Chapter 17: Butt’s Preparations
She didn’t let him recover. The moment his breathing evened out, her hands were on his shoulders, turning him, pushing him toward the short hallway that led to his bedroom. He stumbled on still-trembling legs, the taste of her still thick in his mouth, the memory of her weight on his tongue making his own cock ache.
“Move,” she said, her voice a low, amused command from behind him.
He pushed open the door to his bedroom. The room was as minimalist as the rest of the apartment, but softer here. A worn wool blanket from his grandmother was folded at the foot of the simple bed. A small, brass samovar sat on the dresser, a silent piece of home. The playlist from earlier had cycled to something slow and classical, a cello’s mournful note hanging in the air.
Jess gave him a gentle shove between his shoulder blades. He fell forward onto the unmade sheets, the cool cotton a shock against his feverish skin. He made to roll over, but a firm hand between his shoulder blades pressed him down.
“Stay.”
He stilled, his face buried in his own pillow. He heard the soft rustle of fabric, the definitive click of her heels being kicked off. Then the bed dipped behind him.
Her hands were on him again, not gentle, but purposeful. They smoothed over the wings of his shoulder blades, down the knobs of his spine, coming to rest on the swell of his ass. He felt utterly exposed, presented. His erection was trapped beneath him, a throbbing, ignored point of need.
“You have no idea how pretty you are like this,” she mused, her voice contemplative. One thumb traced the line where his thigh met his buttock. He shivered. “All spread out for me. Just mine.”
Her thumbs hooked into his hips and pulled, adjusting his position, widening his stance. The cool air of the room kissed a part of him that had never known such attention. He tensed instinctively.
“Shhh,” she soothed, her hands rubbing slow circles on his flesh. “This is just for you. A reward for being so good for me.”
He heard the subtle, wet sound of her spitting. Then, the warm, shocking pressure of her tongue, flat and broad, licking a firm, slow stripe from the base of his balls all the way up.
His whole body jerked. A broken sound, half-gasp, half-sob, escaped into the pillow.
“That’s it,” she whispered, her breath hot against him. “Just feel it.”
She did it again. And again. Each long, languid stroke was a revelation. It was obscene. It was intimate in a way that made the throat-fucking seem like a handshake. This was a deliberate, focused worship of a part of him he’d never considered could be a site of pleasure. The nervous tension bled away, replaced by a slow, melting warmth that pooled low in his belly.
Her technique changed. The broad strokes became targeted, curious flicks. The tip of her tongue traced tiny, concentric circles around his rim. He was panting now, his fingers clawing at the sheets. His hips pushed back minutely, seeking more.
She chuckled, the vibration against his sensitive skin making him cry out. “Eager already? I haven’t even started.”
Then she pressed the very tip of her tongue against him. She didn’t push in, just applied a steady, insistent pressure until his body yielded, just a fraction, letting her in.
The sensation was electric. A sharp, bright wire of pure feeling shot up his spine. He’d never felt anything so specific. It was a pinpoint of wet, warm intrusion, a claiming of unseen territory.
“Oh, fuck,” he groaned, the English curse feeling clumsy and perfect in his mouth.
“Mmm, you like that?” she asked, her voice muffled. She didn’t wait for an answer. She began to fuck him with her tongue, shallow, rapid thrusts that made his toes curl. The wet sounds were filthy, glorious. He was babbling, a mix of Russian and English pleas he didn’t fully understand.
She pulled back, leaving him empty and clenching. He whined at the loss.
“Look at you,” she said, giving his ass a sharp, stinging smack. The slap echoed the cello’s note. “Your virgin ass is practically begging for it. And you love it. You’re made for it.”
She spit again, directly onto him, the cool droplet a shocking contrast before she spread it with her thumb, rubbing over the furl of muscle with a crude, mesmerizing rhythm. “This sweet, tight little hole is going to make me cum so hard,” she whispered, leaning close, her words a hot promise against his skin. “Over and over. You’ll take me all the way, you’ll milk me dry, and you’ll beg for the taste afterwards. I know you will.”
Her words painted a future that terrified and enthralled him. He could see it—her above him, inside him, his body no longer his own but a vessel for her pleasure.
“But not tonight,” she said, as if reading his racing thoughts. Her thumb pressed in, just the tip, and his back arched off the bed. “No, no. This perfect ass needs preparation. A proper education.” She resumed licking, slow and deep now, savoring him. “We have a few days of this. Of me getting you ready. Of you learning how to open up for me. Doesn’t that sound good?”
All he could do was nod desperately into the pillow, a choked “Yes,” finally escaping.
“Good boy.”
She feasted on him then, with a dedication that stripped him bare. There was no teasing now, only a deep, rhythmic, relentless attention that built a coiling tension in his core unrelated to his ignored cock. It was a pleasure so sharp it bordered on pain, a submission so complete it felt like freedom. The classical music swelled, the samovar on the dresser seemed to glow, and Alexey, the careful, analytical engineer, completely shattered into feeling under the wicked, worshipping tongue of the woman who owned him.
He lost track of time. There was only the sensation, the wet heat, the pressure, her occasional grunts of approval. When she finally pulled away, he was boneless, dripping with her saliva, his mind blank and humming.
When she finally pulled away, he was boneless, dripping with her saliva, his mind blank and humming.
The loss of her mouth was a physical ache. He heard the soft click of a cap, the sound foreign in his familiar room. Then her fingertip, slick and cool with lube, was tracing him again, a slow, maddening circle that made his entire body clench in anticipation.
“So tight,” she murmured, her voice full of warm approval. “You have to let me in, Alexey. Breathe out for me.”
He exhaled a shuddering breath, pushing his face deeper into the pillow that smelled of his own shampoo and, faintly now, of her. Her finger pressed, a steady, insistent pressure against a resistance that had never been breached. It was an intense, burning stretch, a fullness so alien it short-circuited his thoughts.
“Relax, baby,” she whispered, her other hand rubbing slow circles on the small of his back. “You’re doing so good. Just take this. It’s just me.”
Her words unspooled the last thread of tension in his spine. His body yielded, surrendering to that firm, gentle invasion. He felt her knuckle pass the ring of muscle, and then her finger was inside him, fully seated. The sensation stole his breath. It wasn’t pain. It was a profound, shocking occupation.
“There,” she sighed, as if settling into a favorite chair. She didn’t move, just let him feel the presence of her inside this new, secret place. “See? You’re perfect. Made to be filled.”
She began to move then, a slow, exploratory slide. The friction was strange, intimate, overwhelming. He groaned, the sound ragged and desperate. She curled her finger slightly, searching, and her knuckle brushed something deep within him.
Lightning. Pure, white-hot lightning forked up his spine, erupting behind his eyes. A choked, strangled moan tore from his throat, completely involuntary.
“Ah, there you are,” she said, her voice rich with discovery. She pressed that spot again, firm and deliberate.
His hips jerked off the bed. “Боже мой,” he gasped, God, my God, the Russian slipping out unbidden.
She responded by leaning down and biting the firm curve of his buttock, not hard, but a sharp, possessive punctuation. The dual sensation—the bright internal spark and the sharp external claim—unmade him. He shook, a full-body tremor, his cock leaking helplessly onto the sheets beneath him.
She worked her finger over that exquisite, terrifying spot with a ruthless precision, each pass wringing another broken sound from him. “This is yours,” she whispered, her voice hot against the bite mark. “This pleasure. I’m just showing it to you. And soon, this is where I’ll be. Not a finger. Me.”
The image was visceral, terrifying, inevitable. He could see it, feel the ghost of that future stretch. He wanted it with a desperation that hollowed him out.
She pressed deeper, crooking her finger, and his vision whited out at the edges. A pathetic, keening sound was all he could manage. She kept him there, balanced on that knife-edge of too-much, for an eternity, until his sounds were just wet, open-mouthed pants.
She kept him there, balanced on that knife-edge of too-much, for an eternity, until his sounds were just wet, open-mouthed pants. Then she crooked her finger once more, a final, perfect press, and the coiled spring in his pelvis snapped.
It wasn’t an orgasm he recognized. There was no frantic climb, no tension in his balls. It was a deep, internal detonation. A wave of pure, white sensation erupted from that single point of contact inside him and flooded his entire nervous system.
He came hard. Like never before. It was his first prostate orgasm, a helpless, gushing release that had nothing to do with stroking. His cock, trapped beneath him, twitched and spilled a shocking amount of cum onto his sheets. It didn’t shoot; it leaked in continuous, warm pulses, a deep drain of pleasure that seemed to have no end. His body shuddered violently, a series of full-body convulsions that ripped a long, ragged moan from his throat, a sound of utter wreckage.
She held her finger inside him through all of it, a steady anchor as he shook apart. She murmured, “That’s it, let it all go, good boy, just like that,” her voice the only solid thing in the dissolving world.
When the last tremor passed, she slowly withdrew her finger. The emptiness was profound. He was a hollowed-out shell, damp with sweat and his own release, incapable of movement or thought. The cello music had stopped. The only sound was his own wrecked breathing.
He felt the bed shift, then the warm, solid weight of her body settling behind him. She curled around him, her skin soft and hot against his back. Her arm slid around his waist, pulling him snug against her.
Her huge, semi-hard cock lay perfectly in the seam of his ass cheeks, a heavy, familiar warmth. Her D-cup breasts pressed into his shoulder blades, soft and full. She nuzzled into the crook of his neck, her lips brushing his skin.
“You were incredible,” she whispered, her breath tickling his ear. Her hand splayed over his pounding heart. “Absolutely perfect. I felt you just… let go.” She placed a soft, lingering kiss just below his ear. “My good, good boy.”
He couldn’t form words. He could only press back into her embrace, a weak, seeking nuzzle of his head against hers. The tenderness was a different kind of assault, somehow more devastating than what came before.
She held him like that for long minutes, whispering sweet, nonsensical nothings—praises for his taste, for how he sounded, for the way his body opened for her. Each word was a brick, rebuilding him into something new.
He was drifting, floating in a warm sea of spent sensation, when she smiled against his skin. He felt the curve of her lips. Her hand gave his chest a gentle, possessive squeeze.
“We’ll try two fingers tomorrow,” she said, her tone light, conversational, as if planning a coffee run.
A fresh, weak shudder went through him. Anticipation and a deep, satisfying fatigue warred in his veins. He managed a grunt that was meant to be assent.
She chuckled softly, kissing his shoulder. “Sleep now, Alexey. It’s a work day tomorrow.”
And wrapped in the scent of sex and her jasmine perfume, with the weight of her promise and her body anchoring him to the bed, he did.