Laughing Through Sex with An American Hottie
I love America and the American people for their openness, friendliness, good humor, and readiness to help. I love New York for its cosmopolitan spirit, generous acceptance of people of all faiths and all walks of life. So when I had a chance to interview the American chess prodigy, the 21-year-old New Yorker Lucas Harper, I snatched that opportunity immediately. Lucas was broad-chested, golden-haired, with a smile that lit my room across the distance that separated us, and a laugh—shy yet contagious—that I found to be, well, quite horny. So even the restrooms in two airports now know about how much I was looking forward to meeting Grandmaster Lucas Harper, and learning about his project of evening chess shows on his Youtube channel.
New York in May carried a restless joy, as if the entire city had stepped out of winter’s shadows and was stretching toward the sun. The air was soft with the scent of lilacs and fresh-cut grass, and the trees of Central Park stood in full green, their leaves trembling in the breeze. Joggers traced paths beside the lake, rowboats drifted lazily under the Bow Bridge, and street musicians filled the air with saxophone riffs that echoed against the stone. On Fifth Avenue, windows bloomed with bright displays, and the hum of yellow cabs blended with laughter spilling from sidewalk cafés. From my taxi window I saw New York greeting me as only this city is able to do—with the endless mosaic of cultures and small charming streets scenes.
I have come to New York to interview Lucas Harper, who became famous as a chess prodigy beating top grandmasters at the age of 14. Since he became one of their own at 17, Lucas won eight major international tournaments and was poised to start a quest to face the world champion.
Everyone knows that Harper has a taste for luxury, and he doesn’t shy away from showing it. He drives a bright red sports car, wears oversized sunglasses even indoors, and is rarely without the latest tech gadgets—whether it’s a smartwatch, a cutting-edge phone, or sleek noise-cancelling headphones. He splits his time between a loft apartment in New York and a villa he’s rumored to have bought in Miami, where he invites friends and fellow players for long weekends of barbecues and rooftop parties. His chess earnings, combined with sponsorship deals, have made him one of the most visible figures in the game, and he seemed to enjoy the spotlight more than the quiet of the board.
He arrived at my hotel with the energy of someone used to owning a room the moment he entered. He wore a crisp white dress shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, layered under a sleek thin as silk leather jacket, paired with dark jeans and bright sneakers that flashed a hint of rebellion. His sun-kissed hair fell carelessly into place, and his wide grin suggested a man ready to charm, compete, and conquer—all at once. My first impression of him was of a man who radiated confidence, charisma, and a certain unpredictability, someone whose presence made even the bustling New York lobby seem to pause.
“Morning, Augie,” he said, his grin widening as if we were already in on some private joke. “You look in real life just like on camera. So you will be my partner-in-crime for the day. Hope you’re ready—New York’s not exactly subtle, and neither am I.”
There was no pause, no hesitation. He scooped up my bag before I could protest, tossed it lightly over his shoulder, and gestured toward the revolving doors.
“First stop,” he announced, “the High Line. Best way to see this city’s layers—old grit underneath, new dreams growing on top. You’ll see.”
We stepped out into the bright Manhattan air, and he immediately hailed a cab with a whistle so sharp heads turned. When the taxi pulled up, he opened the door with a flourish, bowing slightly as though we were stepping into something grander than just a ride uptown…
The High Line is an elevated park built on an old freight rail line above Manhattan’s West Side. As I stepped onto the narrow path lined with wild grasses and art installations, I felt like I was walking through a hidden world suspended between the grit of the streets below and the gleaming towers above. Lucas strode ahead, hands in the air as if orchestrating the city itself, and I couldn’t help but be pulled into his rhythm.
“This used to be a railway,” he said, pointing to the rusted tracks peeking through the plants. “Freight trains, steel wheels on iron, and now? Gardens, sculptures, cafés, yoga classes at sunrise!” At the mention of yoga, he winked, and I did, too, even though I wasn’t sure what I was getting used to—his energy, the city, or the fact that both seemed to demand your full attention.
We wandered past wildflower patches and benches, and he leaned on the railing, eyes scanning the skyline. “When I was a kid in California,” he began, voice dipping into a story mode, “I’d climb the orange groves behind my house, imagining that I was the master of the land. Now I come here and rule New York!” He laughed, running a hand through his hair, and I could see the city framing him like an extension of the game he had always loved.
At a bend in the tracks, a mural caught our attention—a riot of colors, abstract shapes, and tiny hidden chessboard motifs. Lucas stopped to examine the details, telling me how he once tried street art in San Francisco, only to get chased by an irate shopkeeper. His neighbor bought him his first chess set, his math teacher let him go to one of his first tournaments; his younger sister cried every time he left the house to go to another town to play… His tales came along with the sights: a jazz trio tucked in a corner of the park, tourists snapping pictures, office workers stealing lunch breaks on benches. I felt the city pulse through him as he spoke about earlier and quieter times, as if each story was a living thread connecting him from the orange grove tree climber to the High Line, to me, to this suspended slice of Manhattan.
By the time we reached a small café tucked into the park’s curve, Lucas had shared stories about intense chess tournaments, the nerve-wracking decisions under pressure, and even a quiet confession about missing simple, ordinary moments—family dinners, Sunday bike rides—despite all the adrenaline and glory. I found myself leaning closer, listening not just to his words but to the cadence of him speaking, the easy confidence that somehow didn’t need to impress, only to include.
He bought us two big cups of ice coffee and a selection of frozen fruit sticks, and we lingered in the shadows of the trees near the cozy café, and tried to guess the flavors of the rainbow colored fruit sticks before we tried them. The green one was apple, the purple was not grape but plum, the red one could be anything but turned out to be watermelon…
Every step we took further along the High Line felt like a dance, Lucas narrating, gesturing, laughing, and occasionally pausing to let the city speak in its own way—the hum of traffic below, the faint clink of coffee cups, the swish of leaves against the rails. And as I walked, I realized that I wasn’t just seeing the city through his eyes—I was seeing him through it, alive in a way that made the streets, the tracks, and even the steel girders feel like they belonged entirely to the two of us in that moment.
Next, he took me to a hidden jazz club in the West Village, a low-ceilinged space with exposed brick walls and polished dark wood that glowed under the amber lights. The smell of rich coffee, melted butter, and aged whiskey mingled with the faint scent of the saxophone notes floating from the stage. We settled into a corner booth, soft leather hugging our sides, and ordered lunch—crispy duck tacos with a tangy hoisin glaze for me, and a charred burger with blue cheese and caramelized onions for him, plus a shared plate of truffle fries dusted with Parmesan. The cocktails arrived soon after—a smoky bourbon old-fashioned for him, a grapefruit and gin spritzer for me, its subtle bitterness cutting through the richness of our food.
As we ate, Lucas leaned back, tapping a finger against his glass, and launched into one of his stories. “My life is not all chess, you know. I am quite a gambler, too. There was this night in Vegas,” he began, eyes sparkling with mischief, “when I stumbled into a high-stakes poker game by accident. Celebrities, CEOs, and a magician who claimed he could read minds sat around the table. I had nothing but my instincts, and somehow… I won.” He chuckled, shaking his head. “I still don’t know if it was luck or just everyone underestimating me because I looked like a kid off the street.”
Between bites, he recounted taking part in a nighttime charity chess event in Hollywood, where after the games of chess he played “Truth or Dare” with fans, and had to confess he felt something for a girl in the audience. Did it lead to anything, I asked. He let out a long sigh and then gave me a playful wink, and it was such a funny hidden confession. I laughed so hard I nearly spilled my spritzer, and he laughed too, that wide, easy grin spreading across his face. Even in the chaos of his anecdotes, there was a rhythm, a balance of intensity and playfulness that drew me in.
I found myself mesmerized by how he wove his tales into the atmosphere around us: the dim lights, the murmur of other diners, the soft clink of glasses, and the city outside buzzing far below. By the time we finished our meal, I felt as if I had glimpsed both his daring, reckless side and the thoughtful strategist behind it, all in one sitting.
***
Our final stop was a rooftop bar overlooking Manhattan, where the skyline glittered like a constellation of unknown stars. Lucas spoke about his dreams beyond chess, the thrill of travel, and the people who shaped him, blending tales of personal triumph with candid reflections. I felt the full spectrum of his persona unfold: the daring competitor, the life-loving adventurer, the man whose energy was as boundless as the city itself. By the end of the evening, New York didn’t just feel like a backdrop—it had become a living, breathing companion to Lucas Harper’s unstoppable spirit…
When the taxi stopped in front of the hotel, Lucas Harper lingered before climbing out. The New York lights were still on his face, a glow that seemed reluctant to fade now that our long tour of the city had ended. He walked me to the entrance, quiet at first, and then paused in a way that betrayed the tug-of-war between courtesy and desire. I caught the hesitation in his eyes, the same steadiness he had at the board, but now flickering with a softer uncertainty.
“The layout of your article is ready,” I said. “If you’d like, we can go upstairs and look at it. It’s beautiful – spring green, metal and streaks of sun – and the lettering is tall and thin, like the skyscrapers. People will love it.”
He didn’t need to be asked again.
Upstairs, the air felt different, hushed but charged. After loading the article, I busied myself with the teapot, while he took a seat and studied the layout and the glistening color palette. When I returned with the ice tea in tall glasses, we exchanged glances that lasted perhaps too long and laughs that felt too close. When I placed his cup in his hand, my fingers brushed his. It was nothing, almost accidental—but neither of us let it pass without notice.
The room shrank around us. Words gave way to silences that seemed warmer than any exchange. Lucas set his cup down and, with a boldness that was still tinged with shyness, leaned closer as though testing the waters of an unspoken agreement. I tilted my head ever so slightly, and the flirtation that had simmered through the evening finally found its expression—not in words, but in a lingering closeness that promised the night would not end the way either had originally imagined….
***
I was unbuttoning his shirt, and the buttons felt obstinately tight, and he was breathing heavily against me and quietly snickering like I was doing something really funny but it would be impolite to laugh; under the shirt I found his broad and powerful chest with large dark flat nipples and several tufts of hair around both, which I instantly wanted to kiss but instead just touched tenderly and laid my forehead against his chest to hear his excited heartbeat…
“Aahh,” Lucas said and snickered again. “It’s ticklish, Augie, stop it!” and his hands pulled me away.
Soon his hands were hungrily touching, kneading, feeling my chest, of which he had obviously dreamed the whole day. He almost stopped breathing in excitement, and I thought I heard him say “wow, wow” and then came a series of short giggles.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said between those silly giggles. “That’s what happens to me when you know…” and he giggled again. “I am not, not laughing at you…” and another giggle burst from his throat, happy, light, teasing, but not offensive at all.
I unbuckled his belt, and the sound of the heavy buckle opening sent a shiver up my spine. I’ve always liked the sound of the buckle coming apart as a declaration of something very arousing coming. His soft jeans fell off readily, and there he was in tight gray shorts – no, briefs – no, still shorts but of the smaller variety, with the appetizing outline of a typically American thick cut log of a dick inside over a package of large balls—for a change, really!—after all those small wrinkled crotches.
His delicate hands slipped off my trousers and took my briefs along with them—and the touch was soft, delicate, and if not for the burning fire in the eyes and excited breathing, the movement of the hands themselves seemed almost indifferent, touching just the waistband, no more…
I covered his chest with kisses, soft, reverent, tiny—mirroring the touches of his hands—and he responded with an almost imperceptible movement toward me, and the tent in his briefs was being pitched up actively as he did so—thick, cut, hot—and sticking forward like a railway boom gate…
His fingers caressed me—dainty, thin, feather-light—but as I leaned toward them, they grew bolder, stronger, running down my sides, pressing—still softly—but pressing my skin, smooth, soft but quite, quite decisive already, or so it seemed… they flew, they roamed, they touched, they pressed, they teased, and he breathed in uneven spurts, and snickered and giggled—now a sound I was getting used to—ashamed or aroused, or both.
From what it looked like, Lucas had no time for a gym, but unlike most other US guys with intellectual pursuits he had not a gram of fat, and was full of sprightly energy that came god only knows from where.
I then teased his thighs, scratching them a bit with my nails, watching his reaction—his curling toes, his uneven breathing, the small wet spot on the tip of the magnificent tent I was about to take down. It was the tent that promised thickness and strength and loud slaps of the loose balls, ah, guys, it took all the power I had to wait just a bit more. Wait, I told myself, it’s worth it, Augie, you just wait…
Now his lips touched me like fire—hot, blazing, burning—and grazed just the right spots of my neck, sending shivers up my spine… as his lips were buried in my neck, he decided to act and pulled down his briefs with one hand. I had no time to look yet, I could only feel the wet tip touch my thigh—I was busy, I was in heaven from his lips on my neck and his arms around me—searching for something on the skin of my back, small, yes, but now quite energetic, quite strong… ah, don’t stop, Lucas…
His dick was gorgeous: sticking up with a slight curve that promised hitting just the right spots, with appetizingly uneven cavernous bodies and a thick vein running on top of it, and a good two inches of the stretched circumcision scar, with large loose pink balls hanging low and jumping with every excited breath in his loose scrotum. I thought I’d not touch but slap it playfully, and I guessed right—my American chess genius, the master of simultaneous matches—moaned in response and moved against my hand once more…
In bed I swung one leg over his hips and settled astride him. The sheets felt cool against my knees, his bare skin was warm and smooth beneath my palms. I felt the steady thud of his heart under my fingertips, and the faint rise and fall of his chest.
My thighs hugged his hips, the soft skin of my inner legs brushed the hardness of his cock, and I could feel the faint tremor that ran through him as I adjusted my weight, the heat of his hard dick seeping into me, and the faint scent of cedar and coffee rising between us.
I began rolling my hips, slowly and deliberately, feeling the hard log of his dick slide under my balls and my perineum toward my fluttering asshole, and the heat of the touch made me see rainbows of fantastic colors.
My hands roamed his chest, tracing the curve of his faint muscles, the tight peaks of his nipples, his slight pecs… A faint tremor ran through him each time I pressed closer. I leaned forward, palms braced on his chest, and rolled even harder, feeling the slick slide of him against me.
His hips lifted to meet mine, and a soft gasp escaped his lips as I ground down, the almost unbearable heat pooling low in my belly, my own pulse echoing in my ears…
The room narrowed to the space between us—his hands sliding up my thighs, thumbs pressing into the soft skin just beneath my hips, the faint scrape of his nails sending shivers up my spine. I arched into him, feeling his dick press against my entrance. Ah, the way his hips lifted to meet mine, oh the soft gasp that escaped his lips as I ground down, aah the heat pooling low in my belly, my own pulse now echoing in my ears. His breath came faster, more ragged now, mingling with mine; the air between us crackled, thick with the scent of skin and want, and in one fluid motion he was in. His dick glided in so smoothly I hardly felt his cockhead passing the ring, and only when it nudged my prostate and I yelped in ticklish pleasure, I realized he was fully in.
He pushed up to sitting in one fluid motion, arms circling my waist to pull me flush against him. My knees slid wider, thighs hugging his hips, and suddenly we were chest to chest, heart to heart, the heat of his skin searing against mine. We rocked together, slow and steady, the rhythm gentle yet urgent, like waves against the shore. His mouth found the curve of my neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below my ear, and I arched into him, fingers tangling in the soft strands of his hair….
Then our mouths met in a hungry kiss, tongues sliding, teeth grazing, the taste of him—warm skin, faint salt, something uniquely his—filling my senses. Beneath me he began to thrust upward, slow and deep, each stroke drawing a soft gasp from my throat. My hands slid down his back, palms flat against the warm skin, feeling the flex and release of muscle beneath. The pace quickened—breaths mingling, skin slick, hearts racing—until the room blurred and all that existed was the slick slide of his impossibly hard dick inside me and the rising crescendo of pleasure in my blood.
Heat pooled like mercury at the base of my spine, heavier each time he ground us tighter; my balls drew snug, cord twitching against his shaft as the first bright knot began to glow behind my pubic bone. With every stroke the inside glow flared—his next thrust was held a fraction deeper, pinned to the spot—and the knot snapped. Three quick pulses rocketed up my length: the first spurt, hot and sudden, striped the ridge of his abs; the second followed on its heel, thinner, painting a wet line between our navels; the third came slower, thick as cream, oozing out while our stomachs kissed and smeared the mess into warm, sliding silk. I stayed locked around him and felt every aftershock ripple through my thighs; meanwhile, he kept the slow grind, riding the last of my tremors out.
Soon after the shocks and trembles of my orgasm quieted, with a ragged groan he pulled free; I watched, breathless, as he stroked himself once, twice, and spilled four hot thick spurts across our two chests, his balls trembling and rising higher and higher with every spurt, almost disappearing… and the sight sent another shiver of orgasm through me. I collapsed against him, forehead to forehead, feeling the rapid rise and fall of his chest, the warm stickiness between us, the soft press of his lips to my temple as we both came down, slow and sweet, wrapped tight in each other’s arms.
Then for several long minutes we stayed tangled, tiny aftershocks rippling through us like distant thunder—his cock still twitching against my thigh, my own pulse fluttering around nothing, both of us breathing the same air. He brushed damp hair from my face, pressed lazy kisses to my shoulder, and I felt the last tremor leave him in a slow exhale. Warmth pooled where our skin met, the room hushed except for the soft sync of our heartbeats. In that quiet glow we floated, weightless, trading slow smiles and softer touches, the world outside forgotten…
Then all of a sudden a roar of laughter exploded out of him like a busted fire hydrant, loud and sun-bright, his whole torso jerking with each bark. The sound bounced off the walls, rough, delighted, almost wheezing; his abs clenched under the smeared cum, sending little tremors through the sticky pool between us. Eyes squeezed shut, he tilted his head back and let the next wave roll—deep, guttural hoots that shook the mattress springs, spit glinting at the corner of his mouth while his lungs fought for room. I felt the laughter travel through his ribs into mine, a contagious tremor; he gasped “oh—shit—” but the words got swallowed by another roar, face flushing crimson, shoulders quaking as if every thrust had stored up a joke and it all released at once. Between gulps of air he pulled me tighter, nose bumping my cheek, kisses landing off-target on my temple because the next fit already seized him—whole body vibrating, tears beading at the outer corners of his eyes, the joyous noise filling the small room until even my own pulse seemed to laugh along.
“Why, what?” I asked, not being able not to snicker along. “Lucas, hello!”
He finally dragged in a breath, wiped his eyes, and looked me up and down—sweat-damp hair plastered to my forehead, streaks of cum drying across both our stomachs, the fancy silk sheets balled like wet tissue. Another snort escaped. “Dude—two hours ago I was telling you about how one Russian grandmaster went after me with cheating accusations and I defeated him in a live match, and you had that serious reporter face on, like yeah, yeah, oh yeah.” He gestured between us, voice wobbling. “Now we’re just… two sloppy animals glued together with jizz.” The punchline hit him fresh; he collapsed against my shoulder, laughter surging again—loud, unstoppable, the kind that shakes tears loose and makes ribs ache—while I lay there, grinning, feeling the last dignified scraps of “grandmaster” and “celebrity” slide right off the mattress with the sheets…
… Steam curled around us in the hotel’s shower, the warm water cascading over Lucas’s naked body, his firm chest still heaving with hard, ragged breaths and small ripples of laughter. He was still hugging me hungrily, arms tight around my waist, his sun-bleached hair dripping as his lips found my mine, kissing them fervently. His blue eyes, still alight with aftershocks of his arousal, met mine, and, unsealing our lips for a second, he smiled at me with his open friendly smile, himself again after the passionate outpour.
In my mind, I saw him on the glossy pages of a competitor magazine, smiling across a chessboard, his friendly, open grin polished for the camera. The article droned on about his New York charity chess event, a tedious recounting of his good deeds, his voice clipped and professional, lacking the vibrant spark I’d heard in his voice today.
That Lucas—neatly dressed in a playfully pink shirt, his wavy hair dutifully tamed—was a flat shadow, a public mask discussing donations and strategies, far from the man who’d laughed over frozen fruit sticks at the High Line café, guessing plum for purple.
I’ve done a better job, I thought, my lips curving as Lucas’s kisses deepened, his warm breath grazing my skin, his firm frame pressed close in the steamy shower. My article would capture the real Lucas—the one whose mischievous grin lit up the club, whose dreams soared on the rooftop bar, whose body now trembled with aftershocks of desire against mine. The water streamed down, washing away the magazine’s sterile image, leaving only our shared heat, his hungry embrace, and the coffee-scented air that sealed our authentic, electric connection.
***
I love American guys for their politeness. Even though he was planning to leave, he was apologetic. Dressing in the room, he kept saying again and again how beautiful I was and how much he enjoyed himself; that I was a talented journalist and that the article would give a boost to his career; that he regretted leaving but he just had to be somewhere first thing in the morning, and needed to still give some thought to what he was going to say there; that he invited me to one of his chess tournaments in September; that he would by all means call.
Finally, he gave me a real kiss at the door; out of duty rather than desire, I am sure because his dick felt tiny and liquid almost against my raging hardon as he embraced me with those rook-moving arms, but it was a real kiss—deep, powerful, long—that made my heart skip a beat for the last moment with him.
***
He appeared soon with another big interview in Belle Âme, and I felt a pang of jealousy—the reporter was, I had to admit, talented, and drew some quite romantic stories out of him. In her photos he was dreamy, his wavy hair fluttering in the wind, a cup of coffee steaming in front of him, and the color palette was beige and chocolaty brown, so cozy and different from my article’s vibrant colors, and the interview ended with an update of his victory in a major tournament. She asked him if he found a girlfriend and he admitted that no, he was still alone, and looking. I bet their evening ended well, too.
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