Turkish Stream
…When the iPhone rang for the fourth time, Sveta felt uneasy. A throbbing started in her temples, and an unpleasant chill ran down her spine. She glanced sideways at the screen — Valera again.
"Valerka? Maybe something's happened?" thought Sveta, reaching with difficulty for the nightstand where the phone lay. Özgür was holding her firmly from behind by the hips, engrossed in his task. His strong hands had firmly locked the Russian tourist in the necessary position. The warmth of his body burned her skin, and his rhythmic movements made her lose herself — but the insistent ringtone mercilessly brought her back to reality.
It was, indeed, her husband calling.
— Valera? Are you out of your mind? What's with calling so
early? — Sveta, as always in such cases, went on the offensive. She tried not to breathe into the receiver, holding back the sounds threatening to escape. Thoughts raced in her head: "Just don't let him suspect… Just let him finish quickly."— Svetka! Can you believe it, — her husband's voice was agitated and strange, — what these bastards have done?
— What… bastards? — With each thrust, Sveta's thinking grew foggier. Her vision darkened, and her breathing became ragged. She gripped the edge of the sheet with her fingers, trying to focus on her husband's words.
— Those damn Turks! They shot down our fighter jet! — her husband's voice trembled with rage. — Sons of bitches! Deliberately, you understand? On our border!
— Valera, I'll call you back, — Sveta tried to interrupt the session, but Valera suddenly yelled so loudly the speaker screeched in her ear:
— Come home immediately! Pack up today! Screw them, the rotten scum, and our money! Let them bathe in their own Mediterranean Sea!
— Okay! — Sveta blurted out, to mask her faltering breath.
— Change the tickets today! — Valera was shouting. — So we ever come to this damn Turkey again… I'd rather go to the dacha in the Moscow region than here…
From an unexpectedly sharp thrust, the phone slipped from Sveta's weakened hands and fell onto the soft carpet. The screen still glowed, broadcasting her husband's angry tirade, but Sveta could no longer hear it.
"Fuck! I need to hang up!" she thought, but a second later she was past caring. A sweet convulsion shook her entire body, and an involuntary moan escaped her chest. Time seemed to stop, and the world narrowed to the sensations filling every cell.
Özgür growled, digging his fingers into her hips with renewed force. His breathing became heavy, ragged, and his movements — even more frantic. He leaned over, pressing his chest against her back, and Sveta felt his lips touch her neck, leaving hot traces. Each of his thrusts echoed within her with flashes of pleasure that made her vision darken.
— We'll finally go to Crimea! — raged from the phone's speaker, like an echo from another reality. — And we'll show these churks their place! Let them know who they're messing with!
Özgür kept going and going, pouring into Sveta what seemed like an inexhaustible stream. His hands now wandered over her body — squeezing her breasts, then sliding down to the most sensitive spot, intensifying the pleasure to its limit. Sveta lost track of time, dissolving in the sensations. The room smelled of sweat and perfume, and outside the window, dawn slowly broke, painting the sky in pink and gold hues.
When it was all over, she lay for a long time, staring at the ceiling. The phone still lay on the carpet, its screen blinking, showing the call was still connected. Sveta reached for it but suddenly froze. What to say to Valera? How to explain this chaos in her voice, this trembling in her hands?
She sighed, pulled a pillow to herself, and buried her face in it. Only one thought spun in her head: "How am I going to sort all this out now?" And somewhere on the periphery of her consciousness loomed another: "And will Özgür even want to let her go so easily?"