Post-Coital Panic

A/n: Starting off strong here, folks.

TW's: Dubious consent.

PART III.

Is it weird to feel emotionally settled?

Nothing's over, but everything feels...resolved?

If Zakhar does kill me after all is said and done, at least I didn't see it coming. No more of that pesky, pre-death anxiety. If he doesn't, I'll never see him again after this trip concludes. Life resumes. I get to go back to the humdrum, and he can return to his international sexcapades and criminal operations in peace, or as much peace as that lifestyle offers. Balbo's the only one with a shit ending, really. In the meantime--

"You...crazy mother--

fuck!"

My back bows against the railing, until I remember that's the

fucking railing.

I grapple with his upper body, clinging like my life depends on it. Because it

does.

My heart's on a hummingbird's time, fluttering up my throat, and having my cock halfway down Zakhar's throat isn't exactly easing my nerves. The bastard's so damn tall, the top of his head comes over my navel. He's hunching slightly. His hands are spread at the back of my thighs, gripping tightly. I'm not sure how we progressed to this, but I am sure it's a continuation of that earlier mindfuckery. Even if I could rip away from him, I'm too terrified to make any drastic moves. My legs are also beginning to liquefy under whatever black magic he's cast with his mouth.

It's

dark,

and the slosh of waves breaking against the hull is far too near. The railing is frigid where the back of my shirt's ridden up, and it's a jarring contrast to the wet, hot suction encasing the entirety of my cock. I might be hyperventilating. My personal history with sex, I've never been in a position of weakness when having my dick sucked. In fact, giving head is more often a subservient act. I'd be inclined to rattle off some filthy dialogue about how it tastes or feels stretching out the girl's tight, eager throat. While Zakhar's throat does feel like it's exerting the pressure of a cosmic singularity, that's not at all the case right now. I've seldom felt so weak,

helpless.

I'm twitching in muscles I didn't realize I had, knees all but wobbling. I'm clinging onto the broad shelf of Zakhar's shoulders like a fucking kid. Paralyzed by fear, by how

good

it feels. What, is he the goddamn Dick Whisperer?

Fitting my hands between his brow and my groin, I attempt to shove his face backwards. Against all odds, I can feel that knotted ball in my lower stomach tightening. There's the irrational fear of cumming

so hard,

I flip myself backwards over the railing.

Gasping, pitched an octave above a comfortable range, "shit, stop--!"

He won't budge. Instead, he escalates. Because he's a fucking psychopath. One of the hands locked into the back of my leg ascends, slicing between my inner thighs and grazing over the back of my balls. It doesn't take a wunderkind to figure out what he's trying to do. He cuts a gaze through ashen lashes as he drags the flat of his tongue along the underside of my dick, and he's

laughing at me.

I fucking know it. He spreads the excess of moisture along that sensitive bridge of skin, and a jolt shocks up my spine when the pads of thick, calloused fingers dig against my hole. Instead of his shoulders, I grip his fuzzy head between my hands like it's a melon I can crush. They're actively shaking, incapable of doing any real harm.

"Hey, hey, wait--!"

I'm expecting pain, or at least discomfort. But, probably for a few reasons, there's none. It's been less than twenty-four hours since Zakhar pounded my guts loose, and retaining tension is impossible mid-felatio. There's only a vague sensation of fullness. Two fingers split my inner muscle like Moses parting the goddamn sea, and I refuse to describe the noise that comes out of me. Gripping the shoulder of my shirt, I attempt smothering myself in the tight crease of my elbow. He's finally, finally come off my dick, but it's nothing to celebrate. Zakhar pumps me with a loose fist, just cinched enough to stimulate. Given the intensity of what he'd been doing earlier, it's a tortuous tickle. His hands are performing completely separate motions with the practiced efficiency of a musician. Plucking strings, drawing a bow.

Also, he can run his fucking mouth.

"It isn't enough, is it? Your ass is opening so well, like it's expecting more."

The

nerve.

Which, he's--

...he's not

wrong.

One night, and my insides are suddenly made to fucking fit? Did my prostate grow three sizes? Like, the grinch. Not cancer. He's buried to the knuckle, fingers hooked in a way that applies pressure to the nerve in question. Lightning shoots straight into my stomach each time he presses on it.

But, no matter how good, "if you don't get me the

fuck away

from this railing, I'll vomit on you."

Zakhar looks like he might laugh, which is just the slight lift of his brows. Fortunately, he takes the threat seriously. Certain bodily excretions are just more welcome than others, apparently. The loss of his hands is more jarring than I thought it'd be, and there's a gnawing emptiness when his fingers withdraw from my ass. Despite the plaguing of a longtime phobia, he's edged me to the brink of tears. My dick

hurts,

and while I can't bring myself to verbally confirm it, my ass is expecting more. When he stands, I'm again reminded of how easy it'd be for him to fling me over the rail. I vehemently remind myself he'd have done it by now if that was the intention, as he's had more than enough opportunity.

He didn't, and he doesn't. Zakhar puts me in front of himself, away from the railing, and we're moving towards the sliding door. Inside. The interior of his residence. The closer it is, the easier I can breathe. I don't even care that my dick's sprung from the front of my pants, an undignified monument catching on the breeze.

Nor do I care when he, somewhat tauntingly, asks: "Лучше?"

Ripping my shirt off, I fling it in his general direction. I'm sure it only makes its target out of his willingness to play along, as there's no doubt he could easily catch the material instead of letting it flop off his face. It'd be funny if I wasn't hard enough to pound nails. I lose my pants with equal fervor, kicking them away without care for where they land.

Snapping over my shoulder, "just get your dick out."

Surviving this far with him must've gone to my head. He's been accommodating and strangely easygoing save for some moments here and there, and despite knowing what he's capable of and why he's aboard this ship at all, shooting my mouth off is second nature. In my periphery, he seems to shapeshift. His posture straightens with intent, or maybe offense. He suddenly feels larger than the room, reducing me to a tiny, shivering prey animal in the corner. Zakhar does exactly as asked, and one thing leads to another with a dizzying quickness.

Before I know it, my back's to the wall, and I'm on my ass. Everything about our relationship thus far has been sexually charged and decidedly

gay,

so I shouldn't be at all surprised by a cock in my face. Zakhar must've taken pity on me the night before, given it was my first experience, but that ship's long sailed. My shitty, demanding attitude being the wind in its sails. Now, I'm expected to reciprocate. Pull my weight. Suck him off. His hand is heavy on my head, fingers threaded through my hair in preparation to grip and yank if need be.

"Kак просили,"

He starts, and there's not an ounce of patience or kindness in it. It's the Zakhar from the mirror, and fear curdles in the bottom of my stomach. Heat pounds in my face when the satin, salty tip of his dick smears against my lips like a gloss applicator. "Open."

"I--I haven't--ack!"

He doesn't wait for the excuse, and I'm sure he doesn't need to be told I've never done this before. It's

obvious.

His cock glides across my tongue, and I'm forced to stretch my jaw uncomfortably wide. I didn't forget the extent of his endowment, but I haven't had to confront it in this particular way until now. That spongy head knocks against my uvula, and he's not even a

quarter

of the way past my teeth. Zakhar made it look so easy, but I'd like to see him throat someone his own goddamn size.

"I'll put it in words you can understand. Relax your throat, the same way you'd chug a pint. If not, you'll vomit on

yourself."

Condescending

prick.

Glaring through my upper lashes, I attempt to adopt the advice. He's not stopped advancing down my esophagus, and my gag reflex is in full, working order. The deeper he goes, the more unbearable it all is. My eyes burn with kneejerk tears, and there's bodywide tension over the inability to breathe. My hands fly up to brace against his quads, like slabs of stone under a thin layer of mesh, in effort to dislodge the hard, pulsing flesh from my airway. No dice. Zakhar fixes the back of my head against the wall, and his thumb digs into the center of my forehead.

"You've got to earn the next breath, Kit. Пока я не буду удовлетворен."

Fuck, fuck,

fuck.

I'm going to suffocate on a dude's dick! I can't go out like this, and I truly believe he'd let it happen. He won't let me breathe until I take him all the way down. I could...bite him? But, that's a death sentence if there ever was one. He'd repaint this wall with my brain matter.

Softening the tension from my throat as much as possible, Zakhar's sliding through like a greased piglet at the county fair. It feels like he's about to come out my ass, there's

so much dick.

Finally, his groin seals against my face, balls snug to my chin. My head's fucking spinning, like it's inflated with helium. I can feel Zakhar's pulse right next to my own, nestled against my clavicle. Despite my worry that it would never fit, my guts readjusted for him the night before. Now, the narrow tube in my neck is proving to be just as accommodating. I'm crying too much to catch his expression, but I know he's watching. Taking it all in like he's in a parterre box at the fucking Met. While I'm choking to death on his cock.

He releases a soft, pleased breath, very nearly a groan, and massages a circle between my brows with his thumb. "Xороший мальчик."

Good boy.

Maybe this was the plan all along. Method of execution: suffocation via Deep Throat. If he doesn't pull out in the next three seconds, I'm committed to biting his dick off at the base. He won't have an inch to fucking spare. Fortunately for us both, he does. Once it's no longer filling out my throat, I rip my face to the side and take a series of gasping, coughing breaths.

"--asshole! What the fuck--?!"

"Now that you've accomplished it once, it should be easier, no?"

No fucking way--

"Mmph!"

It's a well and proper facefuck, which someone of Zakhar's size should be legally banned from doing to anyone. I should be able to sue for damages. Each time he partially withdraws from throat, it feels like a new bruise is left behind. Key word:

partially.

He's fucking my face with short, hard thrusts, but not once does the flared head of his cock leave my soft palate. Like it's a hole I don't use to

breathe.

He keeps that inhumane pace for twenty to thirty seconds at a time, before pulling out just enough for me to snag a breath or expel some combination of saliva, cum, or gastric fluid in lieu of drowning in it.

By a longshot, it's the most degrading position I've ever been in. I throw a forearm out blindly, but Zakhar catches it by the wrist and pins it to the wall. Meanwhile, his left hand hasn't released that bowling-ball grip on my skull. If I accidentally scrape him with teeth, he applies crushing pressure to my head. My face is a mess of everything I've cried and coughed up, and the viscous moisture is cooling as it rolls my jaw and dribbles onto my upper chest. I should...hate this, probably. I

do

hate it! I do, but--

Zakhar's unrestrained excitement is strangely addictive, maybe because he seems so unflappable otherwise. Even during last night's tryst, though he was enjoying it, he kept himself in check. Polite, slow, and careful. Now, I can feel the muscle in his quads and abdominals flexing, tightening, and jumping. He's squeezing the pure shit out of my wrist and head, a total loss of control over his own strength. Through the blur of reflexive tears, I can see the face he's making, though it feels miles away from my place on the floor. Like looking up a mountainside from the base, searching out the peak. Eyes lidded and sharklike, tongue raking over that pointy canine. He has the smallest, most satisfied smile.

It ignites something in me, like a vindictive sense of competition.

My lower stomach is tight and hot, and despite the brutal use of my face as a fucking fleshlight, my own dick's standing tall and unashamed. Later, I'll fret over a potential inclination towards masochism. If there's anything I can brag on, I'm a fast learner and quick to adapt. Straightening up against the wall, I use the next break to orient myself. Instead of waiting for Zakhar to plunge his dick back down my battered throat, I lean forward and swallow it myself. It's tough to suppress the urge to gag, but doing so would be too close to failure. No, I want it to look

easy.

Like I've throated a thousand guys, and he's the least impressive of them all.

With this sudden initiative, Zakhar releases my wrist from its shackle against the wall. Where he'd been squeezing my head like a melon, he gentles his grip and settles it at my nape. I dig into his hips with enough force to break the skin and descend until my lips touch the neat, pale patch of pubes sprouting from his groin. I swear to Christ, the tip of his cock has to be pointing directly at the inside of my stomach. If he came now, I wouldn't even taste it. My esophagus is uncomfortably stuffed, but I'm no quitter. Recalling what he'd done earlier, I do my best to imitate it. I stick my tongue out as far as it'll go, until it just barely nudges the taut, wrinkled skin of his balls. Only then do I start to come off, flattening my tongue to the underside of his cock as it slides out of my face.

All the while, I hold his eyes. I'm sure I don't look remotely threatening or any kind of sultry, but I can give as good as I fucking get. Zakhar exhales sharply, and it's a delighted, incredulous sound that lands squarely in my gut. Popping off with a lewd noise, I'm feeling bold enough to reach up and flick the tip of it. He doesn't even flinch, but his fingers tighten at the back of my neck.

"Довольны?"

Happy?

"Impressive, truly."

...why does it feel like I lost anyway?

We don't even make it to the bedroom, and there's nothing polite, slow, or careful about it. Knees spread in the cushions of the couch, clinging to the back of it for dear life. Zakhar's doing his damndest to dislocate every vertebrae in my spine. He's choking my waist between his huge hands, and ever so often he'll bend down to kiss, bite, suck, or murmur something filthy and derogative. His cock slices through my body like he's dug out extra space for it, as there's next to no pain. Just that ridiculous fullness, the stretch of a malleable cavity, the drag of hard flesh grinding against my inner muscle, and the repeated suckerpunches to the inside of my stomach. He hasn't touched my dick

once

since we were outside, but the poor bastard's leaking like a busted faucet.

I'm visibly wrecked. Shaking, biting the back of the sofa to stifle many an unmasculine noise. But, where there's room, I've got to preserve my pride:

"Nngh, ha--harder, fuck! What, is it past your bedtime, Старик?"

I don't even know how old Zakhar is, but I'm assuming he's older than me. Therefore, old.

He clamps a hand around the bottom half of my face, ripping me upright. My back smacks against his chest, and he begins fisting my dick in a punishing vice. So tight, it's bordering on painful. Slamming into my ass all the while. Talk about a topflight multitasker.

"It's

amazing

you still have so much to say." He catches the ball of my barbell between his teeth, tugging, and the raw grit in his voice puts my eyes in a tailspin behind their lids.

It's more a criticism than a compliment. He sounds begrudgingly astonished, and that registers as a win in my mind. Unfortunately, while being smothered, there's no opportunity to gloat. I'm also about to bust the biggest load of my life, and I'm not remotely guilty at the thought of ruining this couch. I'm sure the staff's had to deal with much more dire messes than this. Cum-stained furniture is probably par for the course. Zakhar's at his limit too, I can tell. He's not lost rhythm, but there's an urgency behind the crush of his hips.

When said orgasm nearly tears me apart at the cellular level, stars whiting out my vision, I can't help but clench down on his cock like I'm trying to absorb it or rip it clean off of him. My back snaps away from his chest, and my head drops hard against his shoulder. In the damp trap of his hand, a muffled sob. My whole body's twitching, fingers and toes curling. Zakhar isn't moving. He's gone tight around me, a tourniquet around my midsection. If he'd made any noise during his own orgasm, it fell on deaf ears. Shit, wait--

No condom,

fuck.

The worst part of bottoming, I've decided, is how

loose

my ass feels immediately afterwards. Especially when certain bastards blow their load ten inches deep. Loose, slimy, and like I can never actually get it all out. The understandable tension that was plaguing our interactions before is all but gone, as the novelty of 'holy shit, am I gay now?' is worn off. Sex is sex, and I'm man enough to admit I've never felt more satisfied. There's also an unspoken but mutual understanding about his...

misdeeds,

let's say. He knows I know. He hasn't killed me for it, and I'm not inclined to take any preventative action against it. Now, it's like we're your average, everyday pair of fuckbuddies.

Just, a Russian hitman built like a Hilton Hotel and...me. Whatever my accolades are. Midwestern bumpkin playing at a PNW yuppie? Semi-successful personal trainer? Unmotivated adrenaline junkie who never skips legs? We make an odd duo. Unfathomable, really. So, it's still novel, just no longer a crisis. We fuck two more times, with the last round being particularly unforgettable for all the worst reasons. He had my back pinned against the shower cubicle's wall, legs slung over his elbows. Like, my feet were

off the ground.

I got off, yeah, but he's just flagrantly showboating now!

No one's

immune to slipping in the shower.

He was gentlemanly enough to fish the cum out of my ass, at least.

Three

nuts' worth. That, too, was unarguably erotic, but I'm too spent for my dick to respond to that sweet build-up of warmth in my lower belly. By the time we're toweling off, I'm dead on my feet. My throat hurts, and my voice is in tatters. I have to clear it after every third word.

"Got an extra toothbrush?"

I sound like I've gone through two packs a day for eighty consecutive years, and Zakhar can't be fucked to conceal that small, amused smile. Like it's not

his fault.

Wordlessly, he pulls one of the complimentary toothbrushes from the mirror cabinet. He passes it over, and the plastic wrapping splits easily between my fingers. Brushing our teeth side by side, elbow to elbow, was definitely not on my Bingo Card for this trip. But, neither was any of this. No need to gas up a little post-coital domesticity. Cleanliness next to--

Well, there's nothing

Godly

happening here either. I'm also not a big fan of the natural comparison that glares back at me from the mirror. Zakhar's such a big bastard, it's so unfair. I swear, I'm going on a diehard bulk as soon as I get back. It's very much churning through the motions after that, and there's not much going on in my head. I'm sore, sleepy, and gratified. Shuffling back into the living room in search of my clothes, my mind's hazed with an obscure fantasy of falling into bed. I got laid, I'm not dead, and all's right with the world. I might not even need dramamine tonight, that's how good I'm feeling.