Authors Note:
Ah crap! I completed this fic today on my other account and realised I haven't been updating over here! Sincere apologies, Becks! It's literally the smuttiest fic I've ever written. Some parts are downright filthy, especially chapters four and six. You have been warned.
Linka tidies half-heartedly, unpacking her toiletries and collecting the dirty washing lying on her bed. There's a thin layer of dust over her writing desk, and she opens the windows to encourage the night-time breeze; replacing the stale, fetid air in her hut due to the long absence.
It's been three weeks since she was last home; spending her days trawling around in hot, desert air, and negotiating sixteen-hour days with overtired, grumpy colleagues.
Dealing with the effects of war and famine can be traumatic, witnessing the distended bellies and the lifeless eyes of the thousands of victims brought in suffering severe malnutrition. She can still smell the nutty paste on the fingers and mouths of the children, and the sticky, potent residue was making her retch by the third week.
She's running on fumes, to be honest, ready to fall in a heap, but there's no guarantee she'd get back up.
It's been three weeks toiling without a break… which makes it four weeks since she's been able to see him.
It's a selfish thought, when children are dying, and morally repugnant men are squandering their chance of survival… and all she can think about right now are Wheeler's hands moving over her nude body.
But it's not a crime to seek comfort in the face of adversity.
Or to seek something other than comfort and tenderness.
Because she likes it most when he's rough.
Like the last time, when he'd hauled her onto his lap, her back pressed tight against his chest, her hands bound behind her and trapped between their sweaty bodies. Wrenching her head to the side, she'd felt his mouth moving hotly over her neck, one arm anchoring her in place, the other pulling and teasing her nipples, before moving down between her legs until she was squirming and rocking her hips in pleasure.
He'd nipped her skin with his teeth as she came, eliciting a sharp cry from her lungs as she'd fallen against him, her thighs still quaking against his retreating hand.
And by God, Linka knows what she wants, but he's five thousand miles away and working his new job by now, and meeting new people, and living his life.
Laughter floats across the bay, and Linka peers out toward the darkened huts beyond. Gi's lights are on, and she's evidently on the phone. She can hear music from Ingrid's hut. The other two are dark and silent, their occupants already no doubt asleep.
The rain falls lightly, and her body aches from fatigue and exhaustion.
She misses Wheeler, now that she has the time and opportunity to wind down.
Her nightgown lies draped over the bedside table, and for the first time ever, Linka forgoes clothing for the night. She closes the blind and strips naked, before heading for the bathroom.
She cleans her teeth, eyeing her reflection in the mirror, observing what he's seen so far; the delicate shoulders and collarbone, the graceful line of her neck and the soft, upturned breasts that have borne the most attention.
She likes the way Wheeler looks at her, with a lustful gleam in his eye and an almost carnivorous intent.
She likes the way he maintains control, but that's always been part of the attraction.
She wants him to dominate her, to use her body in any way he sees fit.
There's a strange liberation in accepting her fate, and submitting to his will.
They haven't had sex.
There's been no actual penetration, but she knows it will eventually happen. The foil blister packet lies hidden in her purse, already four weeks into her first ever course of contraceptive pills.
Miss Practicality
Organisation has always been her strongest asset.
She's ready, knowing they'll reach the point of no return. She'll tell him what she wants, in clear, concise language.
She'll beg him to fuck her.
She'll expect him to pin her down and have his way with her. She'll ask him to bury himself to the hilt, hard and deep and forceful, feeling the stretch of his girth inside her, even if it hurts.
Even if it ruins her.
Her pulse quickens at the thought, and Linka flushes warmly as she climbs into bed, already aroused.
She rolls onto her side, enjoying the sensation of cool cotton against her flushed skin. Raising her leg, she reaches down to touch herself, imagining it's him. Her fingers are quick and eager, her eyes fluttering closed as she works toward a somewhat unsatisfactory release. Linka is quiet and discreet, her whimpers muffled into the pillow as the rain beats down on the tin roof above her head.
"He's nice, yeah?"
"I guess." Linka shrugs nonchalantly, staring at the framed poster for a depression hotline number as Gi reapplies her lipstick. She squeezes closer to the sink as another customer enters, moving swiftly toward an empty bathroom stall.
"He's pretty sweet on you. You should have worn the other black dress with the low cut —"
"It was not clean," she lies, smoothing her hands over the navy blue halter neck she's wearing, still irritable about letting Gi bully her into tonight.
"Poor guy looks ready to start humping your leg," Gi sighs, pursing her lips and leaning in toward the mirror, rubbing away a smudge of mascara beneath her right eye. "You know, you could be a little warmer to him."
"I am not feeling much of a connection, Gi —"
"You said that within five minutes of meeting the last one, too."
"I cannot help it —"
"Give him a chance."
"He chews with his mouth open," Linka grumbles.
Gi rolls her eyes as they wander back to the table, and Linka drags her proverbial feet, not really enjoying the double date.
Lee's latest attempt at a blind date is a foreman for an electrical company. Ben is tall and ruggedly good looking, but has raised a couple of red flags, in Linka's honest opinion.
He's already complained about the food and has talked down to their waitress twice. It's been awkward, in all honesty. He seems boastful and eager to make an impression, and has spent most of the evening leering at her.
She's not impressed. Polite and cordial, sure… but nothing else.
Irked by Ben's incessant chatter, Linka reaches for her wine as her phone buzzes, and the corner of her lip quirks as she glances down at the message in her hand.
You back from Sudan, Russki?
Yes, she messages back. Back last night.
After a moment, another SMS appears on her screen. What are ya up to, toots?
She taps out a cheeky reply, grinning to herself as she presses send.
"… I'm managing eight projects at the moment," Ben continues, "million-dollar contracts, so I'm pretty time poor these days."
"Really?" Linka replies, glazing over at Ben's uninterrupted onslaught of monologue.
"Thinking of starting my own business with a friend. It's hard when you're making money for other people. We figure it's time to be our own boss. I mean, the CEO took home four million last financial year, but never left his cushy office —"
"That would be frustrating," Linka concurs as he prattles on. Her phone buzzes again, and she glances down, stifling a grin at Wheeler's reply.
Is he better looking than me?
Oh, immensely, she responds, her thumb moving quickly over the keypad. Male Adonis. Shaped by the gods themselves.
Gi's high pitched laughter interrupts her, and she glances up, spotting Gi and Lee cuddled together opposite, their hands linked together.
You gonna blow Adonis off and come see me?
She bites her lip, feeling the little flame within reigniting. Are you ready for painting, Yankee?
I'm ready for whatever, he replies, purposely vague.
A shiver runs through her.
She has no clothes or supplies. No overnight bag, just the clothes she's wearing, but Linka is already half way out of her chair, having made up her mind.
Ben is still talking; on the topic of electrical conduits and ducted air conditioning as she straightens, gathering her jacket and handbag.
"What are you —"
"I have to go," Linka says breathlessly, avoiding Gi's quizzical gaze. "Something has come up. I am so sorry —"
"You're leaving?" Gi asks, incredulous.
"I will see you back at home on the weekend. I… uh, Ben, it was lovely to meet you —"
He and Lee both rise to their feet as she kisses them on the cheek, still murmuring apologies.
She leaves some cash for her meal on the table despite Ben's protestations and hurries out the door and down the street, intent on hailing a cab that can take her to the airport for the five-hour flight.
She arrives at Wheeler's door at three am, sleep deprived and shivering, her dress and light jacket no match for the freezing New York temperatures.
He bundles Linka inside and guides her downstairs as she yawns widely, and Wheeler admonishes her for not calling him when she landed.
"I woulda' picked you up," he mutters, running a hand through his sleep-tousled hair, but she waves him off.
"I know," she murmurs, trudging heavily down the staircase. She rolls her ankle on the bottom step, stumbling with a surprised huff, and Wheeler grabs her around the waist and hauls her back up again.
"You all right?"
"Yes," she grumbles.
It's dark, but cleaner than the last visit. Some of the old furniture and timber flooring has been removed, and she limps toward the mattress, navigating her way through plastic wrapping and cabling offcuts.
"I don't have anything with me," she says tiredly, and he squeezes her shoulders.
Shrugging her jacket off, Linka climbs beneath the covers and wriggles against him with a heavy sigh, her forehead tucked beneath his chin.
She drifts off to sleep in Wheeler's arms, and when she wakes at nine am, he's already left for work.
Linka's eyes follow the elderly gentleman as he dithers behind the counter. Hunched over the mixer, the man adds the pigments to the base color one by one, double checking the ratios on the screen before securing the lid with light taps of a paint-splattered mallet.
He hefts it clear, moving with the speed of an inebriated snail. There's a line forming behind her, and she sighs, drumming her nails on the timber while she waits. The wizened attendant lifts the container and places it inside the machine below the counter, adjusting the levels and closing the lid.
A button is pressed, and the machine springs to life, whirring loudly and mixing the colours into a 'Fog Mist' like permanence.
She watches the machine vibrate, her eyes drawn to the controlled violence and pressure, and the intensity rising within, threatening to spill over at any moment.
She has the place to herself.
Linka sets herself to work, dragging the ladder around the foyer and cutting in around the ceiling architraves and window frames. She's efficient yet meticulous, her headphones securely in place as she hums along to the music.
She's dressed loosely in Wheeler's old clothes. His tee-shirt is several sizes too large for her torso, having no choice but to tuck one side into her shorts to avoid the hem dipping into the paint each time she bent over.
They've made some progress since the last visit.
The kitchen has been installed and looks terrific. The island is gone, and the new cabinets are in, with glossy white doors and a marble countertop. There's a large hole in the old linoleum where the island used to be, but the new floors will go down last, so she's careful to step over the raised edges.
It takes another hour to prepare the kitchen, since there's more tricky areas to cut in around the rangehood and cabinetry, but she's finished by lunch time, and is keen to get the first coat of paint done by the time he gets home.
Dashing downstairs to the basement, she moves the mess around, searching for the lambswool roller and tray.
The bed remains unmade, the blankets askew from the night before — or early this morning, depending on which way you look at it. An Old Navy bag lies at the base, filled with an assortment of newly-purchased shirts, shorts and underwear.
Serves her right for being so uncharacteristically spontaneous.
She pokes around the timber offcuts and boxes of tiles, shoving Wheeler's dirty clothes aside with her foot until she finds what she's looking for.
An extension pole is there too, and she grabs what she needs and climbs the stairs again. The plastic sheets are down, and she tips the paint carefully into the tray, attaching the pole to the roller and getting to work.
She coats the walls thickly, rolling the paint back and forth in long, fluid movements, finding a decent rhythm to work to.
"Looks amazing," he says sincerely, draining the penne in the sink as he glances at the fresh fog mist walls around them. "Still can't believe you got two rooms done."
"I am efficient when I choose to be," she says, smiling.
"You got that right."
"I will start on the bedrooms tomorrow."
"How's your ankle?"
"It is fine," she says, smiling despite the embarrassment. "I did more damage to my pride, I think."
He chuckles at that. "How long do I have you for?" he asks, grabbing the boscaiola sauce off the stove top and serving up two bowls.
"A few days, maybe. I have told them I need a few days of respite."
"Still shoulda' texted me when you touched down this morning," Wheeler chastises again, handing her a bowl of pasta. His hair is still wet from the shower and his sweatpants sit crookedly around his waist. "I would've come get ya."
"I touched down at two am," she retorts, blowing on her pasta because she hasn't eaten much today and she's starving. It smells delicious, and she takes a bite. "It was just as easy to catch a cab."
"Sure."
"I did not want to inconvenience you."
He rolls his eyes, pointing toward the fleecy pullover she'd grabbed off the floor after her shower. "I like your sweater."
She laughs, flattening the hem against her lower thighs, her shorts barely visible beneath them. "I figured you would not mind."
They stand at the bench since there are no seats, leaning forward on their elbows and eating while they talk, catching up on the last few weeks.
"You plannin' on seein' Adonis again?" he asks, feigning disinterest and failing miserably, and she shakes her head.
"I wasn't planning on seeing him last night," she says quietly. "Gi had other ideas."
"Does Gi know you're here?"
"No."
He levels his blue-eyed gaze on her. "Why not?"
"I would not know what to tell her," Linka admits. She chews her pasta thoughtfully, before jabbing the fork in Wheeler's direction. "Our current circumstances are not exactly definable."
"You're paintin' my house. Is that not definable enough for her?"
"I am just saying that our latest escapades have been —"
"Sordid?" he asks, raising his eyebrows. "Indecent as fuck?"
"I was going to say unexpected…" Tucking her hair behind her ear, Linka nods. "But yes."
Wheeler shrugs, shovelling another fork-full of pasta into his mouth. "Just tell Gi you're offerin' hard labor in exchange for light bondage and sexual favors. That should shut her up."
"Oh my god," she sputters, and she can feel her face and ears turning red. "Really?"
"Pretty much hits the mark though, doesn't it?"
Yes, it does.
But still, there's nothing definable about them. They've never fitted in with everyone else's expectations.
And maybe that's a good thing.
She reaches out, stroking his cheek tenderly with her thumb. "You and I have never really fitted into a category, have we, Jake?"
"Nah." He leans casually against the counter, and she feels the heat of his gaze on her. "Do we need a category?"
"No."
The food cooling on the bench is already forgotten, and she realises she's not hungry for pasta anymore.
The silence is deafening.
Linka wrings her hands, lowering her eyes to the floor.
Starting things up always seems to be the hardest part.
The rest unfolds with remarkable ease.
Wheeler pushes his plate aside. He steps forward, slipping an arm around her waist and pulling her close, lowering his forehead to hers. His palm slips beneath the sweater, resting against the small of her back.
His fingers stroke her skin, and she wraps her arms around his waist, the jitters already subsiding, feeling safe and secure as always in his embrace, knowing he would never hurt her knowingly.
"You got anythin' to sleep in?"
"I figured I would not need anything," she utters, tilting her head to the side as he caresses her cheek.
He removes the elastic at the base of her plait, working the strands free until her hair falls in damp waves down to the centre of her back.
He makes a rough noise in the back of his throat, and she realises they're 'starting things up' a little earlier tonight.
"I'll be honest," he says huskily, running his thumb over her bottom lip and pressing down gently. "I'm plannin' on doin' some bad things to you tonight."
"I like what you do to me," she admits, blushing.
He leans in to kiss her, his hands already gripping the hem of the over-sized sweater, tugging it roughly over her bare breasts.
She raises her arms as he strips the garment from her body, tossing it to the floor.
He sinks to his knees, and her shorts and panties are the next to go. The cold air stings as she stands naked before him. She's already shivering as he straightens, hooking his hands beneath her thighs and hoisting her up off the ground. He backs her up against the refrigerator as her legs wrap around his waist, the handle nudging awkwardly between her shoulder blades.
Her arms settle around his neck. They're in full view of the bay window and the neighbour's yard, and the yappy dog tied to the clothesline, and he makes no move to rectify that.
And she finds herself too turned on to care.
"Tell me what you want," he breathes in her ear, his cheek close to hers, and a shiver runs through her.
She stares at him, her teeth pressing against her lip as a flood of potential choices invade her head. They're all good, solid options, but here and now, another want takes precedence.
"I want to feel you in my mouth," she utters quietly, and his eyes darken with desire.
She lies on her back, blindfolded; each of her wrists chained to the corresponding ankle. The method of binding means the only comfortable position involves tucking her knees against her chest with her wrists resting alongside her feet, leaving her legs spread open and vulnerable.
She sucks in shallow breaths, squirming in pleasure as he licks his way along her inner thighs, his finger curling and twisting deeply.
She lets out a soft sigh as his tongue replaces his finger, licking up and down in long, slow strokes. Wrapping her hands around her ankles, she pulls back on her legs, a vain attempt to open herself further to him.
There's something to be said for all this.
There's a total disconnection that comes from pleasure, an ability to switch off and surrender to the moment, without sense or reason or consequence.
For an over-thinker like herself, their heated sessions are becoming almost therapeutic in nature.
Her lips are parted and her eyes are closed, and her body undulates against his persistent mouth.
And then he's gone.
Her hips stubbornly grind the air, and then something foreign presses against her, sliding back and forth through her inner folds. She raises her head, surprised, catching a quick glimpse beneath the edge of her blindfold of smooth, pink silicone.
"Oh," she moans, before he repositions himself, pushing her back down and re-adjusting the blindfold, blocking her view.
It starts rumbling roughly against her. She grips her ankles tighter, panting as he guides the large egg-shaped vibrator inside.
There's a moment of tight pressure as it slips in part-way. Her body adjusts to the width — much larger than that of his finger — and her muscles clench around it before he pulls the vibe back out again, dragging it lazily over her clitoris and through her folds until she's breathless and squirming again.
The pressure returns as he pushes it inside, and her walls stretch to accommodate. The egg disappears completely, pulsing quietly, and she feels him tug the tail, making sure it's snugly in place.
He slaps her cunt lightly, and she squeals from the shock, her thighs involuntarily closing and causing her arms and shoulders to rise, but he shoves her back down again, wrenching her knees apart as she falls back against the pillows.
He slaps her again down there, a light tap with his closed hand, and she cries out, feeling an odd warmth radiating from the point of impact as his palm starts grinding into her.
And she's pulling at the restraints now, straining, and then his hand is gone.
She feels the mattress dip and bow as he repositions himself, and without warning, he flips Linka onto to her knees.
She waits breathlessly, hunched in a subservient manner. Her wrists remain tethered behind her, attached to her ankles, and her legs are spread wide, her ass pressing against the bedsheets, putting pressure on the vibe buzzing away maddingly inside her…
Gentle fingers tug at the fabric tied around her eyes. He unravels the knot, the blindfold falling away, and she blinks as her eyes adjust to the light.
He's on his knees before her, naked, and Linka's nostrils flare at the sight of him; thick and curved, and heavily engorged.
He gathers her hair, gripping it in his fist and guiding her face lower, until she can see him in minute detail, right down to the veins running along the ridge.
He's bigger than she anticipated, and her mouth is already watering.
Ducking low, she licks lightly along the underside of his shaft, taking her time to explore. She runs her tongue around the head and along the slit, tasting the salty fluid leaking from the tip, and his groan causes her internal muscles to clench, the tail of the egg rubbing against the blankets.
Molten pleasure spreads throughout her body as the pulsing vibrations seem to transport her to a whole new level of existence.
Oh no.
It's completely fucked up timing, but she can't stop progress.
He's going to have to wait.
"Oh my god," she pants, her forehead nestled into his groin. She closes her eyes, rocking against the mattress, seeking release.
He slips an arm beneath her collarbone, helping to support her weight, his fingers stroking through her hair as she grinds desperately, her cheeks and chest flushed pink, and her breath expelling in short bursts.
Her eyelids flutter as she comes, groaning through the contractions, a light sheen of sweat breaking out on her skin.
Her body falls limp as she catches her breath, taking a moment to recover until she can see straight again, until sense and reason pervade, along with the delicious knowledge that he's fucked her with his tongue, and he's fucked her with his fingers, and he's fucked her with the latest in fan-dangle silicone technology…
Yet she's not quite ruined enough.
Wetting her lips, Linka eyes his cock longingly, intent on swallowing him whole, even though her neck aches and her back complains admirably, and the vibe is taking her to a whole new level of sensitivity.
Attempting to manoeuvre herself into position without overbalancing, Linka gasps as he manhandles her onto her back again, hauling her toward him. Her head tips over the edge of the mattress, and the room spins dizzyingly.
He leans over, unclasping her wrists one by one, and her arms fall limply to her sides, her fingers twisting into the sheets. His cock bobs along her chin, and Wheeler grips the base firmly, easing just the tip in and out of Linka's mouth, teasing her.
"Tell me what you want, Lin."
His deep voice sends another bolt of pure pleasure through her. He fondles her breast with one hand, the other brushing the hair out of her eyes. He strokes the side of her face with his thumb, just as she had done to him earlier in the night, long before they'd found themselves in this compromising position.
She reaches down to touch herself, pulling the vibe out and easing her own fingers in, shuddering at the sensation.
"Tell me what you want."
She knows what she wants.
"I want you to fuck my mouth, Jake," she utters in a faraway voice.
Wrapping his hand around the back of her head, he secures her in place, nudging forward, and her lips open wide to accommodate him.