31
April 2017
Alex
The secret life of London: sumptuous nightclubs with any drug your heart might desire, former special forces operatives working face control on the door, underground casinos with marble columns right in the center of the city, illegal bookie’s taking bets but posing as legal consultancies, private parties in old mansion houses with elegant copulation.
In London, amidst the world’s gilded youth, it’s not hard to find your way into an orgy. If you have copious amounts of money, it’s akin to ordering a table in a good restaurant. There’s only one requirement – you either had to be from the gilded youth, or you had to be friends with them. You had to be from that golden circle.
In London, everything, or almost everything, is down to who you know. As in any big city, of which there are about ten to fifteen in the world, you can make your way up, earn a fortune, a position in society and all the joys that brings with it, but, as a rule, it’s a far from easy path to travel.
Alex knew people who’d worked their way up the career ladder, from head of a department in a bank, to vice-president of a corporation, specialists in IT who’d given their whole lives over to their work. They had slaved away seven days a week, twelve to fourteen hours a day, answering to every beck and call of the upper management, with that upper management doing the same for the rank higher, and they, in turn… The boss wants you to go to the football on your day off? Of course! I’ll be there! Don’t start without me. The boss wants you to go to the theater? Just try saying no! It would be a pleasure! Thank you! What a stroke of luck! And then, come Monday morning, you’re back working from eight to eight, doing the work of two, three, maybe more, keeping an eye on your colleague who’d love to replace you. And if you’re a woman, there will be rumors … she’s sleeping her way to the top, of course!
But for the gilded youth there were different rules. The heirs to oil or industrial fortunes. They stood out in the crowd. Or, rather, they never stood in the crowd. They never hurried, speaking calmly and slowly. That was, no doubt, their distinguishing characteristic.
They never hurried. If, heaven forbid, a problem would crop up along the way, there would always be acquaintances or acquaintances of their parents, or even acquaintances of acquaintances who could resolve such difficulties.
You just had to call a pal, and the issue would be solved. Your every request would be listened to in earnest, and the answer, most likely, would be “no problem.” That meant that everything would be sorted out. That meant that you wouldn’t have to stand in line or be subject to the greedy whims of petty officials and functionaries.
Representatives of the gilded youth never had to look for apartments to rent, they never had to cut a deal with a stinking, drunken owner of a trashy one-roomer, or convince said owner that he’d have to wait another couple of days for his grand and change for a miniscule rubbish dump on the fourth floor of a fleapit block a half-hour walk from a tube stop out in the sticks.
What is the gilded youth, and who are they? It’s very simple. They are the children of the rich. Businessmen or top-level bureaucrats from all over the world. It doesn’t matter where their mummies and daddies get their money. The main thing is that they’ve got a lot of the stuff and they supply their offspring with as much as they need and more. Money. That’s the key word here. The trump in the London deck.
London. A huge number of newly-arrived girls – from all over Britain, from Europe and beyond, from provincial towns and cities, all of them arriving in the capital, in this vast city with its splendid avenues, with its thrumming streets of traffic in every direction, its winding streets and narrow pavements. Take Alex’s favorite crossroad, for example. It’s where Tottenham Court Road and Oxford Street intersect, the bars and fleshpots of Soho a short walk away, Foyle’s bookshop, “Theatreland” with all the West End shows, Denmark Street with its guitar shops all close to hand.
London. All those girls from different cities and from all across London; the elite all passed entry exams in mathematics and literature and enrolled in institutes and universities. There, they’ve met boys and they dream, of course, of living the good life in London.
Who wouldn’t, after all? To live life as depicted in the glossy magazines: glistening cars, dining at the renowned Ivy, rather than at McDonald’s, where there’s a huge line for lunch, your miserable burger is fried on an old grill and your fries are cooked in rancid oil, portion after portion, until the oil turns a strange color somewhere between brown and orange. Why do you think the public toilets smell so bad?
But the gilded youth has received everything its heart could desire. And any girl, or almost any, dreams of a son of rich parents inviting them out on a date. She doesn’t know if she’ll like him or not, or if she’ll have sex on the first date or not. The main thing is just to reach that summit, even if only once, where they shoot soap operas about the good life, to touch “that” life, to have the maître d’ at a plush eaterie open the door and say: “A good day to you, Ma’am.” So that she can go back to her bedsit and call her sister Claudia in Bermingham or Leeds on Skype or WhatsApp and tell her all about it. Even if it’s only once.
The gilded youth. They never sat in traffic. They smoothly skirted round the jams, driven by chauffeurs, their crocodile-skin wallets received from daddy for their birthday always tightly packed with cash and cards. They got everything. And having received everything, they tried to get the biggest high they could find. And the stakes in that one-sided game would climb ever higher.
Alex had been invited to the party by Jake, a rich son of rich parents. Jake’s mommy was a highly paid lawyer, and his daddy was the founder of six (or was it eight?) major companies in the capital of an Eastern bloc country. The apartment that Jake’s forebears had given him was in a penthouse in Docklands, looking out over the Thames.
This wasn’t just a building for the very rich. It was a clubhouse. You could happily ask for any service and it would be provided almost instantaneously in your penthouse. Guards, cleaning, a separate room for your pets, anything you could dream of. In order to get into the building your name had to be on the guest list – then the guard, followed by the concierge, would let you into a sumptuous apartment where the thick walls and soundproofing would ensure that everything that happened within those elite walls would stay within those same elite walls.
That evening, as was the custom in such places, alcohol of the most expensive brands was pouring like a mountain stream. Remy Martin, Chateau Lafite, Screaming Eagle, Macallan, Glenfarclas, Frapin Cuvee. And, of course, at the peak, stood absinthe. Seventy five percent proof, tinctured with wormwood, absinthe would take your head off, but it would do it so slowly, so reluctantly, you could even say politely. It immersed you in a cozy, soft warmth, in a soft dream, but you remained awake. It’s no accident that the Impressionists loved it so dearly. Lovers of absinthe included Vincent Van Gogh, Paul Gauguin, Emile Zola, Paul Verlaine and Oscar Wilde. The French poet and dramatist Alfred Jarry insisted that it be drunk neat, while the no less famous Baudelaire used it with opium, and Rimbaud combined it with hash.
Alex loved absinthe too, or “the muse in the bottle”, as it had once been titled in France. Absinthe gently moved aside anything and everything that had been incessantly causing you harm. And Alex was grateful to it for that.
He would remember that night for the rest of his life.
About ten people had gathered at Jake’s apartment: five or six young men and about the same number of girls. It was a chilly afternoon, though it was sunny outside. The guests gathered around the fireplace for an unhurried chat. They were all young, beautiful, in refined evening wear, they were relaxed, uninhibited.
Apart from Jake, Alex didn’t know any of them. And he only vaguely knew Jake. They’d met through Arthur, a mutual acquaintance, at a party in honor of a theater premiere in the West End.
Jake had heard that Alex worked on the speech patterns of the kind of famous people who appeared on the covers of glossy magazines or leading internet publications, so-called “speech sellers.” Jake said that they’d been having problems at his agency and he asked for help. He said they needed a fresh, aggressive, entirely new approach.
Alex helped him, they celebrated their acquaintanceship and Alex’s successful work at the famous restaurant, Jean-Georges at the Connaught, where they’d got very drunk as they ate Black Pearl oysters from New Zealand. A few days later, along with a hefty payment, the invitation had arrived, no doubt as a thank you, or perhaps as an invitation for them to “be friends”, which is to say continue hanging out.
Alex was used to clients sending him an envelope with money instead of a simple “thank you”, along with an expensive present – there even appeared to be some sort of competition in terms of who could provide the most exotic gift. Here it was a “black-tie” invitation, which indicated, even in London, a city spoiled in terms of the wealth of its entertainments, an event to be held at the highest level with a great deal of preparation.
All this came in spite of the fact that acquaintanceships in London often ended almost as soon as they’d begun. For a prolonged friendship, something more than a brisk, mutually advantageous acquaintanceship was required. Masses of people met, mingled, got something out of it, satisfied their momentary needs and wishes and then headed off in their different directions, dissolving into the city of twenty million. They went to sleep in their lonely beds from IKEA or, curled into balls next to their partners who no longer gave them comfort and warmth. Or they huddled up, covering themselves over in their blankets, waking up six or seven hours later to the sound of their Xiaomi or Alcatel alarms, forcing themselves to wash their faces, shave or put their makeup on, and again enter out into the hustle and bustle of London’s streets, dragging themselves back into their humdrum lives, washing away the night before and the acquaintanceship that had brought them nothing.
With Alex, it was altogether different. He was a professional in his sphere, even though he was entirely sick of it. People had a high regard for him and really did want to “be friends.”
Jake didn’t play the role of kindly host and didn’t entertain his guests. The broad river of expensive drinks poured of its own accord, everyone quietly and very lazily got introduced, the girls laughed ever louder and ever longer, and the party slowly warmed up, London-style.
Afternoon dissolved into evening. A beautiful London sunset, tender pinks in the blue-white sky, all seen from the balcony of the Docklands clubhouse, creating a sense of a unique performance that only the select had been invited to by some kind of wizard.
Alex noticed that one of the girls, the only blonde, was tenderly kissing a tall brown-haired man, but then moved on to another guy. She pushed up against him, drinking white wine from a beautiful glass with an incredibly long stem.
The guy didn’t object. That was clear from the way that the girl’s new conversation partner placed his hand on her thigh and calmly smiled.
The other girls also changed who they were hanging out with from time to time, it all happening quite sweetly and somehow naturally.
Alex heard Jake’s voice. “You’re not very gregarious…”
“Sit down,” said Alex, smiling. “Make yourself at home.”
Jake, smiling, sat down next to him and poured himself a gin and tonic.
“How are you? How’s work?” asked Jake.
“All going smoothly,” smiled Alex. “Were my articles a success?”
“A stunning success! I was rushed off my feet, so I can’t have sent you our leads. I’m guilty,” joked Jake. “So, take this invitation as my apology and evidence of my delight at your work.”
“You’ve got a nice pad here,” said Alex, changing the subject.
“We don’t need everything. Just the best,” answered Jake, laughing.
They chatted for a little while longer. Then another young guy joined them. They shot the breeze, discussing the probability of the pound rising again and, accordingly, the profits to be had from buying dollars, before the newcomer asked a question.
“When do we start the concert?”
“You can start if you want,” smiled Jake.
“A concert?” Alex asked Jake.
“A concert,” answered Jake, again smiling.
The young guy left them.
“A symphonic concert,” said Jake, looking Alex straight in the eye.
Alex looked at Jake questioningly. The background music suddenly died out, and there was silence.
Out of a backroom came four musicians, climbing onto a stage that had been set up for them in the corner, a little further on from the fireplace. The musicians, as befitted a symphonic quartet, were dressed all in black, but if you looked a little closer you could see that the black material was actually transparent.
If you looked really closely, you could see the first violinist’s nipples or the firm butt of the cellist. The male bodies were also covered in transparent trousers and black chiffon shirts, leaving their genitals visible to the spectators. You could easily see that the musicians were incredibly embarrassed, although their young bodies were in great shape.
The musicians seemed to be aware, however, that they wouldn’t get this kind of money – it would appear that this involved a major sum – anywhere else at any time, so they simply tried not to look around so that they wouldn’t catch anyone’s eye. This was helped by the black masks that they all put on, as if following an inaudible command.
Classical music began to play. Beethoven. Alex was no great expert in classical music, but he recognized this work, a string quartet. The music poured out tenderly, appearing to fill the entire space of the apartment.
“The theme of the party is ‘two violins, two bows,” whispered Jake, leaning closer to Alex.
Ah, so that’s what it’s all about.
Jake quietly laughed.
Of course. Two violins, two bows. Among the younger generation, this was slang for group sex poses, both involving two men and a woman.
Two violins was when a man would lie down on a bed or on the floor. A woman would sit on him. Then, already riding the man’s cock and making herself comfortable, the woman would lean forward, opening up her rear. The second man would slowly enter her butt from behind the woman. As the sexual movements of the woman with regard to the two men were in different directions, and almost perpendicular to each of the men, this wasn’t a comfortable pose for the men. It did, however, arouse fantasies with its unusualness. The woman got two cocks at once, doubling her joy, as some put it.
The “two bows” position, no doubt, was born in the imagination of a person who was a seeker, and by no means modest in his or her desires. That person, irrespective of what age he or she was living in, must have seen a lot before coming up with it. In comparison with the “two bows”, the “two violins” looked like a fairly traditional home-style affair. Well, perhaps spiced up with a little innovation, but a fairly modest, homely approach all the same.
The opening description of the “two bows” entirely matches that of the “two violins.” A man with a good, confident erection, lies on the floor or a cozy bed. The woman again sits her vagina down on his cock and leans her breasts down to the man’s chest. But the trick here was that, in this pose, between the vagina with a cock in it and the rear wall, a small space is forced open. The third party in this ensemble puts his cock into this space.
Alex finished his absinthe and put the glass on the table. In the meantime, in the center of the living room, on a sumptuous soft carpet, the girls were putting on a slow, calm, even homely striptease. They moved beautifully, slowly undressing.
“I’ve never seen a striptease to classical music before,” Alex said to Jake.
“Beethoven must’ve been regarded as popstar back in the 18
th century,” laughed Jake. “We’re having an old-style disco, ‘invitation only’.”
Alex liked the semi-naked, beautiful, dancing girls. He liked the atmosphere in the flat, he liked the behavior of these pleasant, elegant people. No one was hitting on the girls or touching them up. The men unhurriedly drank their exclusive drinks from their Ridley glasses, watching the slow dance of the girls. It all looked natural, as if the guests were sitting around the table and discussing the new Spike Lee film.
One of the youngsters went up to the girls and started dancing with them. Just as slowly, to the same rhythm they were dancing to, the girls started undressing the young man.
“The party’s getting going,” Jake said to Alex.
“Are these girls from your modelling agency?” asked Alex.
“Just one of them, the dark-skinned girl there,” said Jake, pointing out one of them. “A couple more of them are models. The other girls are just their friends – this is the first time I’ve seen them.”
“They don’t look like prostitutes,” said Alex.
“You know why?”
“Why?” asked Alex.
“Because they’re not prostitutes,” laughed Jake.
One of the girls, a striking brunette with large breasts, slipped off her beautiful panties, and danced on entirely naked. Another young guy joined the dancers.
“Two of them are studying at King’s College,” continued Jake. “They’re the country’s brains trust,” he laughed. “And the fourth, with the small tits, is writing her dissertation at UCL. It may not be Imperial, but they’re good people too,” he said, again laughing.
“Whose idea was this party?” asked Alex.
“Mine,” answered Jake.
Almost everyone there, apart from Alex and Jake, was dancing on the carpet. The girls, either already naked or almost there, were undressing the guys, caressing and kissing them, sometimes kissing each other.
“Did the girls agree to the theme of the party from the outset?” asked Alex. He immediately thought of another question, though he didn’t voice it: “Why does that interest me?”
“Well, I suggested that too,” said Jake, “but it’s a purely voluntary matter.”
One of the girls turned her back to a guy, took his cock in her hand and gently guided it between her appetizing butt cheeks.
“It seems everyone’s agreed,” smiled Jake, pointing at the action in the middle of the room.
Another girl, the plumpest of the lot, crouched down on her tiptoes in front of one of the guys and tenderly sucked his erect cock.
“It really is a beautiful picture,” said Jake.
Two guys were already getting hot under the collar. One of them was slowly fucking a girl from behind. She was bending forward, her mouth coming up against his friend’s cock. She held the second guy by the hips, sucking his cock and quietly moaning. The first, his eyes closed in ecstasy, rhythmically swaying back and forth, smoothly slipped in and out of her.
Alex noticed an empty condom packet on the carpet.
“People have learned to slip condoms on without being noticed,” he thought.
Alex poured himself a sizeable portion of Blue Label and downed it in one. He could already feel the first wave of arousal. When your cock isn’t yet hard, but the first charges are already pumping into it, like small balls, small hot spheres rolling down the length of the cock in waves, little plasticine balls that grow larger and hotter as they push on. He sensed a tension in his chest, breathed in deeply through his nostrils and shut his eyes for a second.
Jake’s voice returned him to the apartment.
“Are you going to take part in this hit parade?” smiled Jake.
Alex stuck out his lower lip, indicating that he hadn’t yet decided if he would enter this sinner’s circle of fucking bodies.
“It’ll become clear soon,” answered Alex.
The second movement of the deaf Austrian genius’s 17
th symphony began.
“By the way,” Jake suddenly asked, “I wanted to introduce you to Howard.” Jake pointed to one of the guys who, strictly in keeping with the theme of the party, was about to become the second bow in the symphony.
“Now’s probably not the right time,” said Alex.
“He’s got a production company, promotes various pop acts. They need a specialist in provocative material,” said Jake.
“My pleasure,” said Alex. “I’d be delighted.”
Alex knew the London in-crowd perfectly. These brief acquaintanceships, as a rule, came to nothing. Yes, we’ll give it a try, let’s call each other, let’s try and have lunch next week, bla-bla-bla, it was all just a waste of time. If they needed material they’d call, having asked for the number from Jake.
The group sex was in full swing. The girls and boys were moaning and groaning. The party had turned into an orgy.
“And you?” Alex asked Jake. “Are you going to take part?”
“No,” Jake immediately replied. “I’m just getting warmed up. I’m meeting my girlfriend at the airport tonight.”
“Can you get the apartment tidied up in time?” asked Alex.
“We’re going to her place in Hampstead Garden Suburbs,” Jake replied, referring to an elite suburban neighborhood. “We’ve got an important breakfast there tomorrow with our partners. I have to be in good shape. My manager deals with the flat. He’s a master in these affairs,” he replied.
“They say that in the olden days the aristos would get turned on getting their servants into their bedrooms and forcing them to have sex with one another,” said Alex.
“I’m no aristocrat, Alex,” Jake said, getting up from the table. “I’m just a rich motherfucker,” he laughed.
Jake stretched his hand out to Alex.
“Just in case we don’t see each other again today. I have to leave for a while.”
Alex shook his hand.
“If you need something, ask for my brother in that bunch,” he said, pointing in the direction of the orgy.
“All right,” said Alex.
Alex felt a weight had been taken off his shoulders when Jake left. He was happy to be left alone. If, of course, you could say that in view of the fact that a few yards away from him about a dozen people were hard at it.
Alex clearly understood that soon he would get up from his chair and take part in the orgy. But nevertheless, he carried on sitting in his chair, sipping his Blue Label.
One of the girls stood with her back to a swarthy guy. The guy was leaning up against a wall. It seemed that he was already inside her. She slowly got up on tiptoes, as high as she could, and just as slowly slid down on his cock. Alex caught himself fixated on her legs, or on their lower sections, to be more precise. He’d always liked women’s feet.
“Interesting – are those two going out and they just came here to refresh their feelings, or did they meet here?” thought Alex. He became more aroused at the thought. Just five minutes ago he’d been thinking that he could leave “untouched.” But now, after this scene, which was, in fact, still ongoing, there could be no talk of “simply” leaving.
His arousal reached the necessary level. Alex sensed a powerful surge in his chest, in his cock, the blood was pumping into his head. He wanted to replace that swarthy guy and find himself within that gently moving girl on tiptoes.
Strauss’s famous waltz could be heard playing.
He took another sip from his glass and got up, but none of the girls were free and he didn’t want to squeeze himself in among one of the couples.
People were still entering the living room. A new couple came in. The guy went over to greet a semi-naked, long-haired youth, and the girl, pouring herself a glass of wine, began dancing on the edge of the “stage.”
Looking from one copulating trio to another, Alex caught himself thinking that they all looked a tad too theatrical: “Yes, it’s an orgy, but it’s all a little too directed, too high-minded, like in a film.”
A door slammed in the corridor. Either someone had left or new “musicians” were arriving.
Alex suddenly felt bored and looked towards the real orchestra sitting up on the stage. A thought occurred to him – the real sex was going on there. Beautiful people playing great music, their shoulders proudly thrown back, forgetting where they were, the time, the circumstances, and how they looked.
He watched for about five minutes and even forgot why he’d got up from the chair, but then he felt someone’s tender arms embracing him from behind. A light, pleasant shiver ran through his body. All of the alcohol that he had drunk over the course of the evening suddenly achieved its goal, and Alex’s weary, tortured mind allowed itself to think of nothing.
He didn’t know who was embracing him and caressing his chest, but then he didn’t want to know.
The girl hugged him more tightly. Alex sensed her firm chest pressing into his back, and her hands, slowly, very slowly, undoing the buttons on his shirt. Then those same hands began to caress the skin of his chest, smoothly gliding over his body. One hand touched his nipple, while the other began to skim over his stomach along the top line of his trousers, going no lower, all done very delicately, if such a word could be used in such circumstances.
His desire was heating up fast. Alex closed his eyes in satisfaction and he breathed in deeply. He sensed someone covering his eyes with tender hands, soft lips kissing his neck. Then Alex sensed someone coming up to him from in front, putting soft silk over his face. The piece of material was quickly bound over his eyes. Invisible hands blindfolded him, tying the soft fabric behind his head.
Alex liked this game. The silk material was tied in a knot at the back of his head and Alex was plunged into complete darkness, an oppressive darkness even, and almost immediately someone’s tender lips touched Alex’s. It was a very tender, soft kiss. Long and tender. Then the kisses began moving lower and lower, warm, tender, barely touching Alex’s body, his chest, his nipples, the depression in his stomach, they began slowly, slowly, crawling downwards along Alex’s body. In the meantime, the girl standing behind Alex’s back moved to his side and, turning Alex’s face to hers, gently locked onto him with her lips. Alex sensed the difference in the lips. They were very engorged. He felt like he was falling into them.
Below, someone’s delicate fingers touched Alex’s cock. Alex’s entire body shuddered. With his whole body, he wanted his cock to already be in the mouth of the person touching it so delicately, a person Alex couldn’t see because of the blindfold. But the same body pined for that moment to be delayed. For as long as possible.
The girl with the puffy lips continued kissing Alex. The music coming from the stage, in Alex’s imagination, turned into a violet-purple trail that circled in the room. Alex groaned quietly. He groaned and heard his tender groans being interrupted by yet more groans. He could no longer tell which were male and which were female. It was all becoming mixed in a light violet-purple mass. His body burned, desire breaking through to the surface.
Two palms, at the same time, came to rest on Alex’s thighs, grasping their outer sections and a small area of their inner sections. The hands slowly moved along his thighs. Fingers touched the most tender, sensitive area, wrapping round his cock. Here, Alex howled. A noise broke free from his chest, almost like a growl. Alex forced out a plea: “Please!” He felt as if he was no longer in control of his body. Somebody else had taken possession of him. Down there. It was all down there, below. He was. His entire body. Time had simply frozen. Alex sensed that he had transformed into a single, invisible point. As if someone was holding him in the air, though barely touching him.
A tender tongue barely touched the head of his cock, which was already fit to burst. It was impossible to withstand. Alex suddenly realized that his hands had been hanging down the side of his body the whole time, he’d forgotten about them, he didn’t want to do anything with them. Alex realized, the thought flashing through his mind, that he didn’t want to interfere. However funny that might sound. Alex wanted them to do everything. He just wanted to stand there. Stand, lie, hang.
A tongue was already licking Alex’s cock, climbing up, making its way down to the base, diving down deep, to his tender balls.
“I can’t take it anymore,” flashed through Alex’s thoughts, “but I don’t want it to stop.”
“Please!” Alex groaned. And almost at that exact moment his cock found itself in a mouth.
It was an amazing moment. Tender, and at the same time frenzied. Alex’s cock was engulfed, entering into a warm, tender, but at the same time powerful sea, before resurfacing. As if gasping for air. And then back again, into the warm, embracing space. And back again. Into the air. And again.
Alex’s head was spinning. He reeled, but the girl kissing him the whole time, exciting his mouth with her tongue, gripped onto him harder, hugging him close and stopping him from falling.
“Put me on the floor,” went through Alex’s head, but he didn’t get the words out. “I’ll stand here, hanging in the air, but don’t let it stop, let everything spin around me like this, let me spin like this. Up and down. Into the cold, into the warmth. The embrace of the tender mouth and the embrace of the air. I want it all to end like this. On these waves. In this breath. On these three breaths.”
The girl who’d been kissing Alex unexpectedly broke off, leaving Alex’s lips and starting to kiss his nipples. Kissing one nipple, she took the other between thumb and forefinger, gently but forcefully pinching it. Alex sensed a powerful rush, a charge shooting around his entire body. In the literal sense, he understood nothing, he only sensed, sensed with his body and skin. Again, her mouth locked onto his. Their tongues intertwined in a frantic dance.
The movements of the mouth below became faster and faster, it seemed that down there they understood everything better than Alex himself. The speed increased. A tender palm clasped Alex’s cock, and that was the final drop that spilt over. “Enough!” flashed through Alex’s mind. Still faster, more, the lips squeezed harder as the cock moved, more, yes, more, his head spinning, thrown back, yes, more, yes, more.
A powerful stream shooting through Alex’s cock, cutting through all the sounds around, the music, the groans of others, the powerful first stream of sperm broke through in a wild rush, burning the cock inside. Alex’s mouth opened as wide as it could, letting out a sharp groan forced out from deep within his chest. More! It seemed to him that his energy was flying out in one endless stream. Another short, burning push. Time stretched out and hung-over Alex’s head. More! His body bucked forward. Alex embraced the head of the girl kissing his chest and hungrily dug into her lips, dissolving in them, hooking on to her tongue with his own. With his other free hand he clamped someone else’s head to his cock, not coming out of her mouth, coming and forcing out the last remaining sweet drops.
The girl’s hand reached for Alex’s head and she pulled the blindfold from his eyes. First he looked at her. He’d already seen her that day. He looked down. To the head that his hand was still resting on. The eyes of a person giving him extraordinary pleasure looked up into Alex’s. And now Alex understood everything.
It was a young guy.
A man.
He looked up at Alex and said nothing. His lips that had been pleasuring Alex for all of this time said nothing. He didn’t smile, he didn’t express any emotion. On his knees at his feet, he simply looked at Alex.
It seemed to Alex that the music had stopped. He couldn’t hear it, at least. He’d even forgotten about the girl who was still standing next to him and who had just been giving him ecstasy.
The young, handsome guy looked up at Alex from below. A young, fit guy of about twenty, maybe twenty-two. He just looked up at Alex from below.
His head was pounding. The guy finally looked aside, got up from his knees, and moved away. Alex closed his eyes. He didn’t know how long he stood like that for. Without a single thought.
Opening his eyes, he looked round and immediately saw a girl with puffy lips and firm chest, she stood at the bar chatting away with her girlfriends. Noticing that he was looking at her, she blew him a coquettish kiss. But Alex realized that she didn’t interest him at all right now. He looked around again, seeking out the tender young guy. But he was nowhere to be seen.
Alex collected up his things and went back to his seat where he’d been talking with Jake before all this had happened. He sat in silence for a while, trying to understand or, perhaps, come to terms with what had just happened. Then he poured himself a whisky and, leaning back on the sofa, began to drink it in small sips.
The musicians stopped playing. The silence entirely returned Alex to reality.
Alex, carefully weaving his way between the guests, headed in the direction of the bathroom. He opened the door, revealing another picture in this musical evening. A tall, sporty brown-haired man was entering the young guy from behind. The youngster was bent forward and down to the cock of another guy, giving him a blowjob.
Alex froze. None of the members of the trio turned to look in Alex’s direction.
It seemed to Alex that the guy being fucked from behind and giving a blowjob was the same youngster that just a quarter of an hour before had been sucking him off. Alex tuned in to his own thoughts – how did he feel about this? It seemed to be insane. That’s what he thought. At that moment. But Alex, momentarily, was feeling jealousy.
It really was insane. “Insane,” he heard himself saying in his head. “I don’t even know who he is.”
Alex left the bathroom, the words of Hermann Hesse, from Steppenwolf, bubbling up in his head. The central character was afraid to open his eyes during an orgy, scared that he might be kissing a man, a man who was giving him extraordinary pleasure. He smiled sorrowfully.
Reaching the corridor, he looked for his things among the heaps of clothing. He quickly got dressed, but heard a voice as he was unlocking the door.
“I saw the way you were looking at me.”
Alex turned round and saw the girl with the beautiful feet that he had, in fact, checked out.
“I’d like to make love to you. Just the two of us,” she said calmly.
Alex looked at her in silence.
“When you recover. When you’re ready,” she concluded.
She didn’t say anything more. She just looked at him.
“All right?” she asked.
He looked at her and didn’t answer. There was no doubt that he would have liked to be in bed with her. To sense the scent of her body. Not in an orgy. Just the two of them. In the quiet. To feel her skin in the palm of his hand. To sense the aroma of her pussy. She was extraordinary.
“You’re not going to give me an answer?” she asked quietly. Somehow quietly, without emotion.
Alex realized that he could hear her, but that he was thinking about what had just happened. He’d just been given a blowjob by a man.
“Yes,” he said to her.
“They call me Jez here.”
“Like the girl from the TV show?” asked Alex.
“Yes,” she said. “We’ve got a little conspiracy here.”
“What for?” he asked.
“Did you like the way he kissed you?” she asked, instead of giving an answer.
“Yes,” Alex answered immediately, without thinking. “It was my first time,” he admitted for some reason.
“That happens in our experiments,” said Jez. “That’s why we meet up.”
“To do what?”
“To collect sensations,” answered Jez. “Didn’t Jake tell you?”
Jez looked at Alex with interest. With interest, but without emotion.
“But what’s this whole conspiracy for?” Alex asked, repeating his question.
“I’m married,” she replied.
Wow. He’d thought that there were only students here.
It was as if she’d understood his silent question.
“There are different kinds of people here.”
“How can I contact you?” he asked.
“Tell Jake: Jez asked you to put us in touch. That phrase exactly.”
“Jez asked you to put us in touch?” he repeated.
“Good,” she said, still without appearing to express any emotions. Then, just as quietly as she spoke, she turned and left, beautifully swaying her butt as she receded into the distance.
A series of contradictory thoughts immediately assailed him, dragging him like a cuddly toy tightly packed with cotton wool in every direction imaginable. How had this happened to him, how had he been overcome by two contradictory emotions at one and the same time: a timid euphoria and an internal fear? A painful mixture that, as a rule, only brought pain. He knew that well.