She lay braced on her forearms, accepting each deep forward movement into her well-stretched bottom, hearing the bells ring out in celebration.
“You see,” panted Milan. “When I fuck you, we make music.”
“Oh yes,” was all she could say.
“Von Ritter can’t say that.”
“No, no, he can’t.”
The balls shifted endlessly inside her, more rapidly as Milan sped up, pushing her face down into the covers, making her thighs tremble. By the time she came, with a screech that made her hoarse, she was slippery with sweat and her back passage stung with the force of Milan’s fucking, but she knew she could take more, as much as he could give her, until their bodies both surrendered to exhaustion.
He filled her arse with his seed, then pulled out of her and held her tight. Their hearts beat double-time and they slid around each other’s damp skin, kissing the salt from their lips. Their tongues curled together and Lydia shut her eyes, sailing away towards sleep, wishing that they could do the same and just be together outside the world.
Later, after cleaning up, he took out the balls and fucked her pussy too, making her keep his spunk inside rather than wipe herself afterwards. While she lay, happily tired and aching, on his bed, he went out of the bedroom and came back with a black marker pen.
“What’s that for?” she asked, yawning.
“Keep still,” he said. “Don’t move.”
She shut her eyes, too fatigued to speak more, and made no move when she felt the velvety pen nib make a ticklish progress from her right hip bone to her left, curling and meandering along her damp skin.
“Roll over,” he whispered, a minute or so after he’d finished.
She lay on her stomach and the pen nib danced over her buttocks too.
“This will come off, right?” she murmured weakly.
“Eventually,” he said.
“What have you done?”
“Turn back round. You’ll see.”
Lydia, with a vast effort, rolled over and unglued her eyelids. A curling broken line stretched across her pubis. It took her a moment to realise that it was Milan’s flamboyant handwriting and he had written on her.
“Milan & Lydia 2gether 4ever,” she read, then she shook her head. “How old are you, Milan?”
He crouched over her, grinning devilishly.
“Old enough to know better,” he admitted. “But I feel like von Ritter has set me a challenge, and I always have to rise to a challenge. Now, get dressed. I’ll call you a cab.”
Lydia propped herself up on her elbows, blinking.
“Oh,” she said with a pout. “I thought I was staying the night.”
But he was already speaking into his mobile phone.
“Hello, yes, a cab, please, from the Barbican. Yes, I want to go to Bloomsbury, Russell Street. Thank you. Ten minutes is good. Bye.”
“Russell Street? But that’s where…”
“Von Ritter lives? Yes, I know. I’d better warn him you’re coming.”
He punched in another number, seemingly deaf to Lydia’s inarticulate noises of disbelief.
“Hello, mein Herr, it’s Milan Kaspar here. You are at home? Good. I have a visitor for you. Don’t keep her waiting on the doorstep, will you? She’s exhausted, my poor little thing. Ciao.”
“I knew you were evil,” said Lydia. “I’m not some parcel to be delivered from door to door.”