# Hello everyone. This is certainly a long read, but I would appreciate your patience and thoughts, as this captures one of the craziest and most memorable nights of my life. I’ve never written anything remotely like this before, so I’m curious to read your reactions. I took the liberty of sectioning the story with hyphens (——-) in case you’d like to skip to the juicy details.
It was high summer, and a long-anticipated trip to visit with extended family and friends in Eastern Europe promised me a solitary epilogue. I was thrilled beyond belief to travel with a big group of relatives and friends, but I had never traveled alone, and I had a burning desire to discover a new part of the world on my own terms. Admittedly, thoughts of romantic escapades were also never far from my mind.
So, when everyone in our group was to part ways, I planned to make a short solo-trip through several neighboring countries before heading back to the states. That was until my uncle and cousin made a unilateral decision to join my adventure. I was genuinely perturbed, but I quickly put my feelings aside. After all, they are close family and fine traveling companions. Still that itch for spontaneity and self-discovery wormed its way into me with each mountain pass and each new locale.
Halfway through the trip, we found ourselves in a beautiful lakeside resort town that I had researched on a whim. I had been on the road significantly longer than my cousin and uncle, so I caught up on some much-needed rest the first day while they went to explore. I awoke late morning in the quaint little AirBnb, which was tucked into the ancient city walls. I decided to download Tinder while awaiting their return.
“Just to see what the local scene is like,” I told myself.
I quickly got a few matches, and I would periodically check my phone throughout the afternoon to speak with the girls. One girl reached out to me and said that her friend found me attractive. We exchanged numbers and made tentative plans to meet later that night.
After dinner, my uncle retired to his room, and my cousin, who was sharing the second bedroom with me, indicated that she would stay in and read and Facetime her boyfriend until she went to sleep. Seizing my opportunity, I made up a story about giving her privacy and calling an old friend. I stepped out of the fortified enclave that was our temporary home and made my way down to the modern district.
While completely off the map for Americans, this is a very popular town with European holiday goers, and there was something exhilarating about being awash in a sea of foreign languages and sensibilities. What is a quaint, historic fishing village by day, becomes something of a mini festival at night. Huge throngs of people snaked their way through the narrow streets, past bustling sidewalk cafes and dance clubs. Slick-haired machismo types smoked their cigars and looked on, as their stilettoed wives, or perhaps mistresses, reveled in late-night luxury shopping sprees. And the gaggles of girls. Oh my god, the girls! There were beautiful, young European women everywhere. My heart raced.
I met up with my Tinder match at one of the aforementioned dance clubs, but I was not prepared for what I found. It was not just my match and her romantically inclined friend, as I had naively anticipated. Rather, it was five absolute smoke shows looking at me from across the table, and I was immediately out of my comfort zone. I was not even sure who that certain friend was, and I was afraid to ask straight away. Now, I’m not completely devoid of social graces, but single-handedly entertaining an entire group of beautiful strangers, while trying to make romantic overtures to one or more of them is a little above my pay grade. I was never *that* guy. Not to mention the language and cultural barriers. Still, I gave it the old college try. We drank, we danced, we smoked, and we talked, but I was not able to build up noticeable chemistry with any one of them, and, at the end of the night, I returned to the AirBnb alone, feeling dejected.
I don’t take rejection personally, yet my mood soured throughout the next day. I am generally hard on myself, and I felt like I had let a golden opportunity slip away. When, if ever, would be next time I could book a one-night stand with a glamorous European bombshell? I couldn’t stop replaying the events of the previous night, trying to figure out what I could have done differently. That’s when my phone buzzed.…
(A new message on Tinder…The Russian dancer I hadn’t even realized matched with me…She was on tour in the area and didn’t know her way around…She wanted to meet me at a hookah bar that night.)
(Cue the car scene from *10 Things I Hate About You*) “Aaaand I’m BACK in the game!”
That second evening an almost identical situation played out. After a long day on the lake and a bountiful fish dinner, replete with liters of homemade wine, my weary uncle headed for his bed. My cousin, again, tired and homesick called her boyfriend. I feigned an excuse to sit out on a café terrace somewhere, but I headed straight for the hookah bar. I was on a mission.
**——- Meeting Lydia ——-**
When I arrived, I saw my match waiting for me at a table. Let’s call her Lydia for the sake of this story. She’s everything you would picture in a Russian ballerina: slender build; soft features; flawless, pale skin; long, flowing black hair; sheepish grin; big, expectant eyes. Everything that is, except for the massive bosom that was billowing out of the top of her blouse. To this day, I can’t fathom how that white shirt managed to contain her breasts, or how such massive features could grace such a petite frame, or how I managed to keep my eyes off them for more than a few seconds, and yes, they are very real.
Lydia’s broken English wasn’t much better than my Russian, but I wouldn’t let that deter me. We conversed in fits and starts, with the aid of Google Translate, some pictures from my camera roll, and the practiced art of body language. I regaled her with tales of the previous weeks’ travels, and she seemed to appreciate it, or she was at least polite enough to humor me. As the evening wore on, she sank more comfortably into her chair, and she swaddled the shisha pipe near her mouth in delicate gestures. I knew I had peaked her interest. We smoke and drank until the bar closed, at which point I suggested a local dance club. It just so happened that the only open club was the one I visited with the group girls the night before. I prayed that they would not make a second appearance.
Whoever entered the peripheries of our experience at that club made no mark upon us. From the moment we set foot on the dance floor, we were connected at the hip. Though few words were exchanged we both moved in the same direction. Cliché as it may sound, we were strangers in a strange land, and we took comfort in each other. We danced and drank until well past midnight when I suggested we go for a walk. Lydia had just arrived in town that morning and knew nothing of the city. I figured I would take the opportunity to show her some of the more beautiful vistas in the old city that I had found just the day before.
We exited the club, hand in hand, and made a beeline for those old city walls. As we approached the main gate, I glanced over to the nook where my uncle and cousin slept. We passed under the gate, and the sounds of the club and busy sidewalks faded out in rapid succession. It was just the two of us, strolling into the heart of the old city.
I could tell that Lydia was struggling on the cobblestone, so I stopped. I steadied her with one hand, and, with the other, I delicately pulled off her high heels in my best interpretation of a feudal retainer. I exchanged her cumbersome heels for my walking shoes, and I carried on barefoot, with Lydia at my side and the women’s shoes in my hand. With a return to my shared room out of the question, there was only one option before us.
We descended a quiet residential street until we met the lake under a brilliant, waxing moon. I helped her onto the boardwalk that caresses the undulating cliff side of the old port city. Past the sleepy fishing huts, we went. Past the beach and the restaurant where I had dined just a few hours before. We made our way onto the docks where, in a few short hours, the grizzled fishermen would unmoor their boats and cast their nets into the water. But, for a few brief hours, we would have the lake to ourselves.
**——- Start of the action ——-**
We plunked down onto the wooden treads and sunk our feet into the cool water. A nearby tavern was closing for the night, and vestiges of folk music drifted in the air. The innkeeper was well within earshot. He may very well have seen us. Any number of lakeside denizens may have seen us in our drunken revelry, but it didn’t matter. We were all over each other. I don’t know who made the first move, but, within a matter of seconds our clothes were off, and my face was buried in those sweet, sumptuous breasts I had been longing for since the moment I first laid eyes on Lydia.
I pawed eagerly at each breast, alternatively licking and suckling each nipple in rhythmic fashion. My enthusiasm was matched by her hands clawing at my upper back in ecstatic frenzy. I could smell her getting wetter and wetter. The searing lacerations of her nails drove me downwards across her flattened stomach, around her muscular thighs, and into her nave. I moved more quickly and with greater enthusiasm. In the humid air my tongue and face began to drip with a mixture of sweat and her nectar as I teased her clit out of its cavity.
“I want you to cum on me,” I said, as I pulled her in closer.
I don’t know if she understood, but I intimated with a simultaneous movement of tongue and hands, reaching for every sensitive spot I could find. She responded with an involuntary quiver and successive bursts of joy. Stunned and satisfied, I could have made peace with the night, but she decided to take a turn.
Lydia flipped me on my back and straddled my legs, taking my throbbing cock in her hand before I could even orient myself. With one hand, she pulled at the back of her own scalp, smirking and tonguing the air and biting her lip. With the other hand, she began to stroke me. Just as soon as I relaxed into the chiseled planks of the dock, she thrust her legs back in a swift motion, and her knees hit the boards with a pronounced thud. It must have hurt, but all that I registered was the feeling of her lips curling around my cock. She clenched my testes in a vice-like grip and slid the entirety of my shaft into her mouth in repeated gasps. A few minutes into her foray she began to moan past the pulsating rod in her mouth, and I could smell her dripping with pleasure once again.
In that moment, I knew I was just about to completely lose my faculties, so I released Lydia from her grip and, grabbing that toned dancer’s ass, I pulled her onto me. Without hesitation, she planted her hands on my chest and began wildly thrusting and gyrating on my cock. This change in circumstance offered me little respite, however, as I was repeatedly caressed by what I can only describe as THE warmest pussy I have ever experienced. I would remark on this to Lydia later, and she sheepishly admitted that other men had raved about the warmth of her canal. I faltered where others had likely had before me, and I pulled her off my member, just in time to shoot veritable fireworks up to six, maybe seven feet in the air, much to my own surprise. She collapsed into me as globs of white residue rained onto our bodies in short bursts. I heard a few stray drops meet the stolid surface of the water next to us. I had never, nor would I ever finish so forcefully.
We clung tightly to each other for a few minutes, then Lydia reached over and pulled some sanitary cloths from her purse. She expertly cleaned up our mess while kissing my lips. We laid in silence at the edge of the lake, only stroking each other and staring up at the moon. Her head on my chest, she listened intently to my heart beat, and I listened to the water lapping at the shore. We stayed like that for maybe ten minutes, and I didn’t lose my rigidity for even a second. I was eager for more.
Turning towards Lydia, I grabbed her hand and placed it around my cock, and I began to kiss her. She tugged me with precise strokes, as we kissed passionately and flicked our tongues against one another. Now it was my turn to flip the script. I turned her onto all fours. Her face laid in her arms, crossed over on the dock, with her hair splayed in every direction. Her marvelous ass was rounded high in the air in front of me. Without hesitation, I plunged my face deep in to her warm chasm, leading her clit in circular motions with my tongue and grinding my face forcefully into her cheeks. When she was sufficiently wet, I moved a few fingers inwards, towards her G-spot, while I gingerly licked her little button of an asshole. Lydia squealed with delight, and it dawned on me just how loud we were. How loud we likely had been minutes before.
Now in our second round, and more conscientious of our surroundings, I would glance back every now and then to see if the old innkeeper or anyone else was watching. To see if one of the villagers, accustomed to quiet nights in the old city, had come to investigate the source of the moans, cries, and thumps. It was assuredly, dark, but dark enough to conceal us from the shore? Despite the time and darkness, I found myself actively hoping that someone *would* catch us. By then, I was deep inside one of the most beautiful women I had ever laid eyes on, and I was overcome with a primordial urge to be seen by everyone. EVERYONE.
I began thrusting faster and with forceful conviction until Lydia propped herself back up with her hands and started thrusting back into me. In turn, I grabbed a fistful of hair and pulled her back into an impossibly convex arch. She was reared up like a startled horse, and she knelt, suspended at mercy of her hair, clenched in my hand. She sounded almost pitifully exasperated as I slammed my body into her without remorse. My enthusiasm was quelled only by the feeling of my knees beginning to bleed on the splintered wood. Taking the cue, I cast her back down onto the dock and began spooning her from the side. I groped her now sweat-sopped breasts and struggled not to slip out of her dripping wet hole. It wasn’t long, though, before I succumbed myself and shot several thick ropes of cum onto her belly, the last of which pulled a mountain of energy along with it. This time, I was utterly spent.
We laid again, at the edge of the dock and kissed each other, slowly and intermittently this time. Between pecks we stared into each other’s eyes, and I wondered what she was thinking. I wondered if she was just as amazed at the whole situation as I was. I wondered if she had done something like this before. After all, she was remarkably comfortable with the whole scenario. No reservations.
“What the hell did I just do?” I thought. “What time is it?”
As if sharing the same thought, Lydia quickly got up and put her clothes back on, and she sat back down with her feet in the water. I joined her, and I began pointing out landmarks across the lake. It might have been the alcohol talking or the beauty seated next to me, but I really felt I was falling in love with that place on the lake. Lydia would be in town for a while, and I wanted her to see everything I had, just the way I did. I felt like I was showing off my hometown to a visiting friend.
“Hey, there’s something else I want to show you,” I said.
I stood up. Lydia just nodded and smiled up at me as she took my hand. I led her back past the now completely dark restaurant and up the city street. This time, instead of making the familiar right back to the AirBnb, we hung a left and ascended winding steps toward a 12th century chapel carved into the side of the cliff. The early morning fog was rolling in and the street lamps cast and otherworldly glow. When the church façade came into view, she let go of my hand, reached for her phone, and broke into a run like a child seeing a friend on the first day of school. Apparently, our late-night tour made for a great Snapchat story.
We made our way in concentric spirals and switchbacks around the fortified hillside that characterizes the town. We stopped at each meticulously carved staircase and each chapel.
“So pretty!” she would say to me between pictures, videos, and Boomerangs. “Thank you! So pretty!”
Finally, we crested the hill, and I noticed how the fog had almost completely enveloped the lake. Smelling the tall pines that shade the ruins atop the city, I was reminded of a place back home. We stood apart and both gazed admiringly at our ascent. From our vantage point, we could see the chapels, the staircases, and what was left of the lake. Most notably, you could make out our infamous dock. I tried to picture the two of us down below. It must have been quite a sight.
Next thing I knew, my jeans were being unzipped. Lydia was inexorably squatting on her heels and fishing for my cock. She found it in no time and stared up at me with a full mouth and even fuller eyes. I placed her head in my hands and started to heave gently. She reached both arms behind her in search of the nearby stone wall. While she steadied herself against the wall, I held her head forward and methodically probed the back of her throat. I took my time, and Lydia obediently stuck out her tongue as a consistent lather of saliva worked up on her face. From time to time, I would catch her looking down at my engorged penis entering her mouth. I told her to look up at me, and she obliged. This girl really had a gift for pleasing a man.
Eventually I disengaged and helped Lydia back up. Jeans still clinging awkwardly to my ankles, I sat down on the low-slung stone wall at the crest of the hill. Lydia turned around and sat on me with her hands just above my knees. She alternated between slow gyrations of her hips and machine-like jolts up and down my shaft. The dancer was really starting to come out in her. In what I expected to be our last tryst of the night, for it was getting close to dawn, I settled into the more monotonous script of our third round. For a small eternity, Lydia road abreast me, abreast the stone wall, abreast the hill, abreast the deep lake set in the seemingly endless mountains.
I helped her up again, and turned her to face the lake. Bent over at the waist, with her hands planted firmly on the ancient stone wall, I thrust deeply into her. Ever so slowly, I pulled most of the way out, only to crash deeply in again. I carried on like that until my legs, weary from weeks of travel and hours of cavorting and hours of lovemaking began to buckle. With a groan I pulled out, all the way this time, and tapped Lydia on her hip. She instinctively turned to catch the last drops from my reservoir with her lips, crooning as she did so. I held the back of her head and placed my sack in her mouth. She licked eagerly while I started to play with my cock. My movements grew quicker, and I worked myself up in a feverish pitch. Suddenly, my bowels tensed, my eyes rolled back into my head, and, for the second time in a minute, I reached and epic climax. And just like that, our night was over.
In my exuberance, I hadn’t even noticed the sun starting to come up. Lydia and I got dressed and descended the hill exhausted, giddy, and still drunk. With the night receding behind us, we passed quickly by the chapels and hidden alcoves of the old city. We slowed only in passing a solitary fisherman on his way to the lake. An old salt with his hand-woven basket in tow. His routine seemed likely to be as old as the chapel carved into the rock, and his expression said that he was just as surprised to see us, as we were to see him.
Then, all too soon, we reached the main city gate adjacent to my temporary domicile. Lydia and I kissed and embraced ever so shortly, both of us understanding the inevitability of our permanent separation. To linger would only worsen the blow. She carried onward, back towards her sleeping co-performers on the outskirts of the city. I stumbled clumsily, yet unnoticed into my bedroom.
The next day Lydia danced with her troupe. The following day, my cousin returned home, and my uncle and I departed for our next destination. In the wee hours of the morning, my uncle and I boarded a battered soviet-era bus headed for the coast. I plunked my head against the cold window pane, and I dreamt of Lydia.
Source: reddit.com/r/gonewildstories/comments/jz6em8/russian_rendezvous_mf
Wow, thanks for sharing! Sounds like Croatia.