Shmowder (Alur)
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In which the Bachelor oversteps the boundaries of professionalism for the sake of preserving someone's dream
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"Are the rest of Saburov's dogs all bark and no bite, or are you a special case." What's meant to be a dig at you, ends up falling flat as an especially needy whine escapes Grief's throat once your hand abandons his aching cunt.
The thighs atop your shoulders tremble at the sharp graze of your teeth against his sensitive skin. Spreading his pussy open, your mouth latches around his clit.
"You truly want me to bite you?" The vibrations of your words and heatness of your breath against his pussy only serve to worsen its desperate state, with Grief's wetness now seeping onto the chair below.
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Collection of the short stories I wrote during the pathologic fest. Five in total.
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Based on the song "Andrew in Drag" by "The Magnetic Fields" except it's Andrey.
It made him feel nothing short of a pervert, the way his eyes drifted to her peeking cleavage whenever she'd lean down. Hands growing clammy inside his leather gloves. The coat heavy on his back, the vest squeezing his torso, the pants uncomfortably tight, the cravat choking his neck. It appears each article of clothing conspired to suffocate him today. His face no doubtly flushed, burning from a mixture of shame and desire, both feeding into each other in a never ending cycle.
The worst of all, the one standing before him on stage, was the most gorgeous woman he's ever laid eyes upon. Ethereal in her beauty. Tall and hard in all the right places like a goddess of retribution gracing him with an audience. Fierce eyes that made him feel weak in the knees, burning through his core, exposing him for the hopeless fool in love he fears he really is deep down.
It would've been too perfect for her to be real.
He's barely recognisable as himself, but so undeniably Andrey.
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God—Saburov thought—even if you took away the ruined clothes, his sinful face completely incriminated him. The usually indifferent tone replaced by a clement one, intimacy residing in each syllable. The somber never-changing facial expression somehow morphed into a hungry lustful look more fitting those barely clothed dancers in the pub.
He's not into men; he can't be. For no other man has ever looked at him like Victor does. No other man ever made his imagination run wild from the simplest of actions. No other man drove him this close to the brink of insanity like the younger Kain.
He has no attraction to men—he justified—for Victor Kain is an outlier amongst men. In fact, Saburov is sure that if he dressed him up in a soft blue nightgown, adorned his cheeks with blush and painted pink across his lips, then surely that'll make any honest man question his orientation.