Mistresses Incorporated Pt. 03

"American," she grinned, so I handed her five hundred dollar bills.

"Good?"

"Yes! And yes I have a bath." She shoved the bills into her coat. "You wish to share it with me?"

"Yes."

"I will fill it. You undress, and there is a bottle of Pernod in the far cabinet," she pointed. "Do you know how to best prepare Pernod?"

"With water."

"From the tap, yes? I know how you Americans are."

"Yes Mademoiselle," I bowed.

She laughed and headed to the bathroom. I found the bottle, nearly full, and a couple of tall glasses, combining the liqueur with mostly water and watching the water cloud up. Setting the glasses on the kitchen table, I stripped, draping my clothing over my bag and walked into the bathroom.

The tub was nearly full and coated with bubbles which made me laugh. We drank down our drinks before she turned off the faucet. I handed her into it, her back to the far side away from the faucet and carefully followed her, measuring the faucet to keep from pressing into it.

"Closer," she said, repeating it twice. She hadn't moved until the last shift so that my legs had room behind her. My hard cock pressed against her taut tummy and my balls were nearly touching her pussy. One of her hands held soap and the other a washcloth. Once the washcloth had been thoroughly soaped she began washing me. The hand that once had the soap, set aside on the tub edge, lowered into the water until it took hold of my erection and began pulling.

Seeing her naked had affected me nearly instantaneously. Her full breasts had remarkable resilience, but obviously hung naturally. Her abdomen practically rippled with muscle and yet made subtle by a layer of softness. The way her sides curved from chest to hips had never been so demonstrative in any woman I'd known. I had no idea what her waist measured, but with her rib cage somewhat wide and her hips definitely womanly, child bearing they're called, it seemed remarkably narrow. And her ass matched her tits in fullness and firm resilience. Long, strong thighs also remarkably shaped not as thick as they might be considering the ass they held, more svelte, and beautifully tapered to the knees that blended rather than jutted, and down to the long, muscled calves. Rather large feet though, almost masculine in size, though they had to support this statuesque woman. Her hands too were quite big for a woman. Just seeing those and some thickness in her jaw which made her plain one might think she'd transitioned from a man, but everything else about her said otherwise. And her mound of venus looked too smooth and well formed to be fucked with, at least medically, the tuft of blonde hair almost invisible, but actually well-trimmed and shaved at the edges and around her tight slit, a true slit with barely any interior revealed which made me realize unlike any other women I'd been with sexual excitement hadn't swollen her labia opening up that space where my cock would soon penetrate. But that was what the bath was about. I planned for my lips and tongue to bring forth the swelling.

Since she was busy and I was without washcloth I soaped my hands and applied them directly to her body, her tits mostly, which I found a thrilling mix of soft and firm. Her pleasure became finally manifest with quiet moans and physically with the pimpling of her1 inch radius areolas and especially the hardening of her squat little nipples when my soaping moved in on them. They beckoned to be sucked which was the downside of soaping. Further proof of the sensitivity I discovered, her pulling on my cock became harder, more like the pressure I'd use masturbating, adding strokes probably by thumb against the edges of my glans when her hand wasn't directly stroking across. And she edged closer to me under water so that I felt her slit press at the space between my balls and eventually against the base of my cock.

A brief pause of my focus on her nipples to soap up my hands again, I kept one there while the other went exploring and/or cleaning the rest of her, at least right half. Neck, shoulders, arms, hands were cleaned and caressed, then her back and down, into the water, finding her ass and gripping it, measuring soft and firm and finding mostly firm, and then lower, between cheeks, testing her response to anal play which her louder moan proved her interest. Then back to her front to play near the edge of her clit only to lift to her navel and find out what taut with a layer of softness felt like. And another pause for my other hand to soap her other side.

This time when my finger teased close to her clit, she would have none of that and, dropping the cloth, she pulled my fingers down to it. "But bathwater is not good lubricant," I told her while gently rubbing what I discovered to be a substantial clit.

"Then let us rinse off," she insisted, giving my cock one last tug.

I stood first, which brought my erection directly to her mouth. "Hold on," she said, leaning forward and turning on the water and using it to rinse out the washcloth. Once done, and pulling the plug, she thoroughly rinsed my cock of all soap and sucked my glans into her mouth. With all the pulling on it and just being in her sexual presence, climax approached.

"Lara, going to cum," I warned her.

She stayed with it, letting the jets of semen enter her mouth, then spitting it out into the bath water. Standing, she reached around me again to transfer the water from the bath spout to the shower head. I took the washcloth from her and started washing off her soapy tits.

"Later," she said, taking the cloth and washing my back with it. "Turn around," she ordered and she washed my front.

"My turn," I insisted and we changed places. Though wanting to linger, I realized it delayed being in bed with her.

Shower off, she handed me a towel and we watched each other dry off as if fascinated by the procedure.

"Toss it on the floor," she commanded, and I followed her to the bedroom.

"On your back and spread your gorgeous legs," I ordered.

She obeyed and I headed, mouth first, to her pussy which I noticed had opened up with her excitement. I soon found out she liked things direct. "It tickles," she complained when I was being careful. But she definitely responded when I went straight for her much larger than usual clit, sucking it like a mini cock which should have felt weird but didn't what with the scent of her prodigious juices brought forth by the fingering I did to her cunt, rubbing her g spot in particular, and having my other hand pluck at her nipples while basically giving her clit a blow job.

She was a squirter! And even before her juice stopped dripping from my chin, she murmured, "Condom," of which a basket of them, a variety, sat on the bedside table.

I went for the lamb skin, rolling it on quick as possible, climbed between her long legs, and pushed in. She wasn't the narrowest cunt I ever fucked, but neither was she too wide, and, predictably, she'd done her kegel exercises. Not that she let me linger on those squeezes. She wanted it fast and hard pretty much right off the bat, but each withdrawal, despite the speed, I felt the flex of her muscles holding me. She made lasting a challenge, and I realized that was the point. For someone who supposedly liked sex, she seemed to want to get it over with as quickly as possible.

I resisted her demand, and better yet, I got to feast on her incredible tits which she seemed to enjoy more than me. To add to my rebellion, I brought my free hand, the one not tugging on her other nipple, to her clit and stroked it hard.

She lifted against my thrusts, and with her strength I had to hold on to keep them up without being tossed out. She then stiffened and trembled, bleating out her intense pleasure, using Russian curse words I imagine. I kept stroking through her orgasm, though moving my clit stroking hand to her breast, squeezing it while a nibbled on her nipple.

"Stop!" she growled. "The drawer."

I had to pull out of her to open it, and she crawled down, unpealed my cock and sucked it in. In the drawer I found the Russian version of KY. "Condom," she ordered, and I handed her whatever one I grabbed, which ended up being a magnum. She laughed, but rolled it on. I handed her the lube and she lubed my covered cock, then lay back, pulling her legs high. My fingers oiled and stroked her anus while she rubbed her clit and pulled on her nipples. Once ready enough, I placed my glans at her smallest hole and pushed in. "Just fuck me," she insisted. Not something I ever did, always careful about introducing a cock to the rectum, but she insisted.

I pushed in deep and she growled, something between pleasure and pain with pleasure winning. And I just fucked her as hard as I'd fucked her before while she stroked fingers into her cunt, all four in the end, while her thumb mashed her clit. Her nipples got mashed by her other hand. I kept fucking. When she came it was more intense than before, and I felt myself cumming with her, and it was pretty damn intense as well.

"Anal, hunh," I heard nearby spoken in English. Looking up I saw a tall, extremely handsome blond man. The lantern jaw definitely worked better on him.

"Siblings?" I managed to say with my short breathe.

"Little Brother, this is Joe," Lara said in Russian, answering my question. "Can we keep him?"

"If he fucks me like that, maybe," he answered in English.

"Uhm, I'm definitely not gay," I told him, pulling out and resting, wanting to cover up, but nothing was available.

"Too bad," he said, then in Russian to his sister, "You going to be able to dance after that?"

"I took the night off," Lara said. "We have work to do."

"You in then?"

"Of course."

"What?" I asked.

"You wash off, get dressed, we talk, okay?" George suggested in English.

"Okay," I said.

I used the washcloth to clean myself quickly. Lara brought my clothes just as I finished. She'd put on her housecoat. Before I dressed she pulled me into a kiss. A very nice one which lingered but ended too soon. "You don't kiss your customers?" I asked in French.

"Only gentlemen," she smirked and left me to dress.

When I came out, the two siblings sat at the kitchen table, each smoking a cigarette. More Pernod was poured and a glass was waiting for me. I sat at the spot it was placed.

"You smoke?" George asked me.

"Not tobacco," I replied.

"I can get some hashish."

"That's okay."

"Better a clear mind," he said, taking a swallow of the Pernod.

"Do you plan rescuing Lizzie and Karen by any chance?" I decided to ask.

"Who's Karen?" he asked.

"Probably why they were kidnapped," I said, and explained the complicated situation as succinctly as possible.

"Karen fucked up," George concluded.

"Probably," I said.

"You ever read the Monkey Wrench Gang by Edward Abbey," he asked out of the blue seemingly.

"I have," I told him. "Abbey's one of my favorite writers."

"We are like that."

"Like what?"

"Russia's fucked," he started to explain. "From the Soviet Regime to Putin, one fucked up repression to another. Guys aren't supposed to fuck guys in the ass, but they keep fucking us in the ass don't they? Well fuck them. But what can you do? They have all the power and all the money."

"It's not so different in the States," I said. "What we call the 1 percent with all the money and the rest of us remain stagnant, no pay increases despite inflation and they keep making money hand over fist despite us."

"But gays can get fucking married!" he pointed out.

"True, in at least that way there's been progress. But in a lot of other ways there's been regression. States taking steps to outlaw abortion or make them really hard to get. Building walls, actual and via laws, to keep out the foreigners, especially non white non Christian types. And all those school killings and other mass killings, even though they're arbitrary and occasional and the chance that you're the unlucky one being a victim are as thin as being victims of some terrorist action, but it does show our insanity, in being okay with guns and having people have no sense of other people's worth and having that many sociopaths and psychopaths amongst us."

"But like you said, those are rare," he argued. "In Russia if you stand at all against the regime in any way public you pay the price just like the old days. And being gay in public is a transgression against society, backed up by the government. Protesting against it gets you banished or worse. So the fight has to go underground, be virtually invisible and yet have effect. Thus the Monkey Wrench Gang."

"Meaning?" I asked.

.

"Surgical strikes. Manipulations. Information getting out past the border or to others inside with similar attitudes. Things like warning about raids or getting people into safe places before they're arrested. And a little sabotage against the oligarchs, the true monkey wrenches, mostly in screwing with the information technology, but sometimes actual physical disruption of the supply chain but done to make it seem due to incompetence which serves to weaken the chain of command.

"And we're not above taking revenge on those particularly cruel oligarchs who get away with murder and mayhem because they're favored by Putin, justice meted out by an underground network of the unsavory, forgotten and abused. You know even the most sullied amongst are as schooled and intelligent as any people in the world."

"I've heard the Russians are particularly well-educated," I nodded. "So why keep being put under the yoke?"

"Because intelligence breeds cynicism and corruption. Being clever enough to know how to play the game the way it's designed, or smart enough to keep your head down and not be noticed. You know we don't just consider America decadent, but stupid as well."

I laughed. "You won't hear an argument from me. Not that we're all complete imbeciles, there's enough colleges and universities to at least learn something beyond the rudiments we learn in high school. There are plenty of intelligent conversations, just the TED talks and their popularity, an ongoing series of presentations on high level concepts and ideas, shows at least some of us can think. At the same time all you need is a familiar face, a movie star like Reagan or a television star like our current president, and you're assured a great many votes, a majority it turns out, or at least enough majority in the right states to be declared a winner. But you still haven't said if this Monkey Wrench Gang has plans to free Lizzie and Karen."

"I know where they are," George stated.

"At the oligarch's vacation home," I returned.

"They were taken there from their hotel room."

"Saw by a certain long haired bellhop?"

"He let the goons in," George nodded sadly.

"And he let you know?"

"He's not one of us, preferring his bread buttered on both sides, but he is an informant since we exchange things. He's one of those smart, cynical, careful ones."

"Exchange meaning hiring Lara?"

"And me sometimes, but also I know how to get drugs in this town. Useful knowledge for our work. Anyway, they were stashed at the house, but later brought to the oligarch's ship now anchored nearby. I guess he doesn't trust the local Georgians to be seen on land."

"But his ship..."

"Not quite as obvious I guess, but I happen to know one of his employees, a grunt, and managed to run into him when he was supplying. A friend who works the dock saw the ladies being taken onto a dinghy."

"Is this employee going to help us?" I asked. "Sounds dangerous for him."

"It would have to be decisive," George said ominously.

"Meaning?"

"Pirates!" Lara grinned.

"You're shitting me," I said.

"Joe," George explained. "Both my sister and I have trained, both special units in the military, my sister especially doing spy shit being female, then, when fired for our preferences, continuing to train. Are you in?"

I swallowed, but bravely told them, "I know martial arts."

"Perfect. We need to be silent. No guns until the end."

"You have a plan?"

"Yes."

"I should talk to Molly, but she's probably in transit," I said.

"I can't tell you when they plan to ship off," George argued.

"Nevertheless, I should at least leave a message."

"Let me get a burner phone and charge it," George responded. "So you're in?"

"I'm in."

"Good." He nodded to Lara who started making some calls. After plugging in an ancient looking cell phone he smiled, "Let us get some food."

"Okay." I was starved and wondered if we'd ever eat.

Outside we walked away from the beach a couple blocks to an old restaurant that reminded me of some small town diner in America. He greeted the older blonde woman behind the counter as if they were good friends and ordered several dishes. "Russian and local Georgian," he told me after. The place actually had an old, cheesy looking juke box, and George fed it a couple Georgian coins. A crooner came on, the music behind him both ethnic sounding to me, but also with a real rocking beat. It sounded like a weird version of power pop. The guitarist played some tasty solos. "The Georgian version of George Michael," George smirked. "Even named George. And he's like me."

"Gay?"

"And subversive," George winked.

By the time the food had been prepared we'd heard three of the man's songs, a faster paced one which really rocked and a tender ballad. The smell of the food had me salivating despite the overall odor of cabbage. We couldn't get back and eating soon enough.

Everyone tore into the meal as soon as it was plated, the siblings obviously as hungry as me. One paper bag with something obviously greasy within it George set aside. "For later," George grinned. Everything tasted delicious, and I tasted everything.

George handed me the cell phone once we'd finished, and I brought out my smart phone to get the number.

"Hello?" a tired sounding Cheryl finally answered.

"It's Joe," I said. That woke her up.

"Tell me what you need."

"Mostly I need to talk to Molly," I told her.

"You can't tell me?"

"Probably shouldn't."

"Something dangerous?"

"Yeah."

Cheryl sighed. "Let me get you a number, something that will get through to Molly, emergencies only."

"Wouldn't everything be on airplane mode?" I asked.

"We're talking about Molly," she reminded me.

"Of course," I chuckled.

"It would be text only."

"Just a second." I asked George if I could text using the phone. It looked really old.

"Of course," George said and showed me.

"I need to write down a number."

Lara brought me a small memo pad and a cheap Bic pen, or its equivalent in Georgia.

"Go ahead," I let Cheryl know.

After she gave me the number, she insisted I call her back when everything's done.

"Of course," I told her.

"Be safe," she said.

"I will," I replied.

Both of us knew I wouldn't be.

"I love you," we traded before the call ended.

I texted Molly using the shortest communication possible. "Girls on ship. Pirates. JS (my initials)."

"When?" she texted back.

"Soon," I returned with George's nod.

"No wait?"

"Cant."

"Hack," she wrote. "Bye."

I understood. Somehow she would make the oligarch look bad.

"Do you have anything tight to wear?" George asked me.

"Uhm, I left everything in my room," I reminded him.

"I get you something."

It ended up being really short white denim cutoffs. Lara leant me a baby blue very tight v neck t shirt. I felt ridiculous, but Lara claimed I looked sexy. The other two wore equally tight clothing, Lara a sheathe dress and George long, stretchy pants and a clingy shirt. Each had trench coats to cover themselves. "Here," said George, handing me a navy blue peacoat, small for my arms but long enough to reach my knees.

We waited.

A knock on the door ended our wait. Opening it revealed a beautiful black hair woman with startling blue eyes nearly as tall as Lara. The two women kissed obviously fond of each other. "Howdy stranger," the woman said to me in English, her voice rich and deep yet feminine and sexy. She also wore a trench coat.