This one is more or less a sequel to the two stories I've already posted on this site. You may enjoy it on its own, although you might find yourself at a loss over a few details. Same warning I gave for 'The Balcony' applies though: while far from being what some might call decent, I don't think it's strictly porn. After posting it, I got a few really sweet comments and emails requesting the entire romance story, but since the entire story is fairly long and not in English, this is only another part of it. Depending on how it's received and my free time, more will or will not follow to complete a real sleazy, passive-aggressive, love-conquers-all sort of fairy tale, so if you've got something to say, please don't hesitate.
In short, if you've got the dinner ready, wine breathing and you're on slow simmer waiting for Tiger to get home, read on. If you're here looking for something more along the lines of 'Friday', I hope to have that posted soon.
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Elena
The teachers give you the official version of history, a proud and righteous one. Some five or six centuries ago, as the Ottoman Empire expanded, a wife of a nobleman is captured by one of the Turkish officers. A couple of months later, her husband manages to come to her rescue, only she doesn't want to be rescued. She's shamed and defiled and begs him to end her life, so he splits her open from her navel to her throat.
Now, doesn't that strike you as a little odd? If she wanted to die so much, she could have gotten her hands on one of the sabers or a dagger or swallowed broken pottery or bitten off her own tongue as it seemed to be fashionable those days; in any case, there was no need to wait for her husband. More importantly, why would he kill her the way pigs were killed in those days? If you wanted to kill someone you love, beheading them would seem to be a more merciful way of going about it.
You know what I think? I think she liked it. Whisked away, tied up probably, object of attention of a warrior of unusual, swarthy looks and that puppy-like ceaseless horniness that is so often seen in Turkish men. When her husband came, a man caring more for his lands and wealth than his wife, he was likely told he needn't have bothered, so he killed her. In a land ravaged by war, where able-bodied men were quickly becoming scarce, it would have been far easier for him to find another wife, than means to wash away the insult.
Of course, I'd have to be an idiot to say all this out loud, even now that it's all history—especially now that it's history—and get myself gutted too, probably.
"Elena? Are you listening to me?"
It was about seven years ago. It was the last days of the last year of high school, and it was a history class, so no one was paying any attention to the lecture except me.
"Ah, yeah," I said, turning my attention to my friend. How nerdy was I, listening to a lecture when Tash was trying to tell me about the previous weekend. Her parents had left her home alone and she'd planned to invite someone over. "How did it go?"
"He never came," she said. Tash has such an irritatingly clean and creamy complexion, a blush on her looks as plain as red wine soaking into the finest white bread.
"No? Why not? What happened?" Something had to have happened for Alex to refuse such an offer.
"Um... We had, you know, phone sex. Sorta." She squirmed in her chair, eager to share her excitement but nervous to expose the sordid details. Alex didn't say much, usually, but what he did say had a way of nesting in your mind, his juicy wording and clipped accent somehow making it sound raw and most times angry. Snarl or whispers—whispers that would set stone on fire, as long as it was sculpted as a woman—nothing else could be expected if he opened his mouth; his throat seemed made for expressing emotion and not much else.
"You lucky goose," I muttered out of the corner of my mouth, then spent about two minutes trying to appear as though I was listening to the lecture instead of feeling sorry for my teacher who was obviously dejected at having lost even my attention.
"Elena?"
"Mhm?"
"Do you think I could be...? I mean, do you think Alex could...could ever be satisfied with one..." She bit her lip. "Never mind. Never mind."
I pretended I didn't understand what she wanted to ask. When two of your close friends are in a sexual relationship, and both come to you for advice, you end up in a rather delicate situation.
Tash said she didn't think she was enough for Alex. Alex said she was more than he deserved. Of course, they didn't say it to each other, they said it to me, hoping I'd pass it along, so they could have the benefits, if there were any, and blame me for being rejected, if it came to pass. I decided to keep silent and let them squirm for a while. Most people will tell you they think love more precious than anything, but when push comes to shove, they'll readily sacrifice it to save their pride.
~ ~ ~
Alex
It took years for me to realize how special Tash was. I don't know if it was the influence of that bitch that Tash proudly referred to as 'my friend Elena' who was, er, wild, in a sneaky sort of way, or of Natasha's emotionally disjointed family, but all her energy seemed to coil and then pour out through sex. Things she did blew my mind.
Other women came later, and while each was a precious gift, while each was riveting to watch and manipulate, something was still missing. It might have been a cultural difference, I don't know; Tash would tell you I don't know much about culture and I couldn't dispute her on that. They were all too shy, too hypocritical, too timid, at least compared to Natasha. She gave herself without boundaries, on the deepest, purely biological level. Oh, we had fun expanding the limits, but that was just foreplay, and to be honest, sometimes mine would be tighter than hers. Sometimes she simply didn't feel shame where by rights she should have. There was something active, aggressive almost, in her, and I could feel it strongest at the moments where others turned most passive. What she was after, was to be had by a man. It was that simple. To me, it was irresistible.
She was only a teenaged girl when we met; I'd forget that at times, carried away by her boldness, only to be reminded by an occasional childish demand from her. She called me one day—she'd call me, usually; I rarely called because I didn't want to talk to her parents. They had a wise habit of answering phones personally, including their only daughter's cell phones. They could be nice; her father on rare occasions when he had the time for it, her mother when she'd just had the pizza delivery boy. I didn't want to be exchanging pleasantries with them while having lecherous thoughts about their daughter, which was any time I thought of her, really. Anyway, she called me up and told me she was alone at home for the night.
"So," I asked, "what are you up to, precious?"
"Mmmm... Do you know where I am?"
There was nothing on the other end of the line but her voice, so my guess would have been in either one of about million rooms in that monstrous house of hers, except that that was not what I would have expected on a weekend night. "No," I said. I'd been hard before she'd called, but now... "Where are you?" It was knowing that something good was coming, or it could have been that
mmmm
from her that sounded like she was in a very good mood; either way, her voice had turned a lonely campfire into raging fireworks.
"I am... in my parents'... bed," she told me, probably bouncing on it too, her words now interrupted by faint creaking of the bed and rustling of sheets. "The biggest... one... in the house, Alex." Which is to say seriously big. Oh, I could just picture it.
"What are you doing in your parents' bed, naughty little girl? Wouldn't Daddy be mad if he saw you right now?" I'd meant it as a joke, but her sigh told me I'd hit a soft spot.
"He'd be furioussss," she hissed. "I'm not... supposed... to be... here." Huh. I wonder why. Not much indecent happened there, judging by the way her mother eyed anything male in sight. Tash said nothing for a while but I could hear her breath, quick and a little ragged. There was no way to tell if it was from bouncing on the bed or something else, but it was getting to me. I was barely breathing myself, trying not to miss the faintest sound she might make.
"Alex..."
I waited. It was always like that; my name in a husky voice, followed by a shy but outrageous demand.
