Liv

I crossed my legs slowly and smoothed my short skirt around my thighs, leaning back into the thinly cushioned velvet seat. The Moscow Subway was moving slowly this Wednesday evening, for track maintenance, because switchers were down, or because of a small fire, it would never be known.

The subway car was mostly empty. Only a handful of people had their noses poked into books, or their eyes closed, chins on chests. I repeatedly scanned the words in the thick book that I held open in my lap, but was not retaining anything I read. My mind kept wandering, wondering with pleasure at how I'd settled so comfortably into life in Moscow.

I had come here to put my journalism education to work. It would have been easy to find writing work online, but I craved real experiences, and the showcase pieces in my portfolio were intimate interview profiles. I was hoping to broaden that collection here, to make myself more eligible for print work.

I chose the cosmopolitan city of Moscow because I'd been obsessed with Russia since I was a child. I felt exotic and special when I learned that on my mother's father's side once-removed of my corn-fed, dirty-blonde-haired, mild-mannered family, there had been a mysterious Russian woman that nobody really knew anything about. And that humble trickle of hearty blood beat hot in my heart.

When I first I saw pictures of the confection-like onion domes on Russia's Orthodox Churches, I didn't believe they were real. When I was assured they actually existed, I was awestruck. I was determined to see them with my own eyes one day. And in my teenage years, I inhaled the writings of Chekov and Bulgakov, feeling dramatically wronged that my existence was unfolding in dull grey streets of Fargo, rather on the enchanting cobblestone streets of Saint Petersburg.

I arrived in Moscow on a rainy spring morning, and after dropping two suitcases off at the tiny sublet on Arbat Street I'd taken from a Canadian ex-pat, I ventured out onto the streets. I was exhausted, over-stimulated, and needed to think about work, but for my first three days, I allowed myself to be a tourist.

I slipped through the city, alone, not bothered by the damp. I loved the fact that you could listen to live music until dawn at any number of bohemian cafes. Numerous swarthy-complexioned men propositioned me what seemed like sincere longing, but their words slurred, and their legs wobbled from drink. I would smile and gently tease, genuinely enjoying the attention, and move on. I did want to feel one of the rugged, broad-shouldered men's cocks thrusting rhythmically inside me, but I could wait for a sober lover.

For days, I stuffed myself with cabbage rolls and black bread, and watched people. I loved the people, the pride Moscovites took in their appearance. Young women would dress up in full make-up and furs, just to pick up groceries. Moving through the streets in my high heels, possibly in the dusty footsteps of my distant ancestor, I felt like I had come home. Life in North Dakota seemed long ago, and far away.

I slipped my book into my purse after drowsily reading the same paragraph six times. I permitted my thoughts to wander, and allowed my eyes to close.

The interview at Moscow Times had gone better than I had expected, and not just because Rodion, the man who had asked me probing questions about my educational and employment background, was intensely good-looking. He made it clear to me that he was interested in securing my freelance copywriting talents, promising a phone call next week to confirm details.

My good humour from the successful interview had lasted through what I hoped was not a preemptively celebratory dinner at Cafe Khachapuri, with my roommate, Dina. She was almost as giddy as I was about the prospect of my winning the Moscow Times as a client, and laughingly ordered us multiple rounds of drinks to celebrate. Her German accent became stronger after a few vodkas, and I loved to listen to the way she spoke, her words a sexy clipped and lilting dance.

While describing the Moscow Times office and the interview process, I happened to mention Rodion's distractingly good looks. Dina quickly waved her hands to interrupt me, and insisted I immediately elaborate, her pretty blue eyes wide with salacious interest.

Smiling, cheeks flushed with drink, I told Dina how I had been reviewing some pages of copy in the plush reception area of the Moscow Times, my head down. Rodion seemed to come up on me suddenly, and I was startled to feel his presence beside me. I immediately noticed that he was tall and lean, dressed in a slim fit black suit. He had dark blue eyes, and pronounced my name, Liv, in a deep voice seasoned with a Russian accent, making my name sound almost like "love".

He led me to a small boardroom adjacent to the reception area, and he invited me to sit in a straight-back chair at a heavily-lacquered wooden table. He took a seat across from me, and as the feline movement of his body stirred the air, I couldn't help but notice that he smelled faintly of leather and clove.

He was probably 35, with dark wavy hair that seemed almost black in the muted light of the boardroom. His hands were large and rested folded atop my resume. His demeanor was friendly, but serious, his small talk limited to "would you like a water or tea" before we began discussing my writing qualifications.

As I began to sell myself, as I had done so many times before, I slipped into autopilot, reciting my work history and accomplishments like an automaton. I could hear my voice drone on as I let my gaze meet his dark eyes, flicker down to his hands, glance up to his broad shoulders, and flicker again back to his eyes. He was attractive. As he watched me speaking, I subtly arched my back, hoping he would steal a glance at my breasts.

After the interview, he walked me back to the reception area, moving with a loose confidence. Smiling slightly, assuring me he would be in touch next week, he extended his hand to take mine. As we touched, we both shuddered, a ping of static shock suddenly embracing us. With an awkward chuckle, he extended his hand again, his deep blue eyes searching mine. We successfully clasped hands for a moment. His hand was large, his skin soft and warm.

Dina fluttered her eyelashes and pretended to swoon, and we both laughed. We were both experienced, attractive women in our late 20s, and while we often chatted facetiously about men, our appetites were as diverse and ferocious as our liberal minds.

I met Dina on the internet. She had been living in Moscow for a year with a boyfriend, Ivan, but he'd become homesick and moved back to Hamburg. He left a void, mostly of the real-estate variety: the apartment was enormous, a two-bedroom near my sublet on Arbat Street. So she'd advertised for a roommate. Dina and I were both in our late 20s, with journalism and communications backgrounds. After she showed me around the apartment, we bonded over books, handbags, and cocktails. I was the first person she met about the apartment and the last - I moved in the next week.

That was two months ago, and it was August now. Tonight, stuffed with grilled meat marinated with plums, and warmed through with vodka, we exchanged a fond good-bye outside the restaurant, the light now dusky on Gnezdnikovsky.

Dina had plans with a man named Erik that she had recently started seeing, so to give them privacy at home, I had decided to go to the symphony. I didn't know much about music, but I loved the grandeur of the music hall, and The Moscow Symphony's rendition of Sibelius' Symphony #2 had been a sensuous surprise. While the music played, I admired the art nouveau concert hall and the sleek Muscovites seated elegantly within.

I sighed happily. The subway bumped, and stopped, but continued rumbling. I re-crossed my legs and glanced at my watch, noting it was past midnight. Dina and Erik had had hours at this point alone. I wondered what they had gotten up to, and let my mind wander.

Dina was petite, with wavy blonde hair that she usually wore loose. She was extroverted, with a bubbly personality, and talked with her hands. Men loved her, and women too. She had an enviable hourglass figure, and the confidence to show it off. That evening, she had been wearing a dark blue dress with black gems embroidered across the bodice, low-cut enough to show off a sliver of creamy cleavage. Her décolletage glowed with a hint of shimmer, from the skin cream we had purchased together. It smelled like peaches.

I imagined that once she got home with Erik, he would immediately put his hands on her hips, kiss her hard, then slowly pull that dark blue dress up, and over her head. Her hair would fall down over her shoulders and bosom, and she would stand before him naked and bemused in her black stilettos. He would take her hand, and put it on the crotch of his blue jeans, so she could feel how hard his cock was. Dina would act offended, but instead of yanking her hand away, she would slip it slowly inside Erik's pants, and grasp his hot shaft.

I shifted in my seat, suddenly aroused.

The subway train lurched, and stopped again, rumbling at a higher frequency. My seat was suddenly vibrating, clearly defective.

But the Moscow Metro was eighty years old, so naturally it was ornery. Long line-ups for tickets could clog her entrance arteries, a blast from a guard's whistle could incite a migraine, and the escalators worked on her whimsy. But she could get away with it: the old girl had good bones, and she was loved far and wide for her beauty. From the stunning art deco columns at Mayakovskaya, to the bronze sculptures at Ploschad Revolyutsii, she was a national treasure.

As I felt the vibration dance around my clit, I took a sharp intake of breath. I found if I shifted my bottom slightly to the left, the vibrations grew stronger. I glanced over at the other passengers on the subway car. Most of them were asleep. One young man, perhaps in his early 20s, was turned away from me, engrossed in a book.

I felt my skin flush hot with a curious mix of shame and desire. I wished one of the swarthy men from the café were here right now. I would coquettishly spread my legs for him, inch forward on the seat, and invite him to taste my pussy. He would gladly kneel before me, and hungrily suck on my clit, slowly finger-fucking me with his thick middle finger.

I arched my back and ground my pussy into the seat. Waves of heat pulsed gently through my body. I noticed my skirt had ridden up to mid-thigh, but I left my bare legs exposed as I balanced carefully on the epicenter of the vibration.

My cunt was already clenching, and I was getting damp. My clit was becoming engorged, swelling against my soft cotton panties. The vibrations from the rattling subway seat continued in their intensity, making my body want to cum. I knew if I fingered my clit for a few moments, I would be able to reach a much-needed release.

Absorbed in the base demands of my body, I slipped my hand under my skirt, and slowly down into my cotton panties. I was about to circle the heat of my clit when out of the corner of my eye, I sensed a movement. I glanced up. The young man with the book wasn't reading anymore. He was staring at me.

A white-hot beam of shame shot through me. I was too startled to move. From where he was sitting, kiddy-corner and sideways to me, he could clearly see that my hand was in my panties. He smiled warmly, with a heat in his eyes that made it clear that he liked what he had been seeing. He put his book down beside him, and I could immediately see that his cock was standing up, ram-rod straight in his dark faded blue jeans.

Hesitating only for a moment, his dark brown eyes on me all the while, he slowly unzipped the fly of his jeans and fished out his stiff cock for me to see. It seemed almost as thick as my wrist, reached up above his beltline, and leaned slightly to the left. He put his hand around the purple head, and slowly began to masturbate himself with circular twisting strokes, watching me with a nervous smile.

Perhaps it was because I was still feeling the effects of the drinks I'd imbibed that evening. Perhaps it was because I was in a new country and feeling open to new sensations and experiences. Or perhaps it was just because I hadn't been fucked for a little while. Whatever it was, I decided to embrace the surreal nature of the situation so I could give my body the release it was craving.

The lights in the subway car flickered, and an unclear female voice cracked over the intercom briefly. An engine somewhere in the train revved half-heartedly before falling again into a rhythmic rumble.

Everything was still again. I flashed a quick smile back at the young man, and leaned back into the thin velvet seat. I spread my thighs wide and pulled my hand out of my panties. My heart was beating hard, adrenaline and lust coursing through my body. I loved the way my new friend was looking at me, open-mouthed and wide-eyed. Pre-cum glistened on the tip of his penis.

I pulled my black short skirt up to my hips. As his face flushed, I knew that my new friend could clearly see the damp spot on my white cotton panties. My clit was aching for attention, and I gave it a few light flicks through the thin cotton. Then, I lifted my hips up and deftly pulled the undergarment off, keeping my eyes on his the whole time. His tongue flicked quickly over his bottom lip, and I could see his grip get tighter on his cock.

I slipped my panties into my handbag, and brought my hand down to my smooth, shaved cunt. It was radiating heat. I was shocked at my bawdy behavior, but also aroused by it. I blamed the impetus on the young man. His teasing me, that rhythmic rubbing his hard cock, made us partners in crime. There was no backing down now.

I deftly parted my soft, shaved pussy, showing off the glistening hot pinkness of my inner lips. I lifted a leg up and rested my high-heeled foot on the seat beside me, making sure the young man got a good view of my snatch. He was 10 feet away from me, but I heard his breath catch, and I smiled.

My dark red nails were short, shapely ovals. With the tip of a finger, I stroked the velvety flesh of my engorged clit. I had had a manicure two days ago, in preparation for my interview at The Moscow Times. I wondered briefly what Rodion would think of me if he could see me now. Would he scoff at my lack of control? Feel pity for my wantonness? Or would he want to ram his cock deep balls-deep into my pussy?

The nerve endings on my clit seemed to catch fire, and hot sensations flared through my body. I briefly closed my eyes, savouring the intensity. Greedy for more, I flicked my hot button, then rubbed it harder. My pussy began to clench, and I slipped a finger slowly inside of myself to fill the hungry void.

My new friend was pumping his shaft more urgently now. I could see the thick purple head flashing me with every stroke. His breath was becoming ragged, his eyes flickering back and forth from my face to my snatch. His pants had slipped a little lower, and I could see his balls starting to tighten up and fill with hot cum.

I slowly pulled my finger out of my cunt and showed him how wet I was. Delirious with lust, I pinched my clit, and felt my pussy clench again, harder this time. I was close to cumming, but I knew I couldn't get a release without something in my snatch.

I pushed two fingers inside my wet hole and with my other hand began to frig my clit. Watching my new friend getting off, I tried finger-fucking myself in time to the rhythm in which he was pounding his thick cock. His mouth suddenly opened a little wider and he leaned his head back, watching me with hooded eyes. I could hear him moaning softly now, short hot breaths. His hand jerked franticly up and down his thick shaft. I knew he was close.

I concentrated on frigging my clit faster, the nub of sensitive flesh twitching under my hand. My fingers slid again and again over my smooth, slippery pussy. I rhythmically twisted my fingers deep inside my snatch, over and over my engorged g-spot. I suddenly felt my legs involuntarily jerk wider, and my pussy began clenching rhythmically, pulsing faster and faster. Suddenly, all the blood in my body seemed to rush to my clit, and I gasped, feeling like I was beginning to fall.

Losing control of my faculties, it was all I could do to mash my fist into my clit as my hips involuntarily pumped my fingers. I cried out softly, then held my breath. I shuddered with the pleasure of it all, letting my long brown hair falling into my face. Electric heat flashed up and down my arms and legs, and my pussy twitched around my fingers. Waves of sensation circled through my body, dimmer, as my hot cum begin to moisten my inner upper thighs.

The lights flickered again in the subway car, over the sleeping silhouettes of people at the other end of the subway car. An engine roared then rumbled, and the cantankerous metro seemed to quiver to life. The subway began pulling forward slowly.

I took a breath and slowly pulled my sticky fingers out of my pussy. I rubbed my hot cum around my clit, and spread my hole, wanting to make sure my new friend could see how wet and pink I was.

Watching me massaging myself, his face suddenly screwed into a sneer, and he began to jerk his thick rod arrhythmically. His mouth opened into a silent "o", and he buckled forward slightly, a stream of hot cum shooting out of his cock. Three more bursts pulsed onto the subway car's floor, onto his jeans, and then over his hands.

The young man leaned back. His face was flushed pink, and his eyes were shining brightly. A lock of dark blond hair fell over his forehead. He massaged the rest of the cum out of his cock, smiling shyly but meeting my gaze. He suddenly looked very young.

The subway picked up speed, finally approaching Smolenskaya Station, my stop. Apparently whatever mysterious set-back had befallen the metro had cleared, if only temporarily. I tucked my skirt down over my bottom, and primly smoothed the soft material back down over my thighs. I felt empowered, sexy and confident. As I gathered my things to leave, I winked at my friend.

Suddenly realizing I would be leaving in a moment, he hastily pulled his pants up and zipped them up over his still-swollen member. He awkwardly wiped a streak of cum on his hand off onto his pant cuff, and we both smiled. He held up a hand, indicating I ought to wait a moment for something.

He pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket, and scribbled on a page in the very back of his book. He tore the page out, and folded it. He stood, and shyly walked over to me. He was bigger than I thought, and about six inches taller than I was. As he came closer to me, I could see that his eyes were a greenish blue. He started to speak to me in Russian.

"I'm sorry," I said, "I'm American".

"Oh," he replied, seemingly confused. But he continued to hold the paper out to me, and I took it.

"Thank you," I said politely, taking the paper and stepping back from him. I had really enjoyed watching this man get off, but I didn't necessarily want him knowing anything about me.

The subway slowed into Smolenskaya station. As we rolled to a stop, the young man sat back down. I could feel him watching me intently as the subway doors slid open. "Do svidaniya," he called, smiling warmly. I looked back at him and winked, slipping the piece of paper he'd given me into my purse.