They say that every picture tells a story. That's certainly true of my photo session with Nikita. I only wish I had enough of this story to let you see every picture I took of him and tell you just how he made me feel. He was what you might call the sum of his parts and they were some parts I can tell you! I mean I've been a photographer and part-time erotic storyteller for quite a while now but never came across anyone quite like him. In fact until I let my greedy lens devour Nikita I was getting pretty blase' and thought I'd grown immune to the flash of flesh. I didn't even get a hard on any more when I zoomed in on a guy's dick or lit his butt to perfection. I'd forgotten the important contribution eyes make to the whole sensual equation and Nikita had me searching my sexual thesaurus to find just the right words to describe the depth of his gaze and what his glowering, come hither looks did to my Anglo-Saxon soul. But if you're ready to bear with me, so to speak, I'll try to do him justice; and turn you on in the process.

It all began when I saw him sitting in a class I was giving in photography at our local design school. You'll probably know what I mean. You've got about thirty students in front of you and somehow your attention is drawn to one particular person, especially if they're looking at you with smouldering Slavic eyes. It's just as well I really know my subject; otherwise I would have been at a loss for words, which is what I am at the moment. Intense doesn't get anywhere near it. My mind went flashing back to when we studied Edgar Allan Poe in school. One of his stories is called 'A Descent into the Maelstrom.' Poe describes how a young sailor is drawn hypnotically towards the centre of the whirlpool and doesn't resist, as he wants to experience the thrill of it. I looked the story up again so I could quote it to you accurately: "After a while I became possessed with the keenest curiosity about the whirl itself. I positively felt a wish to explore its depths, even at the sacrifice I was going to make; and my principal grief was that I should never be able to tell my old companions on shore about the mysteries I should see."

My 'principal grief' was that he was one of my students and therefore professionally out of bounds. The course lasted six weeks and included forty-two tortured nights tossing on wet dreams of Nikita. His eyes were the whirlpool and I kept being drawn in and swallowed up. It was a bit like the end of the shower scene in "Psycho" played several times over. I just couldn't get him out of my mind. My heart took flight as soon as he walked in the room and continued to flutter and flap after he'd gone. Every time our eyes met he looked straight back at me without a flinch. He was a good student and I realized later that his intense gaze was partly on account of the fact that he was concentrating so hard to understand my instructions. His English wasn't really up to par. In fact, he responded best when I demonstrated certain things with the camera or used visual aids.

Once I asked him to stay after class so I could go over some of the technicalities and make sure he had understood. At least that was my official excuse. I noticed he didn't smile very much; even when I took a few close-ups of him to underline what I was saying about the use of natural light and the importance of shadow. I used a digital camera first of all but also took a few black and white shots with my Nikon. Later when I showed them in class I wasn't surprised to see how stunningly photogenic he was. I couldn't wait to get in the darkroom with him. I also thought Nikita by Nikon would make a nice title for a coffee table book.

Of course I had to take a few contrasting photos of other students in case somebody noticed I was stuck on him. Still, I knew I was playing with fire. They say the camera never lies and you didn't really have to be an expert in photography to see there was love in my lens because the shots of Nikita were far superior to any of the others. I tried to camouflage all this by setting projects and getting the students to find still life subjects and also to take photos of each other. Nikita wanted to take one of me but I declined. I was afraid what my eyes would tell his camera. And him.

Soon, after what seemed a lifetime of pent up passion, the course was over. I gave out all the photos I'd taken and bade my grateful students goodbye. I wondered if I would ever get around to deepening my acquaintance with Nikita. Actually I needn't have worried, as he seemed to have it all worked out. On the last day of class he handed me an A4 envelope, shook my hand and actually smiled. As he left the room, and maybe my life, I wanted to burst into tears. But first I opened the envelope. There was a copy of one of the best photos I'd taken of him. He was staring seductively at my Nikon in typical Nikita fashion and had written in flourishing letters: 'Thanks prof, Nikita.' Naturally I took it straight home and leaned it against the lamp on my bedside table. It was only when it slipped off later that I noticed there was also something written on the back. He wrote: 'I want more,' with his mobile phone number written underneath.

Of course that set my fertile imagination reeling. Did he want more photos or more out of our relationship? Did 'Thanks prof' mean professor or professional? Was he using incorrect grammar or a direct approach when he wrote 'I want more'? There was only one way to find out. I phoned him before I had time to change my mind. He answered at once. I thanked him for the photo. He didn't say anything. I said I wanted to take more photos. He seemed to purr with pleasure and asked me, "When?" To which I replied, "Now if you'd like." And so the die was cast. Language still being a problem, I said the first thing that came into my head, "Meet me in front of McDonalds."

In ten minutes I was there and in another five minutes he was on my bed beside me. We had six weeks to make up and wasted no time on preliminaries. Before you could say tear, tore, torn we were out of our clothes and diving straight into the centre of a sexual whirlpool. He was hot and he was fierce and gnashed his teeth like castanets as he pulled my hair and then swallowed my tongue. I wallowed in his mouth for an erotic eternity and then, pulling myself free, threw his legs in the air and went in for the kill. No lube, just lust. I soon found that his ass had as much suction in it as his mouth as it swallowed my dick and threatened to swallow my balls as well. He also scratched the hell out of my back and even drew blood.

Never in my life has anyone done that to me and if you'd asked me if I liked that sort of thing, I would have given you a vehement 'no' for an answer. But that was before I met Nikita. They say, "All's fair in love and war," and our lovemaking was definitely a war. It was a war for dominance. The more he dug his nails into my back, the more I dug my dick into his butt. My bed had never witnessed such shake, rattle, and roll. Fortunately it stood the test and fortunately I had no neighbours. And to think we'd spent six quiet weeks hardly saying a word to each other. Actions certainly spoke louder than words; although the Russian obscenities spilling out of his mouth turned me on just as much the blood I could feel spilling from the furrows he was grinding out of my back I came gloriously inside him and he came copiously over his stomach. Once again we kissed, in grateful satisfaction this time. Then we examined each other's battle wounds.

I'd never seen such appetising cum or a dick so much to my satisfaction. It sure was strange examining the 'damaged' goods after the act of love. In the past I'd always made a surreptitious inventory of a guy's dick (and other accoutrements) and had often been turned off, rather than on, by the aforesaid sight. But I'd never lain there and marvelled over the beauty of a guy's private parts after the event, so to speak. I couldn't believe that Nikita's dick was the dick I'd been looking for all my life and that his cum was of a consistency that had my mouth watering. I bent down and dipped my tongue in it. It tasted good too. I told him so. He kissed me and said I was right. It felt so good to be with him. I told him that too. He gave me one of his purrs that I soon grew to love. Nobody had ever purred for me before; and I didn't even like cats. Speaking of cats, after I'd licked the cream clean from his stomach he did the same with my back. He asked me if I wanted to taste it. At least I think he did because he asked me in Russian and, by some lover's miracle, I seemed to understand. I thought 'why not' and kissed him. It wasn't bad but I preferred the taste of his cum.

We laid there in each other's arms for what seemed forever and then showered together. My back stung like hell but we found some soothing balm in the bathroom cabinet and Nikita applied it to my wounds purring and apologising all the time in Russian. The whole process turned me on and we made love again on the bathroom rug and I got to suck Nikita's marvellous dick, and a few other things as well. This time we were very tender with each other, a necessity needed on my part. But I was also gentle with Nikita. I wanted to show him how grateful I was that he came into my life.

We slept the deepest of sleeps and I had no more nightmares about man-eating whirlpools. After all I had my own little Maelstrom. I told Nikita about it and he taught me how to say 'little' in Russian. Trouble is he didn't tell me how to spell it. Anyway it sounded something like 'malienki' and goes very well with Maelstrom, don't you think? Malienki Maelstrom: Little Whirlpool.

I'm wrapped around him at the moment ready for another voyage into the unknown; and I don't intend to let go for a very long time. Sweet dreams.