Russian Resolution

I never would've thought that shopping for clothes would change my life, but it did. This was back in the early '90s, my first day in St. Petersburg, when I moved to Russia for a new job teaching there. Somewhere between New York and Russia, the airline had lost my bag, so all I had was the clothes I'd worn on the flight, a tee shirt and a pair of loose cotton drawstring pants. I needed something, at least to hold me over until my old stuff arrived.

Nearby the apartment the university had set me up in, I found an outdoor market, and thought, why not live like a Russian? I strolled through the aisles between stalls selling everything imaginable, until I came on one that had men's clothes, and what seemed like surprisingly high quality linen.

As I paused to look it over, a woman sitting on a little stool there with a cup of tea said, "Young man, you won't find better clothes at a better price anywhere in the city."

She stood up, a tall, strong looking woman, maybe 50, but what you might call handsome, with a bold look in her blue eyes and her quick smile. She was a redhead, her hair not gray and not dyed, long down her back. She had a splattering of light freckles across her cheeks and nose, and despite her coloring, there was something almost Asian in the shape of her eyes and her broad lips. She was small-breasted, and moved with grace, with assurance.

She asked me what I was looking for, and when I told her pants and shirts, she smiled broadly.

"A foreigner?" she said.

I told her I was from New York, and she praised my Russian, and then dove into the quality of her clothes, how they were handmade in some region I had never heard of, and she offered me tea.

She seemed to love to talk, questioning me about what I was doing in Peter, as she called it, how long would I stay, on and on. She commented on my long hair, calling it pretty, what a pretty boy I was, as she playfully reached and twirled the ends of my hair in her fingers.

"I know," she said. "You're a grown man, but no, I can see, you are still a boy, a sweet boy. Don't be ashamed of it."

When she found out I was going to teach literature, poetry, she kind of sighed, said, "Ah, poetry," with a faraway look in her eyes, almost a sadness, then she came back, looked me over long, with something in mind. She asked me my name, and I told her, Dean, and she said, "I'm Dasha. Shall we be friends, Dean?"

I felt then how much I liked her, liked talking to her, and said, "I think I'd like that, Dasha."

"Well, then we shall," she said. "But now, let's get you something to wear. What size are you?"

When I told her I didn't know what my measurements would be in Russian, she laughed.

"Of course," she said. "Well, we'll just find out."

She took my arm and brought me into the stall, and then she turned to dig around in a little wooden box she took from under the stool. I couldn't help admiring her fine bottom as she bent over, and when she turned around, it seemed the house dress she wore might have opened just a touch more on her fair chest, showing light freckles that spread there too.

She had a tape measure in her hands and said, "Now, let's see how big you are."

She took a half step back and looked me up and down. "Tall and maybe a little too thin, but healthy." And she laughed.

"Now, come," she said as she spread the tape across my shoulders, then had me turn around and did the same. I heard her murmuring to herself, but she wrote nothing down.

She told me to turn around again, and as she did, I felt her fingers lightly touch my butt, near my hip, as though to turn me herself. Though she was probably 15 years older than me, the feel of her there sent a thrill through me, and as I turned I was aware of my organ hanging a little heavier.

"Now, arms out," she said, putting her fine, strong arms out to show me, and when I did as she said, she came close to pass the measure around my back. I could smell her body then, not perfume but warmth, and I liked it, liked the closeness of her red hair.

She loosened the tape and slid it down my torso to my waist, and tightened it there, then went down to my hips, and as she did, she pulled the waist of my pants down, her fingers on my bare skin. I glanced down quickly, to her hands, feeling the thrill, a shiver, and when I looked back to her face, she was watching me.

"Don't worry," she said, but her hands stayed on my now bare hips. "I just want to see how big you are."

"It's - it's fine," I said, my breath a little tight in my chest, and she laughed, teasing me.

Then she quickly pulled the tape tight, looked at the number there, and gave my pants little tug up to my waist.

"There, now legs," she said briskly.

She knelt in front of me, held one end of the tape against the inside of my ankle, then slowly ran her other up the inside of my leg, letting the tape draw through her fingers. I could feel myself growing, starting to stiffen, as I tried to put my mind off it, to stop it, and then just as she was at my mid thigh she dropped her hand, muttered something and started again.

I looked down at her then for the first time, her face level with my growing cock, and felt now her hand come up against it. She stopped, looked up at me, said softly, "Excuse me," her fingers still on the head of my penis.

"It's - it's OK," I stammered out again, and she smiled.

"I know," she said, and her fingers started moving slowly, opening around my shaft as she traced her way up. "I can feel how OK it is."

Her warm hand closed around my shaft and gently, firmly squeezed.

"Still growing?" she said, laughing softly, and then she started to stroke up and down, just a few times, sending shivers all through me.

But then, like that, she let go, stood up quickly and said, "Such a nice young man. You'd let me do whatever I want with you, wouldn't you?"

I felt myself blush and my cock throb, pushing up against the front of my pants.

She took my arm and brought me to a corner inside the stall.

"I will bring you some clothes to try," she said, pulling two curtains out that made a kind of dressing room there. "Undress. Take these all off."

Her voice was firm, I didn't question it even an instant. I could hear voices all around, mostly women, from the other stalls, and, my heart and head pounding, started to pull off my shirt. When it came over my head, she was still there, watching.

"Good boy," she said. "Pants too, everything."

"Everything?" I asked.

"Everything," she said. "Off."

I pushed down my pants and stepped out of them, somehow only then realizing I'd taken off my boxers, too, and was now completely naked. She gasped lightly, and laughed, her eyes roaming my body.

"Oh, you silly boy, Dean," she said. "I didn't mean your underwear, too."

"Dasha, I'm sorry," I said, flushing again. "I thought, when you said 'everything' -"

I quickly put my hands over my stiff cock, trying to hide it, feeling such a rush of embarrassment, of shame, and yet, I was so hard, so excited, so vulnerable behind the thin curtain.

"Did you?" she said. "Or did you want this? Take your hands away. Don't hide it. You want to be naked, don't you? You want to be naked for me."

I dropped my hands, and seeing her eyes feast on my stiff cock, I felt it throb, felt precum rise in it, the head swell.

"Yes, Dasha."

"Sweet boy, Dean. My goodness, look at you, such a pretty penis, and so hard. You must be so excited, to be like this, naked and - powerless. You must want to stroke it. You must want to stroke it very badly."

My cock twitched and the precum started to come thicker.

"It's all right," she said. She glanced around then back, smiling. "I don't think anyone but me would see you. You can stroke it. I don't mind. You want to, don't you?"

My hand started to move toward it, throbbing there, a woman's laugh came from somewhere and her eyes sparkled. I stopped, muttered, "Dasha, god -"

"Are you ashamed? Don't be ashamed, Dean. Of course you want to jerk off. You're just a sweet boy, you have to. Are you embarrassed to do it in front of me? Are you embarrassed that you want to jerk off in front of me?"

"Yes, Dasha, I am," I said.

"I could go, I could leave you, you could do it by yourself, jerk off alone, without me," she said.

"No, I - I mean if you, if you don't mind, if you - please stay, please let me, watch me, I want to," I said. My heart was pounding as hard as my cock, and I took my shaft in my hand and started to stroke it.

"Oh Dean," she said tenderly. "Poor silly boy, a grown up man, a professor, and still just a sweet young boy, helplessly jerking off your pretty penis here where anyone could see you. And begging me, a simple older woman, to let you."

She laughed again, and then said, "Give me your clothes, Dean. Your shirt, your pants. Give them here."

I picked them up and handed them to her. She stepped away, leaving the curtain just open where she'd stood, and now I was exposed if anyone looked my way, my cock red, wet, eager. But she was back before anyone saw, though she didn't hurry, moving with her flowing grace, and empty-handed.

"Now, Dean, you have nothing, no clothes, you're naked, you're mine completely, aren't you?" she said. Her voice was still gentle, tender, the smile on her lips a little teasing, but not wicked. She watched me stroke a moment, then said, "That's better, isn't it? Look at how big you are, how hard, now that you've given in."

I was out of my mind, for sure, and I couldn't take my eyes off hers, watching me. I stroked myself slowly, and she was right. I couldn't believe how it felt, how excited I was, how I wanted it to go on and on, how I wanted to do anything for her. I stroked myself slowly, my touch gentle, then started playing my fingers around the rim of my swollen head, squeezing the stiff shaft.

Just then, a woman's voice came.

"Daria Nikolaevna, can you spare some sugar? I need some sweetness."

Dasha drew her breath in slow and then let it out.

"Stop," she said, her voice just above a whisper, but very firm. "Drop your hands. Don't touch your penis until I come back."

"I won't," I said.

"Good boy."

She turned away from me, and called, "Of course, Irina Fyodorovna. I always have sweetness for you."

But she left the curtain unclosed as she went to the front of the stall, an opening of perhaps half a foot, leaving me exposed. My cock was aching now to cum, and as I watched Dasha's swaying hips and her firm butt, I wanted to grab myself again and finish the job. Instead, I stood there, trying to calm myself, or at least hold myself steady, when suddenly I realized that a girl out in front of the stall was looking right at me. She was black-haired, an Asian girl it seemed, and I couldn't tell how old, how young.

Her bright eyes darted up from my hard-on to my face, our eyes met, and she blushed. I shrugged, but couldn't cover myself or close the curtain. And when she saw my shrug, her eyes went again to my stiff swollen cock. It was like I could feel her gaze touching me, and I wanted to grab it and stroke it - but then she blushed again, and ran off, just before Dasha came back.

She surveyed me slowly, and then took my balls in her fingers and started to slowly, slowly squeeze.

"I didn't leave you here to show your hard penis to passing girls, Dean," she said.

"I didn't- " I gasped as her squeeze tightened.

"Don't lie to me," she said. She gave a quick, crushing squeeze of my balls and my cock gushed precum as the pain ripped up through me. "I saw the way she was looking over here. I saw her pretty little face flush red with excitement."

"Please, Dasha. I - I didn't know what to do," I said as she slowly released her grip on my balls. "When I realized she could see me, that she was looking, it was too late. And I thought, I thought you wanted me to leave the curtain open. I - I was embarrassed by her seeing me, but-"

She let go of my balls and slapped my cock, though not so hard, just enough to send it swinging, the goo spraying off.

"But this pretty penis is still hard," she said. "I guess you must be excited by being humiliated."

She slapped me lightly again, and the thrill that ran up through me made me shudder.

"Oh god, Dasha," I whispered.

"You want more?"

"Yes, yes I do," I said, not even ashamed at the pleading in my voice.

She smiled now, tenderly again.

"That's a good boy," she said, and she shifted to the side, leaning into one long leg, and as she did, slowly pushing down on the tip of my stiff cock, pushing me down to horizontal, then lower and lower, the pain rising slowly through me, throbbing and exciting me. She came close beside me as she held my shaft now pointed nearly at the ground and whispered, "This? You want more of this?"

"Yes, Dasha, yes, for you..."

Then she let me go, my cock snapped up, the release amazing and as I gasped with pleasure, I saw that when she'd come close to me, she'd exposed me, and out in front of the stall was the Asian girl, come back, staring wide-eyed, drinking in the sight of my humiliation.

"You'll get plenty more," Dasha said in my ear. "But right now we should get you some clothes."