CHAPTER 5 - MY FIRST ANAL

SYLVANA

The knock came again, sharper this time, and Julian made a low sound of irritation against my hair, his hips still buried deep, still refusing to move. "Ignore it."

"She won't go away," I whispered, and I don't know how I knew that, except that the woman outside had the patient, unhurried look of someone who had decided to be a problem and was enjoying it.

Julian swore under his breath. He shifted me on his lap, still inside me, and cracked the window a hand's width. Cold air rushed in, and with it her voice — low, easy, amused. "Well. Julian."

"Mira."

She looked past him and found me, and her smile widened by slow degrees. Older than me by a few years, dark hair swept back, red lipstick, a long grey coat that fit like it had been tailored onto her specifically. She looked at me in without any hurry at all — my swollen mouth, my skirt bunched at my waist, the flush I could feel burning my cheeks.

"You're busy," she said.

"I'm always busy."

"You're never *this* busy." Her eyes slid back to me, warm and knowing. "Hello. You must be the one with the voice."

My whole body went hot, because that meant she knew about the recording, which meant Julian had told her, which meant — God — how much had he told her? "Hi," I managed.

Julian's jaw tightened as he glared back at her "Later, Mira."

"Later," she agreed, easy as anything, and tapped the glass once with two fingers before she straightened and walked off across the lot without looking back.

"Who is she?" I asked, once the window was up.

"Complicated." He said it the way he said most things, like the rest of the answer was behind his teeth and he hadn't decided to hand it over yet. Then his hands came back to my hips. "But not now. I have a seminar at nine and you have a class, and neither of us can walk in like this."

"Then when?"

"Tonight." He kissed the side of my throat, slow, deliberate. "I'll come for you tonight. Go to your lectures, be good, and at six you meet me at the front gate. Yes?"

"Yes."

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Julian."

The day was useless. Two lectures and a seminar, a page of notes that made no sense to anyone, least of all me, all of it filtered through the memory of his fingers and his voice and the weight of him inside me. He texted once around noon — *eat something* — and again at four — *six. front gate. don't be late* — and I spent the hours between checking my phone like a girl waiting on exam results, my mind anywhere but on the page in front of me.

He was already leaning against the car when I reached the gate, and he didn't say hello. He opened the door, waited, and watched me climb in.

The hotel was quiet, old, expensive in a way that made no fuss about itself. He checked us in without ceremony, and the girl at the desk didn't blink at the state of us, and we rode the lift up in silence with his hand low on my back.

Room 312.

The door clicked shut and he locked it slowly, I turned to face me with the city lights behind him. He looked bigger in here, calmer, more in command than he ever did behind a lectern.

"In this room," he said, "there are rules."

"Rules."

"Three." He crossed to me and circled, unhurried. "One. You do what I say, when I say it, and you don't ask why. Two. If you want to stop, you say stop, and we stop. Three." He stopped behind me, mouth at my ear. "You tell me everything you feel. Out loud. The whole time. I want to hear it."

"Yes," I said.

"Yes what?"

"Yes, Julian."

"Good girl."

He undressed me slowly, one piece at a time, and made me stand still for it, and every time I shifted my weight he clicked his tongue and started the button over. By the time I was bare I was trembling, and he still hadn't touched anywhere that mattered.

"On your knees," he said.

I sank down on the carpet at the foot of the bed and looked up at him, and the look he gave me then was the most unguarded I'd ever seen on his face. He undid his belt and freed himself and stepped close, and I took him in my mouth without being told, and the low groan he made above me was worth more than any praise.

"Slower," he said, a hand in my hair. "Take your time. I'm not in a rush with you tonight."

And he wasn't. He let me work him until my jaw ached, until my thighs were slick and my own hips were rocking against nothing, and only when I whined around him did he pull me up and onto the bed.

"Face down," he said. "Hips up. I want to see you."

I arranged myself the way he asked, cheek on the pillow, back arched, and felt exposed in a way I never had before — opened, presented, his to look at. The mattress dipped as he knelt behind me. His palm smoothed over the curve of my ass, and then one finger slid down, past my pussy, and pressed — wet and easy — against the tight ring that made my whole body clench.

"Have you done this before," he asked.

"No."

"Then we do it slow." He reached for the bottle he'd brought, of course he had, and the cold slick of it made me gasp. "Breathe out. Relax into it."

One finger, then two, patient and thorough, until the burn softened into something strange and full and good. He talked the whole time, low and steady — how well I was doing, how tight I was, how long he'd thought about this — and I answered him the way he'd asked, in broken half-sentences, everything I felt spilling out of me.

"More," I finally said. "Julian, more."

"Greedy girl."

He pressed against me and pushed, slow, agonising, and the stretch was so much that for a moment I forgot how to breathe. He stopped halfway and let me adjust, thumb rubbing slow circles where it helped, and only when my hips began pushing back did he sink the rest of the way.

"God," I sobbed into the pillow. "God, Julian —"

"Tell me."

"Full — you're so — I feel all of you —"

"That's it. That's my good girl."

He moved then, slow and deep and deliberate, one hand braced and the other reaching around to work my clit in time with each thrust, and the combination of him inside me and under my own body was so much that I was already climbing, already close, faster than I'd ever gotten there in my life.

"Who do you belong to," he said.

"You."

"Say my name."

"Julian. Julian. Julian —"

"Cum for me." He commanded. "Now."

And I did, hard enough that my legs shook and my voice broke, clenching tight around him, and he drove through it without slowing, chasing his own edge now, his breathing ragged, his grip on my hip bruising. Then he went still, buried to the hilt, and I felt the heat of him spill, and the low, guttural sound he made against my shoulder was the most unguarded thing I had ever heard him do.

We lay tangled in the sheets for a while, cooling, his hand tracing lazy circles on my back. Then he pulled me into the shower, and then back onto the bed, and the second time was slower and meaner — his mouth everywhere, edging me until I begged, until I forgot my own name, until the room went dark outside and the city came alive below us and neither of us cared.

It was nearly eleven when he drove me back.

"About Mira," I said, as the dorm loomed up ahead.

"You'll see her again." He said it without looking at me, his eyes fixed on the windscreen. "Sooner than you think."

"What does that mean?"

"Go on." He nodded toward the door. "Get some sleep."

Mara would already be in bed, and the room would be dark, and I'd have to move quiet so I didn't wake her.

I let myself in as softly as I could and stood a moment in the doorway, listening. The room was dim and sure enough there she was — curled on her side in the bed across from mine, a tangle of dark hair and one bare shoulder above the blanket, her breathing slow and even.

Good she's asleep.

I undressed in the dark, found a shirt, and slid into my own bed, and lay there with the whole day still humming in my blood, sleep nowhere near.

I don't know how long it was. Long enough that the hall lights had clicked off, long enough that the room had gone fully black and my breathing had slowed toward something like rest.

Then I felt the small dip of the mattress behind me, the whisper of the blanket lifting, the warmth of a body sliding in against my back. An arm came over my waist, carefully, and settled there like it had been deciding whether to for hours.

Mara? She didn't say a word. She just pressed her forehead between my shoulder blades, breathed out, and snuggled into my back.