He covered my face with kisses.

I understand that this post may seem like a 180 from the last [two] I’ve posted, but you have to understand that I am a master at juggling balls.

I couldn’t tell you if I am better at it than most or if it’s just simply a part of being an adult, but just because one aspect of my life might be ripping me apart, it doesn’t mean it necessarily bleeds into the rest.

I contain the damage, so to speak, batten down the hatches, seal the leaks and live my life.  Maybe it’s being a mother that’s helped me hone the skill; I’m not allowed to wallow, I have a life to nurture and have to keep my shit together, goddamnit.

In any case, despite the crushing realization on Friday that TN had fed me lies about the man he was and I had gobbled them up like a hungry street urchin, I went on dates and I danced in gay bars and I laughed so hard my sides ached and I got the shit fucked out of me and I fell asleep cradled in a young man’s arms.

This man is a stranger in a strange land, he’s young, he’s an entrepreneur, English is not his second language, it’s his third, and though he speaks in a perfect American accent he says things like, “You make my blood go faster,” which is decidedly not an American thing to say.

I met him on Tinder 10 days ago and he dazzled me with his odd sayings and strange behavior, like sitting on his porch and looking at the stars instead of going out on a Friday night.  He sent me pictures of beautiful ceramics he’d spun and fired himself.

The next night I was unexpectedly child free and I invited him over to hang out.  He arrived tall, disheveled, and dressed like the 25-year-old that he is — he’s way hipper than me.

He stooped to hug me and I felt him giggle into my neck.  “I’m so happy to meet you!” he said and giggled again.

I felt overwhelmed that night by his boisterous enthusiasm.  He sat too close and spoke too long about things a stoned hippie might.

“Are you high?”

“Me?” – long pause – “No…”

“You sure??”

“Oh, yeah.  I’m not high.  I want to be on point to see your beautiful face.”


His own momentum of emotion carried him to my lips and in between excited, smiling kisses I said, “I’m not fucking you tonight.”

He fell away from me and with an easy smile said, “Oh, I know.  I didn’t even bring condoms!” and he patted his apparently empty pockets for emphasis.

We killed a bottle of wine over the next four hours and I was shocked to see it was nearly 3 am when I finally thought to check.  He looked at me sheepishly then and said he should go.

He hugged me again and got me to commit to a dinner date on Monday night.  I’m pretty sure I scratched my head as I locked the door behind him.  I felt like I’d been mauled by an overly affectionate bear cub.

Petya came to the US when he was 17 on a baseball scholarship from Russian.  He came alone and was somehow wise enough to know how to use his natural physical talents to squeeze out athletic scholarship after athletic scholarship and his classes weren’t wasted.  In addition to leaving college debt-free, he also left with a blossoming business.

Eventually he needed a business partner and moved here to be close to him.  He hates the heat and thinks it’s unnatural.  “I’m Russian.  This is ridiculous.”  I actually couldn’t agree with him more.

He owns a house a little south of the city and has a dog named Winter.  He works out every day and eats everything in the house multiple times a day.  “I am a barely domesticated beast,” he texted me.

He was a little late picking me up on Monday night and we went to an awful chain restaurant.  I picked at my steak and hid bitefuls in my black napkin.  When the flirtatious waiter came to take my plate away he pushed me to admit I didn’t like it.  “It’s comp’ed!” he declared and sped off.  A manager came and apologized some more.  I said it really wasn’t a big deal.  Petya watched me closely.

“I liked that you were so polite and courteous.  Let’s go.”  And with that we left the crew to their vacuums at 9:30.

At home on my couch he was more relaxed and less philosophical.  He smelled good and was soon nuzzling my neck.  I was tired and hungry still, but couldn’t resist his inertia, his pure enjoyment of me.  I opened my mouth to him and his beard scraped my face.  He bit my lips and I grabbed his wrist and brought it to my breast.

He groaned against my mouth and squeezed roughly.  I moaned into him, arched my back, and redirected his hand under my shirt.

My breast, big and heavy, spilled out of its cup.  He switched from my lips to my nipple and latched on and it hurt exquisitely, intensely.  I don’t like it when it’s soft; I can’t feel it.  My nipples are utilitarian, meant to withstand the life-or-death sucking of an infant.  FUCKING SUCK ON THEM.

He stopped then and stood up on his knees over me.  “Look at what you’ve done to me.”  My eyes fell upon a lovely bulge inside his fashionable pants; it pointed towards his right hip.

I rubbed it with my palm and looked him squarely in the eyes.  “You wanna go fuck?”

His face cracked wide with a smile.  “Yes, I do.”

We stood and in one move he picked me up and carried me to my dark room.  I clung to him and wondered why all these men keep picking me up.  David, The Soldier, and now Petya.  Are they fucking crazy?!  I am not a small woman, but I’m not complaining.  It’s unbearably hot.

He set me down and I ripped his clothes off and he mine.  He was sure of himself, passionate, beautiful.  With his cock safely wrapped in latex he pushed into me, my knees spread, my breath caught, my heart still.  And then we fucked.

We fucked and moaned and kissed and bit and I clawed at his sweaty flanks.  Our bodies ignited and sweat gleamed off of him from the light in the hallway.  My pussy rained down around him and my orgasms passed through one end of my body to the other.  I died a hundred little glorious deaths as I followed his light into the pools of our coupling, a shimmering mess caused by pure exertion and inhibition.  He was lost to his thrusts and I to his punishing hips.

He came with a quiet roar as I held on to his young body then he stilled and rolled off of me.  I lay there and panted, stunned at what had just happened to me.  One minute I was chillin’ on my couch with a weird Russian kid, the next I was being fucked to death by a weird Russian kid.

He was as out of it as me and when I peeled the condom off of him and took him in my mouth he shuddered.  I sucked and slurped and choked a little on his pretty cock and watched with closed eyes his body climb to its peak and crash down into splintered Russian-y bits.  This was not a quiet roar, it was a proclamation.

When he’d caught his breath he said, “Holy shit, that was as powerful as the first time I ever masturbated; I’ve never had better in my life.”  Whether either of those things were true mattered none.  My lips tingled from his semen and my smile was genuine.

He pulled me into his arms and kissed my temples, my eyes, my nose and lips.  I smiled again because I didn’t mind.  It felt appropriate, this bear cub licking me like this.

“Tell me something in Russian,” I said and then listened to the guttural, rolling, wavy words spill from his mouth.  “What’d you say?”

“I recited a poem to you.  It’s about faith.”

When he left he promised to see me soon, his tone relaxed.  “Don’t worry, that’s what texting is for, to string together the real visits.”

The rest of the week was busy.  Work, parenting, life.  Friday night I had my meltdown that I had so naively believed TN when he’d said, “I’m not that guy.  I don’t do social media, I don’t go out, I don’t do fun stuff.  I prefer to be at home!”  And the very painful realization that I had settled for so very little when all along he was more than willing — and capable — of doing all of those things.  Just not with me.

Saturday I limped through my afternoon and listened to my own voice half a dozen times, went on a ridiculous Tinder date, got stood up by date #2 and ended my evening with my favorite gays in a leather bear bar downtown.

Petya had checked in Friday to say he was looking forward to seeing me on Sunday and that it would be the highlight of his weekend.  No one has ever has said something like that to me in my life.  None of my old boyfriends, not my husband, certainly not TN and as I nursed hangover #2 Sunday morning I realized I was looking forward to seeing him again, too.  It would likely be the highlight of my own long, strange weekend.  Except it, much like the entire weekend itself, wasn’t all smooth sailing.

He was late and my risotto didn’t survive.

His apology was more of a defensive retort and I struggled to separate the baggage of TN always being inexplicably late and this isolated event.  He didn’t even know what risotto was, so when I told him that was for dinner how could he possibly know it was so time sensitive?

But we were eating this goddamned dinner regardless so I accepted the weak apology and set before him a perfectly cooked rare filet with herbed-butter, half a lobster tail left over from Thanksgiving, roasted asparagus, gooey risotto and a glass of red wine.

He smiled at me exuberantly as he cut into his steak and he froze.  “This steak is like butter!”  He quickly cut through and put the piece in his mouth, closed his eyes and said, “One, I’m never cooking for you and two, no wonder you couldn’t eat that awful steak the other day!”  We laughed and ate and all my irritation disappeared as quickly as the food.

I cleared the table and walked over to him and stood between his knees, grabbed his head and pushed his bearded face into my breasts.  It was my way of saying all had been forgiven.  We pretended to watch a movie for about 35 seconds before we raced into the bedroom.

It was a brutal coupling of gnashing teeth and loins, of him begging me to kiss him as he buried himself into me, his declarations of pleasure and of me pulling taught his heavy silver necklace as if to steer his passion.

I came to his urgent voice rooting me on.  “Cum for me, Hy.  Cum for me.  I want to feel your orgasm!”  His words, foreign in a familiar tongue, cradled me as I burned from the inside out and I squirted like a fountain in a museum hallway.  “Yes!” he yelled.  “Yes, yes, yes!”

Slick from nose to toes he had to stop to rest and flopped onto my pillows.  I wasted no time to work on him and suck every drop of semen out of his fine, long body.  He tensed and yelled and arched and lost himself to the deep recesses of my throat.  I hungrily guzzled every drop and flopped next to him, happy.

He scooped me up in his arms, tucked his knees beneath my bottom and hooked my knees over his hips.  He began to kiss my face again.  My ears, my cheekbones, eyes, nose, lips and his words spilled out as quickly as his kisses.  “I am so sorry for being late.  That was so inconsiderate of me!  You had this beautiful dinner planned and I was late and you had done so much!  I’m so, so sorry!”

I laughed, happy he had seen the light to a proper apology, satisfied that he certainly seemed to deserve more of my time.

I hugged him back and kissed his temples and forehead and he pressed his face to my warm, damp skin and kissed my breasts.  We lay like this for a little while until I found his sleeping cock and stroked it gently.  “Do you want to watch me masturbate?” I asked.

He handed me my Hitachi and suckled my breast and played his hands across the swells of my body.  I came quickly and hard.  He scooped me back up into the curve of his body, told me how hot and amazing I was, and then the candlelight faded into his even breathing and we fell asleep.

Minutes passed and we awoke together, surprised.  Almost simultaneously we said, “I never fall asleep with someone.”  And then we promptly fell asleep again.

The second time we awoke he dragged himself out of bed and got dressed.  “I have to get up at 6,” he explained.  “I wish I could stay.”

We hugged and kissed again before I let him slip out into the cold, dark night.  His hoodie pulled up over his head, his bear cub smile just barely visible.

I staggered back to bed and slept on my wet spot.



A 40-something single mother who writes honestly about sex, body image, D/s, relationships, her nervous tics, and how much she loves to fucking fuck. She also likes to show you her tits.

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11 thoughts on “He covered my face with kisses.
      1. Can’t say ?
        But my lover was also an intense, passionate and slightly overbearing person. I think there is something about hot Slavic blood (but not wanting to generalise)…

  1. sounds like great physical release with a young bear! and one who is willing to learn and recognise how fucking lucky he is… the other week my Beast kindly let me fuck a very fit man (as Beast was away and I needed a physical out), it was great, just what I needed and fitman too recognised how lucky he was. mostly your honesty and self awareness is what also drives the passion and the beauty of your writing.

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