2025-07-11, 05:18 PM
Lu & Lu
It's a rainy Sunday afternoon, just after 4 p.m. I've just got out of the shower and, standing in front of the large mirror in my bedroom, I apply some cream; I don't just want to be clean inside and out for my date, I also want to smell good for him. My gaze falls on the reflecting surface, the guy I see there looks good; damn good, in fact.
Ok, I admit it, I'm a bit narcissistic, but it's not my fault that I have a hot body; one of my lovers once compared me to Michelangelo's David. However, I don't have much in common with this statue, really not! Although my upper body is just as well-defined as the marble one, and my legs and arms are also impressive, I'm really not a bodybuilder. Okay, I often go to the gym, but not to work out and work on my body. No, I go there more for cruising purposes, and catching men can hardly be called a sport, although this endeavor can also take a lot of stamina.
But what really bothers me about this comparison is that my appendage is nowhere near as small and puny as that of the first monumental statue of the High Renaissance; at least the proportions are right for me. The only thing I can accept is the equal ranking with the backside of what is probably the most famous sculpture in art history: my ass is indeed almost perfectly shaped.
But this perfection is no wonder, after all it was “Mother Nature” herself who created my apple-shaped bottom and she did a good job, as not only I think. My real mother used to be a prima ballerina in the Czech National Ballet and now runs a ballet school in Hamburg. Before he fled to freedom, my father was a Russian military master in floor exercises; he made it as an underwear model in many a Western mail order catalog.
As I said, my shapely seat is a gift – a gift that I more than enjoy. Men love my round, well-proportioned curves, they love my smooth, white, almost silky skin, and since every man loves dimples and I have two of them right here, it's the icing on the cake when they knead my cheeks voluptuously or do other things with and in them.
But my parents didn't just give me my parents' trained muscles, I also owe my enormous flexibility and almost perfect body control to them. Many a man already gets out of control when he just plays with my two balls, kneading, massaging or rolling them. Some representatives of the male sex, however, only lose their minds when they penetrate with their manhood into my soft, narrow, yet demanding hole and give themselves (and thus me!) a lot of pleasure. If I then use my body control to perform one acrobatic move or another during the act while riding them to orgasm, it may well happen that instead of the “post-coital cigarette” I get a real declaration of love.
So what happened last night around 2:00 a.m. is not my fault – well, at least not entirely. One cause, as already mentioned, is my genetics, to which I owe such a beautiful and fuckable ass, but the main culprit is actually Marion, my roommate for four years, and her extremely stupid and utterly foolish habit of getting a new lover before she has finally given up her old bedfellow.
And it was precisely this quirk that, when I was awakened by a penetrating ringing and wild drumming against the apartment door, tore me out of a damp and rather sticky dream. Not quite in control of my senses, I made my way to the source of the noise and threw open the door, wanting to scare away the nighttime troublemaker. The hand of Lukas, Marion's soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, was just swirling air molecules, no longer hitting wood.
The look on the otherwise attractive face of the freshly minted business manager was truly awful: his cheeks were bloodshot, his otherwise cheeky chocolate-brown eyes looked sunken. You could clearly see the anger on his square chin and his short brown hair, usually styled and gelled, was so dishevelled you would have thought he had pulled it out. The man with the broad shoulders and even broader chest looked like a picture of misery; I was really shocked.
What are you doing here? Still not fully awake, I leaned on the doorframe with my right hand and rubbed the sleep from my eyes with my left.
I have to see Marion! Lukas? His voice was hoarse, he was gasping for breath. Suddenly he stormed past me and headed straight for my roommate's bedroom. He stopped in front of the open door, saw the made bed and looked at me. “She didn't come home, did she?”
I closed the door and watched Lukas go into our living room. ”Sorry, I'm really sorry.”
And I really felt sorry for the now miserable-looking guy! In all the years that I shared the large apartment with a view of the city park with the hairdresser, I had seen many men come and – literally – go, sometimes even through Marion's bedroom. But none of her guys lasted as long as Lukas, almost six months!
He was really good-looking and gave her the space she needed. The only recognizable drawback, at least for me, was the loud and powerful moaning and groaning that the two of them produced during certain bedroom activities, thereby depriving me of my well-deserved beauty sleep.
After all this time, I had thought that Marion's search for her “Mr. Perfect” had finally been crowned with success, but I was obviously mistaken. Two days ago, I had just come home from work and discovered a trail of clothes leading from the apartment door to the bathroom. It was clearly a construction worker and therefore not Lukas. What would an academic need with a hammer, a spirit level and a hard hat? The worn work gloves lying next to the brown dungarees were probably two sizes too big for his delicate hands. I listened briefly at the door: I heard the shower and some unmistakable noises, probably coming from under the same. However, the voice of the male part of the coupling was considerably deeper, almost macho, and not as soft and pleasant as that of the former student, and I knew from painful experience what they sounded like during mating rituals.
If the guys disappeared from her life, they would inevitably disappear from mine as well; in most cases, I didn't really mind their bedfellows, they were often too rough and proletarian for my taste. Lukas, on the other hand, was completely different, a real ray of light, a really great contemporary: friendly, polite, funny, courteous; you could really talk to him. I would really miss him!
When I was a child and I was feeling down, either physically or emotionally, my mother would always come around the corner with an ice cream, to try to cheer me up. I thought about it for a moment. There was still ice cream in the freezer, left over from my DVD night the night before. When watching tearjerkers like Latter Days, Prayers for Bobby or Summer Storm, I need ice cream to be happy. I went into the living room, because only from there can you get to the small kitchenette, which we hardly use for manual food preparation; Marion and I are more into things that can and must only be warmed or baked.
I put the package of vanilla ice cream on the counter, took the lid off and a spoon out of the drawer. Damn! Where are the bowls? I thought, but my brain wasn't working properly yet; never mind, the spoon will have to do. Lukas, who had been wandering around aimlessly in our living room, had probably noticed me fiddling with the fridge and came up to me. He stood half next to me and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, but I had the feeling that he was pretty close to the water. And if there's one thing I hate, it's people crying, whether they're a man or a woman.
“So, young man?” I took a spoonful of ice cream, turned to him, leaned comfortably against the countertop. ”Old family recipe for heartbreak: ice cream!” Lukas looked at me rather puzzled, said nothing, just stood there silently. “Come on, it really helps.” I guided the spoon to his mouth. He didn't beat my hand away, but he still defended it, and a second attempt failed as well. I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, then don't!”
If my mother's trick with the ice cream didn't work, my father had something up his sleeve: He made himself into Hansel, teased himself first and then me, to boost my mood. And I wanted to cheer Lukas up, at least a little. I held the eating utensil to my naked chest, because, apart from a white boxer around my hips, I was undressed. If I see even a single tear in your pretty brown eyes, then you will lick this.” He looked at me confused, but then he did manage to raise the corners of his mouth a little, so I was able to coax a slight grin out of him.
I inwardly rejoiced, looked at my roommate's almost-ex, who was the same age as me, and grinned. “I know I'm not Marion; my chest is flat and below my belly button, I only have a hole. I can't even brew a magic potion to change that, but...” Something stirred on his face again. “But I want to see you smile again.”
Lukas, who is half a head taller than me, hesitated briefly, then took a step towards me. I could clearly see that the corner of his mouth had gone up a bit again. He still wasn't grinning properly, but he now looked much more relaxed and at ease; the mental strain seemed to be leaving him. I blew the final attack. “I don't care that you're an old and whiny hetero, but? you're going to lick the ice cream now and you're going to like it! Do we understand each other??
Then it happened and a glob of ice cream slid off the spoon, landing directly on my chest, just above the left nipple. I winced, the ice cream was cold and immediately began to run down my chest. Another shiver ran through me, as if I had touched a socket. But this second reaction of the electrons in my nerve pathways was not due to the slowly melting cold of the vanilla ice cream, rather it was Lukas' warm breath, which now hit my skin. The brown-haired business graduate had lowered his head, and suddenly his face was hovering over my chest. A third shiver shook my innermost being when, slowly and as if in slow motion, he actually touched me. His hands were warm and his fingers, light as feathers, danced on my skin, coming to rest on my upper arms. Just at that moment, I felt his tongue as it slowly traced the pale yellow trickle of ice cream. I almost went crazy.
My whole body began to tremble, my knees went weak and my ass started to twitch frantically when, after what seemed like an eternity, it went back up, also at a snail's pace, and his thighs collided with my groin. I don't need to mention that I had a full-blown hard-on and that my white, wide boxer resembled a tent.
I was afraid to touch him. From previous experiences playing with heterosexual men, I knew that there is always an invisible trip wire, an imaginary boundary that it's better not to cross. What gay man has not heard sentences like “I don't kiss!” or “Don't touch me, just blow me!”
So I stood almost rigid and immobile as Lukas peeled off his jacket and then sank his hand into the ice cream cup that was standing next to me on the kitchen counter. What was he up to? He looked at the lump of milk and flavorings as intensely as I did, as if it were a precious jewel. His face had somehow changed, it still seemed to be glowing – or had started to glow again – but the way it did so was completely different from the way it looked at the beginning of his nocturnal visit.
Suddenly, my skin went cold again as he smeared the dessert over my chest and stomach. His warm hands grasped my forearms as he knelt down, and then began a new, but equally slow round of licking and lapping. His initially rather gentle lip contact gradually turned into light and erotic sucking, and the occasional nibbling. One shockwave after another raced through my body when I felt his teeth on my right nipple, his mouth almost sucking on it; his hair smelled good, spicy and warm.
As his tongue explored my belly button, his hands moved from my forearms to my sides, but didn't come to rest there; no, they tickled me lightly. His mouth went on a journey again, examining my flat six-pack once more. And just as his lips hovered directly over the tip of my tent pole, his strong hands grasped my perfect balls of flesh and began to knead them through the fabric.
Suddenly he stopped what was, for me, a very hot action and looked up. “Hot ass!”
“Thanks!” Why was I croaking?
Lukas suddenly turned me around, seemingly not the least bit interested in the source of my joy. Instead, he pulled my boxers down to my ankles and pushed me against the kitchen counter. His hands caressed and stroked, patted and tickled the skin on my extended spine, then his fingers clawed into my well-formed flesh. Like I said, guys get turned on just by looking at my ass (and lose themselves in the moment), and the brown-haired guy's moans, which could be heard the whole time, could be interpreted as his way of appreciating my ass.
The next thing I remember, it was getting cold on my ass? ice cream! And before I knew it, Lukas was licking the cold, viscous cream off my biscuit halves. It was maddening; once again the electrons on my nerve pathways went berserk; he gently and tenderly, but somehow also firmly, grabbed the parts of my hemispheres that he wasn't nibbling on. Then his thumbs slid, whether by accident or design I cannot say, into the valley and knocked on the gate.
My whole body twitched, my back arched and the lustful groan came from my mouth this time. Lukas pulled my cheeks further apart, his delicate fingertips no longer just knocking, no, they began to penetrate me. When the thought occurred to me that Lukas would take me, to catapult me into the seventh heaven of lust, as he had done to Marion before, the temperature of my slit was lowered again, another lump of ice ran down my valley.
Ahhhhh!? I could only grunt, because when Lukas' hungry mouth kissed me on the back, his tongue lingered in my valley, only to then lick at my goal, now covered with cream, I forgot everything around me. The heat of my hot box evaporated by itself, the cold of the dessert. Heaven! Is that cool! Just cool!?
Lukas? Tongue circled gently around my twitching and pulsating hole, began to probe the soft inside. Like an explorer on an expedition into the unknown, he entered me with his taste buds, gently and tenderly. My hands clenched into fists, my breath caught in my throat with every flick of his tongue. My ass squirmed wildly and licentious in front of his face, danced hectically up and down, wanting more and more.
Suddenly and without warning, Lukas' right hand, albeit a bit roughly, encircled my joyfully dripping cock; squeezing and squeezing it. I let out a loud groan, which must have startled him, because his initially somewhat awkward grip turned into a gentle, almost loving and tender caress, as if my appendage were a fragile piece of filigree glass art. I was simply blown away!
Both the breathtaking rimming of his tongue and the unexpected handwork – he had pushed my foreskin all the way back and tried to penetrate my slit with his little finger – almost made me fly. I became a plaything of lust, a begging, whining puppy; I was on the verge of exploding. The balls in my scrotum were burning, my cock was tingling, but I didn't want to come yet, not yet! First he had to conquer me with all his manhood and then fuck me to the limits of bliss.
It's a rainy Sunday afternoon, just after 4 p.m. I've just got out of the shower and, standing in front of the large mirror in my bedroom, I apply some cream; I don't just want to be clean inside and out for my date, I also want to smell good for him. My gaze falls on the reflecting surface, the guy I see there looks good; damn good, in fact.
Ok, I admit it, I'm a bit narcissistic, but it's not my fault that I have a hot body; one of my lovers once compared me to Michelangelo's David. However, I don't have much in common with this statue, really not! Although my upper body is just as well-defined as the marble one, and my legs and arms are also impressive, I'm really not a bodybuilder. Okay, I often go to the gym, but not to work out and work on my body. No, I go there more for cruising purposes, and catching men can hardly be called a sport, although this endeavor can also take a lot of stamina.
But what really bothers me about this comparison is that my appendage is nowhere near as small and puny as that of the first monumental statue of the High Renaissance; at least the proportions are right for me. The only thing I can accept is the equal ranking with the backside of what is probably the most famous sculpture in art history: my ass is indeed almost perfectly shaped.
But this perfection is no wonder, after all it was “Mother Nature” herself who created my apple-shaped bottom and she did a good job, as not only I think. My real mother used to be a prima ballerina in the Czech National Ballet and now runs a ballet school in Hamburg. Before he fled to freedom, my father was a Russian military master in floor exercises; he made it as an underwear model in many a Western mail order catalog.
As I said, my shapely seat is a gift – a gift that I more than enjoy. Men love my round, well-proportioned curves, they love my smooth, white, almost silky skin, and since every man loves dimples and I have two of them right here, it's the icing on the cake when they knead my cheeks voluptuously or do other things with and in them.
But my parents didn't just give me my parents' trained muscles, I also owe my enormous flexibility and almost perfect body control to them. Many a man already gets out of control when he just plays with my two balls, kneading, massaging or rolling them. Some representatives of the male sex, however, only lose their minds when they penetrate with their manhood into my soft, narrow, yet demanding hole and give themselves (and thus me!) a lot of pleasure. If I then use my body control to perform one acrobatic move or another during the act while riding them to orgasm, it may well happen that instead of the “post-coital cigarette” I get a real declaration of love.
So what happened last night around 2:00 a.m. is not my fault – well, at least not entirely. One cause, as already mentioned, is my genetics, to which I owe such a beautiful and fuckable ass, but the main culprit is actually Marion, my roommate for four years, and her extremely stupid and utterly foolish habit of getting a new lover before she has finally given up her old bedfellow.
And it was precisely this quirk that, when I was awakened by a penetrating ringing and wild drumming against the apartment door, tore me out of a damp and rather sticky dream. Not quite in control of my senses, I made my way to the source of the noise and threw open the door, wanting to scare away the nighttime troublemaker. The hand of Lukas, Marion's soon-to-be ex-boyfriend, was just swirling air molecules, no longer hitting wood.
The look on the otherwise attractive face of the freshly minted business manager was truly awful: his cheeks were bloodshot, his otherwise cheeky chocolate-brown eyes looked sunken. You could clearly see the anger on his square chin and his short brown hair, usually styled and gelled, was so dishevelled you would have thought he had pulled it out. The man with the broad shoulders and even broader chest looked like a picture of misery; I was really shocked.
What are you doing here? Still not fully awake, I leaned on the doorframe with my right hand and rubbed the sleep from my eyes with my left.
I have to see Marion! Lukas? His voice was hoarse, he was gasping for breath. Suddenly he stormed past me and headed straight for my roommate's bedroom. He stopped in front of the open door, saw the made bed and looked at me. “She didn't come home, did she?”
I closed the door and watched Lukas go into our living room. ”Sorry, I'm really sorry.”
And I really felt sorry for the now miserable-looking guy! In all the years that I shared the large apartment with a view of the city park with the hairdresser, I had seen many men come and – literally – go, sometimes even through Marion's bedroom. But none of her guys lasted as long as Lukas, almost six months!
He was really good-looking and gave her the space she needed. The only recognizable drawback, at least for me, was the loud and powerful moaning and groaning that the two of them produced during certain bedroom activities, thereby depriving me of my well-deserved beauty sleep.
After all this time, I had thought that Marion's search for her “Mr. Perfect” had finally been crowned with success, but I was obviously mistaken. Two days ago, I had just come home from work and discovered a trail of clothes leading from the apartment door to the bathroom. It was clearly a construction worker and therefore not Lukas. What would an academic need with a hammer, a spirit level and a hard hat? The worn work gloves lying next to the brown dungarees were probably two sizes too big for his delicate hands. I listened briefly at the door: I heard the shower and some unmistakable noises, probably coming from under the same. However, the voice of the male part of the coupling was considerably deeper, almost macho, and not as soft and pleasant as that of the former student, and I knew from painful experience what they sounded like during mating rituals.
If the guys disappeared from her life, they would inevitably disappear from mine as well; in most cases, I didn't really mind their bedfellows, they were often too rough and proletarian for my taste. Lukas, on the other hand, was completely different, a real ray of light, a really great contemporary: friendly, polite, funny, courteous; you could really talk to him. I would really miss him!
When I was a child and I was feeling down, either physically or emotionally, my mother would always come around the corner with an ice cream, to try to cheer me up. I thought about it for a moment. There was still ice cream in the freezer, left over from my DVD night the night before. When watching tearjerkers like Latter Days, Prayers for Bobby or Summer Storm, I need ice cream to be happy. I went into the living room, because only from there can you get to the small kitchenette, which we hardly use for manual food preparation; Marion and I are more into things that can and must only be warmed or baked.
I put the package of vanilla ice cream on the counter, took the lid off and a spoon out of the drawer. Damn! Where are the bowls? I thought, but my brain wasn't working properly yet; never mind, the spoon will have to do. Lukas, who had been wandering around aimlessly in our living room, had probably noticed me fiddling with the fridge and came up to me. He stood half next to me and took a deep breath. His eyes were closed, but I had the feeling that he was pretty close to the water. And if there's one thing I hate, it's people crying, whether they're a man or a woman.
“So, young man?” I took a spoonful of ice cream, turned to him, leaned comfortably against the countertop. ”Old family recipe for heartbreak: ice cream!” Lukas looked at me rather puzzled, said nothing, just stood there silently. “Come on, it really helps.” I guided the spoon to his mouth. He didn't beat my hand away, but he still defended it, and a second attempt failed as well. I shrugged my shoulders. “Well, then don't!”
If my mother's trick with the ice cream didn't work, my father had something up his sleeve: He made himself into Hansel, teased himself first and then me, to boost my mood. And I wanted to cheer Lukas up, at least a little. I held the eating utensil to my naked chest, because, apart from a white boxer around my hips, I was undressed. If I see even a single tear in your pretty brown eyes, then you will lick this.” He looked at me confused, but then he did manage to raise the corners of his mouth a little, so I was able to coax a slight grin out of him.
I inwardly rejoiced, looked at my roommate's almost-ex, who was the same age as me, and grinned. “I know I'm not Marion; my chest is flat and below my belly button, I only have a hole. I can't even brew a magic potion to change that, but...” Something stirred on his face again. “But I want to see you smile again.”
Lukas, who is half a head taller than me, hesitated briefly, then took a step towards me. I could clearly see that the corner of his mouth had gone up a bit again. He still wasn't grinning properly, but he now looked much more relaxed and at ease; the mental strain seemed to be leaving him. I blew the final attack. “I don't care that you're an old and whiny hetero, but? you're going to lick the ice cream now and you're going to like it! Do we understand each other??
Then it happened and a glob of ice cream slid off the spoon, landing directly on my chest, just above the left nipple. I winced, the ice cream was cold and immediately began to run down my chest. Another shiver ran through me, as if I had touched a socket. But this second reaction of the electrons in my nerve pathways was not due to the slowly melting cold of the vanilla ice cream, rather it was Lukas' warm breath, which now hit my skin. The brown-haired business graduate had lowered his head, and suddenly his face was hovering over my chest. A third shiver shook my innermost being when, slowly and as if in slow motion, he actually touched me. His hands were warm and his fingers, light as feathers, danced on my skin, coming to rest on my upper arms. Just at that moment, I felt his tongue as it slowly traced the pale yellow trickle of ice cream. I almost went crazy.
My whole body began to tremble, my knees went weak and my ass started to twitch frantically when, after what seemed like an eternity, it went back up, also at a snail's pace, and his thighs collided with my groin. I don't need to mention that I had a full-blown hard-on and that my white, wide boxer resembled a tent.
I was afraid to touch him. From previous experiences playing with heterosexual men, I knew that there is always an invisible trip wire, an imaginary boundary that it's better not to cross. What gay man has not heard sentences like “I don't kiss!” or “Don't touch me, just blow me!”
So I stood almost rigid and immobile as Lukas peeled off his jacket and then sank his hand into the ice cream cup that was standing next to me on the kitchen counter. What was he up to? He looked at the lump of milk and flavorings as intensely as I did, as if it were a precious jewel. His face had somehow changed, it still seemed to be glowing – or had started to glow again – but the way it did so was completely different from the way it looked at the beginning of his nocturnal visit.
Suddenly, my skin went cold again as he smeared the dessert over my chest and stomach. His warm hands grasped my forearms as he knelt down, and then began a new, but equally slow round of licking and lapping. His initially rather gentle lip contact gradually turned into light and erotic sucking, and the occasional nibbling. One shockwave after another raced through my body when I felt his teeth on my right nipple, his mouth almost sucking on it; his hair smelled good, spicy and warm.
As his tongue explored my belly button, his hands moved from my forearms to my sides, but didn't come to rest there; no, they tickled me lightly. His mouth went on a journey again, examining my flat six-pack once more. And just as his lips hovered directly over the tip of my tent pole, his strong hands grasped my perfect balls of flesh and began to knead them through the fabric.
Suddenly he stopped what was, for me, a very hot action and looked up. “Hot ass!”
“Thanks!” Why was I croaking?
Lukas suddenly turned me around, seemingly not the least bit interested in the source of my joy. Instead, he pulled my boxers down to my ankles and pushed me against the kitchen counter. His hands caressed and stroked, patted and tickled the skin on my extended spine, then his fingers clawed into my well-formed flesh. Like I said, guys get turned on just by looking at my ass (and lose themselves in the moment), and the brown-haired guy's moans, which could be heard the whole time, could be interpreted as his way of appreciating my ass.
The next thing I remember, it was getting cold on my ass? ice cream! And before I knew it, Lukas was licking the cold, viscous cream off my biscuit halves. It was maddening; once again the electrons on my nerve pathways went berserk; he gently and tenderly, but somehow also firmly, grabbed the parts of my hemispheres that he wasn't nibbling on. Then his thumbs slid, whether by accident or design I cannot say, into the valley and knocked on the gate.
My whole body twitched, my back arched and the lustful groan came from my mouth this time. Lukas pulled my cheeks further apart, his delicate fingertips no longer just knocking, no, they began to penetrate me. When the thought occurred to me that Lukas would take me, to catapult me into the seventh heaven of lust, as he had done to Marion before, the temperature of my slit was lowered again, another lump of ice ran down my valley.
Ahhhhh!? I could only grunt, because when Lukas' hungry mouth kissed me on the back, his tongue lingered in my valley, only to then lick at my goal, now covered with cream, I forgot everything around me. The heat of my hot box evaporated by itself, the cold of the dessert. Heaven! Is that cool! Just cool!?
Lukas? Tongue circled gently around my twitching and pulsating hole, began to probe the soft inside. Like an explorer on an expedition into the unknown, he entered me with his taste buds, gently and tenderly. My hands clenched into fists, my breath caught in my throat with every flick of his tongue. My ass squirmed wildly and licentious in front of his face, danced hectically up and down, wanting more and more.
Suddenly and without warning, Lukas' right hand, albeit a bit roughly, encircled my joyfully dripping cock; squeezing and squeezing it. I let out a loud groan, which must have startled him, because his initially somewhat awkward grip turned into a gentle, almost loving and tender caress, as if my appendage were a fragile piece of filigree glass art. I was simply blown away!
Both the breathtaking rimming of his tongue and the unexpected handwork – he had pushed my foreskin all the way back and tried to penetrate my slit with his little finger – almost made me fly. I became a plaything of lust, a begging, whining puppy; I was on the verge of exploding. The balls in my scrotum were burning, my cock was tingling, but I didn't want to come yet, not yet! First he had to conquer me with all his manhood and then fuck me to the limits of bliss.