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Like on most of her birthdays, Lilya Rozanova wakes up and wonders if her life would have been less of a shitshow, had she been born a boy.
Would her dad have been loving and proud, if he'd had a second son and not a daughter? Would Alyosha have been less of a dickhead? Would their mom have been happier with two boys? What would have been her name? Piotr like Mama's father? Misha like Dad's uncle who died just before her birth? She tries to imagine herself as a Misha and all she pictures is big arms and sad eyes.
It's nothing more than useless musings, but she still lets herself indulge in them for a little while as she lies in bed, the sheets pooled around her waist. She trails her nails on an invisible line from her sternum to her navel, to and fro, while she lets her imagination run with the scenarios. They've become a part of her birthdays, since the first time it happened.
She's pretty sure that on her fourteenth birthday she made a drunken wish while out partying with Leonid and Katya. Katyusha had insisted Lilya needed to make a wish on the flaming cocktail she'd just made for her, and Lilya sort of remembers thinking, I want to be a boy, just for one day. I want to be tall, strong enough to punch Alyosha and his shitty friends in the face with no consequences.
She's never been a boy for a single day in her life, and she doesn't really want to be. She's grown tall and strong. She's punched Alyosha in the face once. She's kneed his pal Vadim in the nuts so hard that he's never come within legs reach ever again.
She's also woken up with a dick and balls on every one of her birthdays since that wish made over a flaming cocktail.
The first time it had happened, she'd freaked the fuck out and spent the whole day shut in her bedroom, freaking out more and more with every passing minute, until she'd decided she must be hallucinating, and ignoring it was the best course of action. The dick (and balls) had disappeared by the next morning, so she'd chalked it all up as just that, a hallucination.
Until her sixteenth birthday and the return of the dick (and balls).
It's become normal, by now. Almost welcome. The day of her birthday dawns and Lilya wakes up with her yearly dick, usually hard. What's new?
Usually she makes plans to spend the day by herself. She's a fan of self love. She's also a fan of making the best lemonade out of the lemons life gives her, which in this specific case means having as much fun as she can with her once-a-year dick.
It's a good dick, if she can say so herself. Proportioned. Solid length without being too much. Good girth. Whatever fairy, spirit, deity or whatnot decided to make her wish come true this way, was not a complete dick (ha!) about it.
The alarm on her phone chirps awake and Lilya slaps a hand at her bedside table. The phone falls silent.
She slips her right hand under the sheets and then under the hem of her sleeping shorts, closes her fist around her dick.
"Welcome back, buddy," she tells it.
She had originally planned to spend another birthday at home. She'd even bought a couple of toys she wanted to try. Sadly, in the middle of January the League had announced the dates for a series of Big Events for this or that or whoeverthefuckcares, and she'd had to postpone her plans of leisure masturbation and prostate experimentation to, hopefully, next year, if the League doesn't fuck her over again.
She really can't skip today's event. She tried to inquire, politely. She was told no, even more politely. She's the captain of the team, her presence is absolutely mandatory.
Fuck, everyone's gonna be there this evening, in pretty dresses and elegant suits, and she's gonna have to look at them all, at Hollander, who's gonna be all dolled up and awkward and abso-fucking-lutely edible, and not get hard.
That's a thing she doesn't have a lot of experience with: being around people—hot, sexy people at that!—while in possession of her yearly dick.
She pushes the shorts down and gives a slow pump to her dick. Well, might as well do her best to take the edge off, and hopefully up her odds of surviving the gala or whatever without incidents.
***
"Fifty dollars say she's gonna leave ten minutes after the last speech, on the dot," Cliff says.
Lilya lazily follows her alternate's gaze and finds Hollander at the other end of it.
"Twenty," Lilya says.
Cliff gulps a big sip of her mojito and asks:
"Minutes or dollars?"
"Minutes."
Cliff moves her glass to her left hand and offers Lilya her right with a grin. "Deal!"
Once they've shaken on it, Lilya asks Marlow if she still plans to go back to Minnesota for the summer. There's enough street hockey and chaos in Cliff's plans that she's a good distraction from the rest of the room.
Not that it can stop rich people from wanting to come talk to them, of course, or ask Lilya and Cliff stupid questions. That's the price to pay for these events. Dress fancy, look your best, entertain donors, or advertisers, or execs, drink some cocktails, eat some food, and then leave with your mind numbed worse than under anesthesia.
Lilya is still not sure what kind of sorcery takes the name "Linnea Marlow" and arrives to the nickname "Cliff", and she's stopped trying to understand the whole baffling thing years ago, but the man who's come to bother them is very curious.
Sadly, Lilya can't tell him that her alternate and best friend simply has a weird nickname, that's another fact of life one should simply accept, like Lilya's (secret) yearly dick, or the terrible comb-over of that one guy in the front office, or the fact Jane Hollander always looks like she wants to run away from these events the moment she sets foot inside the venue.
Today, Hollander looks extremely uncomfortable. Lilya's seen her wear the fanciest dresses and high heels for commercials for a perfume, and a jewelry brand too; in those occasions, Hollander managed to look a million times more at ease than right now, ten or so feet away, dressed in a sensible black dress and heels that barely count as such.
It's all a mystery. A miracle in awkwardness. Lilya still has to stop herself from looking too much, too obviously. Her phone weighs like an anvil in the pocket of her slacks. The messages Hollander sent her earlier today weigh even more.
Those fifty dollars are already Lilya's. What she's not sure about is how the rest of the night will go.
***
Jane paces her hotel room and does her breathing exercises. The tips of her fingers tingle the same way they do in those last minutes before she gets on the ice at the start of a game.
Rozanova agreed to meet, but her messages were… Jane's not sure how to define them. Usually, Rozanova is direct and brash. Abrasive, even. Today she was almost cautious, but not in their usual way, where the caution revolves around the fact they could fuck up their careers.
She's doing the tenth circuit of her room when the thought hits Jane that maybe Rozanova wants to stop this.
That's something Jane has tried to do for years, honestly.
Since that first time they met in her room and Rozanova made her come so hard she saw stars and for the first time understood what other girls meant when they said orgasms are great.
She feels herself clench around nothing, wet and wanting just at the memory of how good Rozanova can make sex be.
Her phone vibrates where she's clutching it in her hand. It's a message from Rozanova, just a simple here.
Jane hastens to open the door and let her rival in. Makes double sure to have locked it before she turns around.
Fuck, she's…
Fuck!
Rozanova is wearing wide, flowy black slacks, and a black jacket buttoned at the navel with nothing underneath, not even a bra. Just her golden cross.
She's beautiful and golden, and Jane will have this image tattooed behind her eyelids until the day she dies, probably.
Jane takes a whole step forward and then she stops, frozen in place, that worry from before back in full force. Rozanova hasn't got her usual backpack with her.
No backpack means no strap.
No strap means…
"No panicking, Hollander," Rozanova says, and Jane makes eye contact for half a millionth of a second, long enough to see the calm expression Rozanova is wearing. "Everything's good."
Jane gestures at her, unable to put thoughts into words that won't make her sound silly, or pathetic. How the fuck do you tell your fuck buddy how can everything be good if you didn't bring the stuff to fuck me? without sounding like an entitled asshole or a pathetic whiner?
"Can you sit down?" Rozanova asks.
Jane frowns but does just that. Finds the chair in the corner of the room and lets herself fall on it. She puts her hands on her thighs, on the soft, pleasant fabric of her shorts, and nods to Rozanova to go on.
"It is my birthday," she says after a moment of very uncharacteristic hesitation.
Not the direction in which Jane thought this conversation might go.
"Uh. Happy birthday?" Jane offers back. That's the right answer, right?
"Thanks. Very polite."
So, maybe not the right answer. Fuck.
"I don't have a gift for you. I didn't know it was your birthday. I don't think I know what to gift you either."
Rozanova grins in that way that makes Jane's stomach do flips. The one that makes her want to kiss Rozanova and shut her up for a few hours.
"I have suggestion for present, but we can talk about later."
"O-kay?"
"I receive gift, every year. It's. Well, this is first time we meet on my birthday, so I am worried you won't like it."
"Rozanova, I'm more and more lost the more you speak."
Rozanova nods while making a face that's probably meant to communicate something to Jane, but it's beyond her comprehension right now.
"Can I show you? If I show you, you'll understand. You decide if you want me to stay or not."
"Okay?"
"Whatever you decide, I do. Okay?"
"Yes, yeah. Can we…" Jane makes what is supposed to be the international gesture for go on, please, no more wasting time, and what she gets in return is Rozanova unbuttoning her jacket and then undoing her pants and lowering them enough for Jane to see…
She's wearing boxer briefs underneath. Light blue. Tight. And straining a bit to contain a half-hard dick, from the looks of it.
Jane looks away, feeling color rise to her cheeks and ears. A moment later, she's glancing at Rozanova's crotch again.
Still a bulge in blue briefs.
She averts her eyes, tries to fix them on the wardrobe, but her gaze seems magnetized to return to Rozanova's open pants.
"Is- How- What-"
"I have dick on my birthday."
Jane frowns at the wardrobe. She frowns at Rozanova's briefs too.
"That's not possible."
"My dick says it is possible."
"Is this a prank?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes. Not prank."
Jane frowns.
Fuck, she's been staring at Rozanova's impossible bulge for at least a minute now! That's rude, right? It must be rude. She must have surely gone beyond the threshold between looking and staring and now Rozanova will think she's rude, not just weird.
"You really have a dick?"
"Yes."
Jane nods. She's not sure why she does. Probably because she needs to react somehow, and she has no better reaction than nodding.
Rozanova has a dick.
"How does it work?"
"Blood goes to it-"
"You're such an asshole! No, the, the fact you usually have…" Jane makes a gesture, mouth suddenly too dry at the thought of Rozanova's pussy, the taste of it, the feel of it around Jane's fingers or under her tongue.
"It just happens. On my birthday, tada! Dick! Next day, tada! Cunt!"
"I hate that word."
"Snatch?"
"Ew."
"Is pussy still okay?"
"Yeah, pussy is okay."
"Well. Today, it is a dick."
Jane rubs her hands on her shorts and nods again.
"So what's the plan, Rozanova?"
"You tell me."
That makes her frown even more than seeing the outline of that dick the first time.
"I tell you what?"
"Hollander," she huffs. "I have dick. Is it okay or no? Do I stay? Do I leave? Is dick, what's the thing, deal breaker?"
Jane opens her mouth to answer and then closes it again when nothing seems to come out of it.
"I don't know," she manages to say what subjectively feels like an hour later. It's probably a minute.
During which Rozanova pulls up her pants, zips and buttons them, and then patiently waits for Jane to make up her mind.
Not that I don't know can exactly count as making up her mind.
"What could help you know?"
"No idea."
There's the tiniest smile on Rozanova's lips. Jane's not sure why it's there.
"Do you want to try to touch it, Hollander?"
"I've touched a dick before," Jane says. It came out all wrong, she knows it, and Rozanova's smug smile only confirms it.
"Not mine."
"It's not like it's gonna be different from all the other dicks I've touched," Jane scoffs.
The truth is that she touched all of two dicks, and neither time the experience was exactly exciting. Dicks are… They're okay. A bit weird. They always look so angry and… inflamed. Sometimes she wonders if they hurt, red as they are. Like they're sunburned.
"Want to try?" Rozanov asks, like Jane didn't say a word.
She finds herself standing up before she can realize it. The space between them is suddenly gone and Jane is standing in front of Rozanova, eyes dragged against her will from the hollow of her throat down to the shiny button of her pants.
"Yes or no?" Rozanova asks. Her voice has gone low and soft, it's a caress against Jane's nerves.
"Yes," she says, and her hand goes to the front of Rozanova's pants and finds the shape of her dick more surely than if she could see it.
Rozanova groans, low in her throat, and Jane rubs her fingers along the shape of her dick. She feels it firm up and grow under her hand, safe and hidden under the fabric and yet unmistakably real and there.
Lilya Rozanova has a dick. And it's hard. And it's hot even through the fabric, and heavy against her palm.
Suddenly, all Jane can think is that she needs to see it, to touch it with no clothes standing in her way.
She scrambles at the button, at the zipper, at Rozanova's pants and then at her underwear, while Rozanova murmurs, "Slow down, Hollander, take your time."
She feels like she can't. Like if she slows, let alone stops, something bad will happen. Like she won't be able to find the momentum again and then she will have to tell Rozanova to leave, and this impossible moment will be lost forever, and she can't lose it, she can't, even if she doesn't know why it's important.
So she scrambles and pulls at the elastic, and Rozanova's dick springs free, hard and wet at the tip, foreskin pulled back, and Jane takes a sharp inhale through her nose, eyes fixed on the dick in front of her, and blessedly the momentum is still there.
Her hand closes around Rozanova's dick, fingers at the base, palm up towards the head, and a moment after she starts jerking Rozanova off, there's a hand cradling the side of her face, and an arm wound around her side, and Rozanova's kissing her like she needs it to live, like they both do.
Jane goes to her knees, after a while, she's not sure how long, just that Rozanova is making these sweet, low sounds, or maybe they're coming from Jane herself, she has no idea. What she knows is that she wants to try to suck her off, she needs to try.
It's not that different from eating Rozanova out, and also a completely different experience.
The smell, the taste, the warmth, Rozanova's hand in her hair, the sounds she makes when Jane's mouth is on her, those are all familiar things, expected, even.
But the shape of her dick, the movements Jane needs and wants to do, the heft of the dick in her mouth, the way it stretches her lips, the way her saliva and Rozanova's wetness keep on dribbling out of her mouth, the way she doesn't know how far she can go before she gags and yet she keeps on going… It's all new territory and Jane's never felt this eager to explore the new.
She dares to glance up on a backwards movement, pretty sure she'll find Rozanova looking down at her with barely-there interest, and instead she's met with so much want, holy fuck, so much! Rozanova's hooded eyes. Her open mouth. It's the expression she usually wears when she's on the brink of coming.
"Fuck, Hollander…" Rozanova groans, and the next moment she's pulling at Jane's hair and her dick slips out of Jane's mouth in spite of all her attempts to keep it there.
"Wasn't that good?" Jane asks, even if she knows that face.
"Too good, too fast, Hollander, your mouth…" Rozanova says a couple of words in Russian, and by her tone there's a chance they're compliments, not complaints. She lets Jane's hair go and helps her to her feet.
Next thing Jane knows, Rozanova's hoisted her up and is walking them the last couple of feet to the bed.
They tumble and bounce on the mattress, Jane holding back laughter, and Rozanova kisses her before asking:
"Can I fuck you?"
"Yes."
"With my dick?"
"Yes."
"You sure?"
"Rozanova, I said yes."
"I need to be sure. It's very good dick."
Jane huffs. "It's just a dick."
"Magical dick."
"So far I've done all the work and this dick hasn't done anything magical."
"It didn't exist yesterday, that is magical, Hollander!" Rozanova replies, sounding offended, but she does so while getting rid of her clothes, so that's progress.
When Jane makes to pull off her t-shirt, Rozanova stops her.
"No, keep it."
Jane looks down. It's Montreal merch.
"Do I need to wear Montreal colors head to toe next time?" she asks.
Rozanova shrugs and pulls Jane's shorts off with such ease that Jane feels like the human version of one of those magic tricks with the table and the table cloth.
"Boston colors would look better on you."
"In your dreams."
"Very good dreams, yes."
"You-"
Whatever Jane wanted to say next goes out the window the moment Rozanova plants her face against Jane's panties. She does that, sometimes. Licks and nips and noses at the fabric and drives Jane crazy with need.
"Soaked already," Rozanova mutters against her panties. It shouldn't be this hot to know that she's just telling the truth.
The first contact of Rozanova's tongue with her skin makes her clench around nothing. The next one rips a moan out of her throat. The next one again makes one of Jane's hands shoot down, to Rozanova's head, to her beautiful curls, while the other flattens on Jane's lips.
She can't stop her moans, and she can't let the whole hotel hear her either. Rozanova always likes to hear her voice, but this time she doesn't tell Jane to move her hand, it's too dangerous, too many of their colleagues are in the building, possibly on this same floor, in nearby rooms.
The idea is terrifying and exciting all at once. Jane's rival, the only other player that's really at her level, is lying between Jane's legs and eating her out, and then she's gonna put her dick inside Jane, and nobody knows. Marlow, or Perriet, or Vaughn, or, hell, even Hunter could be on the other side of the wall and have no idea of what's happening in Jane's room.
She allows herself to be swept away by the feeling, by the thrill of having Lilya Rozanova here with her, in a way that nobody else ever has, by the tide of pleasure that's growing in her belly. Fingers open her and pump inside her, and Jane nods to everything and nobody, and pleads for more, and then comes with Rozanova's mouth closed on her clit.
They kiss, once Jane can think again, and Jane kisses all along her rival's body, from the strength of her shoulders down to those thighs she envied, that first time they were alone in a hotel gym.
Rozanova leans out of the bed to rummage in her clothes, and almost falls face first to the floor. When she's once more properly on the bed, mock-offended at the fact Jane laughed at her, she's holding a strip of condoms.
"Cocky much, Rozanova?"
"Last time you come five times, Hollander."
"Yes, on a silicone dick. This one will have… What's the term? For when a man can't get it up after he comes and his dick needs to rest?"
"Lucky you, I'm no man. It gets up very fast."
"Do I want to ask?"
"Is good tale, very hot and inspiring, but maybe another time, when time is not short?"
Jane hates when Rozanova's right.
She hates her even more when her dick turns out to be somewhat magical indeed. The fact Rozanova knows how to fuck Jane so well she goes this close to melting is no news; on the contrary, it's one of the foundations of their weird, secret sex life. But for some reason Jane had expected it to be less earth-shattering when there was a flesh-and-blood dick involved, seeing as underwhelming all her past experiences with them had been.
Instead it is earth-shattering good, and she has to bury her screams in a pillow, and by the time Rozanova comes for the third time, Jane's legs are trembling and spasming with the effort to support her on the bed.
They don't break their record only because, after that, they're both thirsty as hell and they give precedence to drinking over cramming one more, hasty fuck into the few minutes left before the end of the day.
Midnight comes and goes, and they both watch in fascination as Rozanova's dick and balls morph back into a pussy surrounded by her neat pubic hair.
It's a weird moment, and also hot as hell.
Jane's probably a freak, but she can't stop herself from licking at Rozanova's back-again pussy. Just to check that everything's back to normal, right?
Rozanova comes again, moaning loudly and with both hands holding Jane's head in place where it's squished between her thighs. It's hot and so damn sexy that Jane would have no words to describe it if asked.
"Happy birthday," she says when Rozanova comes back to herself enough to let her go.
Rozanova laughs, sprawled out on the bed and more beautiful than any other person Jane's ever seen, and motions for her to come to the head of the bed. Jane obeys and tries not to think that she is the one who got a present out of all of this.