Sos-opros

It was late spring. The young, sticky little leaves were waving amiably to the gentle sun, filling the air with their pungent green freshness. We were sitting in the tech support center and kicking back, doing fuck-all.

 — So here we sit, colleagues, — said Kesha, my direct supervisor, — kicking back, doing fuck-all. Once an hour, some asshole calls us with his asshole problem. And our entire job — is to thoughtfully and intelligently explain to him that all his asshole problems — are because he's an asshole. And therefore, he should take his complaints to the tech support of the maternity hospital where a drunk veterinarian mangled his head with fireplace tongs while yanking it out of that carefree cunt, which

by all rights should have been plugged with a good IUD, not relying solely on the strength of that flimsy second-hand condom, which is the main culprit of all his asshole problems!

 — You speak beautifully, — I brown-nosed obsequiously. — And why are you speaking so beautifully?

 — I'm saying that there are people who actually work their asses off, conscientiously, with soul, no fucking around. Only you, blockheads and freeloaders, wouldn't understand that!

***

I diligently and critically pondered these wise words of my boss on my way home, which went through a picturesque park. Well, fuck, of course, I was stewing over the bullshit Kesha had spouted out of boredom, but my path did go through a park. A very cute and sparsely populated park.

Along the whole way, the only people I encountered were two young women. Actually, that's where my path ended, because it intersected with theirs, and they came up to me and started speaking words. I wasn't against them approaching me, because I had spotted them from afar and thought:

"If I were a rapist — I'd rape the white one."

Looking closer, I added to my thought:

"And then — the black one."

In short, both of them were cute. Not some pretentious bitches who trample our forest paths with their long-legged lower limbs (which, by all rights, should be stuffed into padded pants and topped with a chemical protection cloak, not accentuated with a short little skirt floating high above their cellulite), and in a playful top, from under which, judging by the rippling contours, an "alien" is clearly trying to claw its way out. No, these young ladies were not like that at all. And also — they knew how to speak. And they said this:

 — Young man! Can we have a minute?

I stopped silently. I didn't make a pun. They were a bit shy. Finally, the black one nudged the white one with her elbow, like you tap an old TV to make it start working, — and the white one started working:

 — You see, here's the thing. We were playing cards here. And we weren't playing just for fun, but for wishes.

She fell silent. I gathered she had lost. It remained to find out, what wish? I waited silently, though I had a few assumptions, one of which turned out to be correct. It was voiced by the more decisive black one. Voiced not without malice — it was easy for her to be snide when she wasn't the one who lost. She said the following:

 — I wished for Svetka to give oral pleasure to the first guy we meet who is at least a little prettier than Gollum and a little younger than Gandalf.

"Tolkien fans, huh?" — I thought.

And I grumbled:

 — Well, I'll just drop everything right now — and go find you a handsome guy!

I was being coy. I knew I looked a bit prettier than Gollum, and as for being younger than Gandalf — well, that's even written in the passport (Gandalf's). In short, I caught on that they were talking about me. The girls laughed. The white one — awkwardly, the black one — more cheerfully.

 — Well then, young lady, — I addressed the white one, — shall we proceed to the bushes?

I understood her: a card debt — is a matter of honor. And I was ready, with all our nobility, to help her solve her problem. Otherwise — how many such noble and sexy machos like me walk through this backwater park?

 — Can I too? — asked the black one.

 — What, you'll suck too?

 — No, I'll just stand nearby.

 — Go ahead, — the magnanimous me permitted.

We proceeded to the bushes. Well, to a clearing that was behind the bushes, hidden from any voyeurs except the most determined ones. The white one, having spread a plastic sheet on the young grass, knelt down. Unzipped my fly, loosened the belt buckle and pulled my jeans down to my knees. Followed by my underwear. Without any frills — she matter-of-factly provided access to the object. The object, sensing freedom, perked up briskly, smacking her slightly upturned but very sexy nose.

 — It's already hard, — the white one said, not without some annoyance, it seemed to me.

I shrugged:

 — Well, I guess I'm some kind of unearthly freak from the depths of space, that my bolt perks up when a cute, no bullshit, young lady is about to give me a blowjob.

After a slight pause — they snorted. Then the black one clarified:

 — And "young lady no bullshit" — is that also a joke, or what?

Truthfully, it wasn't a joke. It wasn't intended. It just came out that way. But I didn't disavow my sparkling wit:

 — How should I know? — I said. — And what the fuck difference does it make? This is, like, a blowjob, not fucking.

The white one, perhaps, got a little offended. Without stopping to caress my device with her fingers, she assured me:

 — Everything is fine with my pussy too.

 — Well, thank god, — I said, not knowing what else to say.

 — By the way, my name is Sveta, — she introduced herself, though I had already heard her name.

 — Very nice, — I said and nodded downwards. — And his — is Don Julio.

 — And what's your name overall? — the black one insisted.

I shrugged again:

 — If I say Sasha — will that change anything?

 — How old are you?

 — Yesterday I was 18, and today — is not my birthday, — I answered artfully. And added diplomatically. — Although, of course, receiving gifts — is pleasant on any day.

Here white Sveta pulled a trick: she pulled out from who knows where (hussars, everyone be quiet!) a cloth measuring tape and applied it to what was soon ready to redeem her card loss.

 — What are you doing? — I was puzzled. — Like, measuring if a destroyer will pass through the fairway?

 — It will pass, don't worry, — Sveta muttered a bit distractedly and threw to her friend. — Nasten, write it down!

And she dictated the data: length and girth. Only now did I notice the notebook in the black one's hands.

 — Actually, it's not at its record size right now, — I noted out of love for accuracy. — It depends on the weather. In the July heat, by the sea — it puffs up another centimeter and a half.

 — It's fine as it is, — Sveta encouraged, as if to dispel my complexes, or some other bullshit. And asked. — And have you measured it yourself?

 — No, fuck, I just found out about its existence! Good lord, what has grown out of me? And it can even get hard?

How else do you answer idiotic questions?

Here Sveta finally occupied her mouth with business — and the stupid questions now came only from black Nastya.

 — Have you had sex before?

 — No, of course not. You see, every time we met a young lady in the park who lost a blowjob to the first guy she meets in a card game — the first guy always turned out to be one of my scumbag buddies, because everyone pushes me around and bullies me, and..

 — But I'm serious!

I sighed loudly:

 — Yeah, fuck! The situation is fucking perfect for seriousness! But if seriously, what do you think yourself?

 — When? I mean — when was the first time?

I realized she wouldn't leave me alone. Apparently, a very specific pervert. Gets off not only from watching her friend suck off a stranger — but also from pestering this guy with strange questions. Probably, I decided, it's cheaper to answer them until you satisfy her depraved curiosity and other base passions. And I answered in detail:

 — If "autonomous" sex — then at thirteen. And with a girl — at fourteen and a half. Detailed enough information?

I blushed a little. Not because I lied — and why would I lie? But because, probably, Svetka intensified the assault and quickened the rhythm, skillfully massaging my head with her nimble little tongue. She was giving a shallow but quality blowjob. Nastya didn't let up:

 — "Autonomous sex" — you mean, masturbation? Are you saying you ever masturbated during puberty?

It seemed funny to her. And to me? Well, from a certain angle. But not from the one where Sveta had positioned herself with her quite serious, businesslike lips.

 — Dear Nastya! — I said, preparing for a thorough speech. — If you, of course, haven't yet noticed this fucking subtle fact, I am still in puberty.

 — Seventeen — is not puberty anymore, it's adolescence! — Sveta corrected authoritatively, freeing her mouth.

I glanced at her sideways:

 — Okay! You seem to have a discussion with Don Julio? Well, don't get distracted! And Nastena and I will manage somehow on our own.

Perhaps Sveta thought "jerk". Well, many young ladies not only thought that — but also told me to my face. And so what now: not be a jerk? Come on: "non-jerks" girls don't even look in the eye, let alone, you know, say something or look somewhere else. Anyway, Sveta conscientiously resumed the interrupted blowjob. I addressed Nastya again:

 — Correction, fuck, accepted. So, I jerked off not only during puberty, like crazy, — but also during adolescence. And if you're also interested, my plans include jerking off in subsequent periods of life. Also, when it stops getting hard, though such a period of life is not in my plans at all.

 — And with what intensity? How many times, say, per day?

"Definitely a maniac!" No, of course, all young ladies sooner or later are interested in such spicy things — but not fifteen minutes after meeting? However, this interrogation even began to amuse me. There was something inherently erotic about it. A certain "charme de vulgarité", as my older brother would say, who knows from French not only "French kiss" and "French love". I frowned, considering.

 — Well, how to put it? On some gloomy, dreary day — even one time is enough, just so the system doesn't stagnate. But sometimes, even on a gloomy, dreary day, but another gloomy, dreary day — you jerk off once, and such a feeling of guilt takes over, for the sin of masturbation, that it just stands up like a stake, you might as well hang yourself. Or — jerk off again. Guess what I choose? And so — eight times.

 — Eight?!

 — Well, five — for sure. Combined. In the morning — fucked a girl once, then she went to school, and I remained indulging in memories of that morning fuck, which, honestly, was worth jerking off four more times to the memory of it — if, of course, you really think all this is fucking your business!

 — Don't be offended, — she apologized for, like, tactlessness. — Okay, let's not touch on, uh, intimate topics.

"Not touch on? And what intimate topics haven't we groped yet? Like, the presence of homosexual experience? Do I fuck my cat? Did I ever have a fantasy to piss on my sister's favorite doll, which, by the way, I don't have? The rest — seems like we've firmly squeezed everything!"

 — Okay, uh. Tell me better, what do you listen to, huh?

I admit, I didn't immediately grasp the essence of this question. And half a minute later I answered:

 — At the moment I'm listening to some maniac who has completely fucked up with the reality of this world, to such an extent that she burdens with questions like "what do you listen to" a guy who's getting his dick sucked. And, by the way, not badly sucked.

That was the truth. I felt I was about to explode. If not for these strange tricky questions — I would have discharged long ago, because the last fuck I had was yesterday evening, and it was a self-oblivious fuck, and for that reason I overslept work in the morning and forgot to jerk off in the shower. Despite the compliment, Sveta again pulled her head off my device and said sternly:

 — If you're going to be difficult