Making Loff

The Russian’s skin is warm against mine. Soft. When he pushes against my chest to lower me to his blanket, he does it with such care, such delicacy, it’s as if he’s nestling rare and fragile glass into protective wrapping. Once I’m fully reclined, he leans down and unbuttons my jeans. Then he tugs down my zipper.

There’s deliberation in every move. It’s as if he’s already planned out the swiftest and most efficient way to undress me. He pulls off the denim pants by the legs, shucks each sock with a crooked finger. Shirt buttons slide from their holes as if sliced with a blade. Removes my shorts with enough vigor to make my erection fall onto my belly with a sharp slap.

I’m naked, but he’s still completely clothed. “It has been so, so long,” he murmurs, as he unbuttons and removes the pressed cotton of his work shirt. He unbuckles his belt, lets it slither through the loops. The cool leather drapes across my ankles. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband. Tugs. Slides the pants down, while I watch. He’s wearing white briefs. Everything in his apartment is white, I think to myself as he strokes his massive cock through the fabric. His shirt. The fuzzy rugs. The sheets. The bath mat by his tub, the thick Turkish bath towels, the dish cloth lying folded on the white granite kitchen countertop. All of it, crisp and bright and white.

Then slowly, emphatically, he pulls down his briefs and unleashes the monster. That wild thing might be breathing now, but I’m not. My lungs don’t seem to be working. All I can do is stare at those nine thick inches, and gape. “I want to make loff to you, sweet man,” he says in his thick Slavic accent. “I will make loff to you all night long.”

“Oh, god,” I force out. Finally I start breathing again. “I’d forgotten how big you are.”

“You will loff it,” he promises. He reaches down, squeezes the hardness between his fingers, waves it lewdly in my direction. “I want to make loff to you.”

I confess, I’m slightly frightened at the size. He’s been inside me before. But the last time, well over a year before, has scared me off attempting him again. I left his place with my hole so turned out that it took over a week to get back to normal. I’d limped back to Grand Central with visions of a prolapsed colon dragging along the sidewalk behind me. Before agreeing to this meeting, I’d reminded him of that night and had extracted from him multiple promises of being treated gently and sweetly. So far, he seems to be remembering them.

“Yes.” It’s a simple syllable that melts on my tongue like a pillow mint. “I want that.”

He lowers himself to me. His knees push against the inside of my thighs. Hardness meets hardness as our hips press together. He’s already dripping. I can feel the precum making my skin wet and slippery as he grinds into me. Our lips meet again. Our tongues tangle. His nostrils flare as his breath warms my cheek, my ear, my neck. The sensation of his lips across my shoulders and my neck causes me to close my eyes, to respond to his touch by arching my back, by pushing myself into and against him.

Without a word he grabs one of the white pillows from the head of the bed and helps me pivot my hips upward. The pillow slides beneath without effort. My legs are still in the air when he pushes up at the base of my spine and raises my hole to his mouth. “Fuck,” I growl.

“I want you to enjoy me,” he says, the buzz of his words tickling my balls. “I want you to keep coming back for me, sweet loffer.”

He’s licking my hole with such fervor that I can’t reply. My brain has short circuited; wayward electricity shoots along my spine, making my limbs twitch and jerk. I can almost smell the acrid sharpness of fried wires. “Christ,” I swear.

He lowers my legs again and pulls himself between them. I feel his cock probing at my spit-slick hole. “Let me make loff to you.” Half of me wants to protest. I shake my head, but I’m not telling him no. I’m trying to let him know I really have no choice. “I know you haff been hurt before,” he says, stroking my chest. He pets me as he might a frightened animal, soothing and calming me with his touch. “I will not hurt you. We will merge our waters together as one. Yes?” He reaches for the little tub of lube by his bed, and begins massaging it into me.

When the Russian speaks, it’s in a soft and lilting tone that’s almost lyrical. I feel as if he’s sometimes quoting and translating some piece of his native poetry that I’m not recognizing. Perhaps it just sounds particularly beautiful in the darkness, with his rigid cock teasing my hole. “Yes,” I tell him. “Yes, please. But—“

Too late. Whatever protests I might have had I swallow as he begins pressing his massive tool into me. Though he’s nearly a foot shorter than I, the Russian outclasses me in the meat department. He’s easily nine inches or even more, and of such thickness that I can barely get my mouth around it. I’ve got a big dick, and he’s got equipment that makes me want to cover mine in shame. His is not a beginner’s cock, and here I am, who almost never gets fucked, coping with the damned thing.

At first I’m trying to control the situation. I’m holding my hand against his stomach, I’m trying to withdraw my hips from his to keep him from going too deep, too quickly. I’m clutching at his wrists, attempting to wrest out words from my dry and uncooperative mouth to tell him to slow down, to stop for a minute. He just looks at me with those dark, puppy dog eyes. Though his cock presses relentlessly in, he reaches up and cups my face. He says my name. He smiles.

And then. Oh god, and then. The fifteen seconds of panic and pain vanish with the soft spray of a popped soap bubble. He slides all the way into me, and something just clicks. It feels good. It feels right. I want it all, and I want it now. I hear myself making a deep, guttural sound from deep in my core. “Ungggh,” it comes out.

My jaw clenches. My hands, resting on his abdomen, had been trying to stop him from advancing. Now they grab at him. They find his hipbones. Pull him in. I need him deeper. I need him as deep as he can get.

Then I want him deeper than that.

He notices the change in me almost immediately. His eyes light up. The corner of his full lips quirks upward. It’s half-smirk, half-smile. “Yes,” he says. “You loff it.”

“I fucking love it,” I tell him. My legs are wrapped around him now, refusing to let him pull out. “I love it. I need it.”

The Russian treats me like I’m the little one and he’s the hulk. He presses my hips down into the pillow, pushes my legs back, maneuvers himself so that he’s rolling me forward and backward, ever so slightly. He’s staying in place, but the rocking motion slides his meat in and out of my greasy hole. The sensation is thrilling me. It’s sending shivers out from the epicenter of cock in hole that end with every nerve rumbling in a body quake that never seems to end.

“Fuck it,” I bark at him. I’m surprised at how feral my voice sounds. “Fuck it. Breed it.”

The words cause him to shove it in me, to start moving his hips. “I will giff you every drop of myself, sweet man,” he promises.

“Breed the hole,” I order him. Apparently I’m a bossy bottom. “Make it wet.”

He adjusts his angle so that I’m pinned down to the bed, my knees banging against my ears. He’s on top of me, driving down. My hole is wide open now. I’m taking him so easily. How could I ever have fretted about this? It’s what I need. “You are so very sexy,” he tells me. “I want to sperm inside.”

“Yeah,” I growl. “Sperm inside.” My hole is actually clutching at him, tightening when he hits bottom and refusing to let him pull out. “Get it all in there. All that fucking sperm.”

“I will make my babies inside you,” he pants, fucking harder. “I will knock you up with my loff.”

His dirty talk is quainter than mine. “Fuck the hole, fucker,” I demand. “Pump it full of your god-damned seed.”

Back and forth we go, exchanging increasingly filthy dirty talk—his offbeat, mine filled with Anglo-Saxonisms. My back is going to ache tomorrow. My back, shit. My hole is going to be sore for a month. But I don’t care. That thick monster of his has hit some trigger deep in my guts and all I can think about in my fuck frenzy is how deep I can get him in me, how big his load will be . . . and then how soon it’ll be before he does it again.

His eyes are heavy-lidded when he groans to himself and unloads in me. My legs extend over my head and grapple against his headboard. My back arches as my hips try to force his tool that last quarter-inch inside. “Do it,” I order him. “Breed it. Breed it good.”

He’s a fish on a boat’s deck, thrashing, gasping for air, as he empties into me. My jaw is still clenched. My teeth are still grinding as I try to extract every last drop. I’m behaving like the horniest, greediest bottoms I’ve ever fucked, and there’s no shame. I worked for that load. I deserve that load. He’s going to fucking give it to me.

It’s a long time before he opens his eyes. He says something in Russian. It sounds like swearing. I decide it’s a compliment. When he slides out, I can almost hear my ass close with a wet plop. I almost think he’s going to roll over and fall asleep for a moment, but instead he lowers me down to the pillow, withdraws a few inches, and relaxes to his knees. “You are still hard,” he says, laughing.

I am. I hadn’t thought about my dick since he entered me, but I can see it’s red and swollen and distended. There’s precum all over my chest. My dick’s been slobbering all over it the entire time.

He smiles, and rearranges himself on the mattress so that he’s lying down. “Fuck me, loffer,” he whispers.

I roll myself down, sit up, and reposition myself between his legs. Already I can feel his spunk dripping out of my hole. It’s a big load. It’s going to mess up those pristine white sheets.

But I don’t give a fuck. I reach for the lube and shove two fingers in his tight little hole.

I might not be as big as he, but I’m surely going to fuck him like I am.

Fucked

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.

Flip

“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.