Restless Anna

"Give me pussy," Sanya mumbled.

"Leave me alone," Anya laughed.

She had a quiet, cooing laugh that made Sanya suffer even more.

"Come on, give it!.."

"Sanya, I have to wash all this."

Anya was washing the lower shelves of the sideboard, thrusting out her firm butt in shorts.

"Come oooon, give it…"

"You're such a pest! Here, just don't whine!" — glancing back at the window, Anya pulled down her shorts and panties and bent over again, thrusting out her bare business.

Sanya pulled them down to the floor and tugged Anya by the leg.

"You pervert!" — Anya freed her legs, remaining in just a T-shirt, and Sanya finally got to the coveted object.

The object was pink

with a fluffy spindle. Sanya took Anya by the buttocks, stretched them apart, unsealed the little bud and, craning his neck, licked into the pink core.

"Yyyy… You licker."

When something bothered Anya, she always took to cleaning. Sanya wanted the little wrinkle on the bridge of her nose to smooth out. For that, he needed to inject some tasty little hormones into Anya's blood…

Besides, he just WANTED to.

Or rather, not just, but very badly.

"Yyyyyyy… What are you doing," Anya moaned, not stopping her work.

Sanya kept licking her, sticking out his tongue like an affectionate dog.

"Pervert," Anya repeated, trying to focus on the pots. "Maniac. Aah… Aaaaa!.."

A pot fell with a clatter.

"You bandit!" — Anya lifted her red face and looked at him plaintively.

"Sooo… Come here, restless Anna…"

Sanya sat on a stool, flopping out his equipment. Anya impaled herself on him, mewled when he dove inside, and hugged Sanya, pressing her nose to his:

"Well? Happy? Now work, since you started. Aah… Aaaaa…"

And Sanya worked, bouncing Anya up to the ceiling.

***

Love is a strange thing, Sanya thought, trudging to work. So much is written about it, but in life it's not like that.

If you believe what's written, love is a kind of psychosis that knocks out your brains and puts a huge dick in their place. This dick runs you for a while, and you attach some chick to yourself. Then the psychosis passes, and you can't figure out what she's doing in your apartment. Love is gone, the tomatoes have wilted. But during the psychosis, you're guaranteed such sensations that it's worth it.

True, there's also so-called true, or eternal love. Despite the fact that it doesn't exist, all current films and every single pop song go on about it. Apparently, it's only needed to wring out a tear. Really: what normal guy would agree to fuck one and only chick forever? What about the principle "take everything from life"?..

Sanya didn't know what kind of love he and Anya had, what it was called, on which shelf it was registered, but he knew for sure that theirs was not like everyone else's.

He and Anya grew up in the same yard. They became friends not from kindergarten, like in the movies, but from around seventh or eighth grade. They were close friends, though not to the point of sleeping under each other's windows. Anya was a child prodigy violinist, and Sanya liked listening to her play little pieces, so fast it was like a circus.

Then Anya went away to give concerts and was gone for half a year or so. She returned in the summer, and Sanya didn't recognize her. A bust from nowhere strained her T-shirt, shining hair streamed down to her butt, and the butt itself traced figure eights as she walked. Anya was glad to see him, was full of impressions, and his parents invited her to their dacha.

Sanya, slightly dazed with joy, took her along his favorite routes, and Anya trudged after him, obediently dipping her little feet into all the substances of the local swamps.

On the third day, he led her across a field to a distant cliff.

It was very hot, and their T-shirts were shiny with sweat.

"Whew," Sanya exhaled, pulling off the cursed damp thing. "Some kind of breeze…"

"Lucky you," Anya sighed. She tied up her hair, but the nape of her neck still glistened with transparent drops, like a flower after rain.

"So you take yours off too," Sanya suddenly said.

"Hello! I'm not wearing a swimsuit…"

"So what? No one will see. There's no one here," Sanya said, as if that were the only issue.

It's unknown what influenced her — his confident tone or something else — but she looked at him, glanced around… and suddenly took off her T-shirt.

It happened so fast that Sanya's gut dropped from surprise. He couldn't believe his eyes, looking at Anya's firm little breasts with small dark nipples, and Anya squinted, not knowing what to do next.

"There," he said, trying with all his might to sound natural. "That's better. Now you won't suffer."

A wind came from somewhere. It washed over their heated bodies, and Anya involuntarily gasped, thrusting out her chest. The wind messed up her hair; it unwound and flew like a pennant — a bronze, sun-glinting mane that fell onto her shoulders when the wind died down.

"We're approaching the cliff. There's always wind there."

"Ooooh," Anya drawled understandingly. A new gust hit, twice as strong as before, and she laughed:

"Wow!" — and began to spin, arms spread. Her hair sparkled in the sun like golden rain.

Sanya had never thought that a bare female torso — smooth shoulders, perky horned breasts, a flexible back — could pierce his heart so sharply. He wanted to spin with her, but he was shy, and they trudged on — Sanya and bare-chested Anya with loose hair. Somehow it just happened that they took each other's hands and walked like first-graders. The wind didn't let up, and they listened to it, too embarrassed to talk or look at each other.

Then they reached the cliff, and Anya, not expecting such height and beauty, said — Oh! Ooooo! — stood at the edge and spread her arms like the statue in Rio de Janeiro.

Sanya looked at her, flexible, half-naked, butting the sky with her nipples, and he wanted to howl…

They returned serious and quiet. That day everything began, though sex was still a long way off. Anya seemed so tender and sublime to Sanya, and he himself was so shy, that things were limited to lickings and cuddles. Rare undressings (you can't undress much with parents around) seemed to them the height of shamelessness. Sanya and Anya lived on the quiet outskirts of a provincial town, and though they had laptops and smartphones, the modern world remained somewhere far away, in the illusory tinsel of the display, while here, around them, there were still books, the Fakel cinema, and grandmothers' lectures on morality.

Once Sanya took Anya to the movies. They were showing "Restless Anna."

The film impressed them so much that on the way back, in an empty night trolleybus, Anya climbed onto Sanya, and they licked each other until half-fainting, until they realized they were slapping each other's thighs like psychos.

There was no one in the trolleybus but them.

Making up his mind, Sanya reached under Anya's skirt and pulled off her panties.

"The driver will see!" Anya squeaked, sticky as a pastry. Folding the trophy into his pocket, Sanya sat Anya on himself, pulled his dick out of his fly, covered it with Anya's skirt — and nudged into the hot slippery place.

It felt so good and desired that they both howled and danced on the seat, fiercely sucking each other's mouths. Anya slid her bare pussy over his dick and practically cried from excitement.

Suddenly the trolleybus jerked, and Anya cried out.

"What?" Sanya asked, watching her eyes widen… and immediately understood. The trolleybus jerked again, and again, and again, and Anya kept going "oh," and Sanya went deeper and deeper into the tight hot flesh until his pubis met Anya's.

They looked at each other in amazement, not believing what had happened. Immediately, excitement boiled up with new force, and Sanya began to thrust into Anya, holding her by the hips. Anya sniffled.

"Does it hurt?"

"Nooo…" she sobbed, wriggling on his dick.

They were scared and excited to the point of tears. They missed their stop, realized it, jumped out at the next one, and Sanya barely managed to tuck the slippery dick back into his fly.

Out on the street, Anya hung on Sanya's neck, and he stroked her butt. Then he led her to a backless bench — an ordinary bench in an ordinary

Khrushchev-era courtyard…

"Lie down."

"How?"

They fussed for a long time, turning and bustling, delaying the scary moment. Finally, Anya's clothes were neatly hung on a branch, and Anya herself lay on her back, a dim streetlight illuminating her swollen nipples, hairy pussy, and goosebumps on her legs.

"Spread your legs."

"I can't."

"What?"

"Ooooh…"

"Well, what?"

"I'm embarrassed."

"I'm embarrassed too."

"Really?"

Her legs instantly spread, revealing a little shell flooded with juices. Sanya slid into it so easily he was even surprised.

"How does it feel?" he asked Anya, pressing into her to the hilt.

"Ooooh…"

"My good girl, my beloved," he muttered, leaning over her. Yellow reflections of the streetlight gleamed in her eyes like tears.

Sanya moved in her back and forth, and a bitter little bubble kept stretching, stretching, and just couldn't burst, and Sanya was terribly afraid he'd disgrace himself, and puffed like a steam engine, slapping his balls against the rough board of the bench. Anya panted beneath him, then began to whimper softly — and suddenly burst into loud sobs, arching like a bow.

"What's wrong?" Sanya panicked, and then understood — "she's coming," and hammered with his dick like a jackhammer, and immediately swelled in her with mortal hardness, and roared with bliss like a bear, and fell on her, kissing her eyes and cheeks, and still couldn't finish pouring out, and semen kept flowing from him, squeezed out by the last agonizing thrusts…

This first sex impressed them so much that they bombarded each other with texts all night, and at five-thirty in the morning they were already licking each other in an old shed, naked and frightened, and Sanya renewed the passage he had made yesterday in Anya's body. Anya lay on the dusty floor, moaned in embarrassment, ashamed of her lust, and smiled at Sanya.

"You're kissing me in two places at once: on the lips and down there," she said, and Sanya pressed into her until his pubis hurt, to merge with her as tightly as possible.

Since then, they did it every day, hiding in every conceivable and inconceivable corner. Sanya loved it when Anya fucked lying down or sitting facing him, loved looking into her eyes, sharing impressions, and dying from the insane closeness that was scary to think about afterward. True, Anya no longer came beneath him, but he learned to lick her little bud, and she assured him she had never experienced such bliss even in her dreams.

Very soon, Sanya and Anya lost their heads so much that they weren't embarrassed by parents or teachers. No one scolded them; on the contrary, everyone was touched by such early and beautiful love. "Sanya should be WITH Anya," the adults joked.

When Sanya was in eleventh grade and Anya in her last year of music school, their parents themselves started talking about marriage: "since it's turned out this way, everything should be proper, like decent people."

They were people of the old school and had views from forty years ago — but Sanya and Anya took them more than seriously. First, they weren't allowed to spend the night together (what, before the wedding it's not allowed!), and they were dying of longing. Second, their parents had created such strong families that they wanted to believe them, not modern "concepts." Early marriages in their backwater were by no means rare, and no one was surprised that the bride was 19 and the groom even younger at 18.

They decided: in the summer, right after school, Sanya and Anya would marry and go to Moscow. Anya would enroll with Vadim Vadimych Navoznikov himself, the world-famous Moscow luminary, Sanya would work in the office of his dad's friend and do everything for Anya's career. Anya, a child prodigy with worldwide fame, had Napoleonic plans, and it was somehow implied that her career came first. The atypical family model didn't bother Sanya at all: he had long been used to considering Anya something like a genius. He decided to apply not this year, but the next, and not just anywhere, but to Moscow State University. He was asthmatic, so the army wasn't a threat.

Before the wedding, Anya went to play her entrance exam at the conservatory. She returned with a strange scar on her arm ("a little boy bit me") and with a wrinkle on the bridge of her nose, which Sanya attributed to overwork. After letting everyone who wanted to congratulate and hug her, she stayed with him and said:

"There won't be a wedding."

"Why???"

Sanya was presented with a whole heap of arguments: "we're still too young," "we have no savings," "I don't want you to sacrifice yourself for my career," "I don't want to tie you down," etc.

In the end, she burst into tears. (Erotic stories) Sanya rushed to comfort and kiss her, and it ended with such wild sex that Anya, gutted inside out, said — "no, let's get married after all…"

"You, restless Anna," Sanya told her, "are all geniuses so gloomy?"

A month later, they had the wedding, and at the end of summer, they moved to Moscow.

And now they've been living here for seven months, see each other in the mornings, evenings, and weekends, gorge on pastries like children, make love every day, go for walks — and practically never quarrel. Their life could be considered idyllic if not for the attacks of strange anxiety that plagued Anya. "A creative personality," Sanya thought, "geniuses — they're like that…"__P_