My hand found Alexey's dick when the train car rocked on the turn approaching Mayakovskaya. He nudged me back, and the softness in his black dress pants quickly turned into a pleasant hardness. I raised my eyes and saw a dreamy distant look of blue-greyish eyes of a guy in his mid-20s with a huge cello case resting against the wall of the train car. He looked almost too nice to even allow himself any dirty thoughts, I said to myself. Ah, he must be an orchestra player returning from a rehearsal, the master of the bow, the creator of beauty...
Another nudge showed me that the creator of beauty was not against being touched on the center of his hidden mystery. My palm embraced the small barrel now lying horizontally and held by his tight briefs and slid down the entire length to the soft tip with a lot of overhang. He jumped and moved away.
I looked at him again, and caught his eye. Looking straight at me he gave me another nudge and said, in an unexpectedly low voice: "Vyhodite seychas?" (Are you getting off at the next station?) Yes, I said, and we both moved toward the door.
On the station platform I moved aside from the flow of passengers bursting through the train car doors and waited for him. He was soon standing next to me, looking into the distance like he were waiting for someone else.
"Hi," I volunteered. "I am Martin, and I don't bite."
He looked at me like we didn't just share some secret.
"Who are you?"
"Oh, I thought you wanted to talk."
"Why?"
"Oh, come on. You know very well."
"Shit, really? You're into this?"
"Yes, aren't you?"
"No-o-o-o-o-oh!" He even stepped back from me. "What, you like touching cocks?"
"Not only that. And you didn't seem to mind."
"Shit, man, wow. Come on, I have a girlfriend!"
"And you aren't walking away right now."
"Shit, I honestly don't know."
"Don't know what?"
My future lover Alexey paused for a second. Thoughts, one after another, were seen crossing his brow. His cello patiently waited.
"I don't know if you are safe."
"My name is Martin. I am staying in Nevskij Palace hotel. We can go to my suite. If you don't like something, call security on me and report me."
"What are you?"
"I am a photographer, I photograph Metro stations."
"I only have an hour. And I don't suck."
"I only touch and frot."
"Alright, then."
"And your name?"
"Let it be Alexey."
"Let it be?"
"Perhaps."
"Alright."
We came out of Mayakovskaya into the sharp winter air and joined the stream of people moving along Nevsky Prospekt in endless throngs of the Sunday evening. Snow had been pushed into gray ridges along the pavements, and the cold seemed to come from every direction at once. Alexey pulled his coat tighter and wondered at me not caring one bit about the temperature. We talked about the Metro as we walked — the deep stations, the grand halls, the strange feeling of descending so far beneath the frozen city. Alexey knew the system intimately because he used it every day to get to the Conservatory, where he played cello in the orchestra.
As we passed the illuminated shop windows, with buses, taxis, and crowds of bundled-up pedestrians rushing past us, he gradually stopped looking like the scared and uncertain boy I had first met. He became animated, and his face lit up.
By the time we reached the Nevsky Palace Hotel, Alexey seemed completely relaxed. The busy avenue surrounded us with the ordinary noise of winter St. Petersburg — footsteps on wet pavement, car doors slamming, voices rising above the traffic, and the occasional hiss of a bus pulling away. I asked him about being a professional musician, and he told me about rehearsals, long performances, the weight of the cello, and the peculiar discipline of playing the same passage again and again until every musician breathed together. There was something peaceful in the way he talked about it. The concerned expression I had first noticed at the Metro station had disappeared, replaced by an easy smile. We walked on through the cold, shoulder to shoulder among the crowds, and I had the feeling that I was seeing the real Alexey for the first time — not the scared guy nudging me with his dick, risking his life on my response, but a young man simply enjoying a winter walk through his city.
When the door clicked behind us, I took his coat and hung it on a hanger near the door. Alexey placed the cello in the closet next to the door, and stood in the center of the living room, not knowing what should come next.
"What now?"
"Well, shall we undress?"
"Only touching!"
"Agreed."
"I am straight, I have a girlfriend!"
"You told me."
"Okay, you do it there, I'll do it here. Don't look."
"Oh, come on. Go first, I want to see you naked."
A shrug, and then... he made a deliberate show of undressing himself before me, and seemed to be doing it with pleasure. His every movement was precise and wordless. Piece by piece he removed his clothes with unhurried grace, never breaking eye contact, until he stood completely naked. His cock sprang free—rock-hard, clean-shaven, already sticking straight up. The broad mushroom head was flushed dark, a soft fold of foreskin gathered just beneath it, and the shaft itself showed the uneven swell of its cavernous bodies, one side slightly fuller than the other. The smallish balls dangled in a loose pink sack.
"Now you," he said, and his voice again boomed an octave lower than I could have expected. "Shall I do you?"
"Yes, please."
The silence thickened around us, hotter than any spoken dirty talk could have been.
... He undressed me, still without a single word, slowly and almost theatrically, as if each piece of clothing were another layer of distance he intended to erase. Once I was bare he stood a little back.
"You look great."
"Thanks."
"What now?"
"I want to frot you. Grab that oil."
I pointed to the bottle of fragrant massage oil that I kept on the table for you know why, oh come on, don't make me say it. Yeah, that. Dirty minds.
He poured a generous amount into his palm, and slicked both of us from chest to thigh until our skin shone. His fingers were something: long, delicate and strong; his touch was electric as if music flowed through him.
"It wouldn't stain, would it?"
"Like I'd care. Come on!"
We fell on the bed, and soon he was in my arms. The musician of the orhestra, the man who could make magical sounds on the cello that seemed to watch us from the closet near the door, was in my arms, his dick stuck under my balls, my own hardon against his child-smooth pubis. I could hear his uneven breathing and his eyes shone with fear, doubt and such Giant Obsessive Horniness that the only way I can describe it is to capitalize the letters in my story.
We began to move in long, rolling frottage—bellies, cocks, and thighs gliding together in the warm oil. His large, uneven shaft rubbed against mine with every slow thrust of his hips; the mushroom head nudged and slid, the foreskin folding and unfolding between us. The only sounds were the soft wet friction and our breathing. That unbroken silence, paired with his snapish seriousness, made every slide feel deliberate and almost ceremonial.
"Kiss me?"
"Yuck."
"Come on, just lips. My breath smells fine."
"Mine doesn't."
"I don't care."
His lips found mine. He sucked in my lower lip like it was his daily routine, like my lip was his cello. It felt so great I almost swooned.
"Ah, Alexey, let me breathe."
"Mmmmh."
I knew he'd give me his tongue, his small, strong, rough to the touch tongue that kissed mine, and retreated, and kissed it again, and the lips encircled me, held me, made me gasp... ah, Alexey, I will dream about it for months, just one more slap of that hard cock on my balls... ah, baby, I want to hear you play one day... aaah.
The rhythm grew heavier. Our cocks fought for space, thick and slippery, pushing and sliding past each other while our bellies pressed tight. Even when we stopped kissing, breathless and tired, and I felt his pushes becoming more ardent, we didn't say a word.
"Ah, blya..."
"Alexey, Lyoshka, don't hurry, baby, hold on, hold on. Aaah."
The dick of the panting man who made music for a living dressed in a suit with a bowtie settled between my thighs pulsing. His head landed on my shoulder and his lips were dangerously close to the point on my neck that would make me scream. I pushed against him again.
"Make it last. Go under the balls, ah, yes."
His cockhead nudging my perineum made me yelp something inarticulate, and he responded as he should have, with more slams that made me convulse under his smaller body. The perineum ached so sweetly, sending jolts up urethra that I knew were waiting for a rainbow to bloom in the sky above me...
Shit, Martin, you fucker, why is it your third time today, you horny bastard? You have a man of your dreams next to you, the mane of his hair in your nose, his lips on your neck, his dick under your balls, and it's your third time... you will not impress him, old bat.
"Ah, Lyosha, fuck..."
Every time an orgasm hits, it's horses running through the steppe, rainbows blooming in the sky, screams of wild birds circling above me, the shaking of the ground under my feet... but now it was a short tickle, almost a painful twitch of a few drops up my urethra and... five murky drops landed between us; a moment later Alexey followed with a sudden shiny arc of cum that striped both our stomachs and mixed with the oil. We kept grinding through it, slower now, until the last aftershocks faded and we simply lay there, slick and breathing hard, the combined mess warm between our bodies. The silence had done more than any words.
"Lyosha?"
"Mhm?"
"I can't bear the thought that we will not meet again."
Silence.
... Later we stood together under the hotel shower. The hot water rinsed the oil and cum away in long milky streams. Suddenly Alexey looked smaller somehow—his shoulders less broad, his presence quieter. His cock had gone completely limp, shrinking into a dark knob that rested softly on his emptied, liquidy balls while the water ran down his pale thighs. Even then he stayed serious, almost severe in his silence, and that same quiet intensity that had made the frottage so unbearably hot lingered between us like a held note.
He sent me a pic and just "T Y" in brilliant green ink on an empty white card. The card, where he sat in the orchestra pit with his cello, said "Alexey MOROZOV, cello, international prize winner, stipendiate of the Government, 2025-2027." It was a thank you, I know, for keeping his secret. What, his name isn't Alexey Morozov. And he looked different. And he... well, you've read the story? Well, he wasn't, he didn't, it was not him, he has a girlfriend, he is straight, he doesn't frot in Metro trains. No, he doesn't. Oh, shut up, reader. Are you still thinking of his dick? Me too. Need a break to use some oil?
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