Russian Bride

He had done his best to ignore the odd situation with Ludmila's 'handlers' at each end of the train, but he couldn't hold back any longer. That night he called a college buddy who had gone into private security.

"Look Don," said Pete, "I don't have a lot of cash to spare – but I can owe you. I'll do whatever it takes."

"Petey, don't worry about the money," said Don. "Just fill me in on the situation and I'll see what I can do. Without you, I'd still be sitting at St. Mary's trying to pass Calculus. You got me through , don't think I've forgotten. I owe you."

Pete filled him in on the situation, giving Don every detail he could think of.

"So, she didn't speak any English at all?" asked Don after he'd finished.

"Not until she met me."

"These guys are there at the train every time?"

"Well," said Pete, thinking. "I don't know about Manhattan, but yeah, the guy is there at Rahway each day.

"First. Do what she says. Keep clear, don't follow her, don't be seen with her on the platform. Whatever is going on is some serious, serious shit. I have some ideas. It might take me a few days because I've got a bunch of other stuff going on, but I should be able to work something out soon. Just give me those train times again."

The next week was nerve wracking for Pete, waiting to find out what Don had discovered and having to play it cool with Ludmila. That didn't stop him from enjoying his time on the train with her, though. They both took joy in finding new and different ways to please each other. The bathroom was certainly occupied a fair amount on their trips, but they found other ways as well.

The most adventurous time of all was on a morning trip home. Somehow, Ludmila found a way to sit across his lap sideways and work him inside without it looking like anything more than a girl with a long winter coat sitting on her boyfriend's lap.

"You let me do work," she said.

Without moving at all, she began squeezing herself around his cock. Somehow, she was able to start at the base and caress him all the way up.

"My god, how are you doing that?" he muttered, trying to keep a normal face.

"I have good pussy, yes?" she said, matter-of-factly.

"Oh, yes," he confirmed.

"Now you no talk, just enjoy but don't make obvious."

If Pete hadn't known better, he would have sworn she had somehow inserted some hands inside of herself, the way she was working him. Tighter and faster she squeezed him, with only a slight change in her breathing to even indicate it was an effort.

"Oh Ludmila," groaned Pete as he exploded inside of her

"Oh so good, my Petrov," she whispered while kissing him. She then stood to shield him while he got his pants back on and sat directly across from him in the bench. The train was fairly empty by then. Taking advantage of this, she opened her coat and lifted her dress to give him a perfect view. Taking his juices which were still oozing out, she fingered herself into oblivion. Twice she was interrupted by people passing through. Throwing the coat over herself, she would put on an innocent but wry expression, to be replaced with ecstasy as soon as they passed and let her get back to business. She reached across and grasped his hand firmly as the orgasm began, and gripped it tighter and tighter as she came.

It was that day that Don called Pete.

"So how much do you like this girl?" Don asked.

"I love her," said Pete. "More than you can imagine."

"That's what I was afraid of," said Don. "Then you don't want to know what her life is like, and you sure as hell don't want to see it."

"Yes, I do," said Pete, "I have to know everything."

Don hesitated. "Alright, do you know the Lipstick Building?"

"Sure," said Pete, "53^rd and 3^rd."

"Right. Meet me there at midnight, the East service entrance."

It was a long ride in. Pete was grateful it was a busy train so he and Ludmila were able to keep clear of distractions which he knew he wouldn't be able to focus on. Once at Penn Station, he scrambled up to the street and jumped into a cab to get him to his destination. When he arrived at the Lipstick Building, he was surprised to find not only Don, but an official man and woman who looked very, very federal.

"Pete, I'd like you to meet Mr. Eric Jones of the state department and Ms. Tricia Levins of the I.N.S."

"I.N.S.?" said Pete. He pulled his friend aside and whispered, "Fuck Don, I just asked you to look into this, not get her deported."

"Pete, I had to call them. This isn't amateur hour. Like I said, this is some serious, serious shit."

The woman, Tricia stepped in.

"Mr. Hutchinson. Pete. We understand you have a personal attachment here, and we'll do all we can to help you and this woman out."

Somehow, Pete wasn't reassured.

"Shall we go up and have a look?" said Jones.

Pete nodded, reeling from this strange twist of events.

They went up to a darkened conference room.

"Don't worry about being seen," said Don. "The glass is tinted and no one is looking for us here. You might want to grab a chair though, could be a while."

They all grabbed chairs and sat at the window while Don pulled out his laptop.

"On here,' he explained," I have access to the security cameras in both this building and the one across the street we'll be watching. I'm a consultant with the firm that handles security for both buildings. Shit, don't let me forget to have you sign a non-disclosure, Pete. Now here we go, the graveyard shift cleaning crew is arriving."

They looked down at the building across the street to see at least thirty women gathering at the side of the building. Pete thought he recognized Ludmila amongst the crowd, but couldn't be sure.

"As for the profile, there's nothing unusual about the nationality of the cleaning crew," said Don. "Lots of companies contract with all Russian, Polish, Puerto Rican workers, whatever. What I did find unusual was the age range. I'm not trying to be stereotypical, but I used to work at One Battery Plaza. All the nice Polish ladies who were on the cleaning crew were, shall we say, more matronly. Let's take a look at the ladies riding freight elevator number one."

He clicked on an icon to pop up a screen with a video shot of about twenty women riding a large elevator. Whether skinny or buxom, tall or short, they were all in their twenties and were all gorgeous in some fashion.

"Not a bad cleaning crew, wouldn't you say?"

They watched the monitor as the girls got off one-by-one and went to their floors.

"Here's the crazy thing," said Don, "They actually do clean. They even do windows."

"And that's all, right?" asked Pete with false hope.

"Do you think I'd call you here if it was? Now we sit tight and wait."

The next hour was fairly boring as Don flipped through screens of attractive Russian women emptying waste bins and vacuuming floors.

"Here's the first arrivals," said Don, breaking the boredom.

Flipping to the lobby camera, several men had walked in. One security guard stayed there, while two others led the men to the elevators and up to the floors.

"Let's see, eighteenth floor. There we are," said Don, flipping through the screens and bringing two up side by side. "There is Milla polishing the desk of some exec with a very nice office and here comes a client in the hallway. Notice, the man does all negotiating with the security guard, and pays all money to him as well."

The guard and the man finished their transaction and the man went into the office. With very little fanfare, the man sat in the large leather chair behind the desk. The cleaning woman knelt before him and started to service him.

"What were the other floors?" said Don. "Twenty-three, twenty-nine, sixteen, and eleven. Motion sensitive systems, doesn't take too much searching. "

He flipped through four scenes, two women were also on their knees. One was being taken from behind, leaning across a conference room table, and the fourth was straddling her client in a chair.

"And all the while, more are arriving."

He switched back to the lobby where about ten more men were waiting.

"It's really a perfect setup," said Don. "I mean, why would Vice ever think about watching office buildings? They're busy enough keeping an eye on the streetwalkers and the high-price girls at the Plaza. Cleaning and prostitution. I bet these ladies don't see much of the money for either job."

"Can you find Ludmila?" asked Pete.

"No, I don't know about that, I…"

"Just fucking find her, Don. You know where she is," said Pete, angrily.

"Okay, buddy. You shouldn't have to watch this, but here."

Don clicked over to the twenty-second floor where Ludmila was busily cleaning cubicles, emptying trash, and wiping off desks. She actually seemed very good at the cleaning part of things. Pete watched with growing trepidation at what was about to happen. He had a strong suspicion he was about to find out she was decent at the other half of her job too.

A man appeared and Ludmila put down her cleaning supplies to approach the man. He gestured to her uniform, and she zipped it down to remove it. Below she was wearing a lacy black bra and thong, looking as hot as ever. She seductively removed the two undergarments, then reached to grab something from her cleaning cart. It became clear what it was when she opened it and rolled a condom onto the man's cock. The man then took her to a cubicle and lifted her up onto the surface, entering her.

"Can you zoom in?" asked Pete.

"Come on, man don't torture yourself."

"I'm not, just please let me see her face."

She was in the exact same position they'd been in their first time in the train bathroom, but Pete's heart leapt at the difference. She was pulling the man to her, her face over his shoulder. That was the first difference, she wasn't looking him in the eyes the way she had with Pete. The second big difference was her expression. She was removed, distant. Pete tried to recall the look on her face, and remembered it was the exact same one she'd had when she'd talked of her parents' death. It didn't make the situation alright, but it actually erased any jealousy he was feeling. Now his only emotion was concern for her wellbeing.

"Mr. Hutchinson, perhaps we should talk," said Tricia, from I.N.S.

He tore his eyes away from the screen and crossed over to sit with Tricia at the table.

"Would you mind telling me what you know again?" she said. "Don has briefed us, but it would help to hear it from you."

Pete went through the details again, though he was a bit distracted by what was happening on the computer monitor across the room.

"What I don't get is why she didn't tell me," he said at the end. "I mean, we love each other, I know we do. She should have told me."

"Mr. Hutchinson, this sort of thing goes on all the time. How this is happening is different from anything I've seen, but what is happening is fairly typical. First, they keep these girls in ignorance. I doubt if any of them can speak English. If they can't speak the language, they can't ask for help. Second, each of those girls has family members back in Russia who they've been told will be killed if they speak to anyone. Whether that's true or not, the fear is enough to keep them in check.

"What's going to happen?" asked Pete, "What's going to happen with all of these girls?"

"We're going let things go on as they have been while we gather evidence. Then we'll be making arrests. The organizers are the folks we want the most. With the girls? Truthfully, many will be sent back home. Some might be able to plead a case for asylum, and some might find other ways of staying…but most will have to return."

"What about Ludmila. What can be done?"

"I honestly don't know," said Tricia. "These cases are very complicated. Mr. Jones over there from the State department might be of some assistance, but I can't make any promises."

***

It was well into December. Ludmila had noticed a change in Pete's lovemaking. He was more gentle, more caring. Often, he didn't even want to make love, but instead just held her hand and talked with her.

The week before Christmas, Ludmila seemed very nervous and upset. Pete asked her what it was about.

"It is Misha, my brother," she said. "I have not heard from him in week. I am not allowed…I don't talk with him much. Always he email every Sunday. This Sunday, nothing."

"Well, it's winter break, maybe he went skiing or something.

"Yes. Maybe." She still seemed worried.

That Thursday, Pete arranged for something extra special. He led her up toward the front of the train and they saw Bob, the stone-faced conductor. He was just stopping a man from going to the very front car.

"Sorry sir," said Bob, "This car is out of service for this run." Bob was putting a sign to that effect over the window of the door leading into the compartment.

As the man walked away, Bob unlocked the car and opened the door to them with a welcoming gesture.

"Your palace awaits," he said. Letting them in, he placed a black vinyl window covering on the door leading into the train which and started out.

"It's a slow night, we don't need the car. They've put that advertising poster crap over the windows, so it's hard to see in. Don't get too near the windows and everything should be fine. Merry Christmas, kids."

For the first time, he smiled. With a wink, he closed the door and they heard his key turning in the lock.

"What's happening, Pete?" Ludmila asked.

"Well, I got to talking with Bob there, and it turns out he's a romantic at heart. Plus, he said he was worried we were going to get busted if he didn't give us this chance."

"Busted?"

"Caught," he explained. "Now, my Russian beauty, what do you say to finally doing this lying down?"

Pete reached around to the first seat and grabbed a sleeping bag, which he unfurled and rolled out on the floor.

"Oh my goodness, Pete. You do this for us?"

"I certainly did."

She pulled him into the most tender, romantic kiss he had ever experienced in his life and then she began undressing for him. Images of what he'd seen on the security camera unavoidably lingered in his mind, but it was the expression on her face that he clung to. Her eyes were not distant, not somewhere else. She was here, for him. She lay down on the sleeping bag, unbelievably beautiful. He also undressed and stood before her, naked and in awe.

"Come to me, my Petrov," she said, holding up a hand. "Come to me, and then cum to me. We have not so much time."

She pulled him to her and he pushed himself in easily, kissing her as she did.

"Well this is different," he said softly. "Naked, lying down, I could get used to this."
"So could I."

There was a deliberate haste about their lovemaking. They'd never had the luxury of so much time, nor of horizontal positions. At the same time, they only had twenty minutes, or so. For Pete, there was an added urgency which he didn't dare reveal to her. There was a small part of his brain that feared this might be their last time, at least for a long while.

They finished with her on top, her hands wrapped in his, her breasts grazing his chest. She had already climaxed, but continued to moan with joy as Pete found his own divine release. Again she wept, not so passionately as the first time, but from the overwhelming joy she felt at being with him.

As they lay next to each other, she smiled, laughing a bit.

"What's so funny?" he asked.

"Not funny. I don't know how to say. This reminds me of first time."

"Your first time?" asked Pete.

"Da. In Russia we have trains with places to sleep. It was my, finish-school time…"

"Graduation?"

"Yes. Graduation trip. Our class go Moscow. My boyfriend, Anton, he sneak into my bed. We have both our first time on train."

"Was it good?" asked Pete, his fingers gently combing through her golden curls.

"Good?" she laughed. "No, I not say good. Clumsy. Both of us. But sweet. Yes. Very sweet. Not sweet like us, but I always remember. I remember this, too."

It was with greater reluctance than usual that they parted that night. Ludmila kissed him until the last possible moment, then glanced out at the platform and dashed to the man who was waiting.

***

Pete looked in through the one-way glass to the examining room beyond Tricia from I.N.S. pointed to pictures of various men, asking questions in Russian while Ludmila stared impassively at the mirror behind which he was sitting.

"I no talk," said Ludmila in English.

"Ludmila," said Tricia, also switching languages. "We can protect you. We won't let you get hurt."

"It is not me I worried for," said Ludmila, folding he arms and fighting back tears.

"I understand," said Tricia. "I'll give you a few minutes."

Tricia exited the room, and soon entered the place where Pete was sitting with Jones from the State Department.

"Going well, huh?" said Jones, ironically.

"Jesus they put the fear of God in these girls," said Tricia. "Not a single one of them will say a word. Just like we thought, each one has family in Russia they're fearful for."

"They recruited well, that's for sure," said Jones.

"Any news on our incoming package?" asked Tricia.

"Any minute now," Jones replied, smiling.

"Well," said Tricia, "Might as well let Pete here have some one-on-one time with her. Might make her more comfortable."

"Are you sure?" asked Pete. "I mean, her seeing me here…"

"Pete," interrupted Tricia, "It will be fine."

Ludmila looked up to the door as it opened and went pale upon seeing that it was Pete entering.

"What are you doing...? No! No, no, no. You can't be here!"

She broke out in desperate tears and ran away from Pete. There was nowhere to go in the tiny room, so she went back and forth between the two corners away from the door. Finally, she went to one of the corners and collapsed to the floor. Taking an almost fetal position, she buried her face into the wall and wept, refusing to look at him.

"Ludmila. Milyushka," he whispered, kneeling beside her and caressing her hair.

"You can't be here," she repeated. "If you are here, then you know."

"I don't care," he said.

"Oh Pete. I come here. I marry the man, Jacob. The man you see at train stop. But he is no husband. He uses me for money. I go to job. Pete, when I go to job in city I…"

"I know," said Pete. "I know what they were making you do."

"You do?" she said, looking to him with a horrified expression. "Pete, I do these things, but it is not like with you. With you, it is…love. I promise."
"I know, Ludmila. I know."

"But now I am caught!" she cried, "They will find Misha. Maybe already they have. They will kill him, I know it!"

Just then, a knock came on the door. Jones stuck his head in.

"I'm sorry to interrupt, Ludmila, but we need your help. We need a translator."

"My help?" she said. "My English is not good and…Misha!?"

A blonde teenaged boy had pushed in behind Jones. He had long, unkempt hair and steely-blue eyes. The eyes alone left no doubt he was Ludmila's brother. She ran to him and embraced him, covering his face in joyful kisses. They spoke briefly in Russian, then Ludmila turned to Jones with a newfound confidence.

"Now I talk," she said. "I look at pictures, I tell you what these men do."

***

Once Ludmila had her brother safe and by her side, she had no reservations about giving witness against the men who had kept her, including her 'husband' Jacob who was now assuredly behind bars.

It had been several long days and now they found themselves riding the outbound train on Christmas morning. They hadn't even realized what day it was until they emerged to the empty streets and saw the Christmas greetings as they took a cab through Times Square. Pete sat listening to the excited Russian chatter between Ludmila and her brother. Pete watched them quietly, his heart thrilling every time she would catch eyes with him and bless him with her joyful smile.