The Professor's Green Card Marriage Page 6

  “No.”

  “Then take it. When you’re ready, I’ll put you on the table and fuck hard. This will be good for you?”

  Peter nodded, taking in enough to make his eyes water.

  Valentyn wiped the tears with his thumb. “I like to fuck hard. This okay?”

  Peter’s eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth falling open. He almost had the whole length in him. It felt like it was at his throat. “I… want dirty.” He bit his lip, then panted as he managed to sit on Valentyn’s lap again.

  Valentyn sucked at his neck. “What is dirty for you, koshenya?”

  Peter shuddered as he tried to fuck himself on Valentyn’s huge cock. He couldn’t answer.

  Valentyn kept stroking Peter’s sides. “I can talk dirty. You like this?”

  Peter nodded and kept fucking himself with great care.

  “Mmm.” Valentyn licked at Peter’s nipple, swollen and unable to leave its erect state. “I can fuck dirty too. Fuck open your hole, then lick inside it.”

  Crying out, Peter began to move up and down faster.

  Valentyn took both nipples between his fingers and tugged. “Ride harder, koshenya. Take me deeper.”

  Letting his head fall forward, Peter did. The contact made him gasp, but he didn’t stop.

  “Dobre. Fuck yourself harder. Take more and more.”

  Peter was sweating, his legs shaking. He was in a kind of trance now, moving to the sound of Valentyn’s voice. Sometimes he spoke entirely in Ukrainian, and it all tangled in his head until he was slamming himself onto Valentyn, mewing and purring as Valentyn held him in place by his nipples.

  When Valentyn moved Peter against the table, Peter leaned forward on top of it, gripping the sides as Valentyn reentered him. He cried out softly as Valentyn’s cock slammed into him with even more force, as Valentyn gripped his hips and thrust so roughly Peter thought he would break. Valentyn went so deep his spine tingled. So hard and fast.

  “Yes, that’s the way, dirty little kitten.”

  When Valentyn abruptly pulled out, Peter ached in loss, then gasped as he felt his hole covered with a hot mouth. Valentyn stroked Peter’s dick as well, cradled his balls—and just when Peter thought he might come, it stopped again.

  “Please,” he begged.

  This time as Valentyn entered him, Peter watched. Valentyn smiled at him. “Yes. Watch me fuck you.” Peter did, as long as he could, but once the rhythm picked up again, all he could do was arch his back and close his eyes. When Valentyn began to jack him to the same rhythm, he tumbled into the sky.

  They came one after the other, Valentyn first, Peter half a minute after as Valentyn hauled him close and jacked him hard while he was still inside. Peter collapsed against him, shuddering in the aftershocks.

  They stayed there, breathing hard and clinging to one another. Finally Valentyn nuzzled Peter’s ear, the confidence with which he’d fucked ebbing away. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  The euphoric haze of sex still melted Peter’s brain. He stroked Valentyn’s gray-blond hair, rested his cheek against his face.

  Valentyn sighed. “I have the feeling I’m going to get a very long email when I go home tonight.”

  Peter smiled, shut his eyes, and nodded.

  Valentyn wrapped his arms around him. “I look forward to it.”

  Chapter Six

  FROM: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  To: vshevchen@colorado.edu

  Subject: Further thoughts on potential complications

  Dear Valentyn,

  I have so many places I want to start, because there was so much conversation I wanted to respond to in depth but couldn’t, and then we had sex, which I didn’t plan but one hundred percent enjoyed, and we left with you worrying we complicated things, so let me start there.

  This doesn’t have to be complicated. I get we are leaping out of a plane with one parachute, but… well, let me start by being a little more honest with you.

  We really are both in the same situation. I think you have this idea that I’m a kind person doing you a favor, that this is all one-sided. It isn’t. No one is threatening to deport me from the country, but you need to fully understand where I come from in this situation. I really glossed over the whole thing with my job and moving here. This relocation was a Hail Mary by my family because I was super depressed and retreating into myself worse than I’d ever been and nobody could stop it. My mom said my choices were go to an institution and get help there or go to my uncle’s and see if a change of venue helped, and she was crying when she said it. I get why. I was probably really scary to be around. I scared myself. Back then I was completely nonverbal, no eye contact, and I barely ate. I didn’t go online either. It was depression dragging me down then, not selective mutism, but they get conflated and it’s like a spiral.

  I’ve been okay since I’ve been here—I’m on different meds, and working feels good, knowing I’m actually helping my uncle and this isn’t some pity move feels good. Making friends with Amy, the girl who works the front counter at the coffee shop, feels good, but I don’t know if she understands me yet. It’s not the life I want for myself, though. I want more.

  I get you might read all this and think you don’t want to be a part of it. I’m not going to relapse if you cut me loose. I tell you all of this because first of all, I was going to have to if we got too far, but second because I want you to understand you’re not the only one here who needs and wants something. Even if we got into this and decided we didn’t want to be a couple, if we stayed married long enough for you to get your green card and that was it, I wouldn’t regret anything because it would be me doing something, helping.

  I shouldn’t have kissed you when you were saying we should make this a business relationship, even though I don’t regret the sex at all. As I walked home—had to push my bike because, um, reasons—I thought about it a lot, and I feel like I put you in a bad position. I muddied the waters, and I want you to know if you still want it to be a business relationship, I can do that. We can say we got the sex out of the way and call it good. We can put whatever rules on this that we need.

  I would say I’d help you find someone else to be your convenient partner, but I don’t think I can. Because the truth is I do want to have sex with you again. I want to go on our date in the mountains, want to sit and talk with you, even if for a long time I only get to say a few words. I want to be the person who helps you. I don’t know if it’s healthy or not that I want this so much, if my reasons are the right ones. But I’m willing to do whatever you need me to do. Even if we are just friends.

  Let me sum up: I’ve felt a strong attraction to you ever since I first saw you, and diving headfirst into this feels good to me. At the same time, I understand your reservations, and I respect that you bring your own baggage into this situation beyond simply needing a green card.

  This isn’t the first time I’ve leapt at something even though conventional wisdom says I should be hesitant. But again, that’s not how SM works, at least not mine. I’ve wondered a lot if my propensity to throw myself at things is related to the fact that I have such a difficult time communicating. Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t.

  I’m trying to remember everything you talked about. Not sure if you’re into dirty email talk, but your big, sexy dick pretty much flamed out most of my thoughts pre–table fucking. That was so hot. Oh my God. Do you fuck everyone like that? I would marry you for the sex alone. Just saying.

  Also, I hope it doesn’t matter, but I’m pan. I’ve dated men and women, and one nonbinary person.

  I’ve reread this email a lot, and uncharacteristically I want to delete most of it. I’m not going to delete anything, though. I’m just going to send it and jump out of the plane again. I want to help you. I want to do this. I want to get to know you more. I want to fuck you again. I want all of it. I want whatever of that you are willing to let me do. But I also respect your need to walk away if it has to come to that. If so, thank you so much for
tonight and the past day. If you ever change your mind, you know where I am.

  Love,

  Peter

  FROM: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  To: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  Dearest Peter,

  A quick email to let you know I do not in any way want to walk away from you. Am responding to the other one. Will take me a bit of time. Don’t feel you must stay up. You’ll have a message waiting for you when you wake.

  Also changed the email since I don’t know what the university policy is about describing graphic sex in email, but I have a feeling it is frowned upon. Do not let that stop you from doing so on this account, however.

  V

  FROM: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  To: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  OH MY GOD I’M SO SORRY. I didn’t even think about how that’s the school email. Can you go delete it from the server or something?!

  I’m not going to bed. I’m going to sit here and feel really guilty.

  Question, though. This email says Valya Shevchenko? I thought your name was Valentyn?

  P

  (Sorry if me signing it Love, Peter was too much)

  FROM: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  To: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  Please don’t feel guilty. I shouldn’t have started any of this on my work email. That was my carelessness. Also please, don’t stay up on my account for any reason.

  Valya is the short form of my name in Ukrainian. Diminutives are complicated to explain quickly. I’ll send you a longer note later. Essentially Valya is what most people I email on this account call me. I’ve only emailed people in Ukraine from this, until now. No one calls me Valentyn at home, or Val. Val is my American nickname.

  You can call me Valya if you want. Or Valechko, but I understand that one might be a mouthful for an English speaker. Val is also okay.

  Still writing. Please get some sleep.

  Love,

  Valya

  FROM: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  To: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  I know you’re still writing an official response, but I honestly am not going to sleep for so many reasons. Sorry that I keep interrupting you. Please just ignore this and read later.

  But wow, I just googled Ukrainian diminutives and I am so jealous. I don’t know why. I just always wished I could have a nickname, but not Pete because ew. First of all, I feel like an idiot because I’m saying your name wrong. It should be Walentyn? And Walya?

  So Valya is what most people call you but Valechko is for family? You’re saying I can call you what your family does?!

  I love that you have all these names. Is there one for Peter? I know I can’t just appropriate another culture’s naming tradition, but I want to know now.

  Okay, I just googled that too, and holy cow there are a lot of variations of Peter. I found the Russian one but not the Ukrainian one. :(

  I’m going to go do some crosswords, and I will not email again until you’re able to reply properly. Promise.

  Love,

  Peter

  (Except I’m super jealous because Petra is an awesome name but it’s for girls.)

  FROM: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  To: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  Dear Petrush,

  The short form of your nickname in Ukrainian is Petro, but those very intimate with you would call you Petrush. I will call you whatever name you like, even Petra. I don’t care what gender it’s supposed to be.

  Also, you can say my name with an English V. It isn’t exactly a W in Ukrainian, but yes, it’s slightly different. I don’t mind that English changes my name’s sound. It helps make me feel like I’ve been reborn here.

  I keep thinking about how you likened this adventure to leaping out of a plane. I am starting to think maybe it’s not that there’s only one parachute, but rather we each have parts of a parachute and we must find a way to assemble it while falling. We won’t even know if we have a full parachute until we make the attempt. It’s silly to waste time wondering if we’re the right person to be helping the other one. We’re the ones who leapt together, or fell out in the same vicinity.

  I said this in another email, but I’ll repeat myself, as it feels important: I am not interested in walking away. I am nervous and uncertain and sometimes very afraid, but that has nothing to do with you. I don’t like how messy this relationship is, that I can’t simply date you and get to know you in the normal way, that I have weeks at best to decide whether or not to take you up on your offer. Actually I don’t even know if that’s accurate. I’ve only barely researched what a green card marriage entails. I was so sure I wouldn’t need something like that. I do worry that this should be either a business arrangement or it should be a traditional relationship where we get to know one another with the idea of potential permanency in mind. That we go through the ceremony of permanency and then see if our gamble worked out worries me a great deal.

  I worry that I will put things on this relationship that are not there. I worry you want me to be someone I’m not and that you will become disappointed when you learn the truth. I worry that it isn’t possible for me to be writing this so soon after I met you. But here we are.

  The truth is you unspool things inside me. I think you had my heart from the moment you proposed to me, and you sealed it when you flirted with me via email and text. Tonight I came to the coffee shop ready to apply reason and sense to this madness, and yet all it took was one look at you, one touch of your hand and I saw no point in rationality or sanity. I made my best effort to voice my concerns, and with one kiss you erased everything. You’re apologizing for distracting me; I am red-faced at the idea that I fucked you over a table when I was supposed to be having a conversation. I let you see a side of me I only show to men I meet for sex. I have always kept that part of myself entirely separate from my proper, organized life.

  I think that’s a good summary of what is happening here. Something about all of this undoes everything careful about my life. The way I am approaching citizenship, the manner by which I’m courting the person I’ve been the most interested in for a long time. I recently broke up with a months-long partner, one who became frustrated because he considered me too cold and standoffish, and accused me of being stiff in bed. I think the truth is if I tried to date you the way I did him, you too would have walked away. Perhaps this is some strange gift, that I have been rendered unable to arrange things to my liking so as to hide myself.

  Because the truth is, while I am still afraid to show open affection to my partner in public, I very much loved the thrill of fucking you at the seat where I usually sit and grade papers. I want to sit there tomorrow and remember, to watch the world murmur around me while I think about how I indulged in hedonistic pleasure in that spot the night before. I don’t regret your kiss at all. Even though it undid all my careful structures and plans, I want you to do something to me like that again. While the rational, reasoned, careful part of me is terrified of all that could be exposed and ruined by marrying a man I just met, this part of me is thrilled at the prospect.

  Of course your orientation doesn’t upset me. I’m attracted to you, and you’ve made it plain you’re attracted to me. You don’t mind the snarls I’ve tied myself into, the self-hatred I’m still trying to unknot from eighteen years of not being able to say even to myself who I was. You have your own struggles, and I don’t mind those either. As I sit here bleary from lack of sleep and buzzing from excellent sex, pouring out confessions I cannot believe someone is getting out of me so easily, I find myself thinking, perhaps this could work. Perhaps somehow we could become husbands, and by the time the green card interviews come around, it wouldn’t be a lie.

  Perhaps it will even be pl
easant to leap out of this plane, so long as I can hold your hand on the way to earth.

  I have been drinking since arriving home, and I think perhaps I am saying too many sentimental, silly things. Yet I can’t seem to say anything else, so I will let them remain.

  I don’t think I could marry you without having sex or confessing things like this to you. I have already, trying to type this, become distracted remembering how you looked with your mouth stretched around my cock, your gaze rising up to me. You spoke more to me during sex than you have at any other time. Your voice is sweet and beautiful, and now most of my memories of it are tangled in my memory of your body. The way you let me unleash on you, the way you begged me to be dirtier.

  Petrush, this bottle of vodka and I would like to tell you that I could be so, so much dirtier with you. Also sweeter with you. The aching, fragile wish I have never allowed myself to dream.

  I don’t think I can marry you tomorrow. But I don’t want to leave this country, and I can’t imagine marrying anyone else, for any reason, even though that is such a foolish thing to say. You make me feel so foolish, koshenya. So beautifully, achingly foolish.

  I teach early tomorrow, so I must find a way to sleep. But I will dream of your body, and of your smile. I hope I may see both again soon.

  Love,

  Valechko

  FROM: pgrunbergfortheplanet@gmail.com

  To: valyashevchenko@gmail.com

  Subject: new email, still me

  Dear Valechko,

  You feel foolish? I’m already in love with you. I’ll see you whenever you’ll have me. I work from opening until five tomorrow. Come see me on your way to work and I’ll give you a delicious breve and a wicked kiss.

  Also, you called me koshenya several times during sex, but now you’ve written it out so I googled it.