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Ivan sat across from Anna on the couch. He held a worn copy of Lolita in his fingers. The book’s cover was creased, and its pages slightly yellowed, evidence of the many hands it had passed through before reaching theirs. But it was not just any book—it was Vladimir Nabokov’s most infamous work, a novel that had sparked outrage and fascination in equal measure. It was banned from many libraries and reading lists, but regardless of the material, it was still a significant literary work.
Anna’s fingers traced the arm of the chair she sat in absentmindedly as she spoke, her voice contemplative. “It’s disturbing, isn’t it? The way Humbert Humbert manipulates everything, including the reader’s sympathies.”
Ivan leaned back in his chair, his eyes sharp and thoughtful. He watched her finger trace the scratches in the worn leather. “Nabokov was a master of language, that’s for sure,” he replied. “And he made us complicit in the story, forcing us to see through Humbert’s eyes, even as we recoiled and condemned his actions.”
“It draws the reader in, and you can’t help but finish reading it, even with all the depravity. It’s like watching a train wreck. You can’t pull your eyes away from it.” Anna nodded, her mind racing with the complexity of the characters. “The way Humbert rationalizes his obsession with Lolita, his justifications... It’s terrifying and yet so... compelling. You can’t help but be drawn into his twisted world. You can’t help but feel something as you read it.”
Ivan reached for the book, flipping it open to a passage he had underlined. He cleared his throat, his voice taking on a more measured tone as he read:
“A normal man given a group photograph of school girls or Girl Scouts and asked to point out the comeliest one will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, bow, you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs—the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of—tenderness forbid me to tabulate—the little deafly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.”
He paused, letting the words hang in the air, heavy with meaning.
Anna’s breath caught as she absorbed the sheer intensity of the prose. Nabokov’s language was like a siren’s song, beautiful and dangerous, pulling them deeper into the story’s dark heart. “How can something so wrong be written so beautifully?” Anna whispered, almost to herself. Her eyes met Ivan’s, and she saw the same fire reflected there—a shared understanding of the novel’s allure.
“That’s the genius of Nabokov,” Ivan said, his voice low and velvety. “He challenges our morals, our comfort zones, making us question where the line between art and morality truly lies.” He looked further down the pages. “Like this description here:”
“Here are two of King Akhenaten and Queen Nefertiti’s pre-nubile Nile daughters (that royal couple had a litter of six), wearing nothing but many necklaces of bright beads, relaxed on cushions, intact after three thousand years, with their soft brown puppy bodies, cropped hair and long ebony eyes.”
Nabokov’s description of the Nile daughters painted an exquisite picture in her mind. She could see them the way he described them in her mind’s eye. Anna felt a thrill of excitement, a forbidden curiosity sparked by their discussion. “It’s like a dance on the edge of a knife,” she mused. “The danger of succumbing to his prose, of allowing yourself to be excited by it, makes the whole tale... intoxicating.”
Ivan leaned forward, his gaze intense. “Perhaps that’s why we’re so drawn to it,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It awakens something primal, something we often keep buried. It goes against the societal norms because it is a story about a man who is a pedophile written with such beauty, with such passion that we want to be drawn in while knowing it’s not right.”
Anna’s heart raced, and the room suddenly felt much smaller and more intimate. The intellectual stimulation of their conversation had bled into something more personal, more visceral. She could feel the electricity in the air, the unspoken desires that Nabokov’s words had stirred within them. “The way he describes Lolita,” Anna continued, her voice softening, “not just as a girl, but as an idea, a concept of nymphet...”
“She could be any girl coming into puberty. Any girl in that awkward stage between child and teenager.”
Anna bit her lower lip for a moment. “It’s unsettling, yet it speaks to something deeper about the nature of desire, doesn’t it?”
Ivan nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving hers. “It’s not just about the object of that desire, but about what it represents—the forbidden, the unattainable, the dangerous.” He stood up and walked into the kitchen. He picked up the wine bottle and carried it back into the living room. He offered her the first glass, but she held up her hand, stopping him from refilling her glass. He poured the rest of the bottle into his glass, setting the empty on the coffee table next to the candle. He sat back down.
Anna felt a shiver of anticipation. The conversation had taken on a life of its own, moving beyond the pages of the book to something far more personal. “Do you think,” she began hesitantly, “that Nabokov wanted us to see a reflection of our own desires in Humbert’s obsession? To confront the parts of ourselves, we’d rather ignore?”
Ivan smiled, a knowing glint in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice a mere murmur. “Or perhaps, dushenka, he wanted us to understand that desire, no matter how twisted, is a part of what makes us human.“ Anna had no idea how long he had wanted to sit with her and talk about literature and how long he wanted to delve into these topics with her. Just her. They never had the chance to do it during college and in the years they spent teaching others. They sat in silence for a moment, the weight of their words settling over them. Ivan reached out, his hand hovering just above Anna’s. She looked up at him, her breath catching as she saw the intensity in his gaze. He entwined his fingers with hers, leaning forward to brush his lips over her knuckles. “Like I stated earlier when we were reading Pushkin, desire,” he repeated, his voice a caress, “can consume us if we let it.”
Anna’s pulse quickened, the boundary between their discussion and their own emotions dissolving. His lips were soft over her knuckles, his breath warm. “Show me,” she whispered before she lost her nerve. Her heart was racing in her chest. This had gone beyond Ivan, proving to her that Russian literature was sensual and romantic. This was now the culmination of feelings they had danced around for years.
Ivan’s lips brushed against hers, sending a jolt of electricity through her. “Are you sure?” he said softly, “because I don’t want to do anything you don’t want to, dushenka. I am patient. I’ve waited this long to be with you,”
Anna leaned forward, kissing him. She had wanted to do that for a long time, and the brushing of his lips against hers was enough encouragement for her to make the first move. She ended the kiss and leaned back, her breath coming quickly. “I want you,” she whispered, leaning her forehead against his. “I don’t know why I haven’t told you before, but I want you, Ivan.”
Her simple words, “I want you,” were enough to prompt Ivan into action. He kissed her hungrily, wrapping both arms around her waist and standing up. He felt her wrap her legs around his waist, her fingers in his hair as he carried her upstairs to his bedroom. He set her on her feet, his hands finding the edge of the t-shirt she was wearing and pulling it over her head. He pulled his shirt off as well, his hand finding her soft breasts as his mouth returned to hers. She was soft and warm, and she was everything he had been imagining.
Anna had invaded his dreams. Her smile was the last thing that would fade from his mind, like the Cheshire Cat, when he woke up in the middle of the night, sweating, aroused, and needing her touch. He let his mouth drift down her neck, swirling his tongue in the hollow of her collarbone, tasting her flesh as his hands gently kneaded her breasts. He let one thumb flick over her nipple, teasing it into a tight peak before kneeling before her to take it in his mouth. He scraped his teeth over the taught peak, making her moan in pleasure. Her hands held his head against her, her fists pulling his hair without meaning to but heightening his arousal even more.
Ann couldn’t figure out which end was up. The air between them was charged with lightning like a summer storm stalling overhead and breaking over them. Ivan’s hands and mouth were a balm to her fevered skin, and she could only hold on to his shoulders as he moved from one breast to the other, his hand replacing his mouth. She could feel every touch, every squeeze, every spot that he was slowly branding as his own. She gazed down at him, watching him. His eyes met hers, and he released her breast to stand back up and kiss her hungrily.
Ivan took her hand and guided it to the front of his jeans. He held it there. “That’s what you do to me,” he whispered, his voice low and husky. When she rubbed her hand along his length, he moaned in pleasure. He gathered her long hair in his left hand, backing her up against the bed as he kissed her, his free hand sliding between them to palm her through the sweatpants she was wearing. There was nothing wrong with a little innocent teasing to ratchet up the need to come together. Plus, he couldn’t get enough of her sweet mouth.
Anna wasn’t completely innocent when it came to sex. The one time she had it, it was less than spectacular. She couldn’t understand what the fuss was, why her friends enjoyed it so much. Wait until you meet the right guy, Amy had told her. He will set your world on fire, and you will wonder if you will ever stop burning. Ivan had definitely set her on fire. His hand between her legs, rubbing gentle circles along her flesh combined with the roughness of her lace panties and the pants, was driving her insane. Heat pooled at the site of his fingers, and she couldn’t stop the soft shudders that ran through her body.
Ivan could tell she was fighting to keep in control, but the way her hand moved along him spoke volumes. He stopped his slow torment, picking her up at the waist and setting her down on the bed. As he backed away, he peeled off her pants and the lace panties, letting them drop to the floor. He shed his own pants, kissing the inside of her thighs before settling next to her on the bed, one leg draped over hers. He ran his hand up her right leg, coaxing her to part them. He slowly let his fingers go back to teasing her, watching as she arched her back on the bed. He traced slow circles over her pearl, taking his time. He lowered his mouth to the breast that was enticing him, lapping at her hardened nipple.
Anna wasn’t sure how much she could handle. The pressure was building, and Ivan was playing her body expertly as if she were a fine instrument. When the heat of her release was more than she could bear, she cried out. She felt him slide his fingers into her, making her shudder even more as he kept the heat burning inside of her. He found her mouth, and she wrapped her arms around his neck, holding on to him like he was the only thing left floating in an ocean of sensation and need.
Ivan brought her to her peak again and then one more time before settling back on the bed. He coaxed her to straddle him. He eased himself inside her tight sheath and moaned, stilling her hips with his hands for a moment. “Not yet, dushenka,“ he purred, his Russian accent very noticeable with his arousal. “Come here.”
Anna leaned down, kissing him, her tongue dancing with his, his body buried in hers. She could hear the crickets and other night animals singing from the open bedroom windows, the perfect soundtrack to their lovemaking. She couldn’t stay still any longer, and she slowly sat up, rocking her hips over his length.
