tagGay MaleMurmansk Delights

Murmansk Delights


I was sitting at the bar of the Meridien Hotel in the Russian seaport of Murmansk, one seat away from Lev and with Mariana, a blowsy blonde, sitting on the other side of me, chatting up a businessman from Moscow. I liked sitting next to Mariana at the bar. It got a thought into men's minds, and, if Mariana wasn't who they were looking for but Mariana represented what they were looking for, their eyes could slide off onto me. And maybe stick.

I was in my working clothes. Tight black stretch pants, molded in the buttocks and showing a little basket in the front and a billowy, long-sleeved, black-satin shirt, open almost down to the navel and showing off a simple gold chain suspending a unique gold charm—two male sex symbols intertwined. Not all that tasteful but nothing too subtle. Subtlety didn't get understood much on the Murmansk docks.

I was turned toward the room, elbows in back of me, resting on the bar, legs slightly spread with my butt barely perched on the stool, when he appeared at the door to the bar. He took the full room in a sweeping glance, passed over me, brought his eyes immediately back to me. Then his eyes broke away and continued the sweep of the room and came back to me.

He looked like all I ever wanted. In fact, he was exactly what I wanted. Oleg Isakov, captain of the Kresta-II-class Russian guided missile cruiser stationed at the nearby Severomorsk naval base. I was here because his ship was in port on the first night after a three-month at-sea hush-hush dispersal, and we had been building a nice file on Oleg, a very personal file.

He stood there, solid and sparkly in his navy blue, well-pressed summer uniform, dripping in medals. He'd taken his hat off his head and held it under his arm. His steel-gray hair, lighter gray at the temples, had been trimmed, as had his close-cropped beard and mustache. He looked robust and tanned from months on the bridge. I hoped those had been lonely months.

Our eyes met. He smiled and I smiled back. I turned around toward the bar top and he was at my side, between me and Lev. His hat and gloves and a Meridien Hotel room key on a big brass tag with a room number engraved in large characters on it went down on the bar top.

"May I buy you a drink?" he asked. His voice was smooth, cultured. It sounded a little breathy though. It sounded like he was ready.

"If you wish," I answered coolly, and I looked over to Lev, who nodded that he had seen the room number on the key and who then pushed away from the bar and was gone even while Isakov was mounting his stool, and I began the countdown of how much longer I'd need to keep Isakov in the bar.

Isakov indeed had been lonely those three months, and he tried to make up for all of that time between my legs on the bed of his hotel room.

En route to the room, I whispered to him, "I hope you are forceful. I love it rough. I love being taken like it's the first time and not of my choice."

This aroused him to the point that I didn't think we'd even make it to the room.

Inside the door, he turned on me and embraced me and started to pull at my clothes. I arched back at him, asking in a tense voice what he was doing, and tried, unsuccessfully, to avoid his mouth in searching for mine. He laughed and then kissed me hard again. I bit his lip and he slapped me hard across the mouth, and I took his mouth in mine, sending him aflame.

He had me trapped under him on the bed, naked, his pelvis pressed against mine between my spread thighs, his fists holding my wrists out from my body. He was a big man, barrel chested with a heavy matting of salt-and-pepper hair, and thick waisted, although all of it was muscle, and meaty thighs thicker than my waist. There was no question who controlled, nor did I want there to be.

I writhed under him and moaned and begged him not to do it, as he crouched over me, forcing my thighs wider apart with his monster cock rising out of a thatch of thick salt-and-pepper hair thumping on my lower belly.

He dragged that up my belly and sternum and forced it between my lips and made me give suck as I gagged and grunted a bit more than I really had to.

As he dragged it back down my chest and belly, hard as steel now, I begged him to be gentle, having given up on forestalling what would happen. And then I screamed out and arched my back and tensed my body against him as he thrust inside me hard and long and deep.

I cried out that he was killing me, splitting me apart, and he laughed and thrust again and again, harder, deeper, aroused to new heights by this game we were playing.

Eventually I gave up my seed to him, up his heaving belly, and subsided into whimperings and moans and lay there, docile, as he ejaculated and fell on top of me. When his breathing had become calm, I felt him rising inside me again, and he started to fuck me again. And this time I gave him a ride he wouldn't forget, clawing at his back, taking his nipples between my teeth and meeting the thrusts of his pelvis with counterthrusts of my hips. I wanted his last memory of us together here to be something he savored—if possible something he obsessed over and wanted again.

And when we finished, he showered and then came out of the bathroom in full erection, showing that he did want it again, but he also said he wanted a drink. I told him to dress and go on down to the bar and I'd shower and join him in the bar for a drink and then we'd come back to the room.

He asked me how much he'd have to pay for more sex, and I told him we'd discuss that later.

When I heard the elevator door shut on Isakov, I opened the door to Lev, who went around the room taking down the miniature video cameras in the corner of the room and stutter-shot still camera, all of which had been trained on the bed, and the bugs from the side of the mattress. While he did this, I went back into the bathroom and took my shower. When I was finished dressing, Lev was gone.

I met Lev and my handler at the door before entering the bar. Lev handed over a packet of photographs taken from the still camera. I entered the bar and went over to Isakov, who was sitting on a stool, and suggested that we move to a booth in the back corner. We went to one with a U-shaped bench around the table, and as I pushed Isakov around the bench from one side, my handler was moving in on the other side of him.

"Excuse me, Who—?"

"Allow me to introduce myself, Captain Isakov," my handler said. "My name is Sam Winterberry, and I'm an American. I'm an exporter, and I think you have something I would like to export."

Isakov was speechless, even after Winterberry fanned out the photos of him fucking a young man in his hotel room and assured him that the video and audio versions would make it clearly seem he was raping me. The naval captain didn't do much more than look hangdog and give little irking sounds as Winterberry explained what Isakov could do for the Americans and continue to lead the life he was leading—even lead some of that with me, if he liked.

"How would that be, Captain Isakov? Would you like to go upstairs again with our friend Pietr here—knowing that you will be cooperating with us anyway?"

After a long pause, Isakov gave a shamed and quiet, "Yes."

"Well, not tonight, Captain. But come back next week with a few answers to this set of questions, and we'll see what we shall see."

Winterberry was still going over questions on a sheet of paper with the guided missile cruiser captain when I stood and walked out of the Meridien Hotel. Motioning Lev, who was sitting in the lobby with his cameras, to follow me, I strode toward the Murmansk waterfront.

It was a cool night and I wasn't dressed for walking in it, so I hoofed my way as quickly as I could to the wharfside Alyosha Nights bar, where Russian commercial sailors from the docks of Murmansk mingled with the naval sailors from the nearby Severomorsk naval base to seek out each other and, if lucky, something a little softer and less connected with the monotonous sea. If they wanted to fuck each other, they could just stay in their ships. I had to grit my teeth, though. It was too rawly cold for me to be on the streets only in what I was wearing. This was as warm as Murmansk, sitting high on the Kola Peninsula on the Barents Sea, just below the Arctic circle ,was going to get, despite being Russia's only northern port with an unfrozen exit into the world's sea lanes throughout the year. It was just this sort of accessibility to the sea that had made Severomorsk Russia's leading submarine base. And this, principally was why I was here. But I would only come here in the summer, no matter what Sam Winterberry, head of the Agency's special unit, informally known as the candy store, said.

I knew immediately where I wanted to sit when I entered Alyosha Nights, even though all eyes turned on me when I was at the door and each man in the crowded bar would have been grateful to get the nod.

But near the back of the smoky main room two sailor sat at a table and seemed to be pretty much into their cups. They were talking animatedly to each other and were almost oblivious to my appearance. Almost. I could see that they still were interested in what I had to sell.

I walked back to the area they were in. There were two tables that were possible. One with two hulking longshoremen, who looked mean as rot, but who were salivating at the sight of me, and another with a lone commercial sailor who was good-looking but slender and looked a little hesitant. I sat down with the lone sailor and told him that he could buy me a drink. When he got over the shock that I had singled him out in the bar, he motioned for the barkeep. He obviously had no intention of leaving me alone at the table for any length of time, which showed that he wasn't any dummy.

I sat with my back almost touching the table where the two sailors were sitting, and I almost didn't have to do anything else that night but sit there and listen and remember to get enough intelligence on the Russian submarine fleet to make the night's outing profitable even if we hadn't hooked a naval captain already.

It was eureka time for me. Both were submariners but were from different subs. One was a chief petty officer on an Akula-class hunter/killer sub and the other was a senior sailor on a Yankee-class guided missile sub. Although the specs of these were pretty well known, the Russians had completely redone their use and float patterns for the submarine navy since the cold war period, and even the most mundane daily schedules and routines were of value to us. The two submariners, half drunk—which wasn't a nonfunctional stage by any means for a Russian sailor—were comparing notes on life and maneuvers of their individual subs.

I had almost decided to pack in the night, because the sailor I now was with had worked up the courage to blow in my ear and feel my basket and start making some suggestions, when I felt the hand of one of the sub sailors at the other table start on the small of my back and move to my butt. I turned and gave him the "yes, I really would prefer to be at your table" smile.

In short order the two sailors, Nikolai and Vladimir, had been successful in a standoff against the young, slender sailor, which I could not have counted on if I'd chosen the table with the two bulky longshoremen, and the two submariners were preceding to work on getting me drunk enough to take them both. I pretended a low capacity, but not so low that I hadn't gotten their name and rank and submarine assignment and the next time they planned to be in port—and that they'd be happy to see me then.

As we were dickering on a price and I was making sure they realized I wasn't so anxious that I'd go cheaply, Nikolai asked me if I had a day job.

"Yes, I am a cleaner at the Taybola base," I answered.

This impressed them greatly and Vladimir whistled and said, "That's an ICBM base. You have to have top clearances to get anywhere near that base. You must really have connections."

"Yes I do . . . of course," I said, and I smiled at him.

"And speaking of connecting . . ." Nikolai said with a low growl while he palmed what he very much wanted to be connecting with.

They fucked me doggy style in a dark, backroom of the bar, although I managed to get them over near a window with a street light outside, where I was belly down on the top of an old table as they took me in succession.

Before that, I'd stripped for them while they pulled off their white pullover shirts, and I told them how beautiful they were standing there in their white trousers with fully developed, finely sculpted chests. And I meant it too. They were young and virile, the cream of Russian manliness, and I enjoyed my encounter with them.

I told them to stand in a V where I was kneeling and I fished two fine cocks out of their buttoned-fly trousers and sucked them together until they couldn't take it anymore and bent me over the old table and pumped me.

The cock sucking turned out not to be the only thing they wanted to do together. They wanted to fuck me together at one time, and I could tell that our little sex scene had turned them on toward each other as much as to me. I quoted an impossibly high price, and when it looked like they were working up to accepting that, I demurred and told them not this time—that maybe the next time they both were in port together we could make a party of it and we could include that.

When I left them, with Vladimir sitting with his butt on the edge of the table and his torso arched back, supported on his stiff arms and grunting and groaning with Nikolai crouched between his spread legs and fucking him hard and deep, I met Lev in the shadows of the room and we departed by a back door, with Lev off to deliver the photographs he'd been taking of my encounter with Nikolai and Vladimir to Sam Winterberry and me back to my room to transcribe as much of the information I had picked up from the two sailors that I could remember. And I had a very good memory.

It had been a satisfactory night. One big fish bagged and two small fish—but with very useful information of their own—playing on the hook, ready to be reeled in when and as needed.

Early the next afternoon I was one of several in a crew of cleaners who rolled up in a battered old bus to the first perimeter fence gate to the Taybola intercontinental missile base in a remote area nearly 100 miles south of Murmansk. At each gate, the documents of all of us were scrutinized, and I trust that I was the only one who noticed the cleaner supervisor sweating and glancing in my direction with a worried look each time we rolled up to a gate and were challenged.

At the third gate, I was taken over to the side by the guard leader and I thought the cleaner supervisor was going to go into catatonia. He calmed down, however, when the Russian soldier told me that Lieutenant Titisov had special duties for me that day and that I should follow him. The cleaner supervisor looked at me with slitted eyes, no doubt sure of what special duties a lieutenant would have for me. But he was only half right, and he'd been paid well not to think about it at all.

Once ushered into Titisov's corner office in an old barracks building that should have been torn down after World War II, but wasn't, I walked over to the desk and stood in front of it. Titisov, a fit, square-jawed soldier in his mid thirties, locked the door behind him and just stood there, looking at me.

"Do you have something for me?" I asked.

"Yes, I most certainly do," he said. And then he laughed. "But I'll give you what your handlers wanted from me before I give you what you deserve and get what I want from you."

The information he had to pass was on three sheets of paper, which, when rolled, fit easily into the false handle of the mop I was carrying along with a bucket. Those three sheets of paper replaced two more sheets of new questions from my handlers, which I laid on his desk top.

And then Titisov walked over to his chair, behind a battered wooden desk, slipped the sheets of paper I had put on the desk in a folder and slid the folder under several others. Then he rolled his chair back a bit and stood in front of it and unbuttoned the fly of his brown worsted trousers and fished out his cock. I came around the desk, and he sat down in his chair and spread his legs as I hooked my elbows over his thighs and brought my mouth down on his cock.

While I gave him a blow job that brought him near to climax, I shucked off my clothes and he unbuttoned his tunic and ran his hands across his nipples.

When he was more than ready, I rose and straddled his lap and slowly descended my channel on his cock, making noises of appreciation and surrender to the power of him. He was moaning and groaning too. I didn't descend all of the way but left space for him to pump up into me with hip action, as I buried his face in my chest and then pushed him back and savaged his mouth with mine and moved my sucking and gnashing teeth down onto his nipples until he started to cry out, only to have his mouth taken in mine again as he ejaculated.

There were tears in his eyes when he was done and I looked into his face.

"What is it, Fedor?" I murmured.

"When will it end?" he whispered.

"You want me to stop coming?" I asked.

"No, no. I'd love to see you elsewhere. I'm besotted with you. I mean where does all this duplicity, this disloyalty end?"

"It goes hand in hand, Fedor," I said. "It was sealed when you asked me up to your room in the Meridien Hotel. It was sealed for both of us. If you want me, and if you want your life to remain unexposed, we keep on like this, people like you and me. If it hadn't been you, it would have been someone else. If it hadn't been me, it would have been someone else. We are all pawns. We can only play our part."

"I suppose . . . but you and I."

"Do you feel I hold back when we fuck, Fedor?" I asked. "Do you not feel that this at least, is real and honest?"

It was a line I sometimes had to use when the first blush of lust melted off a relationship such as this.

"Do you not feel it when I kiss you here . . . and here . . . and here. And touch you here."

He was breathing heavily, and I felt him rise again inside me. We fucked more slowly then, more intensely, and at the height of his passion, he rose from the chair, laid my back on his desk, and fucked me like there would be no tomorrow. And who knows, from day to day, whether there will be a tomorrow.

Afterward I told him what else I wanted. "Send me to a barracks today to clean the latrine."

"You don't have to do that. I can send you over to the colonel's office. Maybe you'd want—"

"An enlisted men's barracks is exactly what I want," I cut in. "And one where the men are off shift, in the barracks, with little to do."

I started it in the latrine. The first two guys who came in to take a piss while I was mopping the floor got the universal signals I had been taught. I blew them both and while I was doing the second, the first was out in the barracks telling his bored comrades out there what the deal was. By the time I came out of the latrine, they were lined up by a bunk, money in hand. I leaned over the side of a bunk and rested on elbows on the mattress, the first in line doggy fucking me from behind and the next on the other side of the bunk working up his dick in my mouth. Each time a new dick approached my mouth, money was slapped down on the top of the bunk next to me.

I could tell that some were more into it and more experienced than others. There were two or three shy ones, ones who seemed to be looking for more than a quick poke on a boring day, and I hoped one of these would be my newest recruit.

The soldier stopped me outside the barracks as I was leaving and introduced himself as Aleksei. He was a young guy, no older than I was. In good shape, but the "just from the farm" type. He apologized for what had gone on in the barracks, even though it was clear that I had initiated and controlled it all, and, shyly, he asked if I ever went to any of the bars in the local town where we might maybe meet and share a beer someday.

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