"Tamara, darling, when is your mother getting home?"
"In an hour, Mr. Ivanov, the usual time. As soon as I finish these dishes I start supper. You know that."
Mr. Ivanov was an old family friend. My mother trusted him to look out for me after school, even though I was a senior now. Still, he's been good to us since Father died when I was twelve. He takes us out to dinner, brings flowers once a week, and sometimes helps pay a bill, or 'loans' my mother money. He promised my father he'd see me through high school, even help me with college.
Mr. Ivanov's in his fifties, and actually rather good looking—for an older man. He's very pale, jokes that he's a real 'white' Russian, and has very dark blue eyes like lapis lazuli, and distinguished looking, slightly graying black hair. Even my friends think he's handsome, for a grownup. He's lean and very tall, six feet four. I'm five-ten, and enjoy feeling a 'normal' height with him.
After my father died, I started to have dreams about Mr. Ivanov in a way that bothered me. Even though I knew I couldn't control what I dreamed, I began to feel strange, nervous around him, especially when he kept me company in the kitchen because that's where my dreams always took place.
Typically, he comes up from behind while I'm at the sink or fridge, and rubs against me, up and down, back and forth. He blows on my neck or kisses it and I shiver and sigh, but I keep scrubbing the big soup pot (it's always that big pot) or holding onto the fridge door. He speaks in Russian and though I don't understand it, and it can't really be Russian because I don't speak it, I know what he's saying—and it's not nice.
In the dream he doesn't do more than hold me and talk, or try to kiss me, but I become very aroused and always wake up frustrated and anxious, yet full of wonder about the man. And about myself.
* * * * *
I've never managed to retain the feelings of my dreams. I touch myself and wriggle about my bed, but end up only more frustrated. But—this evening it happened. My dreams came to life.
Mr. Ivanov came up behind me just as I finished rinsing the last teacup. He leaned into my back and reached over my shoulders to take hold of my breasts, bending down to blow softly, warmly, on my neck, behind my ears. He licked and nibbled at each lobe and blew on them to make me shiver.
It all seemed to happen as if in slow motion. I felt as if I were in one of my dreams but for his imposing erection above my ass—it curved against my spine, its base at the small of my back. His hands moved slowly all round my breasts, lightly but firm of purpose. Though I did nothing, simply stood still, I knew he could feel my hesitation, my stiffened posture.
"Tamara, let me do this. Please. Don't speak, don't do anything. Let me touch you. Let me give you pleasure."
Honestly, I didn't know what to say—or do—but I felt my crotch become damp, so I willed myself not to let him know how I felt. His breath seemed to make me quiver all over, as if little waves were moving under my skin. I felt my nipples tingle and get hard. I had to work at keeping still and quiet, but I could not control my rapid breathing.
He went under my shirt, quickly pulled my bra over my breasts and started rubbing my nipples, lightly, circling them as if his fingertips were feathers. I don't know why, but I tried to hold my breath.
"Darling, your breasts are marvelous. I knew they would feel like this, I have studied them for years, watched them grow from little nubs to this. How I used to dream of kissing those newly budding pips when you barely reached my chest, and now my hands cannot hold them fully. Good lord, your nipples are large, and so stiff—like a real woman's. You may just be eighteen, but your body and its responses are far beyond your youth—my lovely Tamarushka."
He took each nipple between a big thumb and finger, squeezed a little, pulled out fast, then let go. He did this several times and finally I could not help myself—I actually squealed, yelped aloud, like a frightened puppy.
"Oh, god, please. Stop, Mr. Ivanov. Please, oh god... god... god."
But I didn't want him to stop, and he knew it.
He squeezed, pulled and pinched a few more times, groaning low into my ear, leaning his erection more forcefully against my spine. With each letting go of my nipples, my pussy throbbed, quickly soaking my panties through. I felt the heat between my legs, caught my scent rising up. He caught it too.
"Yes, darling girl, that's your cunt. That strong, beautiful odor is your sex, the desire I have imagined and dreamed about for years. Let me touch it. Let me look at it, taste it."
I could only moan my consent, my confused lust, yet I was frightened when he said
taste it
. I'd never imagined such a thing. Even in that moment I could not think what he really meant. Was it just a way of talking to women? Why would he want to even look at it?
He turned me around and pulled off my t-shirt, released my bra. Instantly I remembered the way he used to help mother put me to bed, how one night she told him to wait until I'd changed into my nightgown before coming into my room. I began to feel embarrassed then, but I did not know why. Now I wonder when his desires began. Did I know it, did I begin to want him then, at such a young age? Did I begin to fashion my dreams that long ago?
"Look at you. What a goddess you are—my own sweet tsaritza—I know you will be delicious."
He led me out to the dining-room table, lifted me easily and laid me out flat on my back. With his right hand, he clasped my nearest breast and squeezed round so that a dome of it was squeezed upwards. He bent over and took the little hill into his mouth. It felt as if a big fish had latched onto it, his mouth was so warm and wet, his tongue dancing on my nipple. His thick lips opened wider and I thought he was trying to take my whole breast in his mouth, but he sucked hard, pulled up fast, and released my nipple the way he'd done with his thumb and finger.
He repeated the sucking and release, endlessly it seemed, while pulling and rubbing my other nipple with his left hand. I was moaning intensely now, and groaning 'oh god' and other tired words and unintelligible phrases. The pulsing in my cunt accelerated and my legs involuntarily stiffened, my toes curled under.
"Stop, I'm going to faint. Oh, god, help me. Stop, stop. What's happening? God, stop."
It makes me laugh now to think of my illiterate and blasphemous lust.
"Tamara, I want you totally, but there isn't time for me to take you properly."
