Always 1 April in Some World

Denis watched Faye at the window, the warm summer sun bright on her nude body; chin, nipples, even her cloud of pubic hair threw sharp shadows along her tanned skin. The ruby pendant she always wore sparkled from where it nestled in her cleavage.

"It's changed a lot since I was last here," she said, stroking her fingers down her cheek, her neck, to cup her left breast, idly pushing against the glass, wondering if a passerby below would see it flattening out, teasing them.

"And you were last here, when? Denis was in bed already, with the impatience of youth.

Faye looked at his penis, the erection growing, the head emerging from its foreskin cowl, and smiled. "1925," she said, licking her lips in anticipation, "It was as soon as I could get back after the Civil War ended."

He laughed and got out of bed, thinking he would have to drag her away from the window. And why? The view of St. Petersburg was enchanting, but she had been the one insisting they come back to the hotel in the afternoon to make love. She'd felt bad about not being in the mood that morning, only grudgingly wanking him in the shower so he wouldn't embarrass himself with a stiffie when she gave him a sightseeing tour of the Winter Palace district and stopped to kiss him by the statue of Venus and Adonis.

"You keep insisting that you're an Old Lady," he said. In fact, she looked rather more middle aged. Her breasts sagged a bit, her hair was dirty blonde streaked with grey, both on her head and the bush at the V between her legs. A healthy and athletic woman with healthy and athletic appetites, but when she told him her age, he'd taken it as a joke he wasn't clever enough to understand.

"That's because I am," she took him in her arms, a little awkwardly, as he had to swivel his hips so his erection pushed to the side instead of poking her in the belly.

"You certainly talk as if you were, what did you say, over six hundred years old?" He kissed her, enjoying the way she enthusiastically responded, opening her mouth, caressing his tongue with hers, not like the girls his age. "So tell me the punchline, are you a vampire or something?"

She giggled, bent down and kissed his neck, then nipped the skin playfully with her teeth, "That's a very rough way to go," she leaned back, smiling, as if to show him her teeth were completely... normal. "It's like selling your soul to the Devil!"

"I couldn't do that," he ran his hands down her back to her arse, cupping the cheeks, squeezing and spreading them, "I have a libido, not a soul!"

"Your life energy," she reached down and took his erection in hand, leading him back to bed (finally!), "They can take it out of your blood, yes, but if your soul -- sorry, your essence, if you don't like the idea of a soul -- is centered more on, say, your libido than your aesthetic or your allocentre, the Vampires enjoy robbing you of that essence by drinking a different cocktail" she slipped her other hand down and cupped his testicles before she released him, pushing him on his back on the bed, "A creamy smooth boyish potion!"

She laughed as she swung her leg over and mounted his cock, her vaj already so hot and wet she was surprised her OWN juices weren't starting to drip down her thighs.

"But you're NOT a -- oooOOOHH!" he moaned as she slowly slid down his shaft, her grip tighter, her pussyflesh even hotter than the first night of their trip, making love in Rouen, three weeks ago.

"Not a Vampire?" She smiled, "No, a Vampire wouldn't go on holiday in the time of the White Nights, would she?"

"N-no!" he gasped as she began to pump herself up and down, reaching his hands around to hold her arse, steadying her as she became more aroused, her hips moving faster and faster. He did remember that she'd showed some hesitation at visiting the Church of the Saviour on Spilled Blood, though.

"Hold my tits," she said breathlessly, pushing his hands away, "You know how much I like that when I'm on the top." He obeyed, catching her breasts as they swung and cupping them in his hands. She sighed, closing her eyes, "I won't steal your life-force! You can safely give me as much of your precious sperm as your always churning testicles can produce, lover-boy!"

Her breasts felt so warm and soft, he was almost ashamed of the times he looked at porn with young girls and their firm tits, tits that bounced instead of swinging, tits that used a brassière -- IF they did -- for decoration, not support.

But wait, what was he thinking? It was the books on HER shelves back home, HER favourite video files that were loaded with those perky young women (and boys), so supple and smiling and horny!

Then there was that eighteen-year-old student Faye had seduced in Bucharest -- the girl's eyes popped when Faye spoke to her in her own language, with the proper idiom for certain exotic and possibly illegal sex acts! -- and brought back to their hotel room. He remembered, not the girl's breasts, small and firm as cricket-balls, but the taste of her clit, her soft, barely-there pubic hair brushing his cheek as Faye pushed his head between her legs and gave him pussylicking instructions.

Maybe Faye was remembering that too? She was pumping faster and faster now, just the way she had when she had the girl in front of her, sitting on Denis's face while Faye rode his cock. Denis had to reach down and take hold of her buttocks again, he was afraid she'd bounce herself off.

He cupped her arse-cheeks, squeezing and spreading them, but this time slipping his fingers in the crevice between them, exploring. The touch of his fingertip so intimately to the pulsating ring of her anus set him off, thrusting up hard into her and making her gasp, then scream -- she screamed even louder than that excitable Romanian girl with Denis and Faye's tongues lapping her clit.

They rested then, breathing hard. She pushed his hands away from her arse, but kept his cock inside her even as his erection faded.

"What's your secret, then?" he asked at last.

She yawned and stretched her arms, the motion lifting her breasts so they stood out proudly, "Diet and exercise," she said, as if she were lecturing, "And witchcraft."

"Witchcraft?"

"Years of study under the greatest sorceresses! C'mon," she said as his penis finally softened and popped out, "Let's take a quick shower and go out to dinner. A different place this time. That Chez Guevara place uses too much garlic!"

The shower was a special place for him. He'd had girlfriends his age he'd tried to coax into the shower, but Faye was the only woman comfortable enough to let him touch her body everywhere, and who enjoyed touching him as much as he enjoyed touching her. Perhaps more so. She knew how much he enjoyed it when she washed his arse-cheeks -- she knew all his pleasure centres! -- then, after rinsing the soap, nudged his feet apart and carefully slipped a finger -- or even two! -- into his tight anus. But she never wanted him to do the same for her; she just said, "Careful not to get any soap inside there, stud," and tightened up to refuse him entrance.

Later that night, when they were back in bed again after another brisk walk around the sites she still wanted to see, she brought up the subject again. "I sometimes like a touch back there," she slapped her left buttock with a sharp crack, "But be careful it's nothing more than that. You pushing a finger in almost spoiled my orgasm this afternoon. Boys are the ones with little prostate G-spots, not girls!"

"Sorry," he said, and he really was sorry, "I'm always thinking about it!" And her orgasm had sounded loud, not spoiled!

"You're always thinking about it," she stroked a finger down the crevice between his arse-cheeks, "Because it's something YOU enjoy -- here, toss me the lube." He handed her the tube from the bedside table and she motioned for him to turn on his back. He obeyed, pulling his knees up almost to his ears.

Pushing his cheeks even further apart, she squirted a generous dollop of clear gel between them and slipped a finger in. "You enjoy it when it's done to you, and you see all this porn with women enjoying it when it's done to THEM," she slipped in another finger and probed for his prostate, forcing out a soft, "Aaahhh!" from the boy and an even greater effort to relax his tight orifice to accommodate her.

"It's your books and videos!" he protested, then moaned again as his penis sprang up rigid, "That Fierce Light book is just loaded with Greek Style pictures and drawings!"

"Hmm," she considered, as she ran her tongue the length of his cock and began sliding her fingers in and out of his quivering anus, "Not really loaded with it, but I can see what you mean. You're thinking of that lake picture, aren't you?" she took his cock in her mouth and bore down, until her lips made a tight O at the root, and held herself there for a couple of breaths -- that is, a couple of breaths she didn't take.

"OooohhHHHH, YES!" he moaned, then, "Yes, I mean, why do you mention that one?"

"Because," she said after she lifted her head and took a deep breath, "I took that one!"

Just then, her eyes seemed to glow, a reddish-gold fire -- was it the light of the midnight Sun, low on the horizon, coming in the window? -- then she went back to licking his cock and fingering his prostate. He stared at her face, looking for lines of age. The book was old. Not so old that it didn't have color printing in it, but he thought it must be older than she was, or older than she looked. When they got back home, he'd see if the book had a copyright page.

In the lake picture -- whatever year it was taken -- the lovers were standing in water up to their buttocks. Or, rather, one was standing, the other, a lovely Oriental, was bent over. Nipples and long black hair dipping into the dark water, looking over the shoulder at the camera with an angelic, orgasmic smile. The active member of the pair was only visible as hips and buttocks and hanging testicles and a centimetre or two of cockshaft still exposed, but it was definitely ANAL penetration, and penetration by a very thick shaft indeed. It was titled "Love in the Water."

On the facing page was a picture of a city plaza dominated by a gigantic statue of a woman in flowing robes or toga. She was majestically striding atop a junk heap made from the symbols of war. Her bronze sandaled feet crushed steel tanks and planes and ships and guns. One breast was bare, the robe falling off the arm that brandished a flagstaff with a banner reading "We are all of the body!"

The bronze nipple was mirror-shiny, as if millions of people had rubbed it with their fingers, climbing up over the artillery pieces and helmets and barbed wire at the goddess' feet, denting and bending the wreckage even further just so they could reach up and caress the sun-warmed metal flesh. The picture was labeled "Peace Be With You."

"Yes," she said in answer to his question, "I took both pictures. Now come for this wicked witch before I melt!" That was the last she said. She turned, getting to her knees on the bed, presenting her buttocks to him, and took his cock in her mouth again. She spread her arse-cheeks mockingly, knowing he wouldn't dare anything more than gently stroking the entrance to her sensitive backdoor love-tunnel.

He stared, remembering that seductive glance in the photograph, the Oriental, bent over, taking that cock in that tight, forbidden orifice, and he came hard, filling Faye's hungry mouth, finally emptying his testicles of the entire day's production.

His eyes focused again slowly, still staring at her arse, her anus winking open and closed, an O-shaped mouth silently laughing at him as she nursed on his softening penis.

"I just adore sucking your cock," she said, after she'd extracted the last creamy drop, letting his limp penis flop down over his balls. She did too, he could tell. He had seen her vaj -- though mostly his eyes were obsessing with a point a few centimetres above it -- he'd seen it wet and dripping with arousal. Why hadn't she wanted him to make love to her, he wondered.

She hugged him, kissed him, made him taste his own cum, rubbed her damp pubic hair against his thigh. "I can take you there, if you want." He didn't say anything right away, not quite following where "there" might be, until she clarified, "Where they have big breasts, exuberant sex of all varieties, plenty of adventurous ones eager to give you an opportunity to squirt your semen into a nice, tight rear entrance!"

He imagined a hedonistic party at some creepy Russian oligarch's country estate and was instantly wary. Was that why she'd brought him to St Petersburg? "Some place around here?" he asked.

"Oh, no!" she giggled sleepily, pulling the sheets over them, "We'll pick up some warmer clothes before we go. It's the very end of March there."

This made no more sense than her joke about being more than six hundred years old, but the next day he found himself in an expensive store -- Faye must have done well in investments over those centuries -- buying a puffy down vest.

"We'll need a power centre to make the trip from," she said, taking out her phone and calling a car service.

The ride was uneventful, though once more he was surprised at her facility with languages, conversing with the driver like a native. The car dropped them off at Senate Square, a wide plaza dominated by an enormous bronze equestrian statue.

"Symbol of war to connect to a symbol of peace," Faye said, somewhat cryptically, as they walked around it, "I've never traveled from here, but I think it'll do!"

"Where are we going?" Denis asked again, "And why these vests? It's the middle of the Sum -- "

She put her arms around him and stopped him with a kiss. Then, "You know how much you like to finger my pussy?"

"Oh yes," he said, remembering, "I like to touch you all over!" Just like playing in the shower, Faye was much more comfortable with him touching her body than any of the girls his age.

"Now we're going to do this quickly," she said, unbuttoning his trousers and slipping her hand in, "Put your hand under my skirt and push your middle finger up inside me as far as you can -- in FRONT, not in BACK!" she warned, "I'm not wearing panties and I'm already wet and sloppy so just pop it in as fast as you can. Keep it there until I tell you. Don't move it, just keep it steady."

He was astonished, not at the wild exhibitionism -- though he had to admit the puffy vests weren't really much coverage -- but at the words, "I'm not wearing panties"! Faye had quite a lingerie collection, of which she'd brought dozens along on their trip. She delighted in showing off, walking around the hotel room wearing panties and stockings, or panties and high heels or nothing BUT panties. Now, under her short denim skirt, her bush was completely exposed, and warm and very wet indeed.

"When I kiss you again," she seemed to be breathing with an effort now, "Hold the kiss as long as you can. Hold the contact, your tongue to mine, your finger in my pussy, your cock in my hand. Hold me."

With their free arms, they embraced. Faye took a deep breath and appeared to concentrate, whispering something in a language he'd never heard, never heard her use before, then kissed him, their tongues meeting.

He felt a shiver, a shock, a thrill set off from their tongue-tips, rippling across his skin and down his spine, flowing through his arm, to that hand and finger in her vaj, from his penis to HER hand and arm. He blinked as she seemed to glow, and he was glowing too, the energy running in an unbroken circle between the two of them, faster and faster.

He was falling, his vision blurring. He struggled just to stand still, not to move his tongue, his hand, his cock. He felt her body tense against him, her breathing hard, even as she kept her tongue planted firmly in his mouth.

Then it was over. They were standing in the plaza again. She quickly released his cock, pushed his hand out from under her skirt and then just held him, leaning on him for support as if she'd run a kilometre and was ready to collapse.

"Are you all right," he whispered, as he tried to hold on to her while discreetly buttoning up his trousers. He looked down and saw the pendant between her breasts looked... paler, more pinkish than red, now. Then he looked UP and, instead of a bronze man on horseback, saw a gigantic bronze woman brandishing a flag, one breast bare, the nipple shining in the sun.

"We're here!" she said hoarsely, finally catching her breath. Would they find the delicious Oriental here too, so willing to spread arse-cheeks and accept an unconventional lover?

He looked around the plaza. Though they were still somewhat disheveled and breathing hard, nobody was looking at them, because a few enterprising teens had scaled the statue and were holding what looked like a firehose to the bronze woman's ample cleavage, the nozzle down her dress.

"What are they doing?" he asked.

"Wet T-shirt contest," she pointed to the crowd, "Some things are the same in every universe!"

It was true, from the side of the statue, from under the woman's long bronze robes, damp breasts emerged by the dozen, their owners laughing and wet.

He stared, wanting to go for a closer look, but the crowd of onlookers was too thick. Still, the nipples, big and brown, delicate and pink, little bullet-shaped hills or mountain peaks all clearly outlined and super-hard in the cool breeze, were simply perfect! There didn't seem to be any judges, so Denis didn't see how it could be described as a "contest," but of course he didn't mind that. He just stared, mostly at an African with huge, hemispherical breasts, dark brown flesh topped with long, even darker nipples that seemed to point right at him.

Then she moved and he saw an Oriental, so young, smiling, innocent, with tiny, delicate nipples, arms hugging torso and chest to keep warm, walking away. Was this the one in the picture. No, of course not! Still, his eyes followed... until he had to move because Faye was blocking the view.

Faye had taken out her phone. No, this was an old-style flip-phone, one he'd never seen her use. Who could she be calling? He never found out, because someone yelled, "Faye!" and they both turned.

An earlier contestant was waving at them. Denis saw a heavy denim skirt, like Faye's, and a white T-shirt (wet) with a Hindu goddess design and the words, "I am debt, the de$troyer of girls!" Denis stared as the two lovely breasts came closer.

"This is my friend Denis," Faye said, breaking the spell, then, to Denis, "This is Marvenus." She pronounced it mar-vee-noo.

"Pleased!" said Marvenus, "Normally I'd give you both big hugs, but right now I'm a little damp. It's a bit cold too, I was just going to catch the tram home." Marvenus' eyes went from Denis to Faye, inquiring. Denis even thought he saw a tongue flit out, licking lips.

"Why not put your sweater back on?" Faye asked, for there was one tied around Marvenus' waist.

Marvenus laughed, big, dark brown eyes sparkling, "I'm proud of these," thumbs pointed at nipples straining through translucent fabric, "This is the perfect excuse to have people staring at them! Here's the tram. Come home with me if you're in the mood for a little fun."

In the tram, Denis got a closer look. Maybe thirty years old, but the curves, breasts and hips, and long, straight brown hair made Marvenus seem only a little older than Denis. Marvenus was so entrancing that he hardly looked out at the city, but when he did, he realized how far from home they were.

Tall buildings, but not not mundane blocky skyscrapers. Delicate fairy tale spires surrounded them, in gleaming glass and shiny metal and stone or concrete of a uniform, white hue that had never been dulled by exhaust fumes or pitted by acid rain. Spiderwebs of electric monorails weaved between the towers. Beyond, huge stubby-winged propeller-driven aircraft moved silently against the clear blue sky.