“When you touch me,” he says, pronouncing the verb as if it rhymed with botch, “you are making the music. Piano, piano, piano, fortissimo.” His lips are against my ears; his hard cock is pressing into my pelvis as if it’s trying to make a new hole for itself. My hands roam over the slope of this back, the hills of his ass, the valley between his thighs. The room echoes with his sighs. “Soft, soft, soft, then—“ He puffs out his cheeks. His big eyes grow wide, as he lets out a big poof of air. “The explosion that makes me rattle to the bone.”
This is the way he talks to me. All the time. The romance of it makes me shiver. He makes me want to do things to him, just so I can have the private pleasure of listening to him recount them back to me afterward with his limited English.
“You really are one of the sweetest men I know,” I tell him. I wonder if, beneath the curve of his hand on my face, he can feel the heat from my blush. He makes me blush. A lot. “Everything you say is poetry.”
“Is because I am Russian,” he says. He draws himself up and props himself on his forearms, so he can look down at me. He’s a handsome man, the Russian. He’s much shorter than I, and narrower. Whenever he greets me at the door of his Hell’s Kitchen apartment, he’s always wearing blue jeans and some kind of oversized shirt that manages to make him look like a twelve-year-old boy. Naked, though, he’s got a firm body and a cock that’s bigger than mine, made even larger in aspect by the contrast of his small frame. There’s nothing boy-like about that dick. “Eastern Europeans, we are the most passion-like of souls. Romantic, like Tolstoy. Dramatic, like Pushkin.” I love the way his lips breathe out Poooooosh-kin, like they were wrapping themselves around something wickedly erotic. “The heart of Chopin. And the lover, like Rasputin.”
I’m carried away by his litany of names. He makes my brain feel like it’s cuddled in bed under blankets, warm and sleepy. It only protests a little bit at the last comparison with a half-hearted wait, what? at the mention of the ugliest, scraggliest Russian monk in all of history. But here’s the thing. His accent is so thick and charming that he could be comparing his love-making skills to Joseph Stalin’s and I wouldn’t be objecting too strenuously. “Wow,” I tell him, as I look into his cookie-brown eyes.
“I loff your face,” he tells me, kissing it. He moves down to my chin. “I loff your beard.” I’m charmed by the way he pronounces love. “I loff your sexy body. I loff your big, big cock.” He’s been fucked twice by that cock this evening already. He knows it well. We’d met for a nooner earlier in the week when he snuck away from work and I took a break between meetings to meet him the first time. Tonight I’ve managed to set aside several hours for the two of us simply to enjoy each other. “I loff your legs.” Gently, but firmly, he rolls me over on the mattress of his king-sized Murphy bed. “And oh, my sweetheart. How I loff your ass.”
I’m basking in all these compliments. If the lights were all the way out instead of merely lowered, he’d surely see me glowing. “It’s flat,” I tell him.
“It is beautiful,” he counters. I feel his hands on my cheeks. The warmth of his breath. A lick on my crack. Then he’s nibbling on my hole—chewing on it, using his lips and mouth and teeth to stretch and rend it. I feel like I’m slipping down the mattress and onto the floor in a wet, hot puddle. “I loff this ass,” he hisses.
“Just do what you want,” I tell him. The words aren’t an empty offer. I know what he wants. Our minds, our desires, our moods are in sync.
“I will make you loff it,” I hear him promise, from between my legs. “I will make you loff me in you.”
“Okay,” I groan. Part of me feels half-asleep, as if I’m dreaming. But when I feel his fingers prodding at me, and when I’m woken slightly by the cold of the lube he spreads on and in my hole, I know this is no drowsy fantasy.
“I will make you want more,” he assures me, as he pulls himself between my thighs.
“Okay,” I breath, clutching onto the sheets.
“I will make loff to you the way you make loff to me.” There’s something so sincere and simple in this last promise that any fear I’m hanging onto falls away; I believe him. I know he’s telling the truth.
“Please,” I beg, smiling to myself. Then I feel the warm, fat head of his dick pushing against my hole.
There’s pressure. No pain. Just intense, indescribable pressure. “Am I hurting?” he asks. I shake my head. There’s more pressure as he presses in. “You feel so good, baby,” he tells me. “I loff this ass. I want to be part of it.”
“It’s yours,” I tell him. “Take it.” There’s something I’m reaching for, down there. It feels like chasing a butterfly, bright and yellow and beckoning, through a field on a sunny spring day. The butterfly’s just out of grasp, but there’s just such joy in the running and chasing and reaching that my heart lifts. Then there’s a blinding rush of sensation. “Are you in?” I breathe. For response, he takes my hand and pulls it down to where we connect. Not only is he in, but he’s all the fucking way in. Not a centimeter of his nine-incher isn’t surrounded by my hole.
“You are so special,” he tells me in my ear. “You are so special to give me this. Bright my day. Bright my every hour, thinking about doing this to you.”
“Oh god,” I say aloud. My whole body is trembling. I grab at his hands.
“Now our body and soul are tight together,” he murmurs in my ear. I believe every word he says, without question. His buzz in my ear sounds like the word of God itself, if God had chosen to talk to me like Boris from the Bullwinkle cartoons. “I loff to feel your trembling body. I can tell by your fingers so tight to mine that you want me inside you. Yes? You look so sexy with me inside you. So sexy.”
I don’t know whether it’s his accent, or his sweet words, or whether it’s the sensations he’s sending through every inch of my flesh, but I want him. I want him inside me. I want him deep. I want him hard. I press my face into the mattress. My hips elevate into the air as if lifted by invisible strings. I’m determined to get it as hard as possible. “Fuck me,” I tell him. “Just fuck me. Fuck the shit out of me.”
“Yes, baby,” he whispers, pleased. All I feel is the intense pleasure of being filled. I don’t know how fast he’s going, or how deep. I don’t care. I just want it. All of it. All of it in me. “Yes. This is what I think of all week.”
As he fucks away, he whispers sweet words of encouragement in my ear. I don’t remember any of them. I just remember the need of the moment—the need to open wider for him. To raise up my hole to meet his thrusts. The need to be held down and opened by this small-framed, big-cocked man. When he releases inside of me, it’s with a grunt and a series of whispers: “Yes baby, yes baby, yes baby,” he purrs. “Yes. Yes.”
“Don’t pull out,” I beg. Although I’ve spent twice inside him, I know I’m rock-hard again. My whole body feels on fire. I’m not ready for it to end.
He holds me. His arms are around me. I feel him rub his chin on his shoulders. Into my ears he pours soft, sexy words of praise and thanks.
Of that, and of him, I could take endless refills.