Play On

He cried out an "Oh, shit!" and clutched at the bedspread as Grigor entered him, strongly. And then he was panting and arching his back, putting his pelvis in motion, and gasping a litany of "Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckme!" as Grigor thrust hard and deep and pistoned faster and faster until Andrew ejaculated up his belly and screamed a glorious release.

He lay back on the bed, exhausted, sweating, sighing, as Grigor stood between his thighs, still inside him, smiling, gripping his hips. Grigor slowly pulled out of him, pulled the condom off his cock, and commanded, "Make me come now." Andrew reached down, grabbed the big, hard cock in both hands, and began to stroke it.

"No, suck me off," Grigor said, moving up on the bed, his knees squeezing the sides of Andrew's chest, his torso leaning back, with his hands gripping Andrew's knees. He turned his head toward the TV set while Andrew closed his mouth over the cock and brought Grigor to an ejaculation.

Grigor brought his torso back up and looked down in Andrew's face. "You want me fuck you again, don't you?"

"Yes," Andrew answered. It was a reluctant yes, but it was a yes.

"You're sorry you ever left me, aren't you?"

"Yes," Andrew whispered. Grigor hadn't lost any of his virility in the past five years, any of his vigor, any of his stamina, any of his cock's ability to find and play every nook and cranny of Andrew's channel, deep. In Grigor's case, seventy wasn't old in every respect. Yes, damn it, yes Andrew wanted Grigor to fuck him again.

"Well, not now, I'm afraid. There isn't time now. But I'll be back tonight, after the parties. You'll be here, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you got two key cards to the room, didn't you? You have one for me."

"Yes."

After Grigor had dressed and left the room, Andrew lay there for a few minutes, damning himself for his weakness—and for having already calculated how many hours he would have to endure until the parties were over and he was back in this room, waiting.

He heard the rise in applause on the television set and looked up in time to see that the set was over. Maria had won it 6 to 3. He sat, eyes plastered to the screen until it was all over. Grigor had made it to the tennis venue in time to be in his daughter's players' box to beam down at his daughter, Maria, as she climbed on a chair to receive victory hugs from those in her box.

The camera scanned to the other player's box. Patricia was still preening, probably oblivious to the fact that the match was over. Andrew had been right, though. If he'd been in that box when the camera scanned it, he wouldn't have been able to hide his disappointment.

Nobody knew what he'd had to do to enable Stephanie to get even this far. Nobody, of course, but Grigor Zhukov. And Grigor wouldn't see it as any sort of a sacrifice. Grigor considered himself to be a gift.

Andrew laughed. Who was he kidding? He saw Grigor as a gift too. And he knew there was no reason whatsoever to pretend with Grigor that there ever, really, had been any sort of a deal today that Andrew had consciously expected to be honored.