Grand Opera

by sensine

He wakes up in a double bed he doesn't recognize. The bed linens are soft, worn and white. The pillow is pressing hard into the back of his head, making it ache right behind his left ear.

His heart pounds hard and fast, harder and faster, and he can feel the first traces of panic coiling like black rope in his chest. This is not a room he remembers walking into. There's little light, only the bedside lamp, and a line of grey from under a door competes with the pale light breaking through drawn curtains. But he knows he hasn't been here before.

His body obeys when he tells it to stay frozen, freeing his eyes to roam and his mind to process. This is not a home. It could be a hotel, a place where interior decorators have been allowed too much freedom, creating that fake home-away-from-home look he knows somehow he is familiar with.

When he squints his eyes there's a small brochure in a holder on the table under the mirror, confirming his suspicions. Welcome to the Grand Opera Hotel. But what city? What country? He could be anywhere.

There's the sound of protesting pipes when a shower is turned off behind one of the closed doors. So that was the noise pricking in his sub consciousness. He is here with someone. His heart thumps impossibly faster when he tries to imagine who. A friend? A colleague? Perhaps even a wife? Because he is a man, he can feel that.

A wife would help him. He squirms a little, feeling cotton against his buttocks, his private parts. But no excitement even when he conjures up the picture of a beautiful, lush and curved woman. His woman.

Panic grips him for real this time, no mercy, and he bolts up, feeling sweat spread on his neck and face. What is this? Who is he?

Before he can force his mind to think, think, think, there's a sound of wet feet padding over tiles and the door is jerked open, briskly.

"Ah! You're awake!"

There's a beautiful, dark haired, brown eyed man in the opening. The bluish light from the bathroom back-lighting his wet hair; tiny droplets shining like jewels. He is of average height and build, but the sight of him, still wet from the shower, only a white towel fastened low on his hips, causes a shiver of anticipation.

For some unknown reason, the indulgent smirk on the man's lips tells him that he is expected to react to the noise, the proclamation.

On a hunch, he snarks back, pressing panic and rational thought far away from his mind. "Hard not to, with the racket you make carrying out an otherwise quiet activity. If I didn't know better," which he obviously doesn't, but no need to be careless and admit that yet, "I would say you aroused me on purpose." He blinks; he listens to his own voice, it is round and mellow, but with a strange accent. Who is he?

The stranger laughs, he must have found the right words to say to him then.

"I'll show you aroused, my friend!" And the man, his friend maybe, drops the towel with GOH embroidered in one corner, and is naked. Stepping up to him, and giving him a perfect view of his perfect cock.

His mouth dries up. There's something happening in his stomach, small fluttery knots moving around, and sparks fizzle in his veins.

"You're tense, lyubov, something the matter?" The stranger says, then moves. No...glides like a predator over the short distance from door to bed.

Three things happen at once and if he could, he would tense up more. The stranger is using words from his language, he is sure of that. He is a Russian! And he called him love, with a bad accent, which is somehow disturbingly sweet. And...he climbed up behind him in the bed, settling right behind his back, that warm, half-hard cock snuggled against the cleft between his buttocks.

He can't move, he can't breathe. Are they lovers? Is he, or is this stranger a cheap whore; a hustler for money; easily picked up on the street?

Would a cold professional murmur such soft words into his ear, giving away such emotions with his voice? Would he lick his neck to lap at the sweat there, moaning and telling him how good he tastes while all the time he stays quiet, immovable? Would that stranger massage his neck, oohing and ahhing about how tightly wound up he is?

Maybe, maybe not. He just doesn't know. Then again, maybe he does. The contentment in his mind tells him this is familiar, he knows this man.

So when blunt teeth nip at his earlobe and a wet tongue licks the rim of his ear he cannot stop his reactions. He gasps, leans back, and moans. Strong arms wrap around him, holding him secure, so tight against a hard chest, a hard body.

"That's better," the stranger, his lover perhaps, whispers against his neck. "Milay moy. Let Napoleon take care of you."

He almost jerks away from the contact; for what kind of man is named Napoleon? This must all be an illusion then. A fantasy created for him.

But he doesn't feel like he is dreaming, not when he can sense what his body tells him. Not when he can almost taste the wonderful smell coming from this Napoleon. It's warm and earthy, it's soap and an aftershave he recognizes. Underneath there's something exotic, like this man has traveled the world and tried all the spicy dishes he has been offered.

He turns his head shamelessly, intent on giving Napoleon better access to his neck, and jumps up for real.

There's a gun...no, two guns on the bedside table, gleaming darkly in the sparse light. Why didn't he see them before? He doesn't get a chance to ask or escape though, because Napoleon's arms, which must be as strong as they look, tighten around him, and they are kissing. It shocks him how tender it is. Napoleon's lips are soft and move over his own lips, making them tingle. He opens his mouth a little to let the tip of Napoleon's tongue slip in and focuses on the taste; minty with something smoky underneath. Before he knows what is happening Napoleon has him on his back and is leaning over him, resting on his elbows, one on each side of his, knees pressing into his thighs, and they are inexplicably nose to nose, which tickles just a little.

He jerks then, trying to get up, remembering the weapons. Napoleon grabs his hands and holds him down.

"What is it with you today? I haven't seen you this jumpy since we left Patagonia." Napoleon's voice is like an uncut jewel, raw and sensuous, making him shiver down to his toes. But...

Left? Patagonia? Where are they?

"I..uh..." but he doesn't dare talk more yet. He doesn't know what is safe and what he should fear, so without more thinking he pushes his hands into dark hair and pulls, and yes, the lips touching his feel good, dangerous and good. The sweet kiss lasts and lasts until Napoleon draws back to push words against his mouth.

"Let me?" Napoleon, his stranger-friend asks, and how could he say no when he sees eyes that are open, revealing and unsure?

He nods, and he has no doubt about what he has agreed to when Napoleon turns a little and fishes out a bottle of lubrication from under one of the hard and lumpy pillows.

So. He is a lover of men. He thinks that maybe he should be appalled, angry, or scared, but all he really can think about is what his body tells him. He wants this. He flickers a glance down to what he hasn't acknowledged yet; their hard, silky cocks aligned and touching, sending shocks of pleasure along his nerve banes.

Napoleon prepares him so carefully, now and then moving a leg a little, adjusting his hips, stroking his cock. And all the time he gives him these small looks, asking without words if he is all right, if he is enjoying this, if he is comfortable.

Once, he nearly giggles, when a clear thought arises of how oral fixated Napoleon must be. Napoleon licks him and nips at his skin, telling him, with words, how wonderful he is, how salt and sweet tastes mingle on his skin. And he whispers back now, telling Napoleon that he is perfect, that he is beautiful, that he loves the way the night reflects in his hair.

Once, he lets go of the sheet he is clutching and tugs at Napoleon's arm, bringing one of his hands up to his mouth to suck on the scarred knuckles and lick between them.

It makes Napoleon shake and close his eyes. But he opens them soon enough and continues taking him apart.

It doesn't take long, and then he is ready, as ready as he can be, for Napoleon's cock in him. Inside him.

Napoleon sits back on his heels and studies him where he is shamelessly spread open on the bed in front of him.

He can tell Napoleon wants him; he does nothing to hide it. The strain around his eyes and around that pouting mouth, makes him absolutely sure that Napoleon's control is in shreds. His generous cock is jutting out and leaking, gleaming with the lubrication Napoleon coats it with.

"Illya," Napoleon says and smiles a little. "My clandestine love."

Napoleon folds his hands around his knees and pushes them up against his chest. He should feel exposed and vulnerable, but he does not. He is Illya? He is Napoleon's clandestine love?

When Napoleon bends down and licks; his balls, around his entrance, and then—inside, he can not think at all, only feel. Nothing else matters.

Soon, though, Napoleon sits up again, pressing fingers around the base of his own cock, and asks: "Ready Illya?"

He tries to roll his eyes, only managing a pathetic flutter he hopes Napoleon understands. He is more than ready.

And it's better than he fears, no pain at all. Which is strange, but tells him that he must have done this before, and it's the best he can remember or not remember.

The moans and then the screams are not solely from his own mouth; Napoleon is groaning into his neck while he slowly glides in and out. When he tries to make Napoleon go faster, deeper, Napoleon only gives him a lopsided grin and soothes him with strokes of his strong hands over his stomach and chest.

But finally, their even rhythm is shattered and they are moving, like in a dance; to the same song but in different patterns. The climax reaches him first, but he hasn't stopped pushing up when Napoleon groans and loses all control, pulsing hot into him, gripping his shoulders tight and saying love you with a voice all raspy and hoarse.

Afterwards he has to breathe in small mouthfuls, under the weight of Napoleon's warm body.

This life he doesn't know yet; it must be a good life. It has to be if this man can trust him with his love.

That will be his starting point.