Post-coital Panic

I'd be satisfied cumming just like this, but now I'm curious.

"Hey," I grit, turning my face. "Fuck me."

He laughs, and I'm amazed to feel it tickling in my stomach like his cock's an electric conduit. "Since you asked."

I severely underestimated his strength. Initially, it's tedious. Slow, long strokes for my body to adjust to the drag and push. I catch myself clenching down on him, trying to prevent the movement, and he doesn't even have to say anything. Wherever he's got hands on me, he'll tighten his grip to a point of paint, and I immediately relax. I feel like an unruly dog showing their underbelly after a reprimand. Like he's training me.

Before long, it's coming harder and harder. His preferred rhythm is one that shocks up my spine. I have to brace against it, push back, otherwise I'd break my nose on the headboard. I keep my arms outstretched over my head and spread my palms against the wood, and my shoulders jarr in their sockets on the brutal downstroke.

In-the-moment Kit can admit it feels fucking amazing. Yeah, there's some pain, but nothing bad enough to take away from the holy shit, fuck, right there—!

Because of his size, he's hitting all the right nerves. Every thrust blasts straight through my stomach, into my neglected dick. I can feel it slapping against my belly, smearing precum. I can feel his heavy balls cracking against mine. Stretched around his girth, my hole tingles and burns like it's been treated with menthol. Everything happening in my lower body echoes out, buzzing all the way to my fingertips and toes.

I've only felt this kind of stimulation on drugs.

Gay sex is fucking awesome.

I'm a chatty guy anyway, but it's exponentially worse if I'm feeling really, really good or really, really bad. My voice is crippled. Ragged. Splintering off every inflection.

"God, shit, that's—so good! Hngh! Harder, fuck, fuck, please!"

Zakhar isn't nearly as verbal. Even his gratified noises are dignified, more felt than heard. When he speaks, it's low and almost reverent, the words pressed directly into my skin. It's the way you'd talk to a long-time lover, and I wonder how many strangers he's made to feel like the most important, special thing in his world. He's not excessively rough or overbearing, but there's command in everything he does and says. When I reach for my cock, he cuts that shit off at the knees. Cuffing my wrist in the circle of his hand, and I'm losing it.

"Don't, I'm—!"

So close. If I don't cum in the next twenty seconds, my nuts might explode.

"You shouldn't rush it," He admonishes, though there's a laugh edging in. He's worked us into a spooning position. My back slips against his chest, and while he's lost the leverage to relocate my vertebrae, it's deep. Deeper than anything should ever be, but fuck, if it's not hitting some unholy button in the center of my stomach. Wrenching my face towards his, I glare through actual tears. He's reduced me to tears.

"Rush?! It's been—hah! It's been...fuck, please, come on..."

I have no idea how long it's been. Way, way too long.

"Keep begging me like that, это прекрасно!"

Tonight's a night of many firsts, because my dick does explode. I'm almost confused when it happens. Frightened. It feels wrong to cum untouched, like it's not supposed to...do that. I snap away from his chest, then back again. Sobbing, breathless, as cum shoots from my dick like it's trying to rip it apart on the way out. Zakhar fucks me through it, and it lasts longer than any orgasm should. I've never felt so far removed from my own humanity, an animal pinned in a trap. I'm not so sure if it's 'gay sex', or if it's just Zakhar. Maybe it's his kink to seduce naive, heterosexual dudes like myself and ruin them.

I'm feeling pretty goddamn ruined.

"Wasn't it worth the wait?" His teeth cut into the burning, sensitive patch behind my ear.

"Shut up. Don't talk to me right now."

Over the next two hours, I experience countless moments where I'm sure it's over, and it never is. Unsurprisingly, his stamina's off the charts. I used to think mine was good. I don't shy away from straight cardio. Physically, I was cooked after that first orgasm. Spent. Done. Tuck me the fuck in. When he arranged me for another go, I was convinced nothing could bring my dick back to life. Boy, oh boy, was that incorrect.

For me, everything is memorable. But, there's one moment that I'm sure will haunt me for the rest of my days.

Of course I noticed the full-length mirror opposite the bed, but I didn't pay a lick of attention to it. Until I was forced to. There comes a point where Zakhar is sitting on the edge of the bed, feet to the floor. My back to his chest, again. He's strong enough to support my grown, adult weight in his lap. He's strong enough to hold me by the bottom of my thighs, pick me up, and drop me down on his cock. In front of the mirror.

Exhaustion is overwritten by the most intense embarrassment I've ever dealt with in my life. He's so wide behind me, and it's forcing me to reckon with the fact, yeah, of course it's peanuts for him to toss me around. My...my face, my dick, my entire body contorting for—

It's all right there. Right in front of me.

I won't look. I can't look.

If I see myself like this, I'll—

"Nngh! Shit, wha—?!"

He dropped me from the tip of his cock, hard. All my weight crashes into the seat of his lap, and it feels like being speared clean through. Until now, I'd been using my hair or hands to shield my eyes. They're closed, but just in case they slip open. I can't risk it. Zakhar smooths my limp fringe away from my face, across my head. "Open your eyes."

"No."

"You should see yourself, это выглядит превосходно!"

"Fuck you," I hiss, "—it's not. No! Don't do—!"

The bastard's stroking over my cock fast and hard, and by now, I know what the game is. He won't let me cum until I look. I try to close my legs, but he bends enough to dig an elbow into the side of my knee. He's got the back of my head pinned to his upper chest. I can feel his goddamn pulse behind my belly button, and it's too much. It's all way too much. Sex like this would put any healthy man in the ground. My abs are fluttering painfully, another monstrous orgasm churning behind them. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—you! Mmngh—!"

"I want you to remember."

My eyes fly open, blown with visceral shock. They find his in the mirror, and I...can't tell. I can't tell if he knows. He's been so...gentle? Thoughtful? Thorough? Now, at least for a few seconds, that man is gone. His expression is terrifying. Eyes dark, heavy, hungry. There's no hint of a smile or laughter. Suddenly, he's dangerous.

He's looking at me like he's sick of playing nice.

"Cмотри!"

Look.

What else can I do?

It's so much worse than I imagined. Ragdolled on his cock, I look—completely wrecked. Bruised, red thighs split wide, swollen dick captured in a hand that dwarfs it. Twitching, shaking, everywhere. Cum, drying and fresh. My face is the worst of it, at first: flushed, damp with sweat, so full of shame. Not just shame, but desperation. Desire. I don't recognize him. When this image crops up in my mind, I'll swear up and down it's not me.

I don't know who the fuck that is.

Zakhar takes it a step further, snagging one of my hands and bringing it between my legs. To where my hole is skintight around the base of his cock. In the mirror, I track the descent. Horrified, unable to look away. He puppets my fingers, forcing me to graze against the stretched rim. The slippery rubber of a condom as it disappears inside me, his cock pounding through it. My eyes flicker up, meeting his. He's been watching my face the entire time. Tracking the changes in my expression. Devouring them.

"You should remember what it feels like. You should know how well it suits you." He murmurs, and my heart trips into itself.

Does he...know what that means for me?

If so, he's a fucking sadist, and I shouldn't be surprised by that.

As all things do, our tryst comes to an end. It's a little past three, and I'm close to being conked out under the covers. Zakhar was back to being strangely polite, but neither of us made any mention of our exchange in the mirror. I'm positive, though. That's him. That was the most honest he'd been with me, even if it's something that slipped through the cracks.

I should be grateful he subdued himself for my sake, because this could've been a very, very different experience. He cleaned me up with inordinate gentleness, as if scrubbing too hard would be the thing to have me keeling over in his bed. By that point, I was halfway to sleep and numb below the waist. I might not have reacted to anything less than him hacking my leg off.

When he disappears into the bathroom, that sleepy fog starts to disperse.

When the showerhead kicks on, go-with-the-flow Kit and in-the-moment Kit are dead and buried in side by side plots. I scramble quietly from the bed, panicking. Instead of a pile on the floor, he'd folded my clothes and left them in a neat square on the dresser. Snatching them up, I scuttle from the bedroom with as little noise as possible. It's not a 'walk' of shame, but a 'sprinting the fuck away' of shame, because what the fuck did I just do.

I shove back into my clothes by the front door. There's no time to lace my shoes, so I resign myself to an awkward step until the elevator. No critical thought happens until the elevator, actually. Just unadulterated panic. I'd forgotten how reflective the elevators are, so as soon as the doors close me in, I'm left to flinch back from the disheveled sight of myself.

"You stupid motherfucker."