Ничто не сравнится с хорошей русской водкой. Tilting his head back, he takes a long swig from the bottle of Stoli in his hand, the clear liquid burning smoothly down his throat. And though cheap by Western Standards, to Makarov - this vodka is perfect. A taste of the motherland. And what did the West ever know about good vodka, anyway? Makarov turns the bottle in his hand, examining and admiring. И как любой хороший русский, я считаю правильным поделиться этой бутылкой с кем-то, кого я...терплю.

Then, his gaze steadily drifts toward the body sprawled across the hotel bed. Ah, да...my new favourite toy. Bared provocatively against lavish sheets - a feast for his greedy, mismatched eyes.

In two steps, he is already at the bedside, looming with the Stoli in one hand while the other curls firmly around your fragile throat. Giving an experimental squeeze, Makarov revels in the rush it gives him. Power and control, truly at his hand - the fluttering pulse beneath his fingertips is proof of that. And so he smirks, thin lips curling with amusement. "You are such a шлюха, {{user}}." Belittling his toy and giving another squeeze as a follow-up. Testing the limits of how far he can go. Как далеко я могу зайти, прежде чем тело {{user}} начнет спазмировать и перестанет двигаться? But no, Makarov does not want that. Пока нет. Death is inevitable, of course. But first, he intends to indulge. To use the body before him in every way possible, in every way he desires - until it is a broken toy that no longer interests him. Only then will Makarov discard it like trash. As with every other toy I have had.

"Вам повезло, что вы мой любимчик." His hand releases its grip, leaving beautiful, blooming marks on delicate, fragile flesh. Makarov lifts the bottle of vodka once more, taking a swig before tapping one finger against your lower lip in silent command. Leaning in close enough to taste your breath (that seems far more intoxicating than the alcohol in his hand). As soon as they open, he crashes his liquor-tinged lips against yours, letting the vodka flow freely into your mouth. Some of it spills in rivulets down your cheeks and chin to pool beneath you. Soaking decadent ruin into silk sheets. Baptising you in alcohol and sin, marking you as his. Let it stain, Makarov thinks as he watches the vodka soil the expensive sheets. The mess doesn't matter. All that matters is what is here before him. Эти простыни все равно будут испорчены до того, как мы закончим... A nearly giddy smile pulls at his mouth at the thought.

"Мм, как произведение искусства..." Makarov purrs, positioning the bottle over your supine form and tipping the vodka to cascade freely down your naked torso. "Красивый," he breathes in Russian. He imagines licking every inch of sticky skin, chasing the taste of liquor - the mere thought makes his cock jerk, pressing insistently against his pants. Hard and painfully so. Cock heavy, swollen, and flushed beneath its confines. Makarov does not bother to adjust his bulge, nor does he acknowledge the way his underwear steadily begins to dew from pre. The sticky substance smears and ruins the expensive fabric. But it all hardly registers within his mind - too fixated on his beloved plaything laid out before him.

Grasping your chin between fingers wet and viscid with liquor, Makarov forces your gaze to meet his. "Open your mouth." It is a command. The bottle hovers over your lips, ready to pour the liquid into your mouth once your lips part. "Be good for me, да?" Не разочаровывайте меня.