Peter's Lament

Peter had intense sex with his lover three hours before she disappeared.

He opened one gunk-crusted eye to find Petra gazing at his face, her own hinting a smile of intimacy that Peter never knew was possible from another person. Petra was naked, her short hair, a kind of standard brown color that looked closer to burnt honey in the pale grey light of that cloudy morning, rested on her cheeks. Peter glanced down to her breasts, exposed from the sheets, and eyed the pink nipples stiffening. He sensed her hunger, but Peter hesitated to call it lust. From Petra, it was so much more. A deep need, sexual and emotional, that overtook both of them.

When they made love, Peter pictured the two of them like balls of pure energy, feeding off one another, tendrils of pure white pleasure reaching out, connecting until they were nothing but a pure blazing brilliance. The morning Petra disappeared, Peter's erection came quickly, as it always did in her presence.

Peter reached around her, pulling her petite form close to him. They were such opposites, an impossible pairing. Peter felt his tummy, grown 20 pounds heavier than he should have ever allowed, rest against the flat muscles of her stomach. He sensed the smooth virtues of her skin compared to the hairy appendages that made up his body. Peter moved his mouth to a nipple, amazed at how perfect they were, practically no areola but a thick, hard nub the color of pink bubble gum. She truly was blessed.

His tongue snaked out, licking with pressure up and down the nipple head before consuming her breast. She moaned, grasping his body closer to her as she pushed her chest further into him. Peter felt her kiss his neck, his ear.

"You know me, Peter. I want to fuck loudly. To do it all. I don't care who hears," she whispered in her delectable Eastern European accent.

"What about the others? They'll probably wake up soon if they haven't already," Peter smiled, knowing he'd fuck her in the middle of a grocery store if she asked.

"I don't care. I want your tongue inside me."

Petra broke his embrace, shoving the blanket and quilt down until the weight of their pile tipped and fell to the hardwood floor. She then moved, kissing his chest as her body maneuvered so she could ride his mouth. Peter glanced at the morning outside the glass doors to their room overlooking the lake, the mist glossing the dark, stilled waters of Lake Anna. Then Petra's thighs and mound wrapped his view, her smell, a slight muskiness, wafting into his nostrils. Peter smiled, kissing a cluster of three small, brown birthmarks that trailed like a constellation into the thatch of her dark pubic hair. He kissed her outer lips and swollen mound. Petra moaned as she bent over and began to kiss the crease between his testicles and groin with the kind of hungry relish she normally used to kiss him as they came together.

Peter experienced one of those overwhelming erotic surges as she began to nibble and lick; he could almost cum with that alone. Peter wasn't a lasting lover; he often became easily overtaken by Petra's sexual energy, her abandon, coming much too soon to please her. Petra never seemed to care though, although he never dared to fall asleep or get up until she had her sexual fill. Still, Peter had gotten better in the seven months of their lurid relationship, lasting longer than he ever had with his ex-wife or the three other lovers he had in his lifetime.

Petra grasped his cock, already stiff and jerking. She licked its head noisily, her own gravelly moans expelling hot breath against his shaft.

"Stop kissing me. Use your tongue," she growled playfully.

He slipped with a slithering grace between her mound, her lips, his saliva mixing with her own pungent arousal. He began licking in small see-saw strokes, probing deep into her vagina, massaging her inner folds. Petra pressed her vulva against his mouth, his upper lip pressing her clit deliciously. Petra swallowed Peter's cock noisily, speaking her pleasure in sighs and moans as she sucked him in her mouth. Her tongue massaged his cock as she began to peck at him with increasing friction and speed. His cock began those spasmodic episodes that warned him he wouldn't last much longer against her ministrations.

Peter let his tongue's flicking widen, dipping and then rising out of her. He grabbed her ass cheeks, pushing her even more forcefully against him. She loved rough oral, allowing herself to succumb to orgasm simply by striving for it without spending time on the gradual building of sensation. He knew this helped her along.

"Oh yes, my God, Peter," she shouted, arching her back cat-like, her nails clawing the tangled and damp hairs against his thighs. Petra began to thrust herself against his mouth, reaching for that orgasm. His stifled moan oscillated with the rising and falling of her skinny thighs. "Eat my cunt. Yes, eat it faster. Oh, oh yea oh."

Peter felt he knew Petra as well as if they were born and raised together despite that he met and became consumed with love for his Georgian beauty in a matter of seven months. He could read her moods, the subtle changes that she exhibited, like a psychic reading auras. He marveled at how she could be intense with him, sharing such similar interests in science and technology, but at the same time, so completely feminine and innocent, succumbing to him for critical decisions, letting Peter's genetic need to dominate and protect take wing. Such two dynamic women embodied in a solitary lithe sexual creature. Peter could also read her body, the signals she gave him with the twitching of her legs, the contractions and flexing of muscle, the pace of her breath. Those signs were his conductor that orchestrated her orgasms.

Petra fully stroked his shaft as she road his mouth, her hand rising up until she palmed his head in an agonizingly delicious twist of her wrist. She repeated it twice, tensing Peter's cock, urging his own orgasmic dam to burst. Then her own pleasure rose to the apex, and she stopped, squeezing her own breasts and pinching her nipples between the crevices of her fingers.

"Cumming, Peter. Yes. Cumming," she yelled out before launching into a diatribe in her Slavic language. Petra shook, her juices seeping from the folds and coating Peter's tongue and lips. He held her hips against him, even as he labored to breath from his nose nestled between her ass cheeks. Petra lurched forward with a shudder, pushing his head away from her pussy.

"No more. No more, sweetie. Wait," she said, crawling further down his body. Her hands and mouth resumed work on his manhood, kissing the shaft with long, drenching licks. He was tight and primed, and felt himself begin to lose his control the moment she encapsulated his cock into her magical mouth. Petra plied her fingers to his jellied sack, coaxing the pleasure from him as she dipped her head forward and back up. Her suckles weren't particularly fast or urgent, but she seemed to use every muscle in her orifice to trigger each nerve ending in his penis. Peter's breathing became erratic, and his voice rose as the orgasm approached.

"Pet...Petra. Oh God, baby, I'm coming. Please, baby, I'm coming," he rasped out, one hand grabbing her forearm while the other wrenched at the flesh on her bottom. She moaned, letting saliva thicken in sheets along his shaft as she prepared to drink down his load. "Honey, please, you don't have to ... to...ew...ew....Gooooooooooooood!"

His cum jetted out of Peter in long, almost painful ropes. Petra sucked and drank, then pulled away from his head and continued to lick and suck the underside of his shaft as more cum billowed from the head and clumped down onto her nose. Petra let out a slight giggle as Peter clawed her ass and the bed sheets, his upper body convulsing in his release.

****

The order of reality was tangled, his memory distorted. Petra's blowjob was the first thing that came to mind when asked by the FBI agent what was the first thing he remembered that morning. The agent, Cole Howard he said his name was, focused on Peter as though he were a condemned man. The three other agents, all dressed in sharply-pressed navy suits and dark glasses, stared at him with intent, awaiting every word that he would utter from his mouth. The small room felt stifling, and almost seemed comically cliché, as though pulled from the set of a 1970's cop show.

Peter asked for a cigarette; the request seemed the logical thing to do at the moment. It had been five years since he had last touched tobacco, going cold turkey and battling the urges, losing to the kitchen for comfort food and fattening snacks. That probably poisoned his body worse than any Marlboro would ever do.

The man closest to the door removed a packet of Dunhills from his suit jacket.

"Take as many as you'd like, Mr. Seymour," he said, his voice bland, and certainly not reassuring. After all, Peter was a condemned man. All because Petra disappeared.

* * * *

Peter believed hands to be a miraculous and intimate body part.

Petra's hands performed a miracle on Peter in a matter of minutes after he finished coming. His manhood became engorged as though the desire never left him to begin with. Petra settled against the crook of his arm, kissing his chest and taking one of his nipples into her mouth gently.

"Oh God, Pet. Again? You just drained me," Peter said half-heartedly.

"No, I said more. I want your cock now. And I want to scream and I want you to fuck me in every position you can," her accent became thick again, as it did when lust overtook her. There was a distant thud coming from the floor below them; Peter heard footfalls, the distant gurgle of a drain, a door gently shutting. The house guests were rousing. Peter smiled, "And your friends won't be embarrassed, huh?"

"No. They know what a slut I am for you," she said as her lips touched his, hers sandwiching his top lip then bottom one before snaking her tongue into his mouth. Petra rose on her haunches, straddling his hips. "Rub yourself against my pussy," Petra said, hefting her breasts in each hand as her head tilted back, her slight Adam's apple pushing against her throat.

Peter grasped his shaft, studying the way his head splayed apart his girlfriend's vulva, the lips cascading over the head as gently as her own lips. Petra rocked to his own movement. His cock head rubbed a line from clit to the base of her vagina, her moisture licking his flesh. The sensation crept upon him, and he let out a soft moan.

Pushing his hand away, Petra steadied his penis and in a swift motion, engulfed it inside her. She rode him hard and fast.

"Oh, your dick feels so good. Fuck me," she bawled out, oblivious to everyone else in the house.

Despite himself, naturally shy and conservative, Peter was overcome by Petra's raw inhibition, her physical exertion to sex, and his own pleasured voice rose to match her shrills. Petra planted her hands against his belly, her fingers sinking into the spongy flesh. Her feet positioned on either side of his legs as she rose, allowing Petra full control of the penetration. In that position, Peter felt her hole close fully around his shaft and head, as though her womb contracted by two sizes. His hands began their involuntary journey across her abdomen, her chest and shoulders. Peter wanted to just touch her, to feel her shape and splendor. He often told his lab partner at VizoTech that Petra was divinity distilled in human form, and just touching her body made him reconsider the existence of a God.

Petra tilted back, grabbing his shoulders for both support and to urge Peter up off the mattress. He rose, shifting his legs back underneath him as Petra fell back to the bed, her legs sliding across his chest as her knees hooked over his shoulders. Their penetration remained unbroken and Peter began his slow, methodical thrusts into Petra's netherworld.

"Oh God. Go deep, Peter. Go deep, honey. Fuck me hard," she pined. Petra raised her arms above her head, bunching a sheet as though using the flimsy material for leverage against his humping. He heard the squishing sound of her lust flooding her canal, and the sticky delirium her pussy coaxed from him. Peter bent forward, taking a tongue she extended into his mouth and sucking upon it like a small penis.

Soon his orgasm began to sneak into the general euphoria of their love-making. Petra stopped, and pushed Peter off her body. She then stood and bent over the bed, her fingers parting her lips as her middle finger sank into her depths. Peter remained transfixed on the mattress, gazing like a dumbfound schoolboy.

"Hurry, Pete. I'm almost there. Fuck me from behind; I love your cock from behind," she said.

Peter rose and stood behind her. She grabbed his cock, bent her knees slightly and fumbled with the head against her slit. Peter pushed inside her and immediately began to thrust. Petra arched her back, touching and pinching her nipples, her eyes tightly shut and her face tense.

"Oh Christ. Yes, fuck me. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Me," Petra screamed out like a mantra. Peter struggled between the intensity of the pleasure and attempting to hold back just long enough.

The mood shattered the moment someone knocked at the door.

"No!" Petra yelled out. "Go away. Not yet."

"Yes, darling Petra, I hear you." The voice was the slick British tone of Jerome Benjamin, Petra's college friend and current work partner at her job. Peter felt a cold jab of embarrassment and reality seep into the room; he looked down and felt dirty and somewhat guilty, his cock buried inside her body. And for the first time, Peter noticed a network of blue veins tracing randomly against the creaminess of her rump. Some may have found that unattractive, but for Peter the image was all the more raw and alluring.

"Give us a few minutes, Jerome baby."

"That is fine, but Sandra, myself, Lucilia and Markel all would love a little morning ride on the boat," he said from beyond the door. "Perhaps not as good as fucking, but it's something we all can do together for a change."

Feeling larger than life, Peter grinned and felt his cock surge. Petra smiled and rubbed the two of them to keep the sensations trickling.

"Okay, I will be down in a few minutes."

"Thank you, my dear," Jerome said. "Oh by the way, Peter, now may be not the best time, but thank you again for your wonderful hospitality. And no matter what Petra says, she never screamed that way for her last boyfriend."

Peter laughed despite himself and despite the situation. Petra's friends were definitely an oddity; but they made him feel apart of their tight circle, as though he was always part of their crew of international school friends. Of course the reality was furthest from that scenario. Peter was never apart of anything, too smart and bookish and shy to connect to people, and during those times he did, they often failed in messy disentanglements, including a divorce that took him six years to just begin to recover from.

But that was then. In a matter of seven months, Petra had washed him clean of his uncertainties, of his fragile self-image and in turn, replaced the lesser with confidence and egotism that made him feel all the more sexier. Petra seemed engrossed in his body, one that would never gain a second glance from any other female at a beach, or at least the one part of his body that could sedate her continuous sexual cravings. She also broke past his shielding shyness that was often mistaken for snobbishness or even outright intellectual boorishness.

Petra collapsed her upper body onto the mattress again, bending her knees slightly. Peter felt his cock press deeper into her womb. She began rubbing herself, expelling slight, girlish moans as she humped him in small circles. Peter took her subtle movements and began to slowly stroke her labia with his shaft. Her moisture coated him still, but it had become sticky, almost overly oiled and his thrusting slapped out loud in wet pops.

"Faster, Peter. Make me cum," she cawed.

Peter holstered his hands against her waist and drove himself hard in and out of Petra's slit. She clawed the bed, crying out in an unrestrained pleasure that bordered on the wails of pain. Peter fucked her for all he was worth, an average man with an average dick with an above average brain and a very above-average engineering job fucking a woman who surpassed all the women on the planet. And she was all his, easily so, as though their entire lives before seven months ago was a prelude to the day they met.

"Gaw...gaw..God. Fuck. Me. Fuck. Me," she cried on in litany. Petra quieted again, the imminent moment of release, quaked and shot her hand to her clit, rubbing with a raw vigor. Then she came. And without much more preamble, so did Peter. Releasing a stream into his goddess.

****

"What do you do for VizoTech, Mr. Seymour," Agent Cole Howard asked, studying Peter's sweat-stained oversized Petey's Bar and Grill tee-shirt, the man's ragged, unshaven face.

"I don't know what that has to do with Petra," Peter retorted. The response was met with silence. The three agents behind Cole shuffled slightly; the movement may have been nothing more than the switching of weight from tired feet, but to Peter, it seemed tinged with a menacing undertone.

"We'll get to that in a minute," Howard said, glancing again to a folder splayed on the table before them. "It says you're the lead engineer. We know that VizoTech has just won a major contract with the U.S. military. I sure can get your job information elsewhere, but your cooperation would certainly save me time."

Peter exhaled smoke. It amazed him just how easily he could pick up a cigarette, light and begin the habit again with little more than a clearing of his throat after the first drag. The Dunhill tasted like shit. But after finishing the first one, stubbing out the smoldering butt, and helping himself to a second, Peter wondered why he ever quit in the first place.

"Mr. Seymour? A contract with a government entity entitles us to full disclo...."

"Yes. Okay. I guess it isn't too much of a secret anymore," he said. "I was lead designer, engineer – inventor if you will – of liquid applicable stealth technology. Basically, paint for aircraft and missiles and anything that can fly that can make them invisible to radar. Light years ahead of current stealth tech, where the aircraft has to be designed from schematic one to achieve radar invisibility."

"I see," Howard began, easing back into his chair. "So something like that would be of interest perhaps to other countries. Maybe terrorists."

The word blasted Peter cold. Something wasn't right, hadn't been all along. In the back of his mind Peter always suspected that one of these agents would eventually inform him that Petra's body had been found somewhere, that her missing status would be updated to homicide. He thought of this clinically, simply as a matter of fact. Not that he wished it. But solely because he never deserved Petra to begin with; their union was a fluke of fate and science. She was much too beautiful, too perfect, for his fortune to have ever lasted. So Peter prepared himself for her death by becoming analytical.

Howard opened another folder that he retrieved from one of the agents behind him and began to methodically lay out pictures -- obvious surveillance images -- of a women with blond hair. The first one showed her cupping an elegant-looking fur coat to her neck, her face smiling serenely at another man who was turned away from the camera. The second picture, the same blond girl, was perched on ragged military jeep, the symbol on the side faded and weather worn so Peter couldn't determine it's country of origin. Peter eyes scanned the girl, and then to the other faces around her, particularly of the driver's face, his chiseled European features striking a chord of familiarity to him. Peter noticed the Uzi she holstered to her side. A third picture, this time of another girl, her hair long as the last time, but luxuriously thick and radiantly red, the girl smoking an exotic looking cigarette in a café somewhere, speaking to another woman that also looked vaguely familiar. A fourth, the same girl talking to the same European man as earlier this time emerging from the revolving door of some unnamed hotel.