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A PWP Evening

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When I am met at my front door by a naked Russian with a hard on, you have to figure it’s going to be an interesting evening.

“I take it that your mission went well, then?” At the feral smile that follows, I glance down to admire the view and that’s when I see the pillow.  “It’s going to be one of those nights, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I like about you, Napoleon. You have an amazing grasp--!”  He broke off as I took his penis in hand and gave it a proprietary squeeze. 

It took me mere seconds to get out of the coat and tie, but it seemed like a life time before I was on my knees before him, rubbing my lips over the wet tip. I kissed it before letting it slip into my mouth.  I wasn’t in a position to deep throat, but what I couldn’t get in my mouth, my hand claimed.

For some reason I could hear my drama professor’s voice, “The lips, the teeth, the tip of the tongue.” Of course, he was referred to the proper way to enunciate.  I had a different purpose in mind.  I used them to elicit moans of delight from my partner. 

My fingers roamed, squeezing and pinching his balls, rolling them. Illya’s hands were on my head, entwined in my hair, urging me on. 

One fingertip found his anus and pressed inside. I remembered to open my eyes and saw his head tipped back in absolute bliss.  Somehow I managed to keep both hands and my mouth busy until I sensed he was very close to the edge.

I pulled my mouth back to his glans, anchored my teeth and sucked while working my finger in and out. It was too much and I was rewarded with a groan and a mouth full of semen.  Not exactly my afterhours drink as a rule, but eminently more rewarding.

It was only then that I realized I’d made a mess of my trousers. The front of my crotch was wet and sticky.

I let Illya’s penis slip from my mouth and smiled up at him. He offered me a hand up and wrapped his arms around me.  There are times I forget just how strong my partner is.  His embrace bordered on suffocating, but I was far too busy dealing with his tongue.  Say what you will, Frenching is his best language.

He released me and walked to a small end table. Picking up a glass he held it out to me.   Scotch, neat, just the way I like it.  From the color of the liquid in his glass, I knew he was either sipping gin or vodka, the latter the more likely of the pair.

“To answer your question, yes, my mission was most successful.”   He had a sated look to him that I knew I was lacking.  True, I’d ejaculated, but not the way I wanted to. 

I took a good swallow of the liquor and began to strip. It felt good to let the entrapments of a civilized life fall away until I was standing, just as naked as he was.

Already my penis was beginning to make a comeback and I held out my hand to him. “Shall we?”

He polished off his drink and nodded, looking suddenly shy. “I thought you’d never ask.”

There were times when life, my life at any rate, was better with a man in it. Don’t misunderstand me, women are lovely creatures.  I adore and worship them, but there was a time and a place.  When I went to bed with someone, I didn’t want a fragile, simpering creature whom I had to apologize to if a bad word popped out.  I didn’t want to have to flatter, weasel and cajole my way between their legs.  Illya understood that and I felt as if he shared my feelings.  To have your equal in bed, that’s when it becomes less of a game and more of a reality. 

With Illya, I didn’t have to worry about hurting him. If I did, he’d deck me or vice versa.  We knew what each other’s limits were and while we would test, we would never violate that trust. 

I pushed him down onto the bed and followed, biting, licking, and savoring each bit of flesh I could find. Thankfully the bed has a good frame because often our lovemaking turns more into wrestling matches with erections.  This was when having a strong and evenly matched lover was a boon.  We’re not violent, but we certainly weren’t gentle and simpering with each other.  I have too much respect for Illya.

Finally, after what felt like a lifetime, I had him in position and my penis was slick and ready for action. I edge just the tip in and Illya hissed.  I stopped there because sex should be something that is mutually enjoyable.  By waiting for him to adjust to my dick and relax, it would make for a much better ride.

And ride him I did. I pounded into him until my world consisted of nothing more than inches of glistening skin and the sound of skin against skin.

The climax, there were no words. My blood pounded, my head throbbed and there was this strange beeping that I couldn’t put my finger on.

Not willing to leave his body yet, I rested upon my blond lumpy mattress.

“You weigh a ton,” Illya bitched and I laughed at that.

“You didn’t think so a minute ago.”

“A minute ago I wasn’t lying on a wet spot with the oven beeper going off.”

“Is that what that sound is? You cooked?”  My penis slipped out of its warm nest and I flopped over onto my back.

“I’m not just a pretty face or a good lay.” Illya got up, albeit a bit slowly, and disappeared in the direction of the bathroom.  A minute later he reappeared, a wet washcloth in hand.  “Here you go.”

I cleaned myself up while watching him pull on some sweat pants and a tee shirt, one of mine, in fact and pad, barefoot, out to the kitchen.

Lassitude made me want to just flop back and doze, but curiosity got the better of me. Illya rarely made food, so I was interested.

I found some clothes, dressed and joined him. The table was set, there was jazz playing on the radio and I could see fresh drinks had been poured.

Illya was pulling a pan of enticingly-fragrant lasagna out of the oven. Only then did I realize how hungry our screwing had made me.   “I’m impressed.”  I placed his drink within reach.

“Don’t be. It was a take and bake.”  Illya never lied to me, not when it mattered.  “I picked it up at that Italian place on 53rd.”

“Now I am really impressed.” There was a salad and bread waiting to be carried to the table as well.  I was just setting it down when I looked over.  On the sideboard was a fondue pot and I could see chocolate inside.  Next to it was a canister of whipped cream and my thoughts took flight.

I nodded to the objects. “Do I get a cherry on top?”

“Only if you are very, very good.” The look Illya gave me went straight to my groin.

“Then you better cut me a big piece. I have a feeling that I’m going to need my strength tonight.”

His laugh told me everything I needed to know, his love, his friendship and his commitment. What more could a man want?