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The Russian
By Luke

He wasn’t my type at all. I like younger, slim, smooth, submissive. He was about the same age as me; taller, wider, bulkier, had more hair and I’d been told he was Russian. He spoke only a few words of English. But his facial expressions, his use of his eyes, made words redundant.

He watched our group from across the small square as we sat talking and drinking in the sun. He sat alone, sipping his beer and making his desire quite obvious. We’d catch each others’ eyes and he’d smile, look down, sheepish and coy. I held his stare a moment too long, made my thoughts obvious with body language. I wished my straight friends would leave so I could move on and move in.

Eventually they did. I was more fuelled by alcohol then, more willing to accept his silent advances and see what would happen next. He was not my type but I’d not been with anyone for weeks; he would do.

I finished my beer, paid my bill and, when I saw that his glass was empty too, I stood up to leave. He reached into his jeans for change; his crotch did not look big. He dumped his money on the table. I set off, he followed.

A little way up the street, deeper into the quiet, hillside village I slowed my pace, my heart beating only slightly faster. I heard his footsteps in the quiet lane. Everyone was asleep, at siesta in the late hot afternoon. I waited for him to catch me up. He did.

We walked a little further in silence, my mind tossing over the practicalities. I decided that there were no obstacles; I lived alone, the house was tidy, no one was expected to call, everything was fine to bring someone back. We reached the intersection where I turn left to walk up a little further to the house. I stopped and nodded in that direction, he smiled back.

Within two minutes we had entered my cool, quiet house and the door was shut behind us.

‘Drink?’

A shake of the head.

‘Sit down.’

He did. I left him for a moment, went to my room and changed. My lightweight Umbro shorts felt cool against my skin, their roominess allowing everything to hang free. The silky touch of material against my ass swelled my cock slightly.

I returned to the other room. His legs were long and stretched out before him, the front of his jeans now slightly more defined. I stood in front of him, raised an eyebrow, he winked back at me and I knelt. I undid his belt, popped a button, slid down a zip. He raised his wide hips as I pulled his jeans down his legs. Solid and hairy, dark, muscled. His crotch rose before me, white briefs bulging with what he had inside; the outline of his cock, fat and semi hard, the rim of its head showing clearly beneath the cotton. His jeans were at his ankles, he kicked them off.

My hands slid up his legs, fingers gripping the muscle, squeezing as they travelled towards the growing white package waiting there to be unwrapped. My fingertips slid under, moving slowly towards their goal. I watched his eyes, closing slightly as his mouth opened.

I touched the soft, furry flesh of his balls, warm, pliable and his smile broadened. I grasped his thighs in my hands, squeezed, pushed my thumbs between his balls and his legs, up and into the damp, sweaty flesh. He groaned slightly. His cock was now hard and pushing his briefs away from his belly where thick, dark hair covered him. I massaged his thighs all the time pushing his briefs up, restraining his cock and balls, until they were tightly wrapped in the material.

And then I freed my fingers, leaving my thumbs to press hard beneath his balls, and covered his shrouded cock with my hands. I stroked it through his briefs, slowly up and down his length until his moaning increased and his eyes closed. I teased his waste band down, his cockhead slipped free. Sheathed with dark skin it appeared before me, its hood drew back to reveal the wet, pink tip. I uncovered more, until his whole shaft was exposed, laying flat against his thicket of fur. My fingertips played lightly over it, drumming gently on it like I was playing a delicate keyboard.

I pulled his briefs down, over his thighs, to his knees and then to his ankles. He sat before me, his upper body covered with his shirt, his hairy legs exposed. His cock straining up to his belly button and his dark brown ball sack tight beneath it.

He sighed when he felt my tongue lick his balls. His hands, huge and rough, cupped my head and played with my hair. Between his legs he smelled of sweat; musty, sharp and manly. I licked up to the base of his shaft, turned my head and took it sideways between my lips. My tongue jabbed against it, exploring the veins, while my lips dampened the path I took. Up, slowly, feeling every inch with my tongue until I felt the raised ridge of his cockhead, the edge of his foreskin, the sticky sweetness of his leaking cock.

His hands pressed harder on my head, willing me on. I took his shaft in one hand, bent his cock to me, cupped his balls in my other hand and slowly slid him in. My head went down over him until the end of his cock was against the back of my throat. I closed my lips around the shaft and slowly, very slowly, began to move.

As his great, dark shaft slid in and out of my mouth I tickled and squeezed his fury balls, twisting hairs around my fingers, pulling them, pinching his sack. His grunts and groans spurred me on, the more he gasped the harder I sucked him. He mumbled words in Russian that I could not understand. He explored my head and face with his worker’s hands and he pushed his hips towards me to match the slow rhythm of my mouth as it slid slowly, so slowly, up and down his shaft.

His cock grew even fatter in my mouth, his balls became tighter. My lips pressed firmer onto him and my tongue worked harder. His breathing came quicker, his moaning louder. He clawed at my hair more desperately, his hips pushed into me faster.

As I felt his wave of cum start to churn and rush towards me I drew his cock from my mouth, held it firmly with one hand, tightened my grip on his balls with the other. His raw and swollen cockhead rested on my lip, my tongue flicked harder against its underside. He jerked and tried to push back into me.

I resisted. I held his cock before my face, rubbed my thumb just under his cockhead, rubbed harder and faster, watched and waited. Only my thumb now moved on his cock, he twisted in his seat, grabbed at the cushions beside him. The friction of my thumb against his sensitive underside was enough. He cried out. His cock opened up and a hot, creamy splattering of cum hit my face. It burned against my cheek. I continued to rub his cock in the same place. He cried out again, jerked his bulk and shot another stream towards my mouth. I caught this one and let it warm my tongue. I carried on rubbing. He jolted again, my chin was wet. His cum tricked down my face. I rubbed his purple cockhead against my chin as he shot another load against my flesh. More dribbled from him as I slid his cock towards my mouth. I opened up, let his full length slide deep to the back of my throat again, covered his twitching cock with my tongue, licked him clean as his spunk dripped from my face and into his black, bushy pubes. I nuzzled my face into his hot crotch, everything was wet and hot and smelled of sweat and cum, I drank it all in, buried myself in his scent as his cock leaked its last juices into my throat.

When he had finished I slid out and looked up at him. He smiled down at me, my face soaked, my lips swollen and numb. I let his cock fall free, it slapped against his thick thigh and lay there spent, exhausted. He lent down to me, kissed me, stood me up.

I stood before him, my cock pressing out hard against the silky shorts, and I waited for the touch of his rough hands.
End

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