Listening to a New Friend Jerk off
My Russian Friend Val
I hadn’t expected much from the departmental picnic. The whole thing had sounded like a polite trap—lots of wine, volleyball, forced jokes about “team spirit.” I went mostly to avoid looking like I thought I was above it. By noon, the sun was too bright, the sea wind carried barbecue smoke, and I was calculating how long I had to stay before I could vanish. Then I noticed Val.
He wasn’t loud about it. In fact, at first I thought he was one of the staff, not faculty, like a building custodian or electrician. Mid-forties maybe, long hair tied loosely behind his neck, a silver strand catching the light when he turned his head. He had that quiet sort of face—open, a bit shy, as if every gesture was thoroughly thought through before it left him. His shirt sleeves were rolled up, and he kept tucking his hair back while helping the cooks lay out skewers of meat. When someone joked about how men never know how to start a fire, he smiled faintly and crouched down to do it properly. No show, just skill. The flame obeyed him.
By the time the first kebabs were ready, Val was already everyone’s favorite. He carried trays to the tables, fixed a jammed speaker, found a missing phone in the sand, and somehow made it all look easy. The new TAs followed him around like ducklings. Even the strict department head laughed at his dry comments, though I noticed Val never said anything cruel or self-important—just small, observant things that landed well.
He organized a volleyball match later, not by barking orders but by simply starting to play. He dove once, came up grinning, and tossed the ball toward a nervous junior teacher who hadn’t said a word all day. Within minutes a large group was involved, shouting, laughing, the tension gone. When the ball rolled toward a group of kids—the children of our colleagues—he played with them too, inventing a mini version of the game just for them. They clung to his legs afterward, making him laugh and fall and give up to their hugs, exasperated, but he didn’t mind.
I sat apart most of the time, watching. There was something about the way he existed—without effort, without hunger for attention—and that felt rare. You could tell he lived with music: his movements had a rhythm, and his silences were tuned.
At sunset, someone brought him a guitar. He resisted at first, said he wasn’t warmed up, then gave in with a small shrug. He sat near the fire, knees drawn up, and started playing. The sound came like it had been waiting all day to appear. His voice wasn’t loud—more like smoke than sound—but it carried. He sang old love songs, half-forgotten ballads that people’s parents might’ve danced to. The lyrics were tender in the plainest way possible, and that made them hit harder. A few of the women cried quietly. The men stared into the flames, thinking of someone they’d lost or hadn’t found yet.
When he finished, the crowd clapped awkwardly at first, then with real feeling. He thanked them softly and put the guitar aside. Later, on the bus back to town, a drunk colleague—Marina from the dean’s office—slumped against him, laughing too loudly, trying to nudge him into something that wasn’t going to happen. He didn’t snap or move away harshly. He just steadied her, spoke low, and every time she leaned closer, he gently drew a little distance between them until she fell asleep against the window instead.
I kept watching him even then. The passing lights from the highway flashed across his face, and he looked so calm it made my chest ache.
When we arrived at the university building downtown, everyone scattered into taxis. Val lingered near the bus stop with a small duffel bag, saying he’d just wait for morning since his flight was early. This was when I found out he was a guest of one of the staff members who left him behind when he refused going to her place for the night. He showed her his wedding ring and declined, as if telling her he knew where it was going.
I offered my couch before I even thought about it. He smiled, surprised, and said thanks like it truly meant something.
At home, in my rented studio, I made tea. The night smelled faintly of smoke and sea salt. We sat by the window in silence, too tired for small talk. After a while I said, “I just wanted to tell you—I respect how you handled today. All of it.”
He looked at me then, his eyes soft but unreadable. “Nothing special,” he said. “Just… people being people.”
I didn’t answer. I just sat there, listening to the quiet hum of the city and thinking how rare it was to meet someone who moved through the world like music—never asking to be heard, yet impossible to forget.
I put him on the couch for the night, and disappeared behind the large wardrobe where my bed was. I’ve arranged it like that on purpose, to separate the sleeping world from the working world in the rest of the studio. Now it played to our advantage.
***
Fuck, I wanted him. Fuck, I dreamed of being in his bed being fucked by this gentle, good-meaning man. Fuck, I wanted to know what he was like with his wife, how he got aroused, how he moved, what he sounded like, how he came, and whether he was as polite and nice or he growled and thrust his cock inside her or stuffing her mouth. Fuck, I wanted to know what his dick looked like because in his shorts I could fucking see nothing—it was probably tiny and squished by his briefs. Just thinking about it made me hard.
…The apartment clock ticked past two when I caught it: a hush of cotton sliding over hair-dusted skin, Val turning on the couch. The sheet exhaled—one slow, secret sigh—then settled under the low drone of the AC. I lay stiff behind the wardrobe, pulse loud in my ears, and knew the prelude to his solitude had begun.
The minute hand slid past two-ten before the real music started. First came the faintest whisper—Val's shoulder rolling against the cushion, the worn sheet dragging half an inch across his chest, a sound like a fingertip brushing silk. Another rustle followed: his hip lifting, cotton peeling away from damp skin with a reluctant hush, then resettling in a soft puff of trapped air.
I lay motionless behind the wardrobe, eyes wide in the dark, counting each microscopic shift—the tug of fabric over what I guessed was a hair-dusted thigh, the low creak of couch springs answering some slow tilt of pelvis. Every noise felt magnified, intimate, as if the room itself leaned in to listen. My own pulse drummed louder than the distant AC, yet I kept my breath shallow, afraid one exhale would break the fragile spell of his secret, solitary overture.
A single, low groan rose from the couch springs—like the bed itself let out a sympathetic breath. The metal gave a muted creak, then another, softer, settling into a rhythm so tentative I felt it in my own ribs. Pillows swallowed most of the sound, but each faint compression sliced through the stillness, telling me Val had found his angle: knees probably parted, hips rocked forward, weight balanced on one elbow while the other arm disappeared beneath the sheet, the hand doing what hands do after romantic picnics and nights away from the faithful wife. My own body answered without permission—pulse skittering, breath frozen mid-inhale—while the springs kept their quiet confession, exhale after exhale, nudging me deeper into the dark behind the wardrobe.
The next sound wasn't fabric—it was air itself. A thin inhale slipped through Val's teeth, hitched halfway, as though the breath snagged on a sudden pulse of want. He held it a second, ribs suspended, then released in a slow, almost careful sigh that trembled at the edges. I felt it brush the quiet of the room like a match struck in velvet dark. Another followed—shallower, quicker—then a longer exhale that steadied into rhythm: quiet sip, longer hush, quiet sip, longer hush. Each cycle thickened the silence between us, until the space behind the wardrobe felt dense, electrically charged, my own lungs copying his cadence while something low and hot coiled awake inside my skin.
Then it surfaced—low, unmistakable, slow, wet sound of slick skin gliding under the sheet. Each stroke rolled out unhurried, the wet cockhead slurp kissing his palm with a velvet drag that carried through the dark like a whispered metronome. I pictured his fist—easy grip, thumb skimming the crown on every up-pass—while the cadence settled into a hypnotic pulse: schlick… pause… schlick… pause. The sound tightened the air; my own pulse synced to the rhythm, my temples throbbed, and my cock filled my hand as if his hand were working me instead. The rhythm coming from the room was steady, private, inevitable—while I lay frozen behind the wardrobe, ear pressed to the crack, drinking every slick note of Val’s quiet ascent to his peak.
He stopped to listen for any sounds from me, and I made sure my breathing sounded deep and quiet, and soon his action resumed. His breathing found the beat. Each upward glide dragged a ragged inhale through his teeth—edge cracked, almost whistling—then the down-stroke pushed a warm whoosh across the pillow. In… schlick… out… schlick: the two sounds braided, mechanical and animal at once.
A low hum rose from his throat—more vibration than a voice—like a cat’s purr bottled under pressure. It rolled out between clenched teeth, soft yet thick with need, then broke into shorter pulses as the wet slaps quickened: schlick-schlick, hum, schlick-schlick, hum. Each tiny growl painted the hush with color, turning the studio into a sounding box for restrained ecstasy. I felt the rumble in my own ribs, a sympathetic resonance, while my cock strained and oozed precum under my feather-light touches, every slap and purr stitching us together in the dark behind the wardrobe.
The tempo shifted, and wet schlicks sharpened into brisk pats, flesh smacking flesh in a lewd drumbeat: slap-slap-slap, each impact ringing off the walls like rain on tin. I saw it in my mind—his cockhead was now slick, precum flying off knuckles in microscopic droplets. The couch springs added their metallic chirp on every down-stroke, turning the room into a tiny auditorium of unignorable percussion.
Then came the words—ragged, whispered. “Takaya pizda…” he hissed, voice raw, then sharper: “Blyad, suka…” each curse slipping through clenched teeth like steam from a cracked pipe. They weren’t meant for me, but for some imaginary woman he was calling a slut and a bitch, yet they landed hot on my skin—sparks flared behind my eyes, sketching crude, glittering pictures of the dirty thoughts gripping him, this polite guy, a gentle romantic singer, everyone’s friend, volleyball player, kid entertainer.... Between the slaps the dirty Russian words hung in the dark, before dissolving back into the wet symphony, leaving my imagination blazing and my own cock throbbing in my hand in silent answer.
Then, him being sure that I was asleep, his moans unfurled into low, gravel-laden growls that rolled up from his sternum, then thinned into higher, rawer notes as he tightened his grip with each stroke. His voice cracked on the up-swing, followed by a fragile break that sounded weak, almost pathetic, before he dived back into the wet, frantic cadence. Beneath him the mattress squealed in compressed bursts, wooden slats knocking out an urgent Morse code against the floor—tiny hammer-strikes that announced his rising abandon through the floor of my studio. I felt every creak travel the boards under my back, translating his private climb into a language I could read with eyes shut tight—his fist blurred on his shaft, his balls jumping, his hair messy over his forehead, his lip bitten and breaths ragged and raspy…
Suddenly his voice cracked mid-groan and stalled—air caught, muscles locked. The wet slap-rate froze at its fastest, fist welded to root, arm trembling under the strain; I pictured tendons standing in his neck, every vein flared. A high, keening note leaked through clenched teeth—raw, almost surprised—while the mattress bore down in one final squeal of springs. He hovered there, suspended on the edge, breath hitching in tiny, ragged gulps, the whole room balanced on the tremor before the fall.
Click.
I turned on the light.
The yellow light flooded the couch like a theatre spot. Val froze mid-stroke: fist clamped around a thick, red shaft that arced upward; that hidden secret of his was venous, the mushroom head shone bright, the slit was flared and already pulsing. His balls, heavy and pink, jerked tight to the base once—twice—then the first arc of cum launched into the air: it was high, glassy and seemed to hang in the air for a millisecond, catching the bulb's glare before it snapped down onto his trembling thigh with a wet slap. He yelped, tried to smother the spurting head with both palms, but the second jet squeezed between his fingers, ribboning the crumpled sheet in a pearly stripe. A third spurt—thicker, slower—dripped through his knuckles, falling to the parquet in a fat, audible drop.
With a scarlet face he stammered, “S-sorry, sorry...” looking terrified, yet still terribly horny, hard as steel, sweaty, suddenly so thin without his clothes, hairless, untanned with funny pink toes on his large feet, our good guy Val, everyone’s friend who turned down two horny women in one hour to remain faithful to his wife…
“Oh, fuck, sorry,” I said in a light voice, wanting to sound sleepy, instantly retreating behind the wardrobe. “Sorry, man, I thought someone was crying or something, sorry, sorry… I completely forgot about you, shit, sorry, man…”
***
Mine was the fastest ever jerkoff that night. I swear, fewer than ten strokes and my foreskin fold accepted three grateful spurts that I wiped off with a wet wipe on my night table. The glistening arc of cum, the dancing balls, the thick red shaft with a mushroom head on this polite wonderful man with a noble gray streak in his hair—man, what could be more horny?
In the morning I woke up to Val cleaning. He was dressed and looked horrified.
“Morning,” I said cheerfully.
“Fuck, Augie, I am so sorry,” he said in a quiet, shaking voice.
“Nah,” I said in the voice of an old wise man. “Come on, Val. No problem at all. I should apologize! But I forgot I was hosting you, and was scared shitless by the… you know…”
“Don’t tell anyone,” he asked. “I’d fucking jump out of the window if anyone learns.”
“Don’t worry,” I said.
Must tell you: the story is true, but his name wasn’t Val, he looked different and he doesn’t play the guitar, but you still liked it, huh? Oh, come on, the tent in your shorts is visible all the way from the other side of the screen. Glad it worked, the story. Lock the door before you give in to your impressions.
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