Adult erotic story of an intensely sexual secret rendezvous
The sudden darkness and suddenly the black window were a lighter square behind the Russian’s head. No too tight home runs this time, just the sudden death of the all-electric light. Outside, the village was blind and silent, suffocated by the snow under the empty sky. Beyond the rickety fences and silent barns, the winter forest tumbled downhill towards the lake, it covered with snow a ghostly ribbon of low luminescence in the darkness of the night. Go up the hill to the shore, a dog barked, weary.
Through the frozen water, Banje and everything in the south of Kosovo was empty, while in the north, the few lights of Vitkoviće and the lights of the border crossing arc twinkled happily, casting shadows on the ice and climbing through the sawtooth blackness of the trees in a scribble of fire. The Serbs were playing with them again.
Sighing, she got up from her seat on her thighs and put down her white shirt – a real Brookes Brothers from a real shop in the United States – and walked with ease towards the next table and the box of Matches and candles. The flare and the slow swell of candle light cast deep, bright shadows across the room and painted her bare sides and the skin of her belly with rich, warm gold. It was the light of Holbein, Raphael, Caravaggio.
The chiaroscuro was where Miranda Allthrop lived, hidden in the hard shadow next to the light of an honest life, or as a ghostly person moving in sight. Here she was not even Miranda. Miranda was a shadow, a memory she had left somewhere west of Brno on the way to Prague. Here she was again Albanian, the English name thrown away, her second, (third?), Identity of a maid cliché at the Hotel Neženja. Here she was behind the curtain. It was no longer iron, and officially didn’t exist at all, but it was there. She was isolated. A small, deniable, disposable piece of Her Majesty’s government, standing in the dark on the edge of this half-forgotten and barely postponed war.
During all of her years with Six, she had never been asked of him, nor had she ever considered herself a honey trap. And yet he was there – an honest FSB colonel FSB – sitting on his shirtless couch.
But it was not that. It didn’t work, it was something else. Escape? No. Sanctuary. A place beyond the sharp world, their world of dead drops and black bags, crypto and cutouts, the world of their many aliases and their disappeared. They met for the first time when she was hanging out in the hotel garden in bright summer when the lake and the sky were twin planes of burning blue, a speckled with streaks of exhausted clouds, the other flooded with twinkling sun and the sails of boats. The earth seemed dark in comparison, the greens were deep and rich and the shadows inked. She remembered the bloom of sweat on her upper lip, the damp hair curls stuck on her forehead. His voice. A deep, but not threatening tone, more like water on stones under a bridge somewhere, than the voice of the most powerful beast in the valley.
Of course, she knew who he was. She had been informed, as had he. She knew it as soon as the words he spoke filtered through the mask of her supposed self.
“It’s pretty, isn’t it?” Our bed of nails. And he looked at Gazivode Lake, its strategic importance, its controversial water and hydroelectric power hidden beneath the surface of this high summer day.
Tonight, though she has gone through the candle light and darkness, the golden light falling on a thigh here, the smooth curve of a buttock, a creature revealed in sketches among the curtains d & # 39; shadow. A slow, rotating flame, presenting each plane and curve half lit, each hollow, its own Russian. Feeling the firm and eager clasp of lace and silks, she knew the sure effect. Provocative factor. She giggled inside as a joke.
He was sitting shirtless, rolls of skin tight at the waist of his black belted pants. She knew her flat stomach would be warm and dry, her hair surprisingly soft. That his lower back was slightly damp, that he would slightly smell of leather and perhaps wood smoke if he had been in the forest, among the separatists. It was far from their first rodeo. It was back in the woods buzzed with autumn moss, in his reclining position overlooking the deck and the M2, pants tight under his knees and the binoculars stuck in his back.
Above and behind him, the window was again black, his broad pugilist face hidden in the shadow. In the black mirror of the glass, she could only see the abstract fragments of herself, and the world was closed to the outside.
As she moved, making slow steps like a cat, the bows like butterflies on her hips, the thin straps biting into her thighs, as she moved, she felt her inner music build up. The slow ropes and the solemn drum beat swelled behind her hips, and she turned her back on him, pushed the accumulated silk away from her thrown kimono, settled on her lap and started dancing.
Once astride her, she could once again feel the strength of her thighs, their rigid length along hers. She crouched down, creaking, feeling the warmth of her bare skin along her back, the powerful crest of intimate muscle pulsating against her bare hip. He reached out and stroked her stomach, running her fingers over her tight muscles, banging on the dark mole above her navel, reaching, descending. She pushed her hands away.
It spreads wider, buries its naked skin in the curly fabric, its sex a bar of heat between its buttocks apart, rising, contracting along his hip. The tight twill of his pants slid down his stockings, but roughly along the skin above, the inner skin, the soft sweep in his lace self. She loved it. Scratches and burns, slight skin grip on the seam. Slowly falling into itself, she allowed her itinerant hands and let them go, above, before, behind, below. Hard hands. The hands of a hard man, his hands of a hard man, their calluses grating on his belly and lightly grabbing the lace of her bra, her breasts suddenly, suddenly, full of weight and heat and the small, pulsating, beating, tingling belly and navel pulse and full blast, pressing her hard against her heated panties.
She was suddenly completely wet and loose and gasped, that flow. His two hands made circles hurried over her breasts, squeezing, pulling, pulling, the thick rope of him rigid between her buttocks, and her hands plunging down and inward, hungry, hungry for her. Behind her eyes, deep in the wrinkled recesses of her memory, she remembered the first time that he had placed her broad and strong fingers. Just a touch, just above her hip, nothing really, but he had slipped his hand under her spring raincoat to do it, and she had flinched. But not far, oh no, flinched in him, like a cat wanting to be petted. Eager there between the aisles of the store, among canned soup and canned fish. He kissed her shortly after. Behind an umbrella on the shore swept by the rain.
In the snowy house, it is a wooden frame covered with feet of snow, and its windows only flash fire and candles, fleeting memories pass and she – this woman who was once Miranda Allthorp – is back, in the moment and just that, all of the senses opened wide.
Wide as it is, her questing hands pull her even further, separate her and pull and pull on her underwear, this strange armor that exposes a little more than she hides. She holds her hands, half guiding their powerful fingers, half preventing her from finding her so wet.
And then he is inside the thong, the lace stretched over the back of his hand, the string tight against his buttocks, a sudden slippery wet, and his fingers caress his own thighs while the gusset splits his lips . Her fingers are hard, shiny circles and her quick lips nibble and kiss her back and arm. She stretches out wider, a dancer stretches, hot, delicious pulling in the inside of her thighs, leans back, arching up to reach the bra. She awkwardly releases a single breast before finding herself fucked tirelessly. Trembling, she begins to create her own little shiny circles.
She is the whole rising voice now, her panties spread, her fingers flattened quickly on her spread lips, her hands and her mixture in its juice, squeezing, rubbing, spreading. Suddenly wincing, she slowed down her hands, felt a short warm ripple of orgasm, small, a hint of bigger things.
She licks his own moisture from his blunt fingers, and he starts again, his hand in his hair, slow, slow, fast, quick, slow, grouped, spread out, encircling. And she starts dancing again, her wide hips describing wider circles, frantic contractions of the stomach and bitten lips and she leans forward. His hands on the table, trembling. He leans in her back, kisses greedily and spreads the thong, he is tight on his left cheek, his thumb sinking, she feels the bruise forming as he licks then nibbles, bites, nibbles its propagation and its desperate skull.
– it rocks, creaking back, hot and trembling –
– bends over and turns around –
– kneel –
– a deep kiss –
His cock is huge under his hand, wet through the fabric. She looks at the smell of warm wood, wool and grass and smoke. The smells of a satyr, of Pan himself. She loosens her belt, her tail flapping against her hand, the clicking of the buckle bringing her breath into her throat. And her sex springs freely, flexible, fleshy, dangerous in the dark. A dark fantasy seized her, a snapshot of her quick hands on her, the belt wrapped around her throat like a necklace, and she swallowed her sex. It is a nice cock, clean and straight on her slightly fluffy belly, warm and hard under her hand, her lips looking. She lets him go. It trembles. He starts.
She kisses his balls while he caresses and then it’s his turn. Mouth and hands. At first she can only kiss and lick her, take the head in her mouth. He is intimidating, powerful, entirely in both hands from his fist tucked up to the shiny tip so hard so hot inside his warm velvet sleeve, so salty so soft under his tongue. Delusional, she shakes her head, takes it inside, the hard ridge against the roof of her mouth, more deeply. Halfway through and his blunt ball head presses on the back of his tongue. Dear god, how to get everything in. Butterflies, small licks on the head while she cuts it.
– it is curved now, so full –
She gets up, watches him caress with ease as she removes her thong. She moves astride him, but he is so beautiful to look at, her hands so skilful that she changes her angle, lies down on her knees and brings him her trembling wet slit next to his point stretched, feels his fingers, his knuckles, his cock, pushing his crux, feels it open spontaneously, hot and hot.
The right hand caresses long and hard, his left finds his ass. A single pungent slap that swirls through it, from the prickling hip to the clitoris passing through the nipple and a shaken breath. Then his fingers find it. As he fucks her, he rubs his cock along her wide open slit.
It is full of heat and light, loose and liquid. When connected, the two are wet, slippery, salty, necessary.
– the stretched straps bite –
– she is standing –
– shaking the legs of a foal, awkward –
She takes his cock in his sharp and strong fist. Long circular blows, concentrated on the head, then turn it over and get on it. His hard cock is a hot bar, a pillar pressed against his pubis. She settles down, finds the place and getting up brings him back under her, roughly, crushing her roughly against her swollen clitoris and sinking towards him, their moans mingling.
– rapid climbs squatting through burning quads,
– big cock, tight, stretching
She leans back and gains weight on her hands. It is nothing other than burning in his quadriceps and triceps, indescribable fullness, stretching and swell.
– fast fast fast –
– pour and grind –
She resumes her dance turn, turns her hips around her spindle, feels the budding, the heat and rides for her life, thick and fast breath.
– noises of wet tablecloth spilling drops –
– faster faster now galloping –
– voices raised in jagged harmony –
She rides and pauses, rides and stops, her naked, inverted breast bouncing freely, completely forgotten in this flurry of need. Take a deep breath then gallop again, faster, faster, snatching the sounds of a woodland animal from its shady lover. Two, three small ripples of orgasm, the contraction of him too, silenced by his hips suddenly still motionless, small spurts as they become more humid.
– abandonment –
Then slowly, long, all the way up and down, tease, tease, perched right there on his tip, only half of him, still stretching, his hooded clit sliding and tripping over the crest of him, inside and outside.
– tense burning thighs –
– the increasing spiral of desire for discomfort from the heat of pleasure –
Trembling, slippery with her sweat and hers, with their excitement, almost puffed up, she digs for the last quick, rolled, mixed juices filling the tiny gaps between them.
– faster faster thigh slap wet slap moaning moaning
– clumsy and trembling legs which are weakening –
– yes, yes, oh damn –
She comes close, rigid impulses pushing her down on him and he rises deep inside her. She feels it swell again and this time lets it fly, fly through the deep creaking and the circle of her hips, and she feels the long fountain burst, the heat rushing inside her, as her own orgasm spreads .
Exhausted, it climbs on its withering hardness and collapses on it. Hot and sore and bathed in trembling candles, she caresses and caresses herself, softening her trembling slit through the ripples of the lines, feeling her length still impressive hot against her tired thigh. Tomorrow, they will adopt their roles again, actors in this forgotten scene, but tonight is freedom, the freedom to just be in love, stranded in the snow.