One swallow doesn’t make a spring #13

Svitlana ignored me. “I came to dinner because I was with Debs and Barbs. I’ve got a broken heart, you know.” I didn’t know that sort of thing about her, but I kissed her sympathetically for that. She ignored that too. “They’re looking after me. But at dinner, I liked you. I know you thought I was silly when I cried, but you were sweet to me. And then you couldn’t stop looking at my tits.”

“You wouldn’t stop pointing them at me.”

She hummed a little tune, with her eyes rolled upwards. “Mm-hmm. So I decided I’d come back and see what happened. I thought we’d probably just talk.”

“And here we are.”

burns“Talking about carpet burns.”

“Um. About what Kerry told you: I don’t actually get off on hitting women. Or not like she means. I don’t do, you know, violence. I don’t like bullies. If I smack your bottom, or bite your nipples, or whatever, it’s meant to hurt a bit, but it’s about sex. Um, and consent. And both of you getting what you want and feeling good. It’s complicated. And sexy.”

“Yes, I do know that.”

“And Sade was an absolute creep. I’d never call myself a sadist. Yucko Sade bleurk.”

“Yucko Sade bleurk?”

“That’s my mature and considered opinion.”

“I’ve never read much Sade. But what I read wasn’t very appealing, no.”

Yeah, fucker.

Yeah, fucker.

“So shall we start again? From about where you said, ‘make me’?”

Svitlana turned onto her side to look at me. She put her top teeth over her lower lip. Then she poked her tongue out. Properly. Then she scowled.

“No,” she said. “Make me.”

“That’s the spirit.”

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