Might Have Been Ch. 05

I couldn't make grammatical sense of the last line of the poem, but I caught hints of meaning. The past echoing into the present even though you try to forget, but there was something else -- it felt like personal criticism. "What was she trying to forget?" I asked, and a thought occurred to me. "When did she live?"

Irina appraised me. "Very good. Yes, she wanted to forget Stalin and the War. Two husbands and many friends killed by purges. Ukraine famine. She was in Leningrad during German siege."

"Ouch." Millions of civilians surrounded by the German army for three years, often with nothing to eat, except the rats, the cold, and each other.

"Da. Ouch."

"Why does that poem have special meaning for you?"

Irina took a long drink from her new martini. "Anna wanted to escape past, but she is the helpless echo, made to repeat what she saw through her poems. The past is passed. You cannot change it, but maybe you learn." Irina sighed. Her eyes were moist, like she was on the verge of tears. "Anna gives me perspective. I sold myself to Viktor, but nice house in Chicago suburbs is not the gulag."

She returned the book to the shelf, caressing the spine as she did so. Irina then held herself, arms crossed in front of her chest. She was a picture of contradiction at that moment -- beautifully sad, sexual and lonely -- a mature woman, and at the same time a little girl in need of protection.

My heart dipped and my head swam. If I had met her when she was twenty and unmarried, I would have fallen in love within minutes. We would have had a torrid love affair, married young, and raised genius children who all had fucked-up relationships. I had an overwhelming urge to save her -- to protect her, but knew it was impossible. I couldn't even save Tasha.

Irina broke the somber tone in the room. "But if we dwell in past, we miss the present." She slammed her drink, making me wonder how well she followed her own advice. "I want your opinion on dress," she said. "I wear it Saturday for University dinner party." She spun a quick pirouette.

"I'm not an expert on fashion," I cautioned.

"I am expert on fashion. I want your opinion as man. How you think I look in dress?"

That was a question I could answer. The dress was on the naughty side, at least for a University social function. It had halter straps that drew my eye to her cleavage. Her chest was not large, but a push-up bra emphasized what was there. The dress itself was very tight across her torso and hips, then pleated slightly at the skirt. The hem looked as if it had only agreed to cover the bottom of her ass reluctantly, after losing a heated argument. Crimson shoes added an extra inch over the pumps she had worn earlier.

I assessed what must be happening. While the conversation about Ukraine was real, much of this evening felt like a rehearsed script. I was certain now that some of the rumors were true about Irina bedding students. This was a seduction, with the dress pushing me to make appreciative comments about her appearance. The rest of the script played out in my head. She would act shy, and say something complimentary in response. I would stammer, and she would insist it was true, and that girls must be dying to sleep with me, etc.

It was all nice and pleasant, but I didn't feel like playing the role of the inexperienced young college student. Call it pride or ego, but if this was going to be a seduction, I wanted a role-reversal, and I wanted her memories of me to be distinct from any other student she had bedded to spite her husband.

"As a man, I have definite opinions about the dress. If I were at a University dinner party, and saw you, the younger wife of an older professor, wearing that dress, I would stare at your beauty." I circled her, emulating a lion assessing potential prey.

Irina's eyes widened in surprise, but she said nothing, and merely nodded at the compliment as she tracked me.

"I would notice the neckline." I gestured to her breasts. "I would conclude this was a woman who liked to be appreciated for her beauty."

Irina's teeth showed through slightly-parted lips.

"I would observe how tight the dress was, and think the woman didn't merely want to be seen as beautiful. She wanted to be seen as sexual. And I would think she had succeeded."

Irina's musical laugh had a girlish lilt. This wasn't how her targets normally behaved, and she liked it.

"I would look at the short skirt, and suspect she didn't just want men to notice her. She wanted them to do something about it, to approach her and hint at a meeting in a secluded place, where no one would know. She wanted them to call when her husband was away."

Irina had stopped smiling, and she turned her head slightly, indicating disapproval and caution. Was she being mocked? Was I calling her a whore? She waited.

This was the part that was either going to get me slapped or fucked. "And then I would look at the shoes -- the crimson fuck-me pumps, and I would believe that if the man were handsome, clever, and charming..."

Irina was now squinting at me like I was full of shit, and she was considering a slap.

"...and if her husband would really, really, hate it if he knew..."

Her smile returned, and there was a glint in her eye.

"... for that man, she would invite him into her house, when her husband was away. For him, she would say 'yes'".

I didn't get slapped. "Yes," Irina said, and released the breath she had been holding. She stepped forward into my arms -- her hand reaching behind my back to pull my hips into hers -- arching her neck backward to receive my kiss.

Her mouth tasted like the bottom of a warm martini glass, but I knew the taste would fade fast. Her tongue flicked out to lick the tip of mine, and her smile broadened. A throaty chuckle escaped her lips. "My bedroom is upstairs."

"Lead the way."

Irina pulled me backwards, unbuttoning my shirt as we left the den. My belt was already unbuckled before I tripped over the first stair, and her hand was wrapped around my cock by the time we entered the bedroom and approached the bed. She didn't bother turning on the light -- she just spun me around and pushed me onto the mattress. Irina climbed on top, shoved down my jeans and underwear just far enough to liberate me, and sat astride me.

I didn't have to lift her skirt very far to have the access demanded by my urgency, but I encountered a surprise. "I was right about the dress and what it meant. You aren't wearing panties."

Her eyes had that glint again, and her smile was fierce.

"Is that how you intend to wear this dress at the dinner?"

"Oh, yes," she said. "I never wear panties. They interfere with fucking. Put your dick inside me, now."

I was disappointed by the lack of foreplay, but her aggressive sexuality was more than enough to have me ready. I pushed my weight upward, and her wetness engulfed me.

Irina crouched on her knees, with legs spread wide, using her thigh muscles to raise and lower herself on top of me. Her body was upright, declaring her mastery of her marital bed.

Her back curved like a strung longbow, and she steadied herself by placing her hands on my thighs, but she otherwise seemed entirely focused on the sensations within her. She didn't moan -- she just kept her eyes shut, as her hips rocked me.

Irina's movements unleashed torrents of pleasure. She knew how to use her hips, finding a pattern that had me screaming for release. She would coil upward, and her inner walls would clench tight around my shaft, turning every thrust into a tease -- then she would relax, and piston her hips downward, with her thighs spreading wide to draw me deep. Her rhythm was a pulsing steady beat. I imagined the horns of Prokofiev's Dance of the Knights marking her tempo.

While I was maddened by her flawless technique, I was also frustrated. I was having sex with an older woman and wanted to match her likely stamina. I wanted to prolong the act, and bring her with me.

Irina had no interest. She urgently wanted to make me come, and her coital skills were too practiced for me to resist. I felt the climax building within me, and tried to pull backward to relieve some of the friction. She would have none of it -- she slammed her hips down firmly, enveloping me, and switched rhythms to small rapid circles while her Kegel muscles ran up and down my shaft, simulating the effect of a heavenly inner tongue.

Resistance was impossible. I thrust into her, in a desperate attempt to make her come with me, but only succeeded in ensuring my own orgasm. My hands clasped the globes of her ass, and with a loud grunt, I spent myself inside her.

Irina held me firmly between her thighs until I had stopped, then she withdrew. She opened her eyes for the first time since we had lain on the bed, and gave a wistful smile -- a half apology. She sat on the bed, studying me.

I didn't want to seem ungrateful, so I carefully phrased my words. "I take it as a point of pride to make sure women enjoy me as much as I enjoy them, and I feel I left you unsatisfied."

"No, you gave me what I want."

"You didn't come."

"I don't orgasm from my...friends."

"Never?"

"Never. I don't do this for me to orgasm. I do it to have sex with Viktor's students or colleagues, preferably in Viktor's house, in Viktor's bed."

An ice cube slalomed down my back. I knew revenge was part of her motivation, but I also thought she was a frustrated woman in her sexual prime, trying to satisfy needs Professor Pugachev couldn't meet. That didn't seem to be the case at all. Irina's passions were fueled entirely by hate.

She noticed the expression on my face, and met my gaze with a glare. "You disapprove. Your dick would disagree, I think."

"You hate your husband that much."

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't know hate."

"That isn't what I meant. What about you? You hate him so much that hurting him means more than experiencing any joy yourself."

"Hurting him is my joy."

"Why?"

Her eyes flashed as she unleashed a firestorm of words."Viktor killed me. I was promising young astrophysik. I had family. I had hopes. Dreams. He brings me here with promise I find job like him. I trusted him and he lied. Viktor want pretty wife on arm. I get clothes and car, but I am no longer me. I am Chicago housewife with no talent except sex. So I fuck Viktor's students, friends, and colleagues. If that all my talents good for here, I use against him!" She stopped to catch her breath.

I was careful in my words. "Don't you think that's kind of nihilistic?"

"Ha! We Slavs invented nihilism."

I prepared to respond, with what would be a hymn to hope, an opera for opportunity, and a paean to perseverance. I assembled sentences that would inspire her to discard self-destruction. I would create a speech for the ages and turn her life's mission into one of joy instead of hate.

Instead I heard the front door open downstairs, and I whispered, "Eep."

"Irinachka?" Professor Pugachev's voice traveled up the stairs, searching for his errant wife.

I glanced at my watch. Eight o'clock. He was home early.

As I turned to Irina, she was already up. She grabbed my arm and dragged me to a closet. Before I could protest, she shoved me inside and followed, shutting the closet door behind her. Thankfully, we were still wearing our clothes. They were disheveled, but not scattered on the bedroom floor.

"Irinachka?" the Professor asked again. He was closer -- the stairway, I thought.

Irina pressed her index finger against my lip, and dragged me down to the floor.

I pushed myself against the rear wall of the closet, and she sat next to me. In the dim light coming through the slats in the closet door, I could see the closet was spacious. Two levels of clothes on opposite sides, with ample room in the center. The floor was carpeted. I noticed all the clothes were Irina's. The professor evidently had his own closet.

"Irinachka, gde tui?" The professor's voice was loud, right outside the bedroom. I heard the bedroom door open, and the light turned on.

Irina's hand gripped my thigh -- her nails digging into my flesh. This did nothing to relieve my own tension. What would the professor do if he found us here? Get me fired? Expelled? Did he own a gun? My resonance array was stashed in my backpack in the front closet, and I didn't have a power supply prepped anyway. I couldn't jump.

I heard the professor shuffling around in the bedroom. Keys rattled, shoes scuffled. Through the slats in the closet door, I could glimpse pasty white legs changing from professorial polyester to flannel pajamas. I flinched when I noticed he was wearing white Spider-Man briefs.

Irina's other hand clutched my chest, scratching me. She buried her face in my shoulder, so fearful she bit into muscle to stop from screaming, then she kissed my neck, and her hand crawled up my thigh, seeking its target between my legs.

I turned to her, and opened my mouth to whisper, but her finger pressed against my lips again. Her eyes were wide open, emanating heat, and her lips were parted. She was breathing hard, and her countenance exuded sexual hunger. I hadn't seen lust in her expression on the bed, but by God I saw it now.

The professor sat down on the mattress. I heard the bounce of bed springs and a muttered Slavic curse.

The tip of Irina's tongue entered my ear, and her fingers encircled my traitorously-rejuvenated cock. She rotated her body to face me, and rubbed herself against my thigh, moaning so close to my ear it sounded like a howl, even though it was but a faint whisper.

The professor puttered around the bed, reading something. There was no telling how long he might stay, or whether he might hear us.

Irina's hot kisses moved from my ear down my jaw line. She took my lower lip between her teeth and half-pulled, half-scraped as she moved her face ever downward. Her mouth released my lip, and she bit my chin, nuzzled my chest, and licked my nipples. Her hips were now fully dry-humping my leg. The entire ensemble of sexual stimulation was performed in impressive and welcome silence.

How long could I take this? I was a talker. If she kept this up, I was going to lose control and give us away. Didn't she understand that? I tried to push her away, but her arms and hips held me tight. Even as small as she was, I couldn't push her away without making noise. Oh God! I gritted my teeth.

Irina licked a trail down my stomach and pelvis, seeking her goal.

I braced myself, and bit my own lip in anticipation. I paradoxically almost cried out in triumph from making no sound, when I felt her lips embrace the tip of my cock.

She circled the glans with her tongue, giving hungry, wet licks, like her favorite flavor of ice cream cone was melting in the heat of an August sun.

It was fire. It was exhilaration and sexual torture. I made a fist and bit my hand, not able to help myself as my hips arched upward to meet her voracious, wet tongue.

Feeling me respond, Irina closed her mouth around me -- lips sealed tight as she sucked me in.

I knew what would happen. She would break the seal by accident, and with a loud "pop" or "slurp", her husband would hear. He would throw open the closet door and find his wife's mouth around my cock. I was dead.

Blessedly, Irina was too practiced for that. She inched me deeper down her throat, without ever breaking the Ziploc seal kept tight by her lips. She took me still deeper, and I realized she was going to deep-throat me.

No! I screamed to myself. You will gag, I'll groan or shout. We will be discovered! But I was paralyzed by pleasure and terror, able to do nothing but hold perfectly still to reduce the risk of popping the vacuum, or prodding her gag reflex.

I had only been deep-throated once before, by someone trying it for the first time. She had failed and neither of us enjoyed it. This was far better -- and worse -- sending my cock to heaven and my mind to hell. Her lips finally reached my base, her tongue whirling like it was dancing to a big band song. Oh God, I could even hear Benny Goodman's Sing, Sing, Sing in my mind.

Sex with Irina was like having an orchestra in my head.

If I hadn't climaxed just minutes before, I would have already exploded. Instead, my volcano remained capped while my brain absorbed the seismic pressures Irina created with her skilled mouth. How long could she do this? How long could I take it? My fingernails plowed furrows in my palms. I felt blood running down my lip from where I had bitten it, yet still her tongue swirled and the hungry vacuum of her throat massaged my cock and sucked me toward oblivion.

I opened my mouth. I was going to shout, or I would flinch and throw her backward into the door of the closet.

Irina saved me. She relaxed the vacuum pressure of her mouth, released her lips, and withdrew from me like an expert sword swallower, with a flourish and a smile.

I stared at her in horror. What the fuck are you trying to do? I wanted to scream.

She pressed her finger against my lips yet again, and she lifted her leg and straddled me. The arousal in her face was elevated to levels I would have thought beyond the reach of gods and men. She had just deep-throated her husband's least favorite student within fifteen feet of him. With her hate-fueled sexual neurosis, this knowledge was sexual adrenaline.

Oh shit. Oh shit.

With tortuous deliberation and inevitability, she impaled herself upon my cock. This was a far cry from the expert-but-expedited fucking I had received before her husband arrived. She was slow -- oh so slow. She caressed my cock like a professional masseuse who billed by the hour, not missing an inch from base to tip.

My tormentor lowered herself into a deep crouch. Her feet were still firmly planted on the floor, and her legs provided leverage. I noticed she was still wearing her crimson fuck-me pumps, and I suddenly found myself not caring if her husband discovered us. I wanted this. I wanted this beautiful crimson-footed Slavic goddess with her magical pussy -- damaged vindictive soul and all.

Irina's hands reached down to grab the hem of her skirt, and inch-by-languid-inch she raised it. First, she exposed the pelvis in which I was gripped like a vise, then exposed her slim round hips, and finally her firm stomach -- revealing her naked beauty in the dim fragmented light of her closet.

I helped her lift her dress over her breasts and head, and in silence, she laid it down on the floor. My hands cupped her breasts -- inconveniently still clad in a crimson demi-bra. I ran my hands over her cleavage, which caused her to lean into me, and I reached behind to undo the clasp. Just as with the dress -- Irina carefully laid the undergarment on the floor, making no noise.

Irina's breasts were a fractal iteration of her form -- small, sharp, and beautiful, with their size protecting them from the ravages of gravity. Her nipples protruded long and proud. Understanding a hint of the game Irina was playing, I pinched them, tempting her to shriek in pain and pleasure.

She opened her mouth, and I thought she would cry out. Instead, she raised a hand to her mouth and bit down on the flesh of her own palm. I felt her tighten around me at the same time. I knew how to read a woman's body when it was in the throes of pleasure, and I could tell that despite her earlier protestations that she never came from her liaisons with her "friends", she was on the cusp of climax.

My sense of trepidation returned as I realized she wanted to get caught. The sheer proximity of her husband, and the high chance of an errant sound drawing his attention, created the greatest aphrodisiac she had ever known. I could see it in her eyes, tits, and undulating hips. I could feel it in the moist embrace of her pussy as it continued to stroke me.