Chapter 1: Nightly tales
The air in the bar was thick with smoke and the low hum of Portuguese fado music, a melancholic soundtrack to the clinking glasses and murmured conversations. Florian nursed his beer, feeling the stickiness of the coaster under his glass. He was adrift here, the newness of Lisbon still a sharp taste on his tongue, the ghost of his ex a dull ache in his chest. Then he saw her.
She was a slice of midnight against the warm wood of the bar. Natalie. Black hair fell in a straight curtain, framing a face powdered pale, her lips a stained dark cherry. Her eyeliner was a dramatic, sweeping wing. She wore a tight velvet dress that plunged in the front, showcasing the heavy swell of her breasts, and ended high on her thighs. She was alone, tracing a finger through the condensation on her glass.
He didn’t remember deciding to move. His feet carried him over, the noise fading to a buzz. “This seat taken?”
She looked up. Her eyes were a dark, bottomless brown. “It is now.” Her voice was lower than he expected, a smoky curl of sound.
One drink became two, then three. The talk was easy, a volley of questions and sharp smiles. She was a sculptor, she said, working with reclaimed metal. He talked about his architecture studies, the clean lines and theories that felt useless here in this chaotic, beautiful city. He mentioned the breakup, just a clipped, “I’m recently single,” and she nodded as if she’d already deduced it.
“Clean breaks are boring,” she said, finishing her whiskey. “It’s the messy ones that leave interesting scars.”
Her hand brushed his when she reached for a bowl of olives. A deliberate stroke. Electricity, pure and simple, jolted up his arm. He looked at her, really looked, and saw not just the goth aesthetic but a hungry intelligence in her gaze, a challenge. She wasn’t just pretty; she was a precipice.
“Your place or mine?” she asked, not breaking eye contact.
He fumbled for his wallet. “Mine. It’s closer. And a mess.”
“I prefer chaos.”
The walk was a blur of cobblestone streets and the yellow glow of streetlights. In the elevator of his small apartment building, she pushed him against the wall and kissed him. It wasn’t gentle. It was all teeth and tongue and the bitter taste of her lipstick. Her hands were under his shirt, nails scraping his ribs. He was already hard, aching against the seam of his jeans.
His apartment was a studio, books and blueprints scattered. She didn’t comment. She kicked the door shut with her boot and walked him backwards towards the unmade bed. “Show me,” she commanded, tugging at his belt.
He undressed quickly, self-conscious for a moment under her appraisal. He was medium tall, lean from cycling, and, he knew, generously equipped. She nodded, a slow, approving smile. “Very nice, Florian. Impressive.”
She let her dress fall. She was all stark contrasts: the pale skin, the black lace of her bra barely containing her full breasts, the swell of her stomach, the surprising narrowness of her hips and the flat, smooth plane of her ass. She was utterly, defiantly herself. She pushed him onto the bed and climbed over him, her knees pinning his hips.
She took him in her hand, pumping slowly, watching his face. “You like that? You like me touching your big cock?” Her words were filthy, direct. He could only gasp, “Yes.”
She guided him inside her, sinking down with a sharp, controlled motion. She was so wet, so tight and hot he saw stars. She began to ride him, a relentless, grinding rhythm, her breasts swaying. She leaned forward, her dark hair a curtain around their faces. “Fuck me,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear. “Come on, student boy. Fuck me properly.”
He flipped her over, surging up with a strength he didn’t know he had. He drove into her, the bed slamming against the wall. The sounds were obscene: skin on skin, her choked cries, his own guttural groans. He gripped her flat ass, spreading her, plunging deeper. She met every thrust, cursing, demanding more. It was raw, a physical argument, a exorcism. When he came, it was with a shout, a deep, shuddering release that left him collapsed on her back, spent.
Later, in the dark, they lay tangled in sweaty sheets. The streetlight from the window cut Natalie into planes of white and shadow. She traced a finger over his chest.
“So,” she said, her voice rough from use. “Recently single. What was she like? Vanilla?”
“I guess,” Florian said, staring at the ceiling. “I mean, it was fine. Normal.”
Natalie snorted. “Normal is a setting on a washing machine.” She propped herself up on an elbow. “My last… entanglement. Now, he was something else. A blacksmith. Built like one. Rough hands.” Her eyes glazed over with memory. “And the fuck of him… Jesus. He ruined me for most men.”
Florian felt a knot tighten in his gut. A stupid, primal reaction.
She continued, her fingers trailing down his stomach, brushing his soft cock. “You’re magnificent, don’t get me wrong. You’ve got a beautiful fucking cock. Seriously, top five, easy. Twenty centimeters of very good news.” She gave him a squeeze, and he began to stir under her touch. “But him? That man was a monster. A true, once-in-a-lifetime fucking beast. I couldn’t walk right for two days after the first time. I’d see him and just get wet, instantly, knowing what he was going to do to me.”
Her words were a cold dash of water and a strange, dark turn-on. He was hard again, aching in her hand, even as the comparison carved a hollow in his chest. She smiled, seeing the conflict on his face, and lowered her head.
“Don’t worry,” she murmured, her mouth hovering over him. “I’m not with him anymore. He was too much, even for me. But fuck, do I remember.” Then she took him into her mouth, deep, and all coherent thought dissolved into sensation. Yet, as he tangled his hands in her black hair, the ghost of the blacksmith loomed in the dark corner of the room, a benchmark he hadn’t known he needed to measure himself against. The night, he knew, was far from over.
The night, he knew, was far from over. Her mouth was a hot, slick miracle, and he thrust upward into that warmth, his hips moving of their own accord. Her head bobbed, a dark silhouette in the dim room, and the wet sounds filled the space between his ragged breaths.
Then he felt her other hand, slick with spit, trail down from his balls, over his perineum, and press against his asshole.
A jolt went through him. Not of rejection, but of sharp, unexpected heat. Her fingertip circled, pressed, and then, as she took him deep into her throat, it pushed inside. Just the tip. A bright, invading pressure that made his cock jump in her mouth.
She pulled off with a lewd pop, her finger still working slowly in and out. “You like that?” she murmured, her voice wrecked. Her eyes gleamed up at him. “Has anyone ever touched you here before?”
He was panting, his mind hazy with pleasure. “My… my ex. Sometimes.”
Natalie went still for a second. Then a wide, wicked smile spread across her face. “Did she now?” Her finger pushed deeper, curling, and he gasped. “Tell me.”
“She… she used a strap-on. On me. Occasionally.” The admission felt like surrendering a secret, heavy and shameful and thrilling all at once. He watched her face, terrified of seeing mockery.
What he saw was pure, dark delight. “Fuck, Florian,” she breathed. “You beautiful, full-service surprise.” She leaned down and licked a stripe up his shaft before swallowing him again, her finger still buried in his ass. The dual sensation was overwhelming, a direct line of dizzying pleasure he’d almost forgotten. His back arched off the bed.
Then her finger withdrew. Before he could protest, he felt the blunt pressure of two fingertips, slick with more of her spit, pressing insistently. They breached him together, a slow, burning stretch that made him cry out. The fullness was incredible, an invasion that magnified every sensation from her sucking mouth tenfold.
“That’s it,” she cooed around his cock, her words vibrating through him. “Take it. God, you’re tight. Think you can come just from this? From me finger-fucking your pretty ass while I suck you dry?”
He couldn’t speak. His world had narrowed to two points of incendiary contact. Her fingers scissored slightly, pumping in a rhythm that matched the pulls of her mouth. The coiling tension in his gut was a live wire, sparking and urgent. He was hurtling toward the edge, his hands fisting in the sheets, his heels digging into the mattress.
She felt it. She always seemed to feel it. She hummed, deep in her throat, and crooked her fingers just so.
White light detonated behind his eyes. His orgasm ripped through him, violent and mind-wiping, as he emptied himself down her throat. She took every drop, her fingers working him through the brutal, shuddering waves until he was twitching and oversensitive, pushing weakly at her head.
She slid her fingers out gently and collapsed beside him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. They lay in silence, the only sound their syncopated breathing. The ghost of the blacksmith was gone, banished by the sheer, present physicality of what had just happened.
Florian felt scraped raw, utterly known in a way that was terrifying. He turned his head on the pillow. Natalie was watching him, her dark eyes unreadable in the gloom.
“So,” she said softly, reaching over to trace the line of his jaw. “Not so vanilla after all.”
The silence stretched, thick with the smell of sex and his own stunned heartbeat. Her finger was still tracing his jaw, a possessive little claim.
"Not so vanilla after all," she repeated, softer, like she was tasting the words.
He laughed, a short, breathy sound. "Guess not." He turned onto his side to face her fully. The streetlight caught the silver ring in her nose, the smudged kohl under her eyes. She looked like a painting of debauchery. "My ex… it was a thing she wanted to try. I let her. It was okay. Fine."
"‘Fine.’ ‘Okay.’ You keep using these very small words for very big feelings, Florian." Her dark eyes held his, unblinking. "Did you like it? When she fucked you with that silicone cock?"
He swallowed. The truth felt dangerous here, like handing her a weapon. But she already had so many. "Yeah. I did. It was… intense."
"Intense." She smiled, and it wasn't a nice smile. It was a predator’s smile. She shifted closer, her heavy breast pressing against his arm. "But a toy isn't the real thing, is it? The warmth. The pulse. The fucking weight of it." Her voice dropped to a whisper. "Have you ever thought about that? About being fucked by a real cock?"
The question hung in the air, sharper than any knife. The hum of the city outside his window seemed to mute. His mouth went dry. This was the uncharted territory, the dark forest beyond the edge of the map his life had been. He’d peeked at the idea, in the secret, shameful recesses of his mind, late at night after too much porn. But giving it breath, here, now…
"Yeah," he admitted, the word scraping out of him. "I've thought about it."
Her eyes lit up, a dark fire. "I knew it." She kissed him, a quick, biting kiss. "That hunger in you. It's beautiful." She pulled back, studying him. "What if you didn't have to just think about it?"
He blinked. "What?"
"The blacksmith." She said it casually, like mentioning the weather. "The one with the monster cock. The one who ruined me. He's in town. He'd come. Right now."
Florian's brain stuttered. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I could call him." Her hand slid down his stomach, her fingers wrapping loosely around his softening cock, giving it a deliberate, promising squeeze. It began to thicken again under her touch, a traitorous response. "I'm saying he could come over. And he could fuck me. And he could fuck you." She leaned in, her lips against his ear. "That huge, beautiful, real cock. Pounding into you. Showing you what ‘intense’ really means. Would you like that, Florian? Would you let a real man split you open?"
His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs. Fear, bright and electric, shot down his spine. But under it, coiling deeper, was a molten thread of want so profound it felt like vertigo. The imagery was obscene, terrifying. Irresistible. It was the culmination of every hidden curiosity, every repressed flicker of desire his previous life had no language for.
He saw it. The stranger, bigger, stronger. The stretch, the burn, the submission. Natalie watching, her dark eyes gleaming. Being used. Being filled. It should have repulsed him.
It didn't.
He was fully hard again in her hand, aching. The answer was there, in his blood and his bones and the desperate pressure in his groin.
"Yes," he breathed, the word a vow and a surrender. "Call him."