Mishka

This work contains scenes of non-consensual behavior and violence. If you are triggered by such imagery, please, do not continue.

I’m stranded.

Way to spend time in New York, sitting alone in an old, gigantic house in the middle of the Bronx. The blizzard caught everything off–the metro doesn’t go, the streets are impassable. I can’t count on any company either. I called Mishka, he won’t be coming, no use in such weather.

Not that I would want him to. I never cared much for queers, but Mishka is the worst of them all. Might as well pin a “free entry” note on the back of his trousers. But, when you’ve planned the trip since forever, your flight is booked months in advance and then your housing cancels two weeks before the big day, what can one do? After frantically sending e-mails to all people you think can possibly help you and hearing from each and every one of them “Mishka has a house in NYC!” you buckle up and ask him. He agrees, of course, and you can have the whole place for yourself, but not before spending an hour in his obnoxious, gloating presence, taking the obligatory tour through all the shitty little rooms, with nothing save for mirrors on the walls. Disgusting, vain motherfucker. And then a blizzard comes and you’re fucking stuck.

I’m bored. Not so bored as to shovel the snow away from the driveway–I’m not doing HIM any favors. I got tired of reading. Nothing new on Facebook or email. I had to drink, like, fifteen coffees already since the morning. What shit.

With nothing better to do, I start walking through the house. The place is nearly empty, no furniture except some beds and the accursed mirrors. I open the doors to the staircase. Well, why not take a stroll on the second floor while I’m at it. It’s the same up there, only few cupboards still stand here and there. Mishka will have this house renovated, he told me, that’s why he took everything out. That’s why he’s coming back every day, to still take away the last stuff. Meanwhile he’s renting a condo somewhere, admittedly. I cannot think of how he can afford all this. I mean, this place is dilapidated, but it’s still a house in New York. I doubt there is so much money in sucking cock.

I wander into the corner room furthest north. Again, same story, only one small desk pushed all the way to the wall. A bare nail sticking out of the wall above it catches my attention. My eyes trail down to the desk again. A stack of big pages, spiral bound, is lying on the surface. A calendar, Mishka had to take it off the wall last time he was here. I step closer and take it into my hands. A red, double-headed arrow stretches between the 12th and the 20th. Dates of my arrival and departure. Above it, scribbled with the same red ink, one word: “chipmunk”.

I angrily toss the calendar back on the desk. Who does he think he is, the faggot. In search of retaliation I pull the uppermost drawer open. Some papers, paper clips, nothing interesting. Disappointed, I open the next one. Paper again and some pens thrown loosely in. I notice a box in the corner of the drawer. I pull at it slightly, just to see what it is. “Trojan XXL”. My whole body cringes and I push the drawer closed with the tip of my finger. Disgusting troll.

That’s enough, I turn around sharply to get away from there but then jump in terror when my eyes meet someone else’s sharp gaze. I clutch my chest, trying to placate my heart pounding from shock. Fucking mirrors.

Anger befalls me again and rushes from my head to my fingers. I turn back to the bureau. I’m alone in the room. I’m bored. I’m being mocked behind my back by that fucking pillow-biter. And there are still two drawers left.

I go back and open the third drawer. It’s full of stuff. I sit down on the floor to have a better look and plunge my hand inside. It comes back with a bottle of lube. Revolting, I think to myself, as I squeeze some on my palm. I close my fist on the slick, it comes out from between my fingers. Is that how it feels when you’re squeezing into a guy? Not when you do so to a girl, that much I can tell.

I wipe my hand on my sweats, carelessly, and istanbul travesti look inside the drawer again. More paper. Disappointed, I start shuffling it. There are some business cards and small flyers, I take one out and bring it to my eyes. “Boys4Boys sauna Mishka removes it so expertly that all I feel is a passing flicker of his fingertip on my swollen gland. He holds it up in front of my face with a questioning look, then smears it along my lower lip.

“Some lipstick would do you good. Your lips are so dry and split, it’s really unbecoming.”

Suddenly, Mishka shoves me down by the neck. Unprepared, all I can do is break down the fall with my hands, but before I can even try to get back on my feet again, he grabs the collar of my shirt. I dig my palms into the splintered wood of the floor, but he’s got me as in a harness, the thick seam cutting into my neck, threatening to cut the air off until relent and let him drag me to the bureau.

“Now,” he squats and opens the bottom drawer without loosening his grip, “lets see what got you so interested.”

I coil up in terror because I know what he has in mind. To my dread I am right–he pulls out the monstrous thing, big, thick, browner than his own skin. My despair makes me want to save myself, I open my mouth to speak, but that’s exactly what he was waiting for; the moment my lips part, Mishka thrusts the damn implement inside. I give a muted shriek and try to struggle away, jerking my torso upwards, but the mean fucker seems faster than light–he straddles me and grabs a fistful of my hair.

“Now, now,” his elbow digs painfully into the muscle between my shoulder blades. “Don’t play such a prude. You would’ve gotten to this yourself have I not interrupted you.” He forces my head forward with one hand, while pushing the dildo further still with the other.

Clenched like this, I freeze.

Mishka leans forward and presses the side of his face to my bulged cheek. “What will it be, love? This one or the real thing? The choice is yours.”

I squeeze my eyes shut. My lips are stretched, the taste of rubber inside my mouth, on my tongue pressed flatly to the synthetic gland. I find myself wondering for the first time whether it’s possible to get a tongue-cramp. Not to risk it, I try to move it around, but there is no space, all I can do is to trail the head slightly up.

Mishka wriggles the dildo from left to right and I feel that my cheeks will tear open. “You are so appalled by me that you prefer rubber?”

I shake my head.

“Smart boy,” he pulls the thing out of my mouth. I catch my breath loudly and a trail of spit runs down my chin.

Mishka gets off me, but does not let go of my hair. Instead, he twists it in his hand and drags me up by it, to make me kneel. He unbuckles; I can’t believe what I just did, and what I’m still doing, I’m not gonna take this guys prick into my mouth. It’s already out, and the asshole is hard, gaping and pointing at me with the slit. Reassuringly, it’s smaller than the dildo, but no, still it’s not happening, I cannot think of bringing myself to it on my own volition. Mishka gives my hair a sharp tug.

“You better get started, turtledove.”

And I do. In one moment my mouth engulfs the gland and closes right below its rim.

“The second I feel teeth, we’re back to the plastic.”

What do I do? How do I do that? Like with a girl, lick? But this is no girl that I could burry my face in. I try to flicker my tongue, it goes across the slit. Mishka’s dick is pulsating inside my mouth, expecting more. I desperately think of the lady friends that used to go down on me, how they would move up and down, slowly at first, then jerk their heads violently until they milked the last drop. I’m not a girl, I feel I couldn’t stand the humiliation, so instead I take it in a little deeper, close my eyes and suck. My cheeks hollow in and I feel the spit building up around my tongue, pressed to the underside of the organ. The skin is soft, smooth, apricot like.

“That will never do,” Mishka’s voice reaches me from above. “No wonder you stick with girls, no istanbul travestileri man would ever find this enough.”

I feel his hand under my chin, encircling my neck, pushing up; the other one still firmly locked in my hair. He positions my head in an expert manner and I fear to open my eyes least I may discover what is in stock for me. Therefore I am unprepared when Mishka shoves all his length into me, going deep down my throat.

My eyes spring open as Mishka is easing himself in the depths of my neck. I cannot make a move, I can not breathe, my eyes are starting to tear up. My throat shivers around his dick. Was I ever as hard as he is now? Mishka is fully sheathed, my lips on the very base of his cock, his pubes getting in my nostrils. Again, I can’t stop thinking of the times when the same thing was done to me, girls between my tights going deeper and deeper to please me–but what keeps coming back to me is not what they did do, but rather the one thing none of them have ever done. My chest quivers and I stick out my tongue. It travels down Mishka’s base and reaches the ball; I caress it with the tip.

Mishka’s grip tightens at the sensation and I think I can hear him sigh. He squeezes my throat as he would want to feel his dick through the skin and cartilage, then starts to back out, slowly. I almost look up at him in gratitude, longing to take a breath when he plunges in again with all his might. The shock sends my hands up, I cling to his hips and whimper a half-muted protest. Mishka makes nothing of it and moves steadily, swaying back and forth, throat-fucking me. His dick, like a piston, scrapes me raw on the inside; I dig my fingers into the flesh on Mishka’s sides, tears flow through the slits of my eyes. My uninterrupted whine transforms into a shriek because I feel I’ll suffocate and I’m screaming into his cock, the sound resonating throughout the flesh, my only way of begging for release.

I am granted my wish, although, technically Mishka does not take his organ out–it’s my head, rather, that is being pulled away. I slip off and feel my hair being released. My arms bend under my weight, numb like the rest of my muscles. I gasp and gag, and a trail of spittle, coffee and acid dribbles from my mouth onto the floor.

I suck in my lower lip in and look up. Mishka’s form, blurred through the tears, looms over me. He squats and jerks up my chin. I look him in the face and try to read something in it, but I’m not sure any more who, or what, Mishka really is, or whether it makes any sense to plead with him. I try anyway, my voice raspy and broken.

“Would you do the same for me?” Before I even finish speaking a stinging slap sends my face to the floor.

“For you?” Mishka grabs my hair and pulls me back on all fours. “You stick your hands in the wrong places, God knows where your dick has been.”

Pulling at my hair, he turns me around. I follow the movement, sheepishly, trying to anticipate the jerking of his wrists. Am I afraid for the skin on my scalp, or am I trying to please? I can’t see the desk anymore, but I hear the drawer open, then rustling and a sharp sound, like something snapping. Then my sweats are being rolled down and something cold runs down my cleft and thigh.

“No,” I gasp. “You can’t”

Mishka’s finger traces the ring between my ass cheeks. “Why, pumpkin? Saving yourself for someone special?”

Then he pushes it in. I yelp a small cry, way smaller than it should have been. The intrusion is not painful, surprisingly, not physically at least. It hurts in my head, not down there.

I keep whimpering when another finger slides into me. Mishka growls, I can’t tell if it’s with contentment or hilarity–it sounds like both.

“Since it seems that I will be really plucking the bud you should understand that I’m doing you a favor,” he spreads his fingers and my arms give up under me once again; I fall suspended between the floor and Mishka’s hand still clutching my hair.

“Oh, lazy boy, you expect me to hold you in place the whole time?” He shakes my head and I pull up, trying to stop my eyes from rolling travesti istanbul up to my skull.

Mishka jerks the fingers out. I squirm, but try not to whimper any more. It seems redundant at this point and I feel I have to save my breath for what will follow shortly. My head is a mess, I can’t grasp at the thoughts running through me: why did I open these drawers? Why didn’t I leave the moment he caught me? Why didn’t I kill him the moment he touched me, instead took him into my mouth and let him gag me and now I’m letting him, oh, oh Lord…

“Now, sweetheart, let me share some wisdom with you on this momentous occasion.” I feel his rubber-clad dick on my cleft. “Don’t listen to what they say–this is as special as it’s ever going to get. Flowers and dinner can only make that much difference, really.”

And he pushes.

My jaws spring open to scream because now it really does hurt. The very tip of his dick pushes through; my sphincter contracts, violently, but can’t push it out. The pressure in the muscle sends jolts of sharp pain through my body–up my spine, from there to my brain, from there to my dick. But I can’t utter a sound. My mouth is hanging open and my chest empties, my vocal cords flutter, but the only thing that escapes my lips is spittle dripping through my teeth. I am screaming air.

The tip keeps moving; I feel every millimeter slowly sliding into me, splitting, and it’s as if the very fabric of my being would be torn apart. I compress my mouth, it shivers again, and I brace myself, for I know there is more coming. And it moves, moves, moves, I catch myself wondering when will the space run out, will Mishka’s dick reach the sore point that it left in my throat?

A burning sensation on my skin. We are joined, Mishka’s loins pressing on my backside, film of sweat separating his flesh, hot, firm, and mine–jittery, slushy, but still intact, although it feels like it could fall apart, disintegrate around Mishka’s dick, the only real, tangible thing that seems to exist right now. He moves slightly, rocks his hips from right to left, then settles in with a final push that sends a jolt through the muscles of my limbs. Mishka waits patiently until my arms and legs settle, until I find a reality in which all this makes some remote sense.

“I think we can finally get started.” He drums the fingers of his unoccupied hand on my ass cheek. “Do you think I can let go of your hair now? Or there will be some acting up? You would only hurt yourself, you know.”

My chest heaves. I try to concentrate familiar, normal things: the rough wood under my palms and knees, the feel of fabric of my shirt, the chill on my bare tight, the wetness of the secretions around my mouth, under my armpits, in the crests of my loins. Then comes a sharp thug to my hair, pulling to the side.

“I believe I asked you a question.”

My eyelids drop. No, that’s not true, it’s my whole head that drops. Then it slouches up, tumbles down again–maybe my neck will snap and relieve me? No chance, here it travels up again, in a repetitive notion. I’m nodding.

Mishka releases my hair–this time I really feel like my neck could break under its own weight–and clasps his hand on my hip.

“And thus you train wild beasts.”

He withdraws. I feel every centimeter move out as I felt it pushed in and it’s agonizing. I draw my breath in, trying to fill the void that’s being made in me, but my lungs can’t expand enough and I’m afraid there will be a vacuum created in my entrails, and it will collapse me, it will suck my membranes in and turn me inside out.

“Mishka,” I squeal with the last of breath that I can spare.

“Look now, it can talk after all.”

Again forward, inside, and with it a wave, but not of heat, nor pain, but, this time, sound. It bubbles up somewhere in the pit of my belly, then boils over. It’s not a voice I know, I wouldn’t recognize it as my own. Yet, it’s coming through my windpipes, pushed out by Mishka’s dick, low, broken babbling. “Mi… Mish…Misssshhkkkk…”

He buckles to my hips with the slightest slap. “Well, what is it then?”

“F… Ffff…” my chest palpitates, speaking in this new voice of mine is painful, as if it wouldn’t be meant for forming words. My back arches as if I would have to retch them up and I hide my face in my shoulder, and I shriek through my teeth: “FASTER!”