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The Russian Lovers: Russian Kazakh Lover

This real sex story is partly about hairy women, partly about Kazakhstan. It isn’t at all about hairy women IN Kazakhstan, though.

I fly from Ashgabat, Turkmenistan to Almaty, Kazakhstan. Reeling from an experience of extreme totalitarianism into one that is only milder in comparison.

But – there is heavily populated online dating, and there are over a hundred ethnic groups. 

Four Kazakhs of different ethnicities on the Almaty Metro

Though I feel as though I should be ticking off the world’s most exotic boxes…

Kazakh art: Painting of a Kazakh man seated, holding a rifle, horses in background

…going for a rural Kazakh, some rugged dude with Asian features who practices falconry and rides horses…

Kazakh art: Painting of Kazakh man on horseback

…who will take me back to his yurt and have his way with me doggie style…

Kazakh Yurt

…I am most drawn to the Russian Kazakhs…

Photo of interior of Russian Orthodox church in Almaty

I love Russians.

Photo of the interior dome of the Russian Orthodox church in Almaty, looking up

There’s something beautiful and unique about the culture. I love Slavics and Baltics and Balkans and Caucasians too. The broad, wide swath of the world touched by the Russian Empire is certainly a huge part of my ethnic and ancestral makeup. Maybe that’s why. 

There’s also my fascination with Soviet times and the Cold War Era. It’s my childhood, and Russian boys still feel like sleeping with the enemy.

Kazakh art: Painting of a Russian soldier playing the accordion for his girlfriend while walking in winter

After all, Kazakhstan was the seat of the Russian Space Program, and to this day Russia leases the Baikonur Cosmodrome for launches. Nothing quite says Cold War tension like the space race.

Kazakh art: Painting of a Kazakh cosmonaut

In Kazakhstan I feel a bit guilty lusting after the colonial power. No more so than standing in front of the propaganda in painting form that shows the ugly wrenching of their culture from nomadic to industrial at the hands of Mother Russia. The art is the same whether Soviet art or Kazakh art.

Kazakh art: Painting of Kazakhs on horseback waving hello to the arrival of the train
Kazakh art of a scene of the Russian army arriving in rural Kazakhstan. Soviet flag flown.

Each painting seems to simply say “USSR good, Kazakh bad.” 

Soviet art: Painting of an idyllic family scene of a Russian woman and her two blonde Russian kids at the seaside
Soviet art: Painting of a Kazakh camp, and a brutal kidnapping outside of their yurt

“You better off.”

Soviet art: Painting of Kazakh women picking cotton

Usually when there’s an empty profile I swipe on by. Tinder isn’t much of a success for me anyway, and I get into trouble making choices based on pretty faces. And so, when I come across an empty profile sporting one photo of a thick-lipped, bespectacled, bearded face in a knit hat, looking back at me over the shoulder of a leather jacket – I pause. 

There’s something in his eyes. Mischief. Lust. A look humbled by being dragged out of his persona by his desires

We match.

Immediately, efficiently, we message and phone our way into coffee. He’s clear: he’s in a relationship. He has a 12-year old daughter from a previous marriage. He prioritizes her, and his business. My Russian Kazakh lover owns a large logistics company in Kazakhstan and is a workaholic. He loves sex more than his partner, and he fools around. Safely, and occasionally. His name is Alexei, and he wants me for my hairy pussy.

My profile mentions I don’t shave. Alexei likes hairy women. He wants to know where and what. 

“Nothing. I don’t shave anything.” 

“That is the ultimate turn-on.”

“Why?” I ask.

“Confidence. Opting out of a stupid agreement. I like strong women.” he says. He likes hairy women.

“That’s the ultimate reason.” I reply, smiling. He chuckles. 

I mean it. It never goes well when I’m the brunt of anyone’s fetish just for something that comes naturally. I have nice feet, but the last thing I want is to be worshipped for them. The breast guys I attract are full of glee, but considering I view my girls mostly as a nuisance, and not a source of pleasure – it’s usually just fucking boring. 

But something complex, nuanced… something with a narrative. That gets me hot. And Alexei’s story matches my own reasons, so it feels like appreciation. I simply don’t care about beauty standards enough to shave. I’ve never been with someone explicitly into hairy women.

We’re talking over the phone to set up a meeting. He wastes no time calling me. My Russian Kazakh lover doesn’t play games. I’m certain we’ll end up in bed if he wants to. I am a sucker for integrity and prioritization. Cannot resist a guy who is attractive, into me, respectful, and doesn’t fuck around.

In person he has blonde hair, no beard, and the same playful eyes and black leather jacket. He’s wearing black jeans, and a black t-shirt underneath said jacket. Alexei is very clean shaven for someone into hairy women. He has a gold chain around his neck, and a hot Russian accent.

My Russian Kazakh lover drinks coffee, and I water, knowing that coffee isn’t my best sex drug and that I definitely want to sex him. He pays for me.

We talk of Kazakhstan and business and lifestyle. He is curious about mine, and comprehends quickly. I like the way he smiles and leans forward when he speaks about his daughter. He tells me about the politics of Kazakhstan and Almaty. Tells me that even though the dictator has stepped down, he is still trying to run things by proxy, mostly through his daughter.

We’re in a Starbucks. It wasn’t intentional, a choice of convenience. He gestures at downtown Almaty. 

“This is an illusion. We still don’t have freedom, especially when it comes to business. No one could ever get as big as Starbucks, the government would seize them. Smart Kazakh businesspeople split their businesses into multiple entities to avoid losing everything as they grow.”

“Do you do that?” I ask.

“I’m not big enough to have to, yet.” he smiles. 

“I notice you used the word ‘businesspeople’, is there much sexism in the business world?”

“No.” he says, without thinking. Then he pauses. “I guess I shouldn’t say that. I don’t tolerate it or practice it in my business. Most of my managers are women. I hire the best person for the job, period. It’s what you have to do in the modern world to be successful. I don’t know if there’s sexism in the business world in Kazakhstan, but I can’t imagine anyone being competitive with it.

“I guess that’s one good thing about the Soviet legacy.” I muse. He nods. “What about racism?”

“I mean same thing. Business is business. But you do find Russian-only or Kazakh-only businesses.” 

“So what about you, how did your people get here? Is that rude to ask?” I venture.

“My parents met in Moscow and moved here together. Both of them for positions at the University. But originally my father is Czech. And half Jewish.”

“So we’re cousins.” I reply, winking.

“Possibly.” he smiles. I like that he doesn’t bristle at controversy, he leans in.

After talking for a while there’s a pause in the conversation. My Russian Kazakh lover looks at me and smiles.

“Well?” he says, opening his arms and displaying himself to me. I try not to look too eager.

“Yes.” I say without pausing.

The trip to my Airbnb is awkward, and I know from his commitment to excellence in our conversation and meeting that he’ll judge me for the crappy, cheap, digs – and he does. It’s’ not that bad inside the apartment, but the hallways looks unchanged since the Soviet era, and smells like trash. Inside there are wooden floors and Central Asian carpets, bookcases, and a queen sized bed.

“My first place in town was better, if less central. It was one of those old communist towers. Good stuff.”

“Quiet up in those, isn’t it?” he says, running his fingers along my host’s bookcase to the sounds of water through pipes and the bubbling, ticking sound of radiator heat. “Can I use your bathroom?”

Almaty communist architecture, giant tower of apartments

“Sure”. I like the sounds here. There’s a sense of being underwater, even perched on the third floor. Out of the window I can see a park with children playing and the elderly sitting. Chalk one up to communist design, each building complex a mini-city, with all of human life represented. Sort of.

I strip and get into bed, lying naked on my back, a little cold, but dripping wet. I know he doesn’t have much time and I am done with formality. The man is handsome, successful, smart, charming, and into hairy women. Let’s do this.

My Russian Kazakh lover enters the room and his hands drop to his sides. I hear his breath catch.

“Oh my God you are beautiful.” he says, frozen, staring at the auburn hair covering my pale peaches and cream skin and radiating from my pussy down my thighs before drifting into blonder hair for a while until it turns sparse and dark below my knees. 

“Thank you.” I raise an arm and place it behind my head, revealing a tuft of light brown hair under my arm, fading to a warm blonde at the ends. His eyes expand, taking me in.

At first have trouble conjuring that it is exotic for him, this ignored fur that I wear every day. In general, I have trouble putting myself in men’s shoes, it’s a challenge embodying another’s attraction. 

“Can I join you?” he asks, still standing in place.

“Please.” I pat the bed next to me invitingly.

He strips, revealing a beautiful, smooth body and a hard, beaming, cut cock. I am not a fan of circumcision, but I like the reminder that whatever part of him is Jewish is apparently Jewish enough to have mattered.

My Russian Kazakh lover slides into bed with me, trembling.

I wrap my arms around him and lean in to kiss him, but he dodges it and it lands on his chest. He doesn’t kiss. 

But he does talk.

“I’ve never seen a woman so natural.” he says, looking over my body. “You don’t have much hair, it’s so feminine. You’re such a fantasy, I can’t catch my breath. I want to touch you everywhere at once.”

His strong, smooth hands rest at the edges of the raft of hair covering my mound, edging in from both sides, stroking me like a pet. Tremors trail their way through his anatomy, shaking me with them. 

“You’re gorgeous” I say.

“I used to be in better shape.” he says, cupping what isn’t even a belly, but soft padding over an obvious eight-pack. 

“Uh… “ I say, staring down at my velvety curves.

“Oh women are supposed to be soft.” he says, burying his head in my stomach and parting my hair with his fingers. My mind flits to Max, the Russian I shared berth with on a train from Berlin to Paris in the mid-’90’s. He said that women weren’t supposed to lift things over their heads. I love the confidence with which Russians say that women are supposed to or not supposed to be or do. At least this one thinks women should be natural.

“Soft and wet.” he murmurs with approval as his fingers find me sopping.

photo of an Almaty fountain that I walked by with my Russian Kazakh lover

He slides a finger inside of me, moaning, as he stares at it disappearing into the hair-rimmed depths of my cunt. The sound adds to the nautical theme, his fingers divers plunging into a moist pool ringed with reeds.

I sigh, leaning back, letting my head loll to the side as I watch him fascinate himself with my pussy. It feels good to turn him on. He plays with my clit slowly, slowly building speed and pressure. Methodically. He doesn’t doubt that he knows how to make me feel good. His eyes occasionally seize on mine, catching me loving on him staring at my body. I feel myself building, sucking, pulling towards release.

He parts my longer hairs, thicker, lower, coasting his finger in and out of me.

“The way your hair feels when it’s wet is going to make me come before I’m inside you.” he worries out loud.

“How about you make me come before you’re inside me instead.” I reply. He smiles.

“I can’t wait to see your hairy pussy come.” he says gruffly, and his face is low, inhaling me “You smell so good, so healthy” and he doesn’t break his pace, pulling me over the edge, coaxing me, reeling me in as he takes me in through every sense.

And he’s a centimeter from me when I clench my way through a gut-ripping orgasm. Gripping the sheets in a fistful with one hand, and yanking on the forest of my own hair in a ring around him, pushed now farther away from his finger deep inside as I dilate into a deep yearning for him to fill me.

I know he’ll never forget what it looks like. Years from now when he’s jerking off or fucking someone else, the image of me pulling on my slick, shuddering, shaggy pussy by the mane will tip him over the edge.

I know that I’ll think about it too, but probably not in the context of hairy women. Will be thinking about the way the vowels roll off his tongue. That unmistakable Russian accent. I ask him if there’s a difference between Kazakh Russian and Russian Russian, and he replies that of course there is, but that they are close. He goes on to educate me that there are of course many regional versions of Russian in both of those giant countries. I want to fuck his Russian mind. Driven. Hungry. Intense. Powerful.

A Russian father and son playing chess with two Asian men

“You’re a work of art.” he says. “Can we…” he trails off. I hand him a condom.

I’m propped up on pillows, pussy on a pedestal, and he pulls my lips apart, watching his cock work me open and then its way in and out of me. 

“Oh my God I’m not going to last. I’ve never seen such a natural pussy, I’ve never been with someone like you, I had no idea how much I want this, oh fuck.” he strains, trying to hold back as his hips take him into me even harder. He tries to look away to not tip him over the edge, but he also doesn’t want to miss any of it and so his eyes flit back and forth over the work his cock is doing to me.

This powerful man, building his own in the world, overseeing hundreds of people, winning at fatherhood, brought to anxiety and ecstasy by the lil’ ol’ hairs on lil’ ol’ me. It’s hot. I love lying back and watching my Russian Kazakh lover staring at me, fucking me, screwing his face up to try to make the experience last just a little bit longer.

I reach my right hand down and pussyfoot around a little giving him a showcase of sectioning my pubic hair before going to work quickly on my clit, clamping down hard around him to keep him stuck just against that spongy spot a tiny bit inside of me, pushing my hips up against him to get that pressure I want on those inner wings of my clitoris while spiraling my finger wildly around the slick nub of the head and coming hard around his cock, squeezing more juice out of me and around him and slicking it into my pelt with my fingers, knowing he’s watching, knowing this will ruin him….

“Oh Zoe, oh no. Oh yes.” he looks down at me with wide eyes. “I can’t…” 

“It’s okay, Alexei” I reassure him. It’s time.

“Da?” he asks, his eyes catching mine for the double opt-in. I consent. The sound of him slipping into Russian does me in. He sees it and sees me grin at him catching me. He smiles. “You like that don’t you.”

My Russian Kazakh lover hollows his gorgeous, body and curls himself as he works my hairy pussy with a frenzied pace. 

“You’re so beautifully natural, so natural, so tempting. So fucking hot.” He’s flushed, angling himself downward into me, still staring at the wet brown fleece and pink lips while pumping me hard and fast.

And then he’s talking to me a mile a minute, fiercely, and I’m sure dirtily, in Russian. The sounds of it turn him into every bad guy from every action movie from my childhood, and he’s not only the formidable, capable, charming human he is in real life – he’s now the ultimate malefactor, the calculated geopolitical criminal, the supervillain: and I am in the act of besting him. 

I wrap my legs around his hips, letting him feel the grain of my calf hairs scratching lightly against his skin, and bend backwards over the pillows, raising my arms above my head to give him a view of my pits.

Looking at him his hairy women loving eyes feast on my body as he loses touch with this plane, and his hips slam into me on their own. His eyes catch mine and I see in them gratitude and wonder and lust and then my Russian Kazakh lover shouts “DA” and comes hard just as his abandon starts to catch my pussy hairs in a bad way and sting and smart.

He still doesn’t kiss me but is grinning ear to ear as he rushes out for his next meeting, apologizing as I reassure him that nothing detours from the original plan and that I too have had an eye on the clock.

“Now you’re the one that sounds Russian” he says, smiling and taking my hand. “Until our paths cross again. You’re wonderful.” He kisses my hand.

I shut the door behind him, and have good things to say about Kazakhstan for the rest of my life.

Another sort of Jewish Russian

Other One Night Stands:

1: The Persian Lovers: The First Persian

2: The Persian Lovers: Becoming a Cougar

3: The Israeli Lovers: Nisim

4: The European Lovers: Amsterdam (Live Sex Shows)

5: Johnny the Cheesemonger

6: Nigeria is the Future

7: Stuck

8: Tantra


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