In early March, the Russian wanted to know why it was taking me so long to see him again. We’d traded fucks one passionate night right before Christmas, but for about two months I’d avoided making a follow-up date.
With typical frankness, I told him why. It’s because you ripped up my hole so badly last time that it’s taken this long to get back into shape.
I will make sexy love to you, he wrote back. I will use tong on your beautiful ass and make love to you with tong until you ready for cock. Then my cock make you feel wonderfull.
Well, it’s hard to resist naive charm like that.
One night a week later, I arrive at his apartment building in the city. Sign in at the front desk and wait for the doorman to call up. Then I take the elevator and walk down the long hallway to the Russian’s apartment, where I knock and wait, while nervously shifting from head to toe.
I’m not going to lie. At this point, I’ve taken more fucks from this guy in three months than I have from all guys in the ten years prior. It’s still not a lot of fucks, though. I don’t consider myself a very confident bottom. If it weren’t for the fact that my hole made him nut three times the last time we got together, I wouldn’t even consider myself a good bottom. (There has to be a basic level of competency there to get him to shoot though, right?)
So yeah, I’m nervous as I stand there, shifting from foot to foot, wondering and worrying at the inevitable fact that I’ll probably get my hole stretched and tortured that night. I’ve done my due diligence, though. I’ve showered and douched and evacuated and douched and repeated the process several times. If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen without anyone being embarrassed. My thorough bottom buddies through the year would’ve been proud.
I don’t have to wait long for the door to open. He’s standing there wearing nothing but a pair of white lounge pants with the drawstrings hanging down his legs. My eyes are drawn down his naked torso—beautifully shaped and generously worked out—to the area framed by those swinging drawstrings. There’s a bulge there too large to overlook.
“Oh, baby,” he says, when I step in. “I have missed you.”
Next thing I know, he’s pushing me up against the door. The Russian isn’t a tall man. He’s maybe five-foot-six and weighs about a hundred and fifty pounds. But he’s shoving my six-foot-three frame against the foyer wall like I’m some sort of rag doll, and shoving his mouth against mine like he’s the biggest top in the world. His fingers wrestle with my shirt buttons. He’s pulling my button-down over my shoulders and down my arms so quickly I’m sure it’s ripped. His hands dance down into my pants, slipping past the waistband and dipping into my underwear. He grabs my cock with one hand. It’s already hard and slick with pre-cum. His other hand pries at the cleft of my ass. Mouth on my mouth. Left hand squeezing my dick. Right fingers rubbing my hole. He’s like an expert puppeteer, and I’m his sexual marionette. With that approach he could get me to do anything.
He fuckin’ knows it, too.
We bounce down the hallway, his back striking one wall when I shove him there, mine hitting the other when he pushes back. I’ve lost most of my clothes by the time we’re in his living area. My shirt is a rumpled pile by the kitchen, my pants an inside-out mess on the carpet. I flip off my socks with an index finger, without removing my mouth from his. By the time he shoves me down onto his Murphy bed, causing the frame to shudder, I’m only wearing my trunks. But he yanks those off as well. The next thing I know, my face is buried among the masses of pillows at the top of the bed. He’s on me like a horny dog, his cock battering my ass cheeks so hard that I’m sure they’re bruised. “I haff missed you, sweet lover,” he murmurs, over and over again. He’s kissing the sweet spot on the back of my neck, blinding me with sensation. I can’t even open my eyes, the waves of pleasure are so overwhelming.
He’s multitasking on my body—thrusting against my cheeks with his cocks, squeezing my nipples like he’s trying to pop grapes, kissing and licking at the nape of my neck, my earlobes, my shoulders. His teeth are nipping at my skin, his breath is tickling my follicles. He’s pushing me down, pressing me into the mattress with every thrust.
Then he pauses. I hear the click of a container. “I haff missed you so much,” he repeats, as his knees spread apart my thighs. I gasp. He’s shoving lube into me. I don’t know which pains me more, the chilly lubricant or the savage insistence of his fingers.
“I’m not really loosened up. . . .” I try to protest, but only the pillows hear.
“I haff wanted you so much,” he says, in his heavy accent. The words slide directly from his lips into my ear, as if he’s pouring them in. “You shouldn’t deny your loffer what he wants. It makes him crazy for you,” he whispers. I feel him nudge against my hole, then feel the motion of his hand as he slicks up his own dick. “I want to be in you,” he grunts, moving in closer. “Please. . . .”
What pushes against my hole is definitely not his ‘tong.’ I wince, and breathe in air so rapidly that my teeth ache from the rush. “Ssshh,” he whispers, stroking my head. “It will be good.”
It’s not good. Not at first. I find myself drawing in my arms and bowing my head as he shoves himself in. The Russian has a massive cock—it’s easily an inch longer than my own, and equally thick. I can tell by the way I’m opening up, ceding to him, that he’s working in the first four inches. And every fraction of it seems is nothing but pure, sheer pain. I’m protesting beneath him, hugging myself tight with my elbows at the bottom of my ribcage and my clenched fists at my shoulders, as if I’m posing for mummification.
“It hurts!” I grunt out. “Christ, you’re so big! You’re so fucking big. It fucking hurts.”
He knows. I’ve made that amply clear. He wants my hole, though, and as a top who’s sweet-talked his way into many a hole that resisted being opened, I couldn’t blame him for trying. “I will stop if you want,” he assures me, pausing in his relentless drive inside. “Do you want?”
I do want. But I don’t want. Because I know. . . . I don’t know what I know, but I know that if I ask him to pull out, I’ll regret it later. So I can’t say yes, but I don’t say no.
He correctly interprets my silence as assent. I huff breath in and out as he continues to push himself inside me. It’s difficult and painful, and there are moments when I can’t conceive of my ass taking any more of him. I hear him whispering words of comfort and encouragement in my ears, but I don’t understand a word of them. I just know there’s a moment when I feel his hips against my ass, and his bush tickling my hole. I understand that he’s in, and that he’s holding very still and waiting for me to catch up to him in pleasure.
And I will catch up to him, very soon. The pause gives me a moment to stop hyperventilating, to relax. It also something inside me to shift. His dick is a key, and once he’s slid to the base, tumblers inside me rearrange themselves. Once he’s flipped that switch inside me, I’m not feeling pain any longer. Only pleasure—and such overwhelming waves of it that at first I don’t even know how to cope with it all. My dick swells, my balls tighten. What was wrong and painful is now right and amazingly good. “Oh god,” I whisper.
He knows what I’m feeling. He feels my back arch from the sensations, feels my head loll back over his shoulder. He takes an experimental stroke to make sure he’s not hurting me any more. I feel his soft kisses on the back of my head, on my neck, my shoulders. But how could I hurt from that cock? It’s beautiful, and he’s beautiful, and even though I was in agony only seconds before, every ache of it has been erased by the sheer pleasure of his erect meat inside me.
When I eat spicy foods—Thai’s my favorite—one of the things I love is how once they overload my palate after the first few bites, I’m suddenly able to taste subtleties I’d otherwise miss; my mouth is so afire and tingling that I notice little sweetnesses and savoriness. My tastebuds feel elevated. Renewed. Reprogrammed.
It’s like that with his dick in me. He’s not only stretching me wide and opening me deep. He’s reprogramming every nerve in every square inch of skin on my body. I’m feeling things I haven’t felt before. Extremes of hot and cold, at the same time. Extremes of pleasure, rippling in waves that I could almost diagram mathematically, they’re so precise. Everywhere he touches me resonates in a way that wouldn’t ordinarily, from an ordinary brush of the fingertips. Discomforts turn into pleasure; pleasure becomes ecstasy. My entire being, at that moment, revolves around the cock that’s sliding in and out of my hole. There’s no way I would ever ask him to stop. There’s no way I should fear what he’s giving me. Not from him.
The entire time he fucks me, he whispers sweet things into my ear. He tells me I’m beautiful. He tells me how good I’m making him feel. He whispers to me in Russian, in English, in syllables that could be either but which float by me as I swim without motion through the exquisite sensations his dick is producing. I’m vaguely aware when he tells me he’s close; he tells me he wants to knock up my sweet cunt. All I can do is nod, and beg him to.
I shoot before he does. He’s reached around to play with my dick as he pounds away at me. Helplessly I yell out when he jacks me to climax. For a few seconds I shoot what feels like a bucket of cum into his sheets; then all the bliss of the fuck, all the pleasure, all the rapture of it suddenly drops away. It’s as if I’ve been coasting with a parachute only to have it cut away from my shoulders. I’m free-falling down as once again my body reprograms itself.
He’s shooting inside me, though. I can feel the jets of warm cum hitting my guts. I feel him shove himself deep within, getting the seed inside. My hole hurts and stings from the blasts of warm fluid against my red, puffy flesh. But with his arms around me, I’m not anxious. We drift together back from from heights we’ve achieved down to the mattress, where we remain curled and intertwined. When he pulls out of me, I fear my over-stretched muscles might gush his seed onto the bed. But he pulls me to him and holds his pelvis against my hole. He doesn’t want me to lose his sperm any more than I do.
By the time he puts me into a taxi, four hours later, I’m carrying three of his loads. When I shower the next day, I’m embarrassed to touch my hole. He’s turned me out. He’s fucked me so hard that I feel like a clinical prolapse case. It’s over a week before my colon has reclaimed its own, and it’s another two months before I can even contemplate bottoming again.
I dont like having to wait three months before I can fuck you again lover, he writes me this week.
But damn. That’s about as much as I can take from the guy.
I think I’m ready for more now, though.