Chapter Text
Aleksander picks her up for their first actual date, dinner at a small scale eatery in a slightly larger town twenty minutes north. She texts him as she’s doing her makeup, outfit options scattered across her bed and hanging from every available surface in her shoebox room.
As her concealer warms on her skin, she messages him, giggling in her head—
| should i bring my fake
Alina watches with baited breath, eyeshadow brush clenched tightly in her hand, as the grey text bubbles appear and disappear. Five minutes later, he finally responds,
| Be good.
“Oh my god.” Her cheeks warm, a foolish little smile on her face.
Her hands tremble as she carefully draws the thinnest band of eyeliner, following the natural curve of her eyes. She pauses a moment to survey herself after setting her hard work with Genya’s Charlotte Tilbury, nicked from her room next door. In the mirror, she looks—older, almost. Flushed and excited—pretty.
She nearly trips over one of her suitcases on her way out, having not yet unpacked from spring break. Aleksander had been disappointed to find that she wouldn’t be around for the two weeks after finals ended, campus empty as they collectively recovered from the horrendous schedule of winter term in the glistening heat of Aruba or the Riviera decadence of Saint Tropez. Alina had gone home to her grandmother, flights booked since early December, resisting the urge to stay and accept his offer for dinner the Saturday after her departing flight.
In return, he had asked her to send him her flight information, checking in as she went from layover to layover, the final brief trip to her grandmother’s small Montana town completed in a small rickety plane with unnaturally loud engines and cramped seats, even for Alina—made better by the string of messages she received from him upon landing, complete with a sweet photo of him with Anya and Viktor at a local park, picnicking with a pitcher of lemonade and several sandwiches wrapped in brown paper.
They instead made arrangements to meet the weekend after she returned to Os Alta, before the term picked up in full force.
Dinner flies by—Aleksander allows her one sip of his red wine, dry on her tongue—before he is bundling her off to his car, one hand on the steering wheel as he drives down the highway, pushing ten over the speed limit, keeping with the flow of traffic, squeezing her bare thigh, white skirt pushed up, when she teasingly comments on his urgency. A perfect gentleman, until then—leaning in for a hug when he first saw her, opening every door, commenting on her perfume, an intoxicating blend of spice and musk that she hopes says f*ck me please and this cost 10 hours on minimum wage instead of I stole this from grandma. From the way his hand tightened on her waist, pulling her into him, she dares say it worked.
He lives further from town than she imagined, taking turns down several small lanes, shadowed by verdant trees just beginning to bloom, the manicured lawns of suburbia fading into fields of overgrown grass and bright wildflowers popping up on the roadside. His house, too, is smaller than she expects—but well taken care of, white trim, lawn mowed, driveway clean, the closest neighbour a little way down the road.
Alina opens her own door, steps out into his little pocket of peace—the sun, setting, brilliant pinks settling into dusky purples. There, two bunnies chasing each other, disappearing into the shrubbery. In the distance, lights flickering on, a little bird chirping goodbye to the day.
When she turns around, Aleksander is standing at his doorway, entrance half-open, smiling at her, eyes fond. “Come on, kiddo,” he beckons, hand lifting in invitation. “Can’t let all the bugs in.”
He takes her light coat at the door, hangs it in a small hidden closet as she toes her heels off, settling her patent Mary Janes neatly by a row of his dress shoes—takes a brief, hidden moment to marvel at how much larger they are. In comparison, hers look—childish.
He catches her looking as he sits down on the bench by the door to unlace his black leather oxfords. “What’s going through your mind, sweetheart?”
“Nothing,” she responds, suddenly shy. “Just… your shoes are so big.” Blushes even as she says it, knows what she’s saying and what she means. Big feet, big—well.
He gives her a self-satisfied smirk—I know, that smile, all-masculine pride, says—stands up to tower over her, the difference in their heights even more pronounced without the addition of the two inches she’d been wearing all night. “Maybe you’re just little,” he murmurs into the half-dark, the sun settling into sleepy oblivion below the horizon. He reaches around her to turn the lamp on, hand on her back, pressing her closer to him for a few seconds—Alina leans into the movement, the fabric of his white button-up against her cheek, shoulders relaxing.
In the light, the contours of his living room begin to take shape as she settles on his sofa, Aleksander in the kitchen, glasses clinking together—she thinks faintly perhaps she should have followed him, made sure he didn’t slip anything in her drink, decides against it, trusts him implicitly even when she perhaps should not. Wants what he gives her without worry, head little-girl fuzzy with his endearments, dropped more frequently as the evening went on, the warmth of his touch when she had gone so long without, affection almost paternal—quiet, steady, larger than her.
Aleksander comes back to her wrapped in one of his blankets—A.M. embroidered along the seam in curling white letters, stark against the soft black fabric—sets down two glasses: his, tumbler, delicate filigree, whiskey on ice; hers, highball, her requested vodka cranberry, the simplest co*cktail she could think of.
“I promise I’m not drugging you,” he teases, placing his hand on her ankle, when she picks up her glass and hesitates for a second, eyes looking up to him, considering. He takes the drink from her—Alina follows the line of his neck as he swallows. “You can have a sip of mine, too.”
She giggles, nerves afire. “I wasn’t thinking that,” she retorts, taking a sip—then reaches out a hand imperiously for his drink, which he hands over agreeably. “Well, perhaps I was,” she admits, the burn of liquor in the back of her throat, moving closer to him, allowing his arm to drape around her.
They sit in companionable silence, as Brahms—Double Concerto in A Minor, Alina recognizes from a concert last year, world-famous orchestra invited to play for an alumni fundraising event, students gathered outside the music hall en masse to listen—plays from the sound system.
“C’mere, baby,” he says, tugging her closer when the final chords fade out, until she is fully on his lap, her drink half-finished, water condensing and leaking onto the coaster. She curls against him tightly, wrapping her arms around his neck and resting her head against his shoulder, his hand stroking up and down her back, pushing up the fabric of her crop top, drifting down to cup her bottom through the fabric of her skirt, riding up.
She feels him hard underneath her even before his motions become more insistent, his fingers pressing into her waist, hips tilting up, settling her firmly against him—she sits up to kiss him fully, hands tangling in the longer strands of his hair at the back of his head as he pulls her even closer. Almost unbidden, she begins to rock against him, telltale wetness pooling in her lacy underwear, black set bought especially for this occasion.
“I think I’m ruining your trousers,” she confesses softly, almost mischievous, as she pushes against him harder, his hands sliding down her hips, guiding her steady.
His answering groan is music to her ears, the pleasure of a thousand string quartets in a single moment. “Take them off then,” he replies, daring in his dark eyes, almost black, pupils so far dilated, unfathomable depths.
And Alina Starkova-Zhang is no coward, everything in her aching to meet this challenge, to prove that yes, she can have this—that she can take it, this and so much more.
In less than the half hour since their arrival, she ends up on her knees on his hardwood floor—his white shirt unbuttoned, marked slightly with the red of her lipstick, trousers and socks neatly folded in a pile next to him (this, Alina’s doing—her nervous fastidiousness, prim even with her top mussed and her skirt hiked up). He is handsome even at this terrible angle, legs spread, so reminiscent of the statues of Greek gods she saw on Zoya’s Instagram last summer, awe-inspiring, demanding worship.
She looks up at him as she unbuttons his pants, finds his co*ck already so hard under her palm, hot through the fabric of his boxer briefs—larger than life. In this respect, she thinks, slightly manically, he is not like the statues at all.
He groans as her nails—painted dark red, Essie’s Berry Naughty, the sort of colour TikTok says drives men crazy— scratch against him. “Go on,” he says with more composure than she would like, stroking her hair, smoothing it out and tucking it behind her ear. “Take my co*ck out.”
Obedience comes easily, even naturally, to her where fitting him into her mouth when her fingers nearly fail to wrap around the girth of him does not.
She tries–and fails–to utilise every trick she has ever learned, Cosmopolitan and Men’s Health articles on How to make him scream in pleasure! consumed greedily on the lowest light setting under her sheets, shy even when alone. Struggles to fit him in her mouth, every movement a new provocation–drool leaking out and dripping down around the length of him, her jaw aching with the stretch, c*nt wet with the knowledge that he will ruin her.
In a fit of inspiration, she flicks her tongue against the tip, looking up at him the way she has learned from the professionals, relishing every sound he gives her in return.
“Attagirl,” he breathes as she returns to gagging around him, overconfident girl to the end, needing to be pushed to her limits, tears running down her cheeks—these he wipes with the pad of his thumb, gentle and tender even as she attempts to breathe around the fullness in her mouth and throat.
And on her knees, it is so easy to let her racing thoughts—every fibre of her being—drip down her spine as he pumps her head up and down on his co*ck, her world narrowing to the tangle of his fingers in her hair, the ache of it in her strands, the slickness of him as he continues to make a mess of her mouth and between her thighs.
Alina has always loved this part—the surrendering. And the look in his eyes—she shudders, her c*nt spasming around nothing. It is as if he wants her devour her whole—she wonders, hazily, what she must look like to him.
And, as if he heard her—“Such a good little co*cksucker,” he says, pushing himself to the back of her throat, holding her there until she panics, her throat closing around him. “Letting me use your pretty mouth like this.”
She is drunk on his praise by the time he lifts her off the floor. “That’s my good girl,” he coaxes as she stands up and falls into him, her knees and ankles giving out from being pressed underneath her. He lifts her up easily—she curls against him as he takes her down a hallway, pushes open a door with his leg, and then she is down, deposited on his bed, the sheets cool, dark, almost silky under her skin. He leaves her to turn on his bedside lamp, her fingers curled against the blankets.
And what a sight as he shrugs off his button-up, throwing it into the hamper as he crawls back up on the bed to join her, arms flexing as he hovers over her, crowding her against the mattress, the light catching on every masculine angle of his body, broad shoulders and torso that spoke of years of discipline, an iron will and resolute self-control.
“What did I do to deserve such a pretty little thing like you in my bed, hmm?” He smiles down at her—something wicked in the pink of his lips—strands of his dark hair falling over his face, cups her cheek when she blushes, leans closer to kiss her, a mess of lips and teeth.
Alina moans into his mouth, senses flooded with the taste of his desire, gasps when he finally draws back. “Please,” she says, flexing her hips against him, begging for—something. She’s not sure what, only that he can give it to her.
“God, you’re cute,” he whispers against her skin, leaving a hot trail of kisses across her collarbone and down her sternum, his hands pushing her thighs apart with ease. Alina rises up onto her elbows, heartbeat in her chest, watching with trepidation as he gets closer to the crux between her legs. She only manages to push him away as he kisses his way precariously close down her thigh, head so close to her panties, the pleats of her skirt pushed up onto her tummy.
“No, don’t, please,” Alina pleads. Shakes her head for emphasis, cheeks hot as he looks up at her, surprised. “I–I don’t–do that. You don’t have to.”
He holds her in place as she attempts to wriggle away from him. “And what if I want to?”
She struggles, testing the limits of his grip, clenching her thighs tightly together. “Just–don’t.”
His hands flex on her hips for one interminable second. “Okay, okay,” he relents, caressing her hip, rises back up to kiss her on the forehead. “C’mon, baby, relax, we won’t do anything you don’t want to. But, uh–” he shifts, uncomfortable. “We need to warm you up, don’t we?”
Right. Her jaw still aches—her c*nt pulses, reminded of its emptiness. “I just want you inside me,” she begs instead, fingers digging into his arms, pushing up against him insistently.
“You’re so little, honey.” Here, a kiss to her cheek, his fingers wandering to rub at her cl*t through the lace, a pleasant burn that makes it hard for Alina to think. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“No, please,” she bucks against his hand, face buried in his neck as if it would allow her to hide from the slu*ttishness of her dripping c*nt. “It’s okay. f*ck me, please, I can take it.”
Protests, too, when he leans over to his drawer and she hears the distinctive crinkle of foil—the sharp lance of jealousy, a need to make him remember her—sees the title already, from a generation raised on p*rn: desperate teenage girl gets f*cked raw. “No—want to feel you—please, please, Aleksander.”
He falls back into her, groans into the soft skin of her neck, the hardness of him on her tummy. She resists the urge to look, knowing from feel alone that the length of him stretches above her bellybutton, not sure how she is to fit him entirely within her. “God, the things you do to me,” he whispers, tortured, into her hairline. “Makes me so f*cking hard—you need me that badly, huh, little girl? Want me to f*ck you raw?”
The truth of it bubbles up in her chest, in the air before she can stop it. “Want you to be the first one—I wanna know how it feels without—please, you’re so big already, wanna fit you inside, want you to make it fit.”
The look on his face is one of a man deranged, driven desire-mad. He tugs off her panties, stops her when she goes to unzip her skirt. “Keep that on, baby,” he urges, taking her wrists and pinning them against the bed.
Filthy man, she thinks, guilty and pleased.
“I’m going to stretch you out,” his legs press against hers—she is helpless against him as he spreads her open, his hand wrapping around his co*ck, stroking himself and grinding up against her, the edge of his head catching against her cl*t, the stars it sends behind her eyes. “Don’t worry, babygirl.”
Then, the unbearable ache of him at her entrance, the sharp pain and the terrible fullness—“Yes, yes,” Alina chants, lost in the sensation of skin-against-skin, the sheer warmth of him where she needs him most. “Mmph, Daddy—”
“God, you’re a f*cking dream.” He crashes his mouth against hers as he shoves himself ever deeper in her, swallowing her cries, Tantalus forgiven after an eternity. A litany of filth as he rocks against her— “I’m gonna ruin you, this tight little teenage c*nt, you don’t even know how lucky you are, so wet for Daddy.”
Alina nods, already co*ck-drunk, hands wrapped around her thighs, pulling them back, trying to make room where there is none.
“That’s right, kiddo, spread your legs for me” he praises, voice rough. She can’t bear to look at him, even as his hand raises to cup her face, his co*ck—is there still more?—nestling insistently into her. “Your body knows exactly what it’s made for.”
—
He sets for them a punishing pace, his hand wrapping around her thigh, pushing it back, allowing him to push ever deeper into her. Alina moans at every bump of him against her cervix.
It’s unbearable.
And yet, still, he makes her take every thrust—she hears herself begging for more.
—
“f*ck, f*ck, f*ck,” he chants, his fingers digging into her hips. Then, as suddenly as he started, he pauses, pressing his forehead against hers. She rocks up against him, wanting to be full, whining when he presses her back down against the mattress. “Give me a minute, honey”—Aleksander gives her a rueful smile—“you feel too f*cking good.”
She smiles into his shoulder and flexes around his co*ck, once, then again, with more force, when he groans, the edges of his control unravelling.
“So naughty,” he chides, as he pulls out of her and flips her over onto her tummy with ease. “C’mon, up on your knees now—Daddy wants to look at that cute ass while he f*cks your c*nt.”
He sinks into her again, and he’s impossibly even bigger from this angle—to make matters worse, he tugs her hands behind her, pinning them at the small of her back. She falls into the pillows, forced to arch into him.
When his rhythm changes, ever slightly, she recognizes her cue—he’s going to come, she thinks, only slightly madly. I want it inside of me—want him to breed me. “Daddy, please,” she begs, enough sense to bite down on her thoughts before they condemn her.
“Please what?” He snaps his hips against her with more force, grip tight around her wrists.
She moans into the pillows, shy even now. “Daddy,” she pleads. “I need—I need—”
“God, I should f*cking keep you.” He sounds slightly deranged, his words punctuated by the slap of skin on skin. A thrill runs through Alina—or is it terror? She can’t quite help the way she tightens around him, thoughts of struggle only half-formed, succumbing to loose-limbed submission. “Keep you here for me to f*ck forever, keep you warm and full all the time.”
“Daddy—”
He comes with a low groan—she feels his cum warm inside her, the pulsing of his co*ck, something she had long deemed impossible.
—
He reaches for her again, fingers sliding down her tummy, cupping her where she is most sensitive.
The panic—again. Alina pushes his hand away, wrapping her hand around his wrist so he doesn’t try again. “No, that’s—“
He holds her to him, arms encircling her waist. “Baby, I want to make you feel good too.”
The terrible truth of it all—she’s never had an org*sm, no matter how hard she has tried (and oh, has she tried). She blinks, steels herself—and tells him so, voice hushed in the quiet, crickets chirping outside the window.
She is not sure what she expects—but he only makes a considering expression, head tilted to the side as if she was a particularly interesting passage in a book. Good man, Alina thinks, half-sardonically. “We could try and fix that, hmm?” He kisses her shoulder, makes a path up her neck.
She turns around to face him, places a soft kiss on his lips to dull her rejection. “Maybe.” Another kiss. “Not tonight, though.”
—
They are laying together, sheets draped over half their bodies, her head on his chest, when her phone rings in the other room.
“Do you have to get that?” Aleksander asks, stroking her arm. He looks completely at ease, pleased, even—a cat who got the cream.
She sighs, loathe to leave the warmth of the bed—but she rarely gets calls, from a generation that texts, forever socially anxious. “Probably.” With a final kiss to his collarbone, she slides off the bed—even with the first step, there is a soreness in her thighs and hips that she knows will be worse tomorrow.
Her phone is still abandoned on the coffee table—she is greeted by a flurry of notifications, a nearly endless stream of texts from Genya and Zoya, several missed calls.
| Girl, where are you?
| Nevermind I have your location.
| Where the f*ck are you????? We have a dorm meeting in 30.
| Alina Starkova-Zhang respond or I’m calling the f*cking police.
| Alina????
sh*t, the dorm meeting.
“Aleksander?” she calls as she texts her friends back, talking them off the cliff. “I think we need to go.”
—
He dresses quickly, beckoning her over to the bench to slide her shoes back on as she adjusts her top and hair, trying to look—a bit less well-f*cked.
They pull up in front of her dorm with barely minutes until her curfew—as she moves, she feels him leaking out of her, pooling in her underwear. Her cl*t aches at the thought—not that she would say so; instead, she tells him he’s ruining her lingerie, theatrically angry.
It’s entirely irritating (arousing) how he laughs at her, his hand cupping her cheek and drawing her closer to kiss her forehead, soft and chaste.
“Be good.” He winks.
