Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

Andrew had plenty of time to get back to his hotel room, take a long shower, and pad out into the room with just a towel around his waist and turn on the TV set to catch his daughter, looking younger than her twenty-one years and perky in a way that he knew meant she was a bundle of nerves, and Maria Zhukov, at thirty-two looking tough, determined, and "been here before" confident, come out of the tunnel and onto the court at Arthur Ashe Stadium. At nearly the same time as he switched on the TV set, there was a knock on his hotel room door.

"Did anyone see you?" he asked as he let the man into his room.

"No reporters, if that's what you mean," Grigor Zhukov answered. "But wouldn't that make the news: 'Dads fuck in Hotel Room while Daughters Battle at U.S. Open Final.'"

"That's not funny, Grigor," Andrew said, withdrawing into the room. Backing, whether he meant to or not to the edge of the bed, where Grigor advanced upon him, reaching out and placing the heel of his hand in the center of Andrew's chest.

"You've put on weight in last five years, Andy."

"Then perhaps you don't want to do this," Andrew snapped back.

"Not enough weight for me not to want to do this," Grigor snapped right back. "Have they started play yet?"

"You can see for yourself. The set's on. The girls are warming up."

"Good, we can fuck while they volley in first set. I can be there for trophy ceremony. Do you think I can time my thrusts with the rhythm of the volley?" He laughed at his own joke.

"Do you always have to be so crude—and so direct, Grigor?" Andrew asked.

"You always liked that about me. I don't pretend like you do."

"You do pretend, Grigor, or you'd be out of business."

"And you'd be out of a tennis star for a daughter. But enough of warm up for us." Grigor pushed Andrew down to a seated position on the bed with one hand and grabbed for and whipped off the towel Andrew had tied around his waist with the other hand. In short order, his own trousers and briefs had hit the floor, he had his hands cupping Andrew's ears, and he was guiding Andrew's mouth to his cock.

Andrew didn't fight him. He had known that Grigor was coming here. He had known what Grigor was coming for. He didn't go down on the cock immediately. His tongue went to the tight skin over Grigor's hairless groin and traced the line of a bluish vein down to the base of the cock and then down the cock. He was about to cover the oversized cap of the throbbing cock with his mouth, when, instead, he turned his face up to Grigor's.

"You did set it up, didn't you? I agreed to be here—for you, like this—because you were going to arrange for Stephanie to win. Maria has won two majors already. And she's thirty-two. You agreed that it was Stephanie's time, her turn. Right?"

Grigor laughed. "You would have been here for me even if I didn't . . . wouldn't you? No pretending." And then, when Andrew didn't answered, Grigor laughed again and said, "Suck me off. I don't have all day."

Andrew didn't have time to look at the set—or listen to the commentary—until Grigor had grabbed his knees and lifted and spread them so that he was digging his heels into the edge of the bed and had reclined back on the bed, holding Grigor's bald head between his hands and moaning as Grigor's mouth went down under his ball sac and the Russian's tongue darted between the crease of his buttocks.

Groaning and moaning deeply, Andrew turned his face to the TV set. The score was 3 to 1, first set, in Maria's favor. The camera went to the stands, picking out Maria's box and then Stephanie's, focusing in on Patricia preening for the camera, appearing not the least concerned that her daughter was down a break of serve, probably not even realizing that Stephanie already was losing.

Andrew shuddered and whimpered, his eye's slitting, "Please," he murmured.

"Please what?" Grigor queried, lifting his head, staring up along a naked, trembling torso that wasn't all that bad for a man of fifty.

"Please, if you're going to do it, get to it."

"You want cock, don't you? You're beginning to remember how much you wanted it; how often you begged for cock after first time I took you. I'm not here because of any deal you think you made for Stephanie, am I? I'm here because you remember cock and want it again. You never should have left Boca, left me."

Andrew groaned and turned his head toward the TV set. He didn't see it or hear it, though. He was thinking, thinking back to when Stephanie's talent was first remarked on. She was only six. It had taken nearly two years to get her into Zhukov's academy. Andrew had been thirty-four when he'd let the first man fuck him. He'd long fantasized about—and had been propositioned; he was quite a looker when younger—but he'd never been given enough of a reason to take the risk. Until he was trying to get Stephanie in the Zhukov academy. Zhukov, that first man, had been fifty-four. He told Andrew straight out what the conditions would be before he'd take Stephanie on as a student. He'd fucked Andrew for a year before she was permitted to enter the academy.

Five years ago, as Stephanie was showing the ability to move to the pros, Andrew had broken away. He left Boca Raton. Moved his business back to Richmond. Left Patricia and Stephanie behind in Florida. Tried to celebrate his escape from Grigor. But he hadn't escaped, not really. There had been more men then. He ever had been on a quest for someone who could fuck him like Grigor had. The quest had not been fully successful. And then there had been the divorce.

The deal had been Grigor's idea, and Andrew had jumped to it—and, yes, damn it, it hadn't just been because of the deal. It had been because he never had gotten Grigor out of his system.

He cried out an "Oh, shit!" and clutched at the bedspread as Grigor entered him, strongly. And then he was panting and arching his back, putting his pelvis in motion, and gasping a litany of "Fuck me, fuck me, fuckmefuckme!" as Grigor thrust hard and deep and pistoned faster and faster until Andrew ejaculated up his belly and screamed a glorious release.

He lay back on the bed, exhausted, sweating, sighing, as Grigor stood between his thighs, still inside him, smiling, gripping his hips. Grigor slowly pulled out of him, pulled the condom off his cock, and commanded, "Make me come now." Andrew reached down, grabbed the big, hard cock in both hands, and began to stroke it.

"No, suck me off," Grigor said, moving up on the bed, his knees squeezing the sides of Andrew's chest, his torso leaning back, with his hands gripping Andrew's knees. He turned his head toward the TV set while Andrew closed his mouth over the cock and brought Grigor to an ejaculation.

Grigor brought his torso back up and looked down in Andrew's face. "You want me fuck you again, don't you?"

"Yes," Andrew answered. It was a reluctant yes, but it was a yes.

"You're sorry you ever left me, aren't you?"

"Yes," Andrew whispered. Grigor hadn't lost any of his virility in the past five years, any of his vigor, any of his stamina, any of his cock's ability to find and play every nook and cranny of Andrew's channel, deep. In Grigor's case, seventy wasn't old in every respect. Yes, damn it, yes Andrew wanted Grigor to fuck him again.

"Well, not now, I'm afraid. There isn't time now. But I'll be back tonight, after the parties. You'll be here, won't you?"

"Yes."

"And you got two key cards to the room, didn't you? You have one for me."

"Yes."

After Grigor had dressed and left the room, Andrew lay there for a few minutes, damning himself for his weakness—and for having already calculated how many hours he would have to endure until the parties were over and he was back in this room, waiting.

He heard the rise in applause on the television set and looked up in time to see that the set was over. Maria had won it 6 to 3. He sat, eyes plastered to the screen until it was all over. Grigor had made it to the tennis venue in time to be in his daughter's players' box to beam down at his daughter, Maria, as she climbed on a chair to receive victory hugs from those in her box.

The camera scanned to the other player's box. Patricia was still preening, probably oblivious to the fact that the match was over. Andrew had been right, though. If he'd been in that box when the camera scanned it, he wouldn't have been able to hide his disappointment.

Nobody knew what he'd had to do to enable Stephanie to get even this far. Nobody, of course, but Grigor Zhukov. And Grigor wouldn't see it as any sort of a sacrifice. Grigor considered himself to be a gift.

Andrew laughed. Who was he kidding? He saw Grigor as a gift too. And he knew there was no reason whatsoever to pretend with Grigor that there ever, really, had been any sort of a deal today that Andrew had consciously expected to be honored.