking.

Closing my eyes and exhaling the smoke. It was like going back in time and getting fucked young Tizzy again. This happened in reality, so Arina's pleasant body is taken for granted.

The Great took us to the sea.

Sid, who couldn't get me on the phone, arranged a tour of the studio for Tizzy Pizzy and the photographer and gave them sambuca and told a hundred times that Paul would be here soon. Sid's great.

Arina texts her mother, "Nick's here to pick me up, I'm spending the night at his place. Kiss."

Two days later, the scam broke — Arina posted a photo of her feet on a glass table with a bucket of champagne, forgetting to switch off geolocation. What a dope.

We didn't answer texts or calls, lying in bed and on the beach. A guy called Nick, Arina's in a relationship with him, cut all the wires, paired up with Tizzy Pizzy barking a thousand times each; and so an enlightened mother knocked on the window.

“Tell me about you and Mum”, Arina asks.

“All right. Just bring the glasses and get some dry wine from the bar, Gabe always has great wines. I want atmospheric, put on some Pink Floyd, please.”

The girl poured the wine, stood with closed eyes at the round window with a panorama of the setting sun between the silhouettes of houses. Probably mentally preparing herself for the revelations.

We sat down and I spoke in a grotesquely romantic half-whisper, reminiscing:

“My mum once pulled me out of a depression.

For one day. I didn't love her. We just slept together a time or two before. Studying together, I was nearly a virgin pumping iron in the gym to Metallica's called Reload.

She's a pretty little simpleton, accountant's daughter.

To sound close, she told me three times that she listens to Harry Morrison. Harry. I meant Jim Morrison. Who the fuck is Harry? Oh, shame on you. Just be yourself and don't be a jerk to please anyone.

On some New Year's Eve party, I ignored her without looking in her direction and stopped chatting. It's like Mum became invisible.

We haven't seen each other since. A sharp breakdown in communication.

In the days of Led Wind story`s beginning, on a rainy lonely evening, burning logs in the cooker of my old house, called her for the first time in years. Ten years ago, you were already running to primary school and dimples adorned your cheeks as they do now. Brown-eyed.”