"Jesus - yes, there, right fucking there YES!"
Anatoly doesn't know whether to be proud or incredulous. He has to admire Freddie's stamina; with another twist of his fingers in his lover's already tender hole, he realizes it's been hours since they started this game and will probably be one or two more before they're done. He's got quite a set of lungs on him, which is no surprise at all, and he wonders if the whole mountain can hear them.
He'd been the one to suggest coming back to the Mountain View Inn for their anniversary, of course. Freddie had groused that they're not a couple so they don't have an anniversary, but he'd gotten on the plane willingly enough. Since the plane had touched down it had been nothing but sex and flirting and teasing and sex, and Anatoly really isn't about to complain.
He's never going to get the soppy romantic stuff out of Freddie, and he might as well accept it. Besides - this is arguably better.
The American tugs enthusiastically at the padded cuffs keeping his arms twisted behind his back and, head turned to the side so that his cheek is squashed against the mattress, shouts to the window for all of Merano to hear. It's eight in the afternoon and the sun will be setting soon, but he's never been considerate, and he's certainly not going to start with four fingers so deep in his ass he's seeing double.
"Jesus Christ," he moans, arching back against his hand insistently. "What do I have to do to get you to fuck me?"
"I've fucked you twice!" Anatoly sighs, shaking his head in fond exasperation. He curls his fingers at just the right angle, the one he'd located hours ago when he was still tight and trembling with the promise of his first orgasm of the night. "You have to give me some time to recover. I'm older than you."
"You're an old man," Freddie complains, pushing his ass up into the air again, words morphing into a long, low groan that has Anatoly's cock twitching despite itself. He had to give that to Freddie - he always presented an irresistible challenge. "Fuck me, come on, I didn't let you drag me all the way here just so you could watch me fuck myself on your fingers-"
"Now there's an idea," he says, smirking and pinching him just beneath his ass. The yelp he receives in return is the most satisfying noise he's pulled from him all night, although the kick he lands dangerously close to his crotch sort of waters down his victory.
"I swear-" Freddie threatens, squirming renewed. His entire body is covered in coat after coat of sweat and probably come, dried tears streaking his face as he pants. He's still young, Anatoly reminds himself, and so repressed it would be funny if he didn't have to deal with the fallout. It's like he's trying to expel all of the pent up homosexuality in his body, all at once, with every orgasm and it makes for some intense fucking, but sometimes the Russian wonders if he'll be able to keep up.
For now, though, he doesn't seem to have to worry about that. He's throbbing and when he draws his fingers out, slowly and one by one, Freddie gives a choked whimper like he's going to die if Anatoly doesn't fuck him again.
So he fits himself between those eagerly spread thighs, and he does.
They fly back to New York five days later. Freddie falls asleep on the plane and doesn't wake up until the sun is going down the next day.
He walks funny for a solid month.