Last Gift(2)

By: Jessica Clare, Jen Frederick

Slowly, gently, I move my massaging hands up his thighs and curl them around his heavy balls. He groans as my fingers stroke them, and I feel his body twitch again. When another drop appears on the head of his cock, I lean in and lick both of them up, not wanting to lose that precious flavor.

My love makes a sound low in his throat, and it is beautiful to hear. “Daisy,” he breathes, and follows it with a nonsensical rapid-fire comment in Russian that I can’t make out. I’m taking Russian in one of my classes at school, but he’s speaking too fast for me to pick it up.

I close my mouth around the head of his cock, and my hand goes to grasp the base of him. Nick can stand it no longer. His hands tangle in my hair and then he’s pushing deeper into my mouth.

I loosen my jaw to welcome him, to take him as deep as I can, and moan deep in my throat when he thrusts into my mouth. He’s a little rough, but I love it. I love him losing control; it’s not something Nick does easily, and it’s not something Nick does around everyone.

But I love it.

Then he’s fucking my face, his cock thrusting into my mouth, the head pushing at the back of my throat, and I do my best to take him. He’s big, though, and I’m still inexperienced, and so when I pull away, my gag reflex working, he lets me. I cough a little, and then give him a faint smile to let him know I’m okay.

Nick takes his cock in hand, wet and gleaming from my mouth, and begins to rub the head of it against my lips, watching me with intense, fascinated eyes. I part my lips, feeling the hot, soft skin brushing against my own, feeling him glide the pre-cum on my face.

Then, he pumps himself hard in hand and he’s coming on my face, splashes of heat spattering on my cheeks, my mouth, my lips. I lick them, because he likes the sight, and I love the taste of Nick. So wonderful.

He groans at the sight of me, face upraised to him, covered in his come. Then, he strips off his t-shirt and begins to mop at my face. “You are too good for one such as me, Daisy, my love.”

“I love you, Nikolai.”

I’m rewarded by that intense satisfaction in his eyes.

I’m pretty sure I burned the cookies in the oven. I’m pretty sure I don’t care, either.

Tomorrow, I decide, I will go to a gun shop and look for the perfect present for Nick. Something dangerous and beautiful, just like him.

~~ * ~~


“YOU SEEM PREOCCUPIED TODAY,” a soft voice on my right says to me. It is some girl whose name I cannot remember or, more honestly, a name I do not care to learn. She’s the interrupter. All she does is constantly interrupt me while I draw, while I dream. Today she has broken up my replay of last evening’s decadent lovemaking.

I try not to be angry with her. Perhaps she has no Daisy in her life, no one whom adores her and she adores back. Another person would feel, I suppose, sympathy because of her lack so I try not to scowl at her. Daisy would tell me to be polite.

“I am occupied with thoughts of my beloved,” I tell the interrupter. There. That is polite. I smile at myself. Daisy would be proud of me. I will tell her of this later when I pick her up from class.

Thoughts of my vehicle turn my smile into a frown. We are driving a rental because we have fierce arguments over the type of vehicle I want to buy for us, for Daisy really. I want to buy a Maybach with armored sides and bullet proof windows. Daisy screamed when she looked up the price for one on the internet. I think it is just the right price but her face was like a little thundercloud when she shook her phone at me, the one I have bought her.

She tells me she cannot drive yet because she has no license and unlike lingerie or fur coats, I cannot buy her one. She must take a test. I tell her she drives fine, but she demurs. Public transportation is fine, she says. There are buses that can take us everywhere, not to mention the train that runs from the interior of the city out to the suburbs.

Public transportation would be fine for me, but not for Daisy. There are other people who could touch her and even harm her.

It is perhaps paranoia, as she calls it, but I think it is just good sense, like leaving the house with a small revolver in my boot or Ka-Bar knife in my backpack. I have only a few tools of my former trade in our apartment—some of them are known to Daisy. Others I have failed to tell her about, such as the handgun in the closet and the one in our kitchen and the one I have taped under the front hall table. I will not leave Daisy undefended but I know she would feel uncomfortable with all the firearms. She asks, “where are all your guns, Nick?” and I tell her sadly “There is gun in nightstand and I have this small one.”