Yerlan, Man of Kazakh Steppes
My student Yerlan invited me to visit him in Kazakhstan, and took me for a day into the remote area of wild grasslands where they herded horses and sheep. I met a jolly group of his fellow herders, and we spent a day riding horses, swimming in a small creek under the burning sun, and cooking two huge delicious though decidedly fatty and greasy meals.
I was a little apprehensive about spending the night in a communal tent for ten, but something in me told me that the tradition of "sharing chest heat" that Yerlan described to me was going to bring more than just peaceful sleep. And when--haha--I noticed him sneaking several paper towels as we headed toward our bedside, the evening started seeming rather interesting.
The wind howled across the vast Kazakh steppe, but inside our small tent it was surprisingly cozy. We shared cups of hot tea with sheep lard before climbing into our woolen sleeping bags. In just five minutes we split into pairs and packed tightly together in woolen sleeping bags, sharing body heat to survive the cold mountain night. Yerlan now was inches away from me in the dim light of a single lantern.
Yerlan was beautiful in a rugged way — a short but strong guy with sun-browned skin, sharp cheekbones, and dark hair that fell across his forehead. His breathing was slow and steady against my neck, warm puffs that sent shivers down my spine. Our woolen bags were zipped together for extra warmth, leaving us pressed tightly together, skin to skin from chest to thighs. I could feel the steady rise and fall of his muscular chest against mine, and the faint beat of his heart.
At first it was innocent. Then, as we shifted to get more comfortable, our soft cocks nudged each other. The contact was electric: it was a soft, accidental brush of warm flesh against warm flesh. Neither of us pulled away. Yerlan’s breathing against my neck turned decidedly faster. I felt his tiny cut cock twitch. Mine responded instantly, thickening against the smooth heat of his. Slowly, almost hesitantly, we began to move.
I knew from experience that this was the usual game between young men in Kazakhstan yet I couldn't believe it right away. If I hadn't noticed the paper towels the guys were taking with themselves into the sleeping bag, I wouldn't have believed what I was feeling.
Yerlan started with long, slow glides — his cut cock now remarkably fat though short slid along the full length of my uncut shaft, from base to my sensitive head and back again. The velvety smoothness of his glans dragged deliciously over my entire dick while his heavy balls rested against mine, shifting only ever so subtly with each motion.
Feeling my silent agreement, Yerlan grew bolder. He tilted his hips and began frotting with short, firm upward strokes, pressing the head of his cock firmly under my own sheathed glans, rubbing in tight little circles. The friction was intense. I felt every ridge and vein along his shaft, the way his pubic bush dragged roughly over the base of my cock with each thrust, the coarse dark curls teasing my sensitive skin. It was just the time when the questionable hygiene of wild unshaven pubic hair seemed just right.
Soon we locked our cocks together side by side. Yerlan wrapped his strong hand around both of our shafts, squeezing them tightly together while we thrust in unison. The combined heat and pressure felt overwhelming. His cut dick throbbed against mine, the smooth head bumping and sliding, while his heavy balls dragged back and forth over my tightening sack.
Suddenly Yerlan cupped my face and kissed me passionately. His tongue pushed into my mouth, swallowing my quiet gasps as a way to keep me silent among the hardly audible grunts of other couples around us. At the same time his other hand slid down to knead my ass almost painfully, strong fingers digging into the flesh, pulling me harder against him as he ground his hips forward.
Then he shifted again, sliding his cock between my thighs, fucking the tight space just behind my balls while the top of his shaft rubbed relentlessly against the underside of mine. The new angle made his heavy balls slap softly against me with every thrust. His breathing grew ragged against my neck as he moaned — completely silent, but I could feel the deep vibrations in his chest and throat.
After a while we returned to direct frot, our cocks now trapped tightly between our pressed bellies. Yerlan’s movements became urgent and ragged. He fucked against me with short, powerful strokes, the head of his cock catching and dragging along mine, smearing pre-cum everywhere. His pubic bush scraped deliciously over my shaft while his balls drew up tight and heavy.
Soon I felt the deep, warm pressure in my groin, spreading outward in tingling waves. My balls tightened, my cock throbbed harder against his. Yerlan’s breathing quickened against my neck. I felt his cock swell even thicker, pulsing strongly. His silent moans grew more intense — hot, desperate breaths vibrating into my skin as his body tensed.
We fought our cocks together in desperate silence, grinding harder, faster. The slick, wet friction became unbearable. Yerlan’s hand kneaded my ass almost bruisingly, pulling me impossibly closer as he kissed me again, tongue fucking my mouth in time with his hips.
Then his small dry hand forced its way between us, and I felt the warmth of the paper towel enveloping our cocks. I allowed his hand to push under my cock to let him encircle me fully, and through the dry warmth of the paper towels we allowed ourselves the last several frictions.
Yerlan came first. His whole body stiffened. A powerful, silent moan vibrated against my neck as his thick cut cock pulsed hard, letting out three invisible and imperciptible spurts I could only deduce from three deep moans into my neck. A tickling sense of sharp pleasure in my dick felt like dry thin fingers of Yerlan's hand tickling my cavernous bodies and pushing my balls up. The most silent of my cumshots ever added three modest spurts of a man with gray hair to the wet mess of the young guy. We kept grinding slowly through every pulse, milking each other completely in total silence while the other guys had hard time keeping silent through their own moments of little restraint.
When it finally subsided, Yerlan pressed one last passionate kiss to my lips, then buried his face in my neck, breathing hard. He wiped us both with another paper towel, and stuck the messy towels somewhere inside the sleeping bag--a hidden pocket or something. Then he exhaled, long and satisfied and whispered "Good night" into my neck.
It was the weirdest night of my life, Yerlan's compact naked body pressed against mine, his tiny dry hands hugging my back, his dick coming back to life at least three times during the night to reflect his young night-time thoughts. It was uncomfortable, yet I felt like a dad standing guard over a son; the way he hugged me was full of this trust the men of my age long for. And guess what - sleeping chest to chest, our mouths breathing into each other's necks was indeed warm.
In the morning Yerlan put on his shorts while still in the bag and climbed out with a morning wood that none of his shepherd friends tried to hide. The way they joked and slapped each other's protruding shorts showed that it was a regular view in the shepherd's tent. I wish I was young enough to join them.
Yerlan was his usual masculine, slightly rough self again, but when he shook my hand when we parted, I remembered it clutching us both together, and my legs felt a surge of tingling pleasure. We met with Yerlan at different reunions thereafter but he always navigated carefully away from any more invitations to the Kazakh steppe. At times his hot breathing in my neck, and his hand on my dick come to me in my dreams.
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