Realtor Revenge Pt. 09.1

Realtor Revenge is the sequel to Real Estate Games. For the full experience, I suggest you start with Part 1 of Real Estate Games.

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Realtor Revenge

Chapter 9

I had two days off. Forty-eight hours of respite between the Chinese departure and the arrival of the next group of foreign investors. My plan for the weekend was to do absolutely nothing and to do it alone. I was tired of entertaining clients, tired of dealing with the city council and tired of Mark Seiman. Yes, the incredibly handsome man promised to make me a wealthy woman. And the one time we had sex it was by far the best I'd ever experienced. But the price I had to pay for a promise of riches and one incredible orgasm was weeks of near constant physical and mental abuse. So, when I pulled into my driveway, after waving goodbye to the Chinese at the airport, I was more than ready for a hot bath, a cold drink and a good night's sleep.

The bath and chilled pinot-grigio were both heavenly. But the good night's sleep was not to be had. I was still hearing noises and voices coming from someplace under my bed. The sounds weren't just in my master bedroom. I also heard them in the guest room and even in the hotel room where I tried sleeping one night.

The only nights I didn't hear anything unusual was when Flanagan slept with me. For some reason, nothing supernatural happened when he was in the room... which didn't seem fair since he had just as much to do with Janis' demise as I. And even though his presence seemed to keep the evil spirits at bay, I still didn't get any rest when he shared my bed. The misguided policeman thought I wanted him for entertainment, not protection.

Forced to choose between spending the night with an oversexed policeman or the ghost of Janis Moorehead (surely she was dead, she'd been in the grave three weeks), I chose the stiff dicked cop and caught up on my sleep the following afternoon.

***

The Russians

The next group of foreign investors were Russians. The contrast between the Russian and Chinese contingents couldn't have been greater. The Chinese arrived on a commercial airline. The Russians flew in on a private jet with their company's logo prominently displayed on the tail. The small stature Chinese men wore conservative business attire that obviously came off the rack. The overly muscular Russian men dressed like mafia Dons in expensive casual wear accented by gold chains and large rings. And while the Chinese women were attractive, when the Russian ladies stepped into the terminal, everybody stopped and stared. It was as if Victoria's Secret was doing a photo shoot in Merryville. Except Victoria didn't exclusively hire tall, slim blondes as their models. If I didn't know better, I'd swear the five women were full size, animated Barbie Dolls.

Despite the obvious differences between the two groups, our goals for the Russians were exactly the same as they were for the Chinese. After the city council agreed to let them operate tax free for twenty years, the Russians agreed to buy a good portion of Northeast Merryville at extremely inflated prices. Unlike my Chinese experience, I was able to keep my clothes on when showing the Russian men around town. Surprisingly, they not only didn't try to get into my pants, they seldom acknowledged me at all. Probably because they brought their own walking talking sex toys with them.

I won't go into the gory details, but I spent a good part of the week answering emails on my phone while one of the Russian men banged the Barbie Doll de jour in the master bedroom of whatever house we were in. I probably could have sold them an outhouse, just as long as it came with a king size bed. But I didn't. They had a huge budget, so I made sure they only saw the most expensive properties in their section of Merryville.

One of the houses the Russians purchased was a six-thousand square foot mansion on five acres of wooded land. The humongous living room which emptied onto an even larger pool deck made it a perfect party house. Two hot tubs and seven bedrooms promised even more. It was the natural choice for our end of the week celebration.

Mark insisted on driving me to the event. He had traded his boring SUV rental for a late model BMW and was thirty minutes late picking me up.

"Aren't you afraid of offending the client by arriving late?" I asked as I slid onto the expensive leather seat.

"If it was a business meeting, I'd get there exactly on time," he answered. "But fashionably late for a social event is as normal in Russian culture as it is here."

It was a lame excuse, but I let it slide. I was dreading a repeat of the last "end of week" party and wanted to know what was expected of me up front.

"Is there anything I should know about tonight?" I asked. "Will I be forced to eat pickled pig feet or drink some disgusting vodka-based witches brew?"

"We have all the contracts in hand, but we don't yet have their money. So yes, I will expect you to eat and drink whatever is offered and do whatever is asked. Are we clear on this?"

"Crystal clear."

"Good. Now quit sulking, I have a present for you. It's on the back seat."

I turned around to find a small box wrapped in red paper with a white bow.

"Should I open it now?"

"Of course. I expect you to wear it tonight."

I was hoping for a diamond necklace or perhaps some pearl earrings. But when I unwrapped the present, I found a white silk scarf.

"It's uh -- it's very nice," I said, trying not to sound as underwhelmed as I felt. "But it doesn't really go with what I'm wearing."

"Nonsense. Try it on. Let me see how it looks on you."

I draped the scarf around my neck, letting the two ends hang down to my waist... which looked ridiculous. Then I tried winding it around my neck twice with one end covering my cleavage and the other extending down my back... another fashion failure.

"So, what do you think?" Mark asked.

"I'll wear it if you insist, but I'd rather leave it in the box for another day."

"Leave it on, please. I'm told these scarfs are all the rage in Moscow. Our hosts will be pleased if you make an effort to fit in."

"Okay, you're the boss."

For one more week, then you're history.

We were the last to arrive. The entire Russian contingent and Merryville city council were already on scene when Mark made his grand entrance with me on his arm. At first, it bothered me to be seen as nothing more than a powerful man's date... a pretty girl to be used once or twice and then discarded. But a little introspection made me realize the reverse was actually the truth. Once this all played out -- once the contracts were signed, the checks cashed and the funds safely tucked away in offshore accounts -- both Mark and the City Council would be long gone and I alone would possess the power.

Surprisingly, the party wasn't the disaster I envisioned. Putting Mark in the same room with the Mayor and city council was a bit awkward since I'd convinced them that Mark was one of their blackmailers. But the local Merryvilliens managed to avoid Mark for the most part, and when they found themselves in the same conversation, nothing untoward happened.

The food and drink were another pleasant surprise. Rather than try to impress us with traditional Russian fare, they did the smart thing and got a local caterer to serve steak and lobster. And while there certainly was a boat load of Vodka being consumed, most of the women, from both sides of the Atlantic, were drinking white wine.

The biggest shocker of all was the scarfs. Mark was right. All the Russian women were wearing one... each in a different color worn in an imaginative way. One lady, dressed in a tiny black dress, tied up her platinum blonde locks in a matching black scarf. Another tied hers around an impossibly slender waist while a more daring Barbie Doll fashioned her scarf into a bikini top which occasionally let a nip slip into view.

I spent the first couple of hours in "business party mode", spending at least five minutes with each guest, both American and Russian. I complimented the women's dresses and intently listened as they complained about the men in their lives or bragged about their kids. I let the men inspect my cleavage as I laughed at their jokes and allowed them to accidently brush up against me. The scarf seemed to be an instant ice breaker.

"Vee happy you vear scarf like us," one of the Russian swimsuit models told me in heavily accented English. "Maybe tonight you join silk scarf club?"

'How cute,' I thought at the time. 'They have a little club that collects scarfs.' Kind of middle-schoolish, but none of the Natashas or Svetlanas or whatever their names were... none of them impressed me as nobel laureates.

By 10:00 pm, all of the Russians were mildly drunk and most of the Americans had gone home. Casey Green was the last City Council member to leave. By 10:30 he'd propositioned every woman in the room (to include the mayor's wife) but, even if one had accepted, he was too inebriated to do anything about it. When Mark stuffed Green into an Uber, he and I were the only Yanks left.

"This is where things might get interesting?" Mark said to me.

"How so?"

"Your scarf, it's more than a fashion statement."

Mark turned away from me before I could ask what he meant and started speaking Russian to Alek Popov, the senior man from Moscow.

'Of course, he speaks Russian. Hell, he probably also speaks Chinese and who knows how many other foreign languages.'

I didn't understand a word they were saying but, from the way they kept looking and pointing towards me, it was obvious I was the subject of their discussion. After five minutes of give and take, Alek asked Mark a question. Mark looked over to me, winked and then nodded to Alek saying the only Russian word I knew. "Da" which means "yes". Or more likely, "yes, do anything you want with her. Share her with your friends. Take her back to Moscow if you like. As long as I get my money, I'll be happy."

That's when I should have turned tail, ran to my Porsche and escaped at Mach 2. Which I would have done if Mark hadn't insisted on driving me to the party. Without transportation, I was stranded thirty miles from town with a bunch of drunk Russian mafiosos, their brain-dead groupies and my evil boss.

It started when Anya, the Russian whose boobs were semi covered in silk, took off her scarf and looped it around Leonid Vasiliev's neck... one of the younger Russian men. Anya rubbed her bare bosom against Leonid's back while tightening the scarf around his throat. While she worked behind him, Tatiana, another Russian Barbie Doll, approached from the front, kissed him on the lips, and then began removing his clothes... with his willing assistance.

Within minutes, everybody in the room had a good view of his broad chest, ample belly and quickly growing erection. While Anya continued to encircle his neck with her scarf and massage his back with her nipples, Tatiana took a shot of vodka in her mouth and transferred it to the object of her attention via a long, slobbery kiss. Sometime during the exchange, both women lost the rest of their outfits... except for their scarfs. Anya's scarf remained around Leonid's neck while Tatiana used hers to caress his penis.

With Leonid now seated on a stool, Anya stood behind him and increased the pressure around his neck while Tatiana knelt between his legs and continued working on his now fully erect cock. All three of them seemed oblivious to the crowd gathered around them. The spectators acted like fans at a football game or, considering the lack of cheering, perhaps aficionados at the opera.

"Is this what I think it is?" I whispered into Mark's ear.

"You've never done erotic asphyxiation before?"

"I've heard of it. But never seen it done, and certainly never experienced it."

"Well take notes. You might be next."

Leonid's face was turning a bright red as he struggled to breath.

"Aren't they afraid they'll suffocate him?"

"It's happened," Mark said. "But they seem to have controls in place."

"Controls?"

"Look at his hands. If Anya gets carried away with her scarf, he gives her a tap and she backs off."

I looked more closely and, sure enough, one of Leonid's hands was resting on Anya's thigh and the other on Tatiana's head. Just when I thought he was going to pop a blood vessel in his eye, he gave the tiny ass behind him a couple of taps and Anya relaxed her grip on the scarf letting him gulp in a full breath of air.

He never told Tatiana to let up. With his fingers intertwined in her hair, he used her mouth as a tool of masturbation, pounding his erection into her open maw at ever increasing speed. Just when I thought he was going to break the woman's neck, Leonid grabbed the kneeling woman's head with both hands and pulled her mouth flush with his lower belly skin... shoving his cock down her throat, completely cutting off her airway. Simultaneously, Anya increased the pressure of the strangle hold around his neck, making his face redder than a Republican's tie and his eyes bulge out of his head like a drunk alien.

They held that pose for over a minute... far longer than I thought safe or even possible. I was certain they had gone too far. Both Leonid and Tatiana had to be out of oxygen, well on their way towards brain damage. But Anya held a firm grip on her scarf and Tatiana, despite having his cock stuck halfway down her throat, didn't try to push him away.

I don't know what the signal was. Maybe an imperceptible nod of his head or some sort of inherited Russian sexual intuition but, when the time came, they all moved at once. Anya released her scarf at exactly the same time Leonid released Tatiana's head. He took two gulps of air and then roared like a conquering beast as his body involuntarily lunged forward, spraying torrents of cum onto Tatiana's face and chest as she struggled to regain her breath.

Just like at a performance at the Bolshoi, the three performers received a standing ovation from the gathered audience. Toasts were made, more vodka was drunk and then act two began... which featured two rather large Russian cocks, all three holes of a small but willing Russian woman and several silk scarfs.

Acts three, four and five of the sexual ballet were all variations on the same theme. Scarfs around necks, lips around dicks, cunts around cocks, drinks all around. It was an all-Russian performance. Mark and I were content to watch from the sidelines, until Alek Popov staggered toward us and said...

"No free show comrades. We entertained you, now you do same for us."

Marked shrugged -- like Alek had asked for something as simple as a cigarette -- and walked over to me.

"Might I have the honor of this dance?" He bowed, took my hand and pulled me to the middle of the room.

Classical music was playing softly in the background. A waltz perhaps, not that it mattered, I never mastered the art of ballroom dancing. Apparently, Mark had. He led me around the room with a grace I didn't expect from such a gruff man. However, his true intentions were soon exposed as another of his hidden talents became apparent. At that moment, he was part dancer, part magician. I can't think of any other way to explain how my clothes magically fell off my body.

The zipper of my dress mystically descended down my back as we swayed to the music. The straps fell off my shoulders, one side at a time, in perfect synchronization to the waltz. A slight turn dropped my dress to the floor and the ensuing box step kicked it to the side. My bra was firmly attached when we started a dip, but it literally sprung off my chest when he returned me to an upright position. When the music ended, I was wearing high heels, a necklace, the skimpiest of panties and a silk scarf. That is how he delivered me to Alek Popov, who apparently was next on my dance card.

The next song was some sort of Russian folk tune. It was too fast for me, so I sat it out, on Alek's lap. As with most men, Alek's attention was immediately drawn to my cleavage. However, in this case, his gaze centered on what lay between my boobs. In retrospect, I probably shouldn't have worn the dolphin entangled pearl necklace that I liberated from Janis' neck just prior to putting her in the grave.

"That is a very interesting necklace," Alek said as he fondled both the dolphins and my boobs. "My wife used to have one very much like it. Might I ask where you got it?"

"It was a present from Mark," I lied.

"A very expensive present," he said. "More costly than he will ever imagine."

I shrugged off his strange comment as my attention was drawn back to the improvised dance floor.

For a short period, Mark was the only person in the room with his clothes on. Anya, Tatiana and the rest of the Russian women made short work of that. They placed him in the middle of their circle and took turns removing an item of his clothing while the others danced erotically around him. Anya must have been the head Barbie Doll because she got the privilege of removing his boxer shorts. And when she did, every naked, dancing Russian blonde simultaneously took a sharp intake of breath when they first laid eyes on the anaconda that hung between Mark's legs.

It was disgusting how each Barbie wanted to touch and taste the snake. They took turns slipping it between their boobs, their lips and their legs... anything to make the snake grow bigger and stiffer. And it worked. After several minutes of five-on-one foreplay, Mark was ready to perform.

The Russian men had spent the last several hours drinking and fucking. Each one had poured a quart of vodka down their throats and an equal amount of sperm into their blonde sex toys. As much as they wanted to, the middle-aged men no longer had the stamina that their much younger women still possessed. So, the men were satisfied to sit in easy chairs and watch Mark and the ladies perform.

Despite my personal feelings for the man, and the fact that I planned to get rid him in the next week or so, I had to admit that what Mark did next was rather impressive.

With a burst of Russian words, Mark directed the girls to line up, shoulder to shoulder, facing the Russian men. At his command, they spread their legs and bent over, putting their hands on their knees... tits pointing down, ass pointing out. When they were properly positioned, Mark approached the blonde on the right, grabbed hold of her waist and pounded her pussy like a west Texas oil well. When she screamed out in delight and fell to the ground in exhaustion, Mark slid one girl to the left and repeated the process... all the way down the line... until he satisfied all five Russian bimbos... and he was still as hard as tungsten steel.

After finishing off all five Russian girls, Mark stood in front of Alek Popov and bowed. Alek and the other men gave him a round of applause but, when Mark turned to retrieve his clothes, Alek pushed me off his lap and said...

"There is one bitch left. Fuck this one until she screams in pleasure and you will be a true hero of the republic."

I watched Mark and the girls perform from Alek Popov's rather expansive lap. Like I said before, Alek was too drunk and flaccid to do much damage, but he did amuse himself during the show by absent mindedly rolling my nipples in the fingers of his right hand as his left reached inside my panties and played with my puss. And I have to admit that, watching what Mark did to the Barbie Dolls also had a certain effect on my libido.

So, when Mark stripped off my panties, they were already wet. But I wasn't worried when he lay on his back on the carpet with his Guinness Book of World Record sized erection pointing right at me. Because this wouldn't be the first time I'd dealt with the monster. He had already shoved his enormous cock into my unsuspecting cunt the first time we met. He ravaged me on that wrestling mat and, like he just did to the five Russian girls, made me squirt without a drop of semen coming out of him.