Lolita

Lolita has lovers in almost every country of the world. Acquiring them is a fetish of hers that developed- initially at least- quite unintentionally, and rather spontaneously, and has somehow come to resemble a trend that she finds no immediate desire to escape.

Now Lolita is sitting on a couch opposite a man in a hostel in Tehran. He is watching her eat watermelon that is wet and heavy like a swollen clit. The juice is leaking down her chin and she is spitting out the seeds but they are landing on her top, already carelessly stained with wine, or on her bottom lip. He is watching her curl those lips into a half smile to the side of her mouth, which is a bleached pink, and how somehow this makes her cheeks glow. He watches her undress him with her eyes, lazily exotic in a way that is impossibly beautiful.

Lolita is terribly attracted to the man sitting opposite her. He is nearly twice her age and they are both excruciatingly aware of this. He is unbearably good looking and is making her feel slightly light headed and dizzy, and so she just keeps talking and eating and occasionally stops to drown him in languid, sleepy smiles.

* * *

They end up in a teahouse, where he is counting the number of sugar cubes she is using to drink her chai. She is up to six, and hasn't seemed to notice.

You've got nice feet.

She has taken off her socks and shoes that were both dripping from the snow, and her toes are cold and almost purple. He reaches out to touch them.

She looks at him and turns up the corner of her mouth. This is the first time he has touched her and she feels her breathing splutter. She sucks hard on her sugar cube and feels her teeth rotting.

Thanks.

I love the colour you've got on your toes...

She laughs because this sounds corny. Her fingernails are black, and her toenails aqua, and he points to a dirty colour underneath.

What's that?

There were bits of red from before and I couldn't be bothered to scratch them off so I just painted over them.

The waiter is bringing them more chai, despite having not finished the first lot, and they have managed to attract an audience of hyperactive boys who are giggling over them as if they are the best thing since sliced bread, and teaching them to blow smoke rings from thequalyan in wonderful bemusement.

They are asking him how old he is.

Thirty seven.

Siyo haft. And you?

Biste. Twenty.

Twenty!

The boys turn from Lolita to him in awe, as if he is some kind of god.

Twenty?!

Yeah she's cute isn't she?

He grins cheekily and winks, puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her close affectionately.

The boys seem to resurrect themselves.

She is beautiful when she smiles, isn't she?

This is one of the boys.

He looks at her and his voice softens and lowers a million octaves.

She is.

Wink.

His contrived charm drowns her with the sensation that she is sinking through ice. She puts her hand on his thigh under the tablecloth. He pretends not to notice. He his holding her foot, still. He watches her, all cold toes and languid smiles, and just wants to hold her.

* * *

Somehow they have ended up spending the entire day together, mainly because they are so magnetised by each other that both of them forget to leave. But this is ok; this is nothing to be concerned about. Now they are driving around the city in no particular direction with their possie of boys giving instructions to the driver. There are eight people in the cab. They are sitting next to each other in amusing disfigurement. She can't breathe, not because of the lack of space but because of the unbearably erotic sensation of being pressed against him.

He grabs her leg and somehow lifts it over his so he can hold her by the thigh like leg of meat, and juice her gently under her coat. She puts her head on his shoulder innocently, and revels in being coveted.

* * *

By now it is nighttime, and somehow they have acquired a motorbike along the way. So he is hooning alongside her on the bike, and she reaches out of the taxi to grab his hand. They drive in and out of traffic, somehow they don't have an accident, and their fingers are twisted around each other and she is blowing him kisses and grinning from the window. It is close to zero degrees and their eyes are both leaking from the wind. The ridiculous music in the taxi and the revving of the bike and the aphrodisiac of the night and the high that he gives her are so deafening that she cannot lose the sensation of being suspended over speed bumps.

When they stop, randomly, in the middle of the road, she jumps out and onto the back of the bike behind him. He holds her thighs behind him and she puts her chin on his shoulder so that their cheeks are touching. This is so uncannily intimate and their cheeks are so cold that they are getting hot flushes from the sensation. For a moment she can hardly hear a thing around her except his breathing, which is heavy, and hot. She feels like a kitten as she latches on and buries herself into him. She kisses his ears, discreetly, behind her hijab, which keeps flying off but she no longer cares if she gets arrested. Her heart stopped minutes ago. Since then her blood has been running on electricity.

When they stagger off the bike she is feeling kaleidoscopic. He is watching her shoelaces trawl in the dirt and her wiping her hands on her pants. This is so unceremonious it is attractive. She is retying her clothes and scarves with safety pins and as she does this she holds them in her mouth. She pins the leftovers to the bottom of her pants, where she has dodgily sewn three rows of embroidered ribbon to the hem. Momentarily he is preoccupied with this, and watches in bemused speculation. She is oblivious to his gaze, and, because of this, he cannot help being turned on.

Then she is looking at him quizzically, and smiling.

I love that beanie, is all she says.

* * *

By now they are giddy and giggling like a couple of school kids. They are back at the dodgy hostel and she is handing over rials for the room. He puts her money away.

It's alright, I've got it....

And then

I've got more money than you

as if it was an afterthought.

Nah dude I have almost a thousand bucks.

She grins.

He looks at her out of the bottom of his eyes in the most condescending but ultimately sexy way, and she grins. She knows that he probably has a house somewhere around the world, she knows he has been working for the last twenty years. She knows that they both know this, she knows that the conversation has only served to remind them both that she is almost half his age.

I've got it.

She lets her self be shouted, and they make up some cock and bull story about how they are engaged and have been together for years, despite having met for the first time yesterday. She twists one of her rings over to her left hand and suddenly feels uncomfortably ashamed of what they're doing, in this beautiful country that's not their own. Where they are visitors. Somehow this realisation of disrespect doesn't cease the roller coaster they are on, which makes her feel even more embarrassed. She can no longer look the hotel man in the eye.

Thank god they didn't ask for a marriage certificate, but then when they asked one of her friends before they had read it upside down anyway. The scenario is so ludicrous and perverse that she can feel herself blushing. He bumps her shoulder with his as if she is his younger sister. This makes her smile continuously for the next ten minutes.

* * *

Now he is watching the way she sits cross-legged on the bed but lying down so her head is hanging off the edge bluntly and vulnerably exposed. He is watching her aqua and black nails and how she speaks to him upside-down in the mirror. She can feel him watching her play with her hair.

He wants to open her up and extract from her all the kinds of idiosyncrasies you find out after sex. He wants to open her up, like a flower, like an oyster, like the pretty little thing she is, and justhave her. He wants to flip her over and over again like a pancake and devour her. He wants to grab that neck like a piece of meat and strangle it in some kind of predatory urge while he fucks her hard up the arse.

This is no secret to her.

She turns onto her side and looks at him, the pillow between her cheek and the back of her hand. He listens to the sound of her throat sucking in air. He looks at her, and she blinks in slow motion. In that blink is the sensation of her ruthlessly and impulsively squeezing his balls and kissing him firm on the mouth. She blinks again. He waits for each blink as if it is the biggest come on you could ever imagine.

She's young enough to be my daughter

he is thinking.

He's old enough to be my father,

she is thinking.

Just.

Both are not sure whether to be disturbed or turned on by these libidinous thoughts that seem strangely and inescapably and mind-bendingly arousing.

* * *

She is lying now with her head in his armpit, and he is extracting the most wonderful pleasure from watching her shiver and recoil and nuzzle into him, achingly cold and affectionate. He is calling her sweets and things that make her feel delicate, and stroking her fingers with his thumb, wondering if she notices. She does. Of course she does. Her breathing is tortured because of it.

The way he looks at her is through the bottom corner of his eyes with his lids half shut. The way this looks is incredibly perverse in the best kind of way. The way she looks at him is up through the top of her eyes with her lids wide like butterflies, and the way this looks is innocent and greedy and lasciviously suggestive as if she is daring and begging him to have her at the same time.

Every now and then she slides her hand underneath his shirt and into the belt of his pants and feels that muscle at the base of the spine and the top of the butt. She can feel his belt buckle hard against her left hipbone and in this there is a novel intimacy that is almost unnerving. This sexy, cocky guy whose ego she knows how to please, and tease. Tracing her nails down his side, she is waiting for him to flinch, ticklish, waiting to feel his breathing stop. She loves this.

Men are singing and giggling and yelling in Farsi in the kitchen upstairs.

Romantic room, huh?

Shit yeah. Windows like a prison cell... so much kerosene from the heater it spins you out...

Beds like tables...

Who knows what the fuck they're doing next door...

Yep... don't get much more romantic than this...

She giggles, and then kisses his cheek.

He is staring at the ceiling and smiling at the idea of himself lying there in a squeaky bed in their prison cell, dizzy on kerosene, with this girl in her chipped nail polish who is playing with his earlobes and has her legs wrapped high around his chest. He is thinking that maybe she is flexible and that could come in handy.

Do you do yoga?

Mmmm .... yeah.... Why?

Just thought you were the type.

The type...

She closes her eyes, and lets him build up some yogic schoolgirl fantasy of her back home.

* * *

He holds her head, sunken into his shoulder cavity, with his whole hand. His fingers rake up the back of her neck and he cradles her skull as if he were holding up the head of a newborn baby. He is wrapping her hair around his fingers in a way that she can never be sure that he won't pull her head to the side and let his teeth sink into her neck. He is craving her in a way that is all at once protectively paternal, instinctively territorial, and fantastically erotic.

Do you like arses?

I like yours,

she says, and squeezes his.

I have a thing for arses. Haven't had a chance to get a look at yours yet though.

She is tracing her finger down the vein that runs fat through his bicep, and she looks at him and laughs.

Somehow, randomly in the conversation, as if it were the natural progression from arses, they end up on the topic of anal sex. The ultimate kink.

What, so you've never been fucked up the arse?

His eyes are incredulous, and she can swear his mouth is watering.

You've never tried the back door thing?

She just smiles like a fresh piece of meat.

I was always up for it.

He nearly chokes.

Really?

Casual.

By now his voice is almost growling with temptation. She just smiles darlingly like some innocent kid, crippled by his lust for her. That savage, wordless lust. She just lies there and smiles, and fantasises about being violently corrupted.

* * *

She is conscious of her slightness underneath him, conscious of her youth beside him. She loves this. She indulges in it like it is her ace of spades. She is holding his bicep in her hand like a football, pawing at his neck with her nails like a panda bear, and sneaking bites at the lobes of his ears. His chest hair smells of soap and she knows he probably washed himself thinking of her, like she did when she let that water stream into her cunt so she would be sweet and tasty.

He is leaning over her now, and looking at her. He has his hands on her stockings and she is thinking how she would give up everything she owned if only he would rip them off her. And all she does is blink again, with that loose, amorous smile.

And so he kisses her. Because he knows she wants it. And of course she does.

* * *

He touches her, and she is humming like an engine. She is purring like a motor. She can feel his breath in her ear, and before she knows it he is pressing her against the wall in a way that makes her body freeze and melt simultaneously. When he kisses her she feels dumbly serene, and she just keeps grabbing him by his hair and pulling him into her and impulsively kissing him hard and wet on the mouth and telling him that he is very, very sexy. He likes this.

Your pussy's really warm.

Hhhmmmm

So you're really only twenty? He grins.

She laughs at the progression of his thoughts. Kisses him. And shrugs.

Older guys do it for me.

He kisses her back. Wet, impassioned.

Well I usually go for older women but I guess I'll make an exception for you.

She scoffs and then laughs. Like he was doing her a favour.

They are struggling in the single bed with a dirty hostel blanket and a sleeping bag that keeps sliding off towards the floor.

Shit. We should safety pin the blanket and the sleeping bag together.

Giggle.

I have safety pins, too.

She is feeling giddy and silly and intoxicatingly naughty.

Fuck. I've melted a hole in your sleeping bag. Sorry.

* * *

Her head is full of the scent of him, and prurient, wanton thoughts, and all she can feel is a burning in her womb and the sensation of her unchastehands all over his moist skin. She can hear his breath quickening in fierce arousal and the thrill she gets from this is incredible.

Suddenly they are pushing two single beds together, and she is climbing on top of him like a dominatrix, she wants to watch him in tantalising torment underneath her. He is bemused by the spectacle of her seducing him. Wonderfully turned on by the spectacle of her seducing him; this small, young, hungry, sexual deviant. She wants him to lust after her like a schoolgirl. And of course he does.

Shit, that feels good. You're good at that.

She is up to her neck in his body.

He is telling her how fabulous her black nails look around his cock, and in her dumbly happy state she is absorbing him like some kind of drug. The way he growls is so distinctly animal that she feels like prey, and is obsessively turned on.

* * *

Soon he is standing at the foot of the bed in all his nakedness with a hard on and that Amazonian fishtail necklace. For a moment he looks like he's just stepped out of maximum security, walked into the bedroom, and been handed a condom.

She is being taken to the beds and laid down diagonally across them, like a patient, and explored. He is strong enough to just lift her up or onto him at his whim, like a little fuck doll. The kicks she gets from this are indescribable.

The window is locked ajar with his shoe, and the breeze is making her nipples erect. So he kisses them with heavy, hot kisses. The breeze is giving her goose bumps down her navel, and down her thighs. And so he kisses them with heavy, hot kisses. But this just makes her shiver even more. He has laid her flat on her stomach and has her wrists trapped beneath his calloused, iron hands. She wishes desperately that somehow, just somehow, he has brought handcuffs.

* * *

He bites her neck. He bites her neck again, and again. He bites her neck slowly and just hard enough that it makes her wince. His mouth is open wide enough to almost suction her whole neck. And every time she winces she feels her body contract, waiting for his teeth to break her skin, and then she melts. And she breaks into a smile, and waits for him to bite again; wet, lusciously. With each bite is the tickling of his heavy breath, and his spiky stubble and his soft pillowy lips. She is laughing and wincing and melting in harmonious succession. And in between each bite she cannot breathe at all.

Now all she can feel is his hand around her neck like a noose, clamped, from behind. She can feel this and his fingers pulsating and squeezing and the sensation of her hands out to her sides and pressed flat against the bed. The way she feels is like a blindfolded doll. The way she feels is like a naked prisoner forced against a wall. The way she feels is violently submissive. This sensation of helplessness is erotic like you would not believe. Her face is hard against the bed as if against glass and this makes it hard to breathe. She is almost blue and yet she wants to drown under that hand, she wants to dissolve beneath it. She wants him to suffocate her.

There is mascara all over the pillow.

Now she is feeling kisses down her back and under the cheeks of her arse. She can feel the weight of him concentrated into that grip as he adjusts his body, and slides his suppleness across her. All she can hear is the traffic and the banging of the window against his shoe, and his breathing and him murmuring sweet nothings between kisses. She wishes she'd cleaned her ears in that cold shower this morning, as he seduces them with his tongue.

* * *

She is feeling her undies pulled aside with one finger, and for a moment she thinks she is going to be fucked like that, and then they are yanked down around her ankles with his feet. She is undone by this. Utterly and totally and irreversibly undone.

He has his finger lubed with spit and tracing up towards her arse.

Are you into this?

She is being flooded with all the urges of her sexual being and is surprised she can articulate anything intelligible.

I'm into you.

And so now he has his cock deep inside her and one finger up her arse and she feels lavishly open and like she would let him have her body in anyway he wanted. She is being moulded like a piece of putty and she wants to scream but all she can manage are random guttural releases. She can hear his breathy male growl that sounds like if he's been holding his breathe up until now and that makes her feel wonderfully delirious.

Her jewellery is lost somewhere under their clothes, lost somewhere under the bed. Her hair elastic, her underwear, his jeans from Brazil with their pockets weighed down with a million things and looking as though they should have a Crocodile Dundee knife attached to the belt. Such is the nature of this impetuous seduction.