This wasn’t written as erotica necessarily, but it tells the hot story of my lesbian tryst in Moscow. Hope you enjoy!
I spend too much of my time thinking. I plan to make a living thinking and teaching others to do likewise. Though my heart reacts strongly, quickly, often senselessly, the entire process is laden with constant analysis. I am constantly doubting my desires. Sometimes, I want to be thoughtless.
Last Saturday night you gave me thougtlessness, малышка моя. The lights were low and the beer was sweet, so when you grabbed my hand and led me to the dance floor I followed you and kissed you just because I wanted to. I wanted your body so I took it, right there under the flashing lights, and I let you know how beautiful you were right when I noticed. When you asked me to come home with you, I knew what I wanted. When you asked if I wanted to date, well… Maybe I wasn’t exactly sure. But I didn’t run away from desires. I didn’t think as much as I felt. And after months of fighting my heart… Damn, it felt great.
I talked to your friend Katya and found out that you’re not exclusive. Why doesn’t this bother me? If I understood correctly, Katya and Olya are in love, but sometimes you sleep with Olya. I understand, she is beautiful and she sings like a drunken angel. I can only imagine the beautiful O her lips must make you when do for her what you did for me. And for the first time I don’t mind. I know you’ll come back to your sweet girl with the wonderful smile.
Somehow I ended up buying you a bottle of champagne. You took someone else’s glass, poured out the old champagne on the table and filled a glass for each of us. You were so quiet that I didn’t know if you were okay. We drank in silence and I tried not to worry. You borrowed my lighter and I tried not to think about your beautiful lips pursed around that cheap cigarette. And then you pulled me onto the dance floor and I stopped trying, stopped thinking, stopped worrying, and enjoyed the closeness of your body.
After 6 AM suddenly Olya was wasted and angry with everyone. I was exhausted and just wanted to fall asleep curled around you. When Olya got angry at security it was time for us to leave. Your wry smile was even more beautiful surrounded by the falling snow.
Olya was falling over herself and trying to talk to everyone. At this point I was so tired and her words were so slurred that I only understood the swearing, like an uncertain and anxious heartbeat of obscenity against the other words. Bum ba blyat, da suka da da. Vsyo pizdetz suka la la. I gave away my last cigarettes while we looked for a taxi that didn’t mind Olya’s ramblings. We finally climbed into a beat up old Mazda that probably wasn’t even a taxi.
The ride home was all sharing looks with you while Olya explained that everything she did was for art. “There’s nothing but art! Everything is shit except for ah-rt!” And I’m inclined to agree as I stare out at the Kremlin rising over the Moscow River and think about my life right now. Taking a gypsy cab home with three polyamorous Russian lesbians… Sometimes I think I do the things I do just so I can write better stories and songs.
When we get home the snow is still falling and Katya is crying. I don’t understand why, but I stopped listening to the conversation a long time ago. You stop, turn me around, and kiss me right there in the middle of the parking lot. I’ll plead guilty to homosexual propaganda, only please don’t stop.
You’re staying in Katya’s communal apartment far from the center. A man is making tea in the kitchen as we peel off our layers and put our shoes by the door. “Who’s this?” he asks in a tired, confrontational voice, pointing to me with a lazy finger. When Olya says I’m a friend of yours he goes back to his tea without another word, and we disappear into the bedroom you’re sharing with your friends/lovers (?).
Katya is still crying. “Why did you drink, Olya? Why?” Their conversation continues as you make us food and bring us all a carton of juice to share. I sit on the bed, chewing on a chicken drumstick while they argue. I don’t really listen and they pay me no mind. When I meet you in the kitchen you explain that Olya hasn’t had a drink in four years. We go back to the bedroom and whisper to each other while Katya and Olya argue.
We lay on the bed and tenderly kiss each other. Pretty soon Katya and Olya are doing the same on a pallet on the floor beside us. My clothes are suddenly on the bed and your hands are wandering. They find what they are looking for and you make the most beautiful sounds. I can scarcely breathe to join you but soon I have completely forgotten that the others are still in the room. I am grabbing on to any part of you I can, rubbing my hands across the softest places on your skin, grabbing your hair and stealing kisses when I can catch my breath. I try to return the favors you’re giving me but you push my hands away. “I want you to finish,” you whisper in my ear. I try feebly to tell you that it probably won’t happen, but I have to stop explaining because you won’t give up.
Pretty soon I am panting, entangled around you and smiling into your neck. I explore your body but you seem to be content with giving. Then all four of us are curled up in your bed, legs and arms and breasts everywhere. I call my boss and tell her I’m sick. I tell everyone to shut up and try to make my cigarettes and alcohol voice sound as hoarse as possible. “I don’t think it’s a good idea to leave the house,” I say, winking at you. Ira tells you to try not to come again while I’m on the phone and you stifle your laughter in the blankets. I think my boss knows I’m not sick, but I don’t care. Fire me, bitch, I think, and fall asleep in your arms.
I spend all day sleeping, making love, and talking with you. Sometimes I know what you are saying and sometimes I just listen to the rhythm of your language, the way the sounds I try so hard to imitate roll off your tongue like they’re liquid. You light another cigarette and read me Mayakovsky. I have no idea what the poems are about and I don’t care. My life is a goddamn indie movie and you are smiling at me again, one eyebrow cocked like you’re trying to figure me out. Like you’ve caught a live hummingbird in your hand and are fascinated by the frenetic beating of its tiny wings.
You show me your photography and I show you my drawings. You try to write me a poem but I don’t understand, and I read you one of mine but you look at me blankly. We smile and kiss each other. Words are unnecessary anyway.
I’m playing music with you this weekend. You say you miss my wonderful smile.
Viva la vie boheme, bitches.
Source: reddit.com/r/sexystories/comments/kuu3pc/malishka_baby_les_21f_and_31f
Look so tasty