The (Russian) Devil & the Deep Blue Sea

Instead, Abby just eyed the personal assistant up and down with an air of cool self-possession. And, in spite of herself, she had to concede that the woman had a nice figure. Abby's aerobic program kept her perfectly trim, but Yulia's limbs and abs featured a much more definite cut, indicating a preference for resistance and weight training. At the same time, the woman also boasted long limbs, a tight waist, and narrow hips--so that the overall effect she presented was one of slender vigor, rather than pumped-up muscularity.

Abby had always been a little insecure about her modest bustline, and found herself perversely pleased to discover that the Russian's breasts were even less showy. She wasn't boyish, certainly; but flaunted only low, rounded swells, tipped with dusty-rose half-dollar nipples.

Further down, at her mons, the secretary had a very narrow, dark strip of pubic hair, which tended to lead one's gaze straight to her crotch. Abby kept that sort of grooming to a decorous minimum, but she guessed styles like Yulia's were common in the lascivious world of secular culture. Where the line ended, the woman's bare pussy had the same ruddy, floral pink as her areolae--painting a striking contrast against her ivory skin. The outer labia were thin and seemed to pull open of their own accord, so that her frilly inner ruffles poked down in a brash, lusty show of femininity. Abby judged the whole thing to be quite pornographic.

There really was no love lost between the two women; so after the American had completed her frank perusal, they locked eyes. The mutual disdain crackling through the air was almost palpable. Before, Abby had always thought of Yulia as a barracuda. Now, however, struck by this show of feral sexuality, she revised her assessment--perhaps Yulia was more like an alley-cat in heat.

The brief, uncomfortable silence was broken by Brosaev's pealing laugh. "Ah, Mr. and Mrs. Jones, I should have warned you! It is a little eccentricity I have--when we are at sea, I prefer the women to have their clothes off. Naturally, Yulia indulges me in this. It is much more picturesque, don't you think?"

Steven made an effort to relax his knotted muscles. Godlessness was clearly afoot. However, under the circumstances, it seemed wiser to accept his benefactor's quirks, than risk 'rocking the boat.' Gulping and visibly uncomfortable, he glanced everywhere but at the naked woman standing in front of him. "It-ahem... It's just not, uh... usual..."

"And now that you know of my whims," Brosaev went on, "I'm sure you will indulge me as well. After all, it is my ship! Please, Mrs. Jones--strip! Give us a little show."

Abby's face burned. She felt the weight of Brosaev's implacable eyes bearing down on her, and the sting of Yulia's smug amusement. It was one thing to be nonchalant while another woman took her clothes off--but being ordered to do so herself was an entirely different matter! Dear Lord, it really was all starting again. Brosaev was going to make her expose herself in front of her husband. And after that... what would he do next?

Glancing at Steven for help, Abby saw his hands clasping and unclasping. As a pastor with a very rigid belief system, the oligarch's demands went far beyond anything he could countenance. Yet, as a mild-mannered individual, he was visibly struggling with how exactly he could refuse the man. They were far out at sea, beyond the reach of any help or support. And, not only were they guests on Yevgeny's ship, but they also owed him a real debt of gratitude. More than one debt, in fact. He'd saved Steven from the gulag, and then saved both of them from a riotous mob. In circumstances like these, what was the tactful way to deflect such an indecent proposition...?

Abruptly, the icy stare on Brosaev's face shattered into a roar of laughter. "Ha! You two are real gems--the look on your faces is beyond price! I wish I had a picture. ... No, no, I do not expect Mrs. Jones to remove her clothes! Yulia does this as my employee, but I would not ask such a thing of my guests." He chuckled again, "Unless you truly wish it, Mrs. Jones. I would of course find it acceptable."

After that, the tension was broken. Well, mostly--Steven was still very uncomfortable sharing the sundeck with a naked woman. He looked studiously out to sea, and forced himself to think wholesome thoughts. But, they all arrayed themselves comfortably on the lounge chairs, and Abby was able to let down her guard a little and enjoy the tang of the ocean air.

Brosaev had an intercom-handset next to his seat, and soon he picked up the receiver. "Makris! What is our status?" He listened for a bit, and then shifted to giving orders. "Very good. Now, set course for Mombasa. Contact Makarevich and tell him to evacuate the religious leaders. Also, have him pick up the Jones's luggage and send it on to meet us." He glanced at Abby. "Mrs. Jones will want to speak to her children this evening on the satellite link. Make the arrangements."

"Thank you," Abby said when he'd hung up, grateful that she'd be able to talk with the kids and reassure them she was safe. "How long will it take us to get there?"

"Five days," Brosaev answered. "Luckily chef is on board, so we will eat well. The guest cabin is stocked with all you need, and Yulia will give you some clothes." The assistant didn't exactly stick her tongue out at the boss upon hearing that last part, but she clearly seemed to want to.

"Yes, but...," Abby protested, "we can't just cruise around for five days! What about the conference?"

Brosaev's tone was matter-of-fact. "My dear, the conference is finished. Though my donation stands, naturally." Seeing her consternation, he added: "You must learn to be flexible, Mrs. Jones. By embracing that attitude, I am able to recover from every setback and seize every opportunity. So: lie back and enjoy the journey! Afterwards, you will return to your family and your mission for God, rested and refreshed. Why make things complicated?"

"I suppose you're right," Abby mumbled.

A minute or two passed, and then Brosaev picked up the handset again, impatient. "Makris! Why has the steward not come? Our guests need refreshment!"

Almost before he had banged the receiver back down, a sultry female voice with a Scandinavian lilt came floating across the deck. "Sorry, boss. My whole team was left back in port, you know. I was getting the day-room ready for lunch."

Brosaev was instantly mollified. "Of course, of course, you are the best at what you do. Steven and Abigail, meet my chief steward, Anneli!"

Turning in her chair, Abby found herself confronted by a leggy nordic female, wearing a flat-crowned nautical cap and nothing else. The preacher's wife was far past being flustered by it. "Please to meet you Anneli," she said. Steven, on the other hand, stared doggedly down at the floorboards, and stammered something incoherent.

Anneli was gorgeous in a softer, rounder way than Yulia. Her upturned, white-gold hair framed a face that was creamy, freckled, and lit by a dazzling smile. She was tall and fit, but her form was much curvier than that of the secretary, featuring wide hips and ample thighs and buttocks. Down below, the steward was shaved clean; and unlike Yulia, her plump, pale labia came together in a neat slit, so that her sex remained primly concealed. With Anneli, the thing that really trumpeted womanliness, was not so much her pussy, but her breasts. Abby found it hard to wrest her eyes away from them, in fact--two luscious, pendulous teardrops capped with generous, puffy, pale-pink areolae. Swinging free, they jiggled and wobbled with a captivating, bouncy elasticity every time the woman moved or spoke.

Having nodded to the visitors, Anneli turned back to Brosaev. "Chef is throwing together some sandwiches and salads. They should be ready if you want to come down. And what will you have to drink?"

"The Macallan 57, I think. You must try it, Steven," the oligarch urged, turning to the minister, "it's quite good."

"I, um, don't drink." Steven's voice came out strangled, oppressed by the multiplying threats to his eternal soul.

Abby figured she'd better help out. "Thank you, it's very kind, but we try to avoid alcohol. It sets a bad example for people struggling with addiction. We'll have cokes."

Brosaev shrugged. "It is sheer tragedy how you two deny yourselves! But, it is your funeral. Anneli: Macallan for me, a Manhattan for Yulia, and a pair of 'cokes' for the Joneses. And after that, my dear--get one of the deckhands to take over your duties. You must join our party."

As the afternoon turned slowly into evening, Abby had to admit that journeying in such a floating palace was, indeed, very pleasant.

Even though the lunch had been simple and impromptu, it was elegant. Their host held court flanked by his two female retainers. Thus, Steven was forced to confront the supple teats bobbing to Brosaev's left and right, simply to maintain the barest niceties of conversation. He braved the trial as best he could, and did well on the whole, but was clearly wrestling with impure thoughts. His voice quavered slightly, his face remained red, and Abby noticed the napkin on his lap poking up conspicuously.

Afterward, the Joneses surveyed their guest cabin, which was sumptuous and impeccably appointed. Brosaev suggested they watch a movie in the ship's cinema, but Abby and Steven declined. Nothing in the Russian's entertainment system could meet their G-rated, evangelically-produced requirements. Still, the library was stocked with any number of books in English, including some old classics they deemed suitable. So, they found things to read and a cozy nook to curl up in, and passed the afternoon in comfort. Every once in a while, a passing deckhand would tempt them with a fresh-made virgin-daquiri, or sizzling taste-plate of coconut shrimp.

Before dinner, Brosaev scrounged an expensive suit from one of the officer's quarters for Steven. It fit well, and cut a much more dashing figure than the rumpled, off-the-rack number he had been wearing. Yulia, meanwhile, opened up her couture-laden (and, at present, unused) closet with a resigned shrug. Most of the outfits were too narrow in the hips; and, as far as Abby was concerned, virtually everything was overly-revealing. Eventually, however, she paired a trendy black satin-weave tunic with a stretchy, knee-length white skirt. The blouse had cap-sleeves and a button-down placket in front. She suspected Yulia would have left nearly all the buttons undone, but she herself did not.

The meal was probably the most delicious--certainly the most elaborate--Abby had ever eaten. Seven Basque-inspired courses, with roasted pheasant as the centerpiece. The company was surprisingly enjoyable as well. Yevgeny was a first-rate conversationalist: always quick with a quip or apt comment, but skillful too at drawing out his guests and displaying interest in what they had to say. Anneli spoke little, but her ready laugh and general good cheer were infectious. Steven wasn't as wound-up as at lunch, and even Yulia seemed less churlish than usual. For long intervals, Abby almost forgot that two-fifths of their party was naked.

Best of all were the oligarch's riveting tales--tales of impossible scrapes he'd survived, and implausible triumphs he'd achieved. These anecdotes were dependably entertaining... at least, if one didn't ponder the back-story too closely. Why had Brosaev been fleeing the police in Budapest, again? What business, exactly, had brought him to North Korea? Was it usual for him to go hunting in Siberia with Boris Johnson? Abby soon decided it was better not to ask.

Later she'd checked in with the kids by satellite video-link (all was well). Then, having retired to their cabin for the night and brushed her teeth, Abby ducked into her walk-in closet to dress for bed.

Yulia's collection had offered little in terms of sleepwear--certainly nothing like the flannel PJs Abby favored--but eventually she'd picked out a lacy black slip as the best option going. She wriggled into it now, and examined herself in the mirror. There was no denying the result was fetching. The cut of the garment highlighted her trim belly; long, toned limbs; and generous hips--while the frilly bodice made the most of her modest breasts, and offered a peek-a-boo glimpse of the ruddy areolae. In fact, roused up by the air-conditioned edge to the room, Abby's nipples were plainly visible, poking out provocatively through the thin fabric.

Normally this would have seemed awkward; but now, somehow, it felt sexy. Remembering that Steven had spent the day tantalized by immodest expanses of female flesh, she wondered if he might be feeling frisky too. She wouldn't have minded a bit. When she came to bed, however, she found her husband was too overwhelmed by the turmoil in his brain to think of such things. So, she just pressed up against him instead, enjoying his warmth and physical presence.

Steven's mind was largely focused on trying to reconcile his former image of the Russian with the person he'd witnessed today. "We mustn't fail to praise the Lord for sending Brosaev to our rescue. Yet... he does seem a rather bizarre fellow, don't you think? Not as, um... godly as I expected. Was he like this before, when you met him?"

"Yeah, he... he wasn't what I expected either." Abby felt she'd better tread carefully.

"And that pair of jezebels! I mean, the Good Book doesn't exactly prohibit such a spectacle. God saw fit for Adam and Eve to be unclad in the garden. But the temptations of the flesh can be... I mean, you don't think the man fornicates with those women, do you?!"

Abby certainly did think he fornicated with them--eagerly and often. But, she neither wanted to puncture her husband's faith in his guardian-angel, nor straight-up lie. At last she split the difference, giving a noncommittal "Mmmh."

"Well, that's between him and God. We must look to our own souls. I fear this voyage may be a trial--we should fortify ourselves with the balm of sleep." He gave her a slightly absent-minded peck and then rolled over, clicking off the lamp.

Luminous blue moonbeams streamed through the skylight overhead, and Abby lay there a while longer on her back, eyes open.

She didn't know what to think about this voyage; but she was starting to hope that Yevgeny had gotten over his strange obsession with her. She wondered what he had thought when he heard about Jacob. Did he surmise (like she did) that he'd probably fathered the tyke? Had it changed how he saw her? Or, perhaps he had just enough class not to abuse a woman while her husband was present. At any rate, she dared to think that maybe her worries had been overblown. And if so, then perhaps she really could tune out the billionaire's licentiousness, both past and present, and simply enjoy a luxury vacation with Steven.

Turning over at last, she allowed herself to drift away into a placid, dreamless slumber.

It was still the middle of the night when Abby came half-awake, aware that something was wrong. Voices were raised in anxious shouts, searchlights played on the water outside her window, and running feet pounded back and forth along the decks.

Abruptly, the door of their stateroom burst open, the switch flicked on, and light flooded the space. Blinking, Abby saw Brosaev, wearing silk pajamas and a burgundy smoking-jacket.

"I apologize for the intrusion," the tycoon growled, "but you must rise." Groggily, Abby sat up in bed; and Steven stood on wobbly, sleep-addled legs.

"Akhh, it is most tiresome," Brosaev sighed with annoyance (sounding very much like Abby when Jacob tipped a bowl of applesauce on the floor), "but we have run across these Somali pirates. No doubt they heard that a Christian leader escaped on my ship. Their speedboats are too fast to outrun. Normally my security men would pick them off--but as it is, well... we will be boarded."

"I don't...?" Steven mumbled, only half-comprehending the magnate's words.

"Mr. Jones, it seems likely they will hold you for ransom. However, do not worry over your safety--you only have value to them alive."

"We bought kidnap insurance," Abby said. This had been a concession on Steven's part when he proposed travelling abroad again.

"Excellent," Brosaev nodded approvingly, "that will absolutely guarantee your well-being. No, I fear the person we should be worrying about is you, Abigail. They will not kill you either, of course. But, mm... how can I put this delicately? They don't like to talk about it on the news, because it is distasteful. But, well, when these bastards take a woman hostage, it's not really a question of whether she gets raped, but how many times she gets raped, if you take my meaning."

Abby let out a horrified gasp. What Yevgeny had done to her back in Moscow had been a violation, naturally, but it paled before the images that his words sent racing through her mind now. To find herself at the mercy of a whole gang of unwashed, oversexed Somali gunmen? That threat prodded her to her feet, fully awake.

"Lord have mercy," Steven groaned, "what can we do?"

"There is still hope," Brosaev said, in soothing tones. "These cocksuckers may take my ship; but, as I said before, Russia has made friends here over the years. I am certain they will treat me with a degree of respect, and refrain from abusing Yulia and Anneli. So--if Abby here was to pretend to be one of my women also? In that case, I could assure her protection as well."

"What do you mean, 'your women?'" Steven squinted at him.

"Well--like my wives, more or less." Brosaev spread his hands expansively. "You know these Muslims, they understand a man having many wives. So, if I have two women, three women, it is all the same to them."

A smattering of rifle shots echoed over the water, and the yacht's engines went silent. The mogul cocked an eyebrow: "It would merely be play-acting, you understand. We need not engage in genuine marital relations. But time is short--do you agree with this plan?"

Steven shot Abby a wild-eyed glance. "I-I suppose we have to. I mean, God wouldn't want you to throw away your virtue for nothing, right?"

She really had no idea what God would want, and felt sure Steven was overestimating her virtue. By this point, however, she was ready to do almost anything to escape the sort of defilement that her host had described. Mutely, she nodded her assent.

Brosaev smiled. "Good--very smart." Then, after a moment, he tilted his head impatiently. "Well, what are you waiting for? Get out of that nightdress!"

Abby's jaw hung open. "What?"

The corner of Brosaev's mouth twisted, as if to say she was being simpleminded. "Think woman! How would it look if one of my wives has clothes on, and the others do not? Even a fucking moron would know something was up. You need to blend in. Quickly."

They heard a series of loud thumps further aft, followed by a gut-twisting masculine scream of pain. Abby glanced hesitantly at Steven. He didn't meet her eyes, and his body language gave her no guidance at all.

There was a feeling of inevitability about the scene--a momentum Abby felt powerless to deflect. And at last, unwillingly, she gave into it. Turning back toward Brosaev, cheeks flushed and molars clenched, she flicked the spaghetti-straps from her shoulders. Then, shimmying the slip over her hips, she let it drop to the ground.

Abby caught Steven's gaze darting over in her direction, before quickly looking away again. Brosaev had seen her naked before, of course--but even in private, it would have been embarrassing to be stripped before him a second time. Now, with her husband there to bear witness, the shame was almost unbearable.