excerpt
the good thing about Tanya, she knew exactly what a man wanted. Without removing all his clothes, he entered her immediately, hungrily. At the moment of his orgasm, he sucked in his breath and drew in the bitterness of aromatic citrus. Easing his gasp out quietly, he listened for sounds on the river, but heard only the sound of her full lips sucking juice from the fruit. He rested patiently while Tanya consumed the entire orange down to the white parchment skin. She smiled. He could feel himself rising. This time he would give her so much pleasure she would never again be satisfied by her husband. When it was Tanya’s turn to climax, she gasped and moaned embarrassingly. The whole countryside could hear her.
“Devil take it,” Pyotr exclaimed and slapped her breasts, feeling the urge to growl like a bear. How did she do this to him?
★
Ten minutes later, Paul and Vera were strolling the same path the public official and the police chief’s wife had covered earlier, engaged in much the same furtive endeavour to keep their intimacies away from the eyes of the world. They spoke of her family’s farm, the cow, her comrades at the autoworks (no sweetheart, as yet), and his professors. They told stories of her father (her mother had died two years earlier), her relatives in Rostov, his Grandmother Yvonne, the poetry of Pushkin, how he had first handled a hockey stick, when she first went to Young Pioneers, what they ate for dinner…. There seemed no end of topics.
As they walked slowly, he was aware that his skin had begun to tingle as if he’d been scrubbed with a new towel. His right arm particularly, a few inches from Vera’s shoulder, felt hot. Every nuance of her face, how she moved her hands, how she stepped lightly along the grassy bank, paused, bent to pick a willow branch from the path—all became etched in his awareness, almost painfully. She filled his entire attention, yet somehow he was also stunningly aware of the sky, how still it was, how the dusk was imperceptibly moving across its arch. Just yesterday he would have categorized this sensation as merely the product of reading Karamzin and the sentimentalist writers. A man’s humours expressed in nature. Today, he knew it was a true sensation, not one to read about in books.
Libros Libertad 