F4: Anything But That

They held there, at his total possession, both exhausted by the battle, breathing heavily, him savoring the warmness and tightness of the totally enveloping, pulsing channel, and her resigned and silently thrilled, despite herself, that she had sheathed it all.

She came a bit to life as one of his hands drifted back down to her cunt and rubbed her clit. Fingers invaded her vagina as, deeply mounted, he began to pump her ass channel. He fucked her faster and deeper for an eternity, with her just dangling there, initially suffering the total possession of him. But, as she became accustomed to his possession and filling, her useless objections were overtaken by whimpers of a new sensation, a new form of pleasure and sensuality.

Heights her other lovers never had taken her to, the slap, slap, slapping of his hairy balls on the sensitive skin of her buttocks as he butt fucked her matching the clacking of the wheels on the rails. He was overbearing, an animal. He was magnificent.

They both shuddered and jerked, as he ejaculated in three strong thrusts. It was only then that she realized that his cock had been sheathed. Still no fear of impregnation, she nonsensically thought. But this thought alone made her equally nonsensically wonder if this might be their only coupling. And, to her surprise, to pray that it wasn't.

He let her collapse on the bench. But as he did so, he was disrobing her. When she was down to just stockings and a garter belt, not giving him any resistance at all, he stood up and away from her, looking down at her with eyes that bored into her and initially made her blush and try to cover herself. But the nugget of realization creeping in that there was nothing of her that was unknown by him now combined with her natural sensuality and his animal magnetism caused her to just sprawl before him on the seat in open-legged surrender.

Wanting him to crouch down to her and thrust inside her in a proper fucking.

The gleam in his eyes revealed his pleasure at her voluptuous nakedness, the ripeness of her youth and vitality, the glow of her smooth, milky-white skin. Before stepping back, he leaned over her, reached down with a large, calloused hand, and ran his fingers through the blond bush between her legs, ruffling up the curly hair. She gave a start and a sigh when the pad of a finger rubbed across her clit and then returned to rub again before working its way between her folds and inside her.

He was going to fuck her properly now. Giving him a glazed look of lustful want, she reached out for his forearm, matted with black, curly hair, and, as he moved his finger in and out of her cunt, she slowly slid the fingers of her hand down the arm, across the back of his hand and to her clit.

With a low, guttural laugh, the priest pulled his finger out of her cunt and moved her finger to the folds and inside. After running his fingers through her bush once more, he straightened and took a step back from her.

He folded her clothes carefully and placed them on the bench across from her and then sat there as well, not bothering to cover his nakedness with the cassock that still was draped on his back. His beefy legs were spread. He was making no attempt to hide his muscular body or oversized cock from her at all. He held his cock in his hand, proudly fingering it and running his gaze over her curvy nakedness with an assessing eye that declared that he had had her—and would have her again and again—as he dictated.

Every fiber of her being was telling her to curl into herself and try to disappear into the shadowy corner of her bench, but her drugged state brought out the natural sensuality in her and, not being able to take her eyes off his muscular torso; the black matting of hair slick, shiny, kinky now from his exertions; and his hand stroking that huge cock, she found herself mirroring his body, reclining into her seat across from him, letting her thighs part more, the one hand working her clit and cunt, the other toying with her nipples.

The minutes ticked on in masturbatory standoff, with Christina marking the time with her ragged breathing and by the measurement of the priest's cock coming back to life, to glorious ramrod steel.

She wanted him again. God help her, she wanted him inside her again. Although there still were effects from the tea, she couldn't claim now that she was wholly incapacitated by drugs rather than the dominating power of his outrageous will. It was more that she could be a slave to his cock, more so than to any other lover she'd had. Always before she had controlled with the tease, the denial until the coquettish granting of access. This man—this priest—this animal—had cut through all of that and taken her without question or consent to where she'd never been before. There was no question who was in control here. And she melted to the revelation that it could be thusly different in her life.

Her breath skipped an intake as she saw him pull another lambskin condom from the little satchel he had entered the compartment with—the same kind of condom her other lovers used. She already was thinking of the priest as one of her lovers—the one with the biggest cock, the one who was in charge. What was done was done and there was no more harm to be had in doing it again—just pleasure, although perhaps not quite the forbidden pleasure of having it seized from her.

She was panting in anticipation as he stood, shrugged the cassock off his back to fall in whispering folds on the floor between the benches, and took the two short steps across the compartment.

Christina was already on all fours, sideways on her bench, arching her back, presenting her buttocks. and trembling, as the priest mounted the bench and then grasped her waist between calloused hands and mounted her hips. His chosen gateway once again was Christina's ass. She only raised a slight, whimpering objection, which he ignored, skewering her deeply, having already made her to fit him, covered her body from above, reached around and cupped her breasts, and began the long, slow, deep fuck. Slap, slap, slap, the balls against the sensitive skin.

He had quickened the stroking and she was moving, revolving her hips on the staff, as he slid a hand down her belly to her cunt and began rubbing the clit and invading her with pumping fingers when she felt him tightening up, ready to come. Her eyes went to the bench across from her to discover that he had taken a condom out of his satchel but done nothing with it. The realization that he was going to bathe her insides with cum triggered her orgasm, which merged into his, as, with a series of strong spurts he filled her deep and wet and she slathered his fingers with more of her own discharge.

* * * *

Christina woke up in the night to the monotonous, dull screech and jerk of hot wheels rolling over worn rails. It wasn't nearly as pitch dark in the world beyond her surreal nest as it had been before the priest extinguished the gas lights on the walls of the compartment and came to and into her a third time. They were stretched as best they could be along her bench, the priest behind her, her head resting on his crooked arm, her back nested in the curly hair of his chest, and his cock, still hard, moving in a gentle undulation inside the cum-soaked channel of her ass, continuing to work on the effort to open her up ever wider. He had been softly kneading her breasts with a hand that now was reaching across her to the teapot on the stand attached under the window and beside her bench.

He awkwardly filled a tea cup two thirds full, as she ran fingers through the hair of his forearm, and brought the edge of the cup to her mouth.

"No, I don't need that," she murmured. "This time I wasn't drugged, and I fully accepted . . . welcomed . . . you . . . that way, I don't need—"

"We will be in Sochi soon. I don't want to lose you when we arrive. Drink." It wasn't a request. And he was still overpowering.

"You are taking me from the train?" she murmured.

"Yes, I am taking you from the train."

She accepted this, almost with contentment. She drank from the cup. And as she sank into a haze, he was rolling her over onto her stomach, grasping her wrists and raising the heels of her hands to the cold, vibrating glass of the window out into the real world, and encasing her thighs between his knees. The only sounds that followed were her moans, his heavy breathing, and a soft, rhythmic squishy noise, as he began mining her ass channel again with his unsheathed cock. She was fully open to him now, his cock pistoning her with ease. Even in her gathering drugged stupor, she was moaning and begging him for more. There was no question now that she wanted it—and that her ass was now trained to accept it.

He had to dress her himself as the train slowed in its approach through the outskirts of the Black Sea city of Sochi, and her underdrawers were beyond use. He knew they would not be needed anyway, though, so it mattered not. He opened the carriage window and tossed them out.

She leaned on his arm, in his strong embrace, as he almost literally dragged her through the Sochi train station to the platform for the trunk line train to the nearby town of Gagra, across the border in Georgia. There was no first-class carriage in this train, and the priest had to carry a floppy Christina around while also supervising the transfer of her trunks to the smaller train.

People around them clucked at how nice the priest was to help the woman, who both obviously was very rich and also sick—drunk. More than one angry worker muttered, "Come the revolution," as the couple passed, directing their seething anger at privileged class and the clergy alike. The priest just nodded and stayed away from other people as much as possible, both while waiting for the train to take on passengers and on the train once they had gotten on. Christina, in her dopiness, kept trying to touch him, to bunch up his cassock, free his cock, and kept whispering sweet nothings like, "Please, please. Possess me like that again," while the priest smiled a crooked smile and muffled her voice as much as possible.

The train conductor helped. He recognized someone who was rich or noble or both. She was voluptuously beautiful, expensively dressed, had travel trunks enough to serve a princess, and she even traveled with her own priest. And he made sure there was a buffer of empty seats between Christina and the other passengers for the short ride across the border into Georgia and to Gagra.

Mercifully, they were the only ones getting off the train in Gagra. The priest muscled Christina out of the small station as quickly as he could, leaving the trunks for someone else to worry about, and out into the carriageway. She was slightly aware—and surprised—that they headed toward a carriage with the Gruzinsky family crest on the door—her husband's family. Princes of this region back to the tenth century. What she couldn't understand was what the priest had meant by taking her from the train. Why had he brought her on to Gagra? She thought he would whisk her away to some sort of sexual imprisonment in Sochi. At the same time she was glad he was still here; she clung to him like she never wanted to lose him.

The priest, still propping her up, opened the door to the carriage.

"Did all go as planned?" a low voice asked from within the darkness of the carriage.

With effort Christina raised her head in surprise and peered into the carriage, her eyes slowly adjusting to the darkness of the vehicle's interior.

"Yes, knyaz, all is as you wanted. I think she is prepared both physically and emotionally to accede to your wishes now."

The priest lifted Christina and handed her off to her husband, sitting alone inside the carriage, his cock already exposed and in erection, his hands brushing up her skirts as he lifted her into the carriage, exposing her naked buttocks, still flush from a night of constant use. Ready to receive her, for her ass channel to descend on his shaft for him to fuck her as he preferred—and as she had, until having been completely undone, been resisting—all the way back to the family's tea plantations.

Christina felt the loss of the priest and of his oversized cock as she was handed over to her husband, and she reached back for him, but he stole away into the morning mist as she slid down on her husband's smaller, but still quite taxing cock. She did not fight him. All of the fight was out of her now, and the act no longer was something to fear—or even, given the taste she had been given of it by a master, something to view with disgust. The fear and disgust she once had had was replaced with the slight disappointment that Konstantin might be no match for the priest lover in fucking her that way. But she was resigned to the role of a dutiful Russian noble wife, and it was yet to be seen what talent Konstantin may display with that fetish.

She could not help but wonder, however, if the Gruzinskys of the vast Georgian tea plantations might just have their own priest in residence—perhaps one a bit like the mad monk Rasputin.