Post-coital Panic

Frankly, the lack of dress and informal posture can't take that away from him. Drink in hand, bearlike musculature, vivid murals fluid across his naked skin—I feel like I'm being accused of botching a job. It's impossible not to be intimidated unless you're of the same archetype, which I'm not.

"I've acquired the taste."

"I can't say the same." It's written all over my face, as I don't see much point in grandstanding now. We both know why I'm here.

Changing the subject, he asks without asking: "You seem to have a loose understanding of quite a few languages."

Grinning into the rim of my glass, I say: "What, I look too stupid for it?"

"I think it's more curious that you have an incomplete knowledge of more than one. Isn't it procedure to become fluent before moving on?"

Ah, he's fishing. I won't delude myself into thinking he's genuinely curious about my daily life, but in his perspective, I've similarly broken out of my NPC mold. Maybe he was drawn to me for physical reasons, but my behavior thereafter was noteworthy to him. Hopefully, not in a 'rat planted by the enemy' way. Pushing the envelope, I rattle off my next few sentences in a horrific jumble of Czech, Portuguese, Korean, and Romanian. Simple shit like 'where's the bathroom' and 'which way to the station.' Some insults, for fun.

I'll take any excuse to showboat. I don't expect him to 'oh' and 'ah', and he doesn't. But, his eyes darken with interest. It goes all through me. More than the liquor, it's way too easy to get drunk on this guy's undivided attention.

"What makes you think I'm not just a globetrotter?"

"If that's the case, forgive my presumption." He huffs, leaning back fully in the armchair. His glass is left on the table, empty, and I suddenly feel pressured to finish mine. I hate trying to keep pace, but I also can't stand this feeling of inferiority he creates. Slamming back the last mouthful, it's a literal crusade against my gag reflex. Jesus God, that's bad. Fortunately, it's having the desired effect. My face is hot. My limbs feel light and disconnected from my body, and the warmth in my gut has seeped outwards. What was previously a daunting atmosphere has metamorphosed into a charged one.

So, when the next thing out of his mouth is a command, blood rushes south like there's a '99.99% Off!' sale happening in my dick.

"Иди ко мне!"

Come to me.

Oh, fuck.

Lifting from the couch, I start a slow path around the table. I've never felt anticipation like this before. I never thought I'd get off on being ordered to do anything. It's his voice, his demeanor. I swear to Christ, it's supernatural. Sorcery. Something. It's only when I'm taking up the space between his wide-spread knees does a glimmer of my personality return. Looking down on him, not at him: "Не говори мне, что делать!"

Don't tell me what to do.

If someone's into me, they like it when I speak their language, even badly. He's no different. Leaning forward, those cold hands find the back of my knees. They slide up, up, up, until his fingers are curled into my inner thighs. The flesh gives easily under his grip, and fuck, that's already good, so glad I did this, shit—

Suddenly, I feel his shoulders under my hands, and when the shit did that happen? God, they're like rocks. I squeeze, attempting to find anything soft, attempting to remind myself he's just a man. He leans forward more, until the hem of my shirt is a curtain bunched atop his head. When a hot mouth finds my stomach, I make a sound I'll never recover from. He licks a long, hard stripe across my navel, and I'm shocked to feel myself trembling over it. How many girls have licked me just like that? Just as erotically? It felt nice, yeah, but it didn't have me falling all over myself. I'm fucking putty right now.

Blinking, I'm hit with a thought.

"Hey."

He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes.

"What's your name?"

A smile haunts his face, one that says: 'I thought you'd never ask.'

"Zakhar."

So Russian.

"Zakhar." I try it out, rolling the masculine syllables around my mouth. "You look like a—mmph!"

He stood up so fast, I barely registered it. His mouth crashing against mine, I'm expecting that even less. Being bodily lifted, well—

He never released that double-handed grip on my thighs, instead leveraging it to sweep me up. I wrap around him on instinct, ankles locking at the small of his back, arms wound tightly around a sturdy neck. There's not much of a chance to be indignant, because it's a kiss more ferocious than the only other one we've shared. Have I ever kissed anyone like this? Have I ever robbed someone's soul out of their throat? Participate, Kit, come on! Gripping him by the back of the head, digging my elbows into his shoulders, I press forward with as much force as he's unloading onto me.

I remember that stray thought I had in the bathroom earlier, and when better to test it? Wrestling his tongue back into his own mouth, I flatten the underside of mine to that pointy cuspid. Scraping, dragging backwards with pressure. It doesn't bleed, but it feels like a close thing. If he bit down, it'd be a piercing. His hands are clamps just beneath the swell of my ass, and with fingertips so close to my dick, it's making me crazy. I grind into his stomach, groaning raggedly into the angry kiss. Between sucking bruises on my tongue and catching my lip between his teeth, he's muttering something in Russian.

"Hah—! Holy—nngh!"

How he navigated all the way to the bedroom, I'll never know. I never think to open my eyes in the middle of making-out. My back bounces off the mattress for only a moment, then he's on top of me. My clothes are starting to disappear, and holy shit, it's happening, oh my God, wait—

Smashing a hand against his chest, I gasp a crackled plea, "fuck, wait! I'm—your...pants."

It's the only thing I could think of. I'm stark naked, and my thighs are split wide around Zakhar's hips. Naked, on my back, underneath another man. I can't help the embarrassment that worms through my veins. He should be naked, too. Power...imbalance, or something. Pulling back to sit, he takes in the sight of me like I'm a recently acquired masterpiece hung over his mantle. Now, that does go to my head a bit, I won't lie. My chest heaves for breath, and I'm very, very tempted to cover my dick. Or, my face. Both, preferably. I feel puny under this guy, even though I'm not. He's just...

"That eager?" He chuckles, callouses catching at my waist.

I scowl through the split of my fingers. "Say some shit like that again, you can beat yourself off."

"Fair enough."

Technically, I asked for it. But, as he stands at the side of the bed to discard his sweats, fear curdles in my throat. He's not...inhumanly big, not like my imagination inflated him to be, but his cock's no fucking joke. He's a little thinner than a soda can, enough that I'm pretty sure I could get my hand around it. Eight inches? Nine? It's like a thick, pale tree sprouting from the strong vee of his groin, wound with veins and flushed with blood. I know I'm staring, gaping, but what else am I supposed to do?

My ass is on the line.

As if sensing my growing reticence, he reclaims that earlier position between my legs. I'd closed them, so he curls around my knees and physically shoves them apart. My masculinity dies a slow, miserable death, because I find the manhandling shockingly hot. With no clothes between us, our dry cocks slide together, and the friction has my hips trying to twitch off the bed. "Nngh, it's—there's no fuckin' way," I gasp. "You're too big, there's no fucking way you're fucking me with that thing."

I'm seeing stars through a position change, once again left to grapple with his shoulders. He's put his back against the headboard, sitting upright. Straddling his lap, our dicks are snug between our stomachs. He's looking up at me, and I can't not look back. He's...a handsome guy. Really, really handsome. His scary disposition makes it easy to overlook. Bright, intense eyes. Square jaw, prominent nose, lips wide and full. Like I said, his unadulterated attention is a powerful thing. He's staring into me so deeply, and his lids are heavy with a desire I've never experienced.

It's not of receiving or waiting. It isn't shy or subtle.

He looks like a man who's chosen hunger his whole life, and he's finally found a meal worth filling up on.

Is it objectifying? Sure.

Is it working? Fuck yes.

"You might be inexperienced, but trust that I'm not. If it's unbearable, we'll stop."

"Unbearable? That's...the threshold?"

"Do your best to endure."

"Do your best to make it worth it, Zakhar."

He likes it when I say his name. His pupils blow out, and he gets this predatory expression that's all too natural on his face.

His methodology is to get the toughest labor, at least for me, out of the way. Stretching, which, I hate it. I hate it so, so much. His fingers are so thick, and when the first one breaks through the sacred, virginal muscle of my untouched ass, it feels viscerally wrong. He's generous with the lube, as it's already a slippery mess between my thighs, but it makes no difference in the beginning. It just doesn't fucking feel good, and I'm really starting to doubt I'll get anything out of this going forward. Sensing as much, he murmurs against my jaw:

"Bear with it."

"Fuck you," I hiss into his shoulder. He's using his right hand to pry my insides apart, and his left will occasionally sink pressure into my lower back, forcing me into an arch against his chest. There's the natural urge to bow away from discomfort.

One finger becomes two, and I snap my teeth into him out of retaliation. He's not put off by the pain. In fact, his cock jumps in my loose grip when I get carried away with nails or teeth. He spreads his fingers apart, and it burns. With the added stress on my body, he kicks up a few deflective measures. Stroking his large hand from between my shoulders to the back of my thigh, stopping off in the middle to squeeze tomorrow's purple into my cheek. Nipping kisses at my shoulder, throat, jaw, and mouth. Murmuring foreign praises in my ear. Before long, it's enough. My ass is more accommodating than I gave it credit for, because he's not stopped actively stretching it the entire time.

Things take a very, very dramatic turn with the addition of a third. In my mind, the more, the worse. That isn't the case at all. Now that my body's expecting an intrusion, adjusted to it, another finger barely registers. I just feel...fuller, and it's not unpleasant. My rim is weirdly sensitive, and the wider it's forced to become, there's a unique sensation bubbling in my lower stomach. When he twists a certain way, it's...

...good.

"There you go. Eating it so well." Zakhar sounds strained, coming through clenched teeth. Probably because I'm doing fuck all with his cock, but this is—overwhelming! It just started feeling sort of doable. Dropping my head, feeling the need to contribute, I spit onto where I've got our dicks sandwiched in my hand. I'm desperately trying to ignore the disparity in size there, too. It feels like silk sliding against my cock when I pump them together, and my hips roll of their own mind.

"Ты меня испытываешь—" He breathes, almost irate. I get the gist, I'm pushing it.

"Тогда поторопись, блядь!"

Then, hurry the fuck up!

God, why'd I say that?

"Hngh! What—the fuck, hah—?!"

In one, fluid motion, my hole is gaped further by yet another finger. That's four, if you lost count. He roughly digs them into, what I can only assume is, my prostate. Just like that, I get it. I get what all the buzz is about. It felt like...being electrocuted from within, but in a good way. No, a great way. I drop my hips back into the cup of his hand like I'll be able to make that magic happen again, but it was a deliberate effort on his part. Which begs the motherfucking question:

"Why didn't you do that earlier?!" I rear back to glower at him.

"Momentum." He cuts a wicked smile, and I hate how fucking...hot he is when he actually smiles. Strangling the pure shit out of his dick, I lean in close. It beats excitedly against my palm.

"Don't fuck with me."

"Прости меня, любимый!" He breathes a laugh, snatching my bottom lip in a soft grind. "I'll fuck you properly, though I don't intend to rush."

And Jesus fuck, did he mean that. While I'd emotionally prepared myself for the main event, ready to lose my anal virginity to the real thing, that doesn't happen for another fifteen minutes. Mere preparation turns into a diabolical foreplay. Somehow, I end up halfway on my side, caught in the ironlike trap of Zakhar's body. His chest is plastered to my back, left arm coming between my ribs and the mattress to keep me pinned. He's got his knee between my thighs to keep them from fully closing. Meanwhile, his right hand is shoved halfway to coming out of my mouth. All it would take is the slip of a thumb.

I think I was pissed at first. Straining to break his grip. Lots of swearing. That didn't last long.

Sweating, shaking, crying, begging. I don't even recognize myself, having never been reduced to this state. With hair stuck to my brow, I'm gnashing at the corner of a pillow like an animal, sobbing into the foam. The wet squelch of his palm battering my ass is almost drowned out by hysterics. He'll hit my prostate over and over, but when I tense up to cum, he stops cold. Someone better add this to his rap sheet, because it has to be breaking a law.

It's inhumane.

"Stop, shit! Please, fuck, please, I'm—nngh! God...damnit, you piece of—!"

When that doesn't work, I switch over to Russian, but it's just 'please' on repeat:

"—пожалуйста!"

He won't be deterred. The entire time, that rasping baritone is in my ear. He doesn't exactly talk dirty, and most of it's in Russian. In fact, I've not heard him curse once. It's demeaning in its own way though. When he praises me, it's like I'm some special artifact he's discovered. My body's been wasted on trying to make a woman feel good, since it's so fucking receptive to a man.

Low blow, but damned if it doesn't feel true.

I never get to cum. Not from that, at least. By the time he's done edging me to the brink of insanity, my ass feels loose enough to take twenty dicks at the same time. I know that's the point, but fuck. I'm almost too spent to continue.

"Kit." I flinch at my name, as it sounds like an altogether different syllable in his accent. "Knees up."

He gives a lot of short orders, too. Like one or two words should be more than enough for quick action. I won't lie and say it isn't. Flipping onto my stomach, I use my abs to pull my knees through the thick bedspread. I can't think of a more degrading position than this, but I'm too exhausted to care.

Which is why it shocks the shit out of me when Zakhar swears. It's a blistering curse, like he'd been suppressing it all this time. I jump when his hands spread around my ribs, squeezing down to my hips. My ass splits apart under the pinch of his thumbs, and I smother my face against the mattress. Despite the shame lashing in my chest, I'm curious about his perspective. How do I look to him right now, to earn such a scalding exaltation?

All kinds of men have expressed an interest before now, but I never dedicated much thought to their perception of me or how it'd differ from a woman's. I get a lot of compliments on my ass. It's a great ass, but I owe most of that to genetics. Its shape is maintained on nothing more than regular, heavy squats. Is it my back? My legs? The stretched hole he's about to fuck? What is he seeing that he's so smitten with?

One hand disappears, only to reappear in a lock around my nape. Butterflies explode in my gut when I feel the head of his cock nudging at my hole, because just the head feels a thousand times bigger than a few fingers. In this position, with his hand pressing into my neck, I can't stop him from plowing into me if it's what he decides to do. I'd have to trust that he'll stop, let me up. I'm vulnerable.

"Ты — привилегия."

I stiffen. He knows I'm not fluent, and half the shit he says is nonsense to me. That, however, I understood, and it makes me mourn the fact that I've missed out on so much of what's already been said.

"You're a privilege."

He's held back this entire time to make it worth my while, to make it good for me. I've offered him nothing more than a shitty handjob. He...didn't have to do that. He's been much kinder than I'd expect any man to be, let alone a man who presents as he does. Gentlemanly. That's the word. I've never been referred to as a 'privilege' in any context. But, here's a total stranger, dropping it on my head in the middle of the most spontaneous sex I've ever had.

If that doesn't make me ache to be fucked, nothing will. Turning my face to the side, I breathe it out, just his name: "Zakhar—"

Then, I'm being impaled.

It's the only way to describe it. Fisting the sheets, it takes everything I've got to not drop flat to the bed. To get away. It's painful, but not unbearable. I feel like I owe it to him to get through the initial misery, and I trust him to turn it into something good. Strangely, his cool, firm grip around the back of my neck is a comfort.

"Nngh, just—do it, fuck!"

"Be patient."

I shove my hips back, intending to do it myself. I just want it over with. The sooner it's in, the sooner I'll adjust. He feels the attempt, and to abort it, his fingers cut into the sides of my throat. I audibly choke on the staunch of blood and air, but it releases as soon as it starts. Warning: Don't do that stupid shit again, Kit.

It takes minutes to make a complete connection. So much lube. He'll pause after a few inches, rocking back and forth to loosen up an untouched stretch of muscle. God, I know he's going about this in all the right ways, but I hate him for it. I'm fucking fatigued just trying to stay upright. I can feel spasms jumping across my back, thighs, and abdominals. He's got so much cock, holy shit. The further it goes, there's an uncomfortable pressure building in my stomach. Like something's plugging towards my navel, and it won't stop until it gouges through. I know it won't, but I'm genuinely scared it will.

I almost sob with relief when the top of his thighs meet the back of mine. His groin is flush to the mounds of my ass. While his extremities are cold, his core is a furnace. It's so hot where we're connected. I feel stuffed. Bloated by a foreign object. Pregnant, almost. I'm tempted to reach a hand down and feel for a bulge. Or, beat myself off. Miraculously, my erection survived. He's unclenched from my neck now that the tedious part is over, drawing up behind me. "Is it painful?"

There's sarcasm on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. I know he's not mocking me with the question. "...no. Just...uncomfortable."

He reaches around my hip and finds my cock, swallowing it in a damp fist. I can't explain it, but it feels like the first time it's ever been touched. That hypersensitivity when stimulating yourself for the very first time. My lower body moves on instinct, eager to thrust into something tight and wet. But, in doing so, I end up fucking myself back onto Zakhar's cock. It's—

"Holy—!" My back drops into a deeper arch, because this guy knows what the fuck he's doing. The uncomfortable fullness in my ass becomes a pleasant pressure. The constant compression of my prostate is making my dick do backflips in his hand.