Dmitri. Now there’s a man. Picture that chest hair ready to spring out from behind the stiff cravat. Tug on that, why don’t you? Dig your fingers into that fur until you feel the muscles tighten underneath. Run your hands down. Feel his belly flinch. Grab that cock. It’s just as big as you thought it would be when you watched it swinging inside his breeches as he was walking toward the captain’s house. Length and girth. Circle it from the base with thumb and index, and stroke up. Feel the bulge in its contours and follow its curve to the left. (A ragged moan.)
The sounds he makes, they come from his gut. Here’s a man who loves with his insides, with his stomach. The way he pushes you against the wall, grabs you by the hair, rips your shirt. Buttons clatter to the ground as you invite him to hurt you. Even the stubble on his face scratches as it razes your breasts. And when he dips his head between your legs and thrusts his prickly chin against that tender swatch of skin, it’s “O Mitya! O Mitya!”
