The (Russian) Devil & the Deep Blue Sea

No, she had to trust to a Higher plan. God must have put her here for a reason. He could see into her heart--He would understand that she had no choice but to comply.

Only... well, if she really was going to bow to necessity, then that raised matters of a more practical nature. Yulia said that Abby needed to 'make her come.' Two years ago, the sheltered preacher's wife would have been utterly at a loss what to make of that--but today, she could venture a guess. That was fine as far as it went; but then the question became... how? She'd never had to bring anyone to climax before. With men, if you just lay there, they usually seemed to take care of that part for themselves. With a woman, she feared, it might not be so simple...

Abby tried to quiet her racing heart, and muster something like logic. After all--she'd had orgasms. Several times, in fact. What had Steven (or, umm, Brosaev) done to elicit them? Well, she liked having a man's... thing... inside her. And she especially liked when he released his seed into her. That was special... but yeah, not much help in this case.

Still, she realized, that couldn't have been the whole story. There must be more to it than that. Steven had been inside her many times, and they'd even made children together. But for years she'd never climaxed. Never known what a climax was, in fact.

Until... uh... Moscow.

Against her wishes, it all came back to her. That first orgasm--and the way Yevgeny had rubbed her clitoris with his thumb while his penis was spearing her. The second orgasm--sparked by the steady, delectable, irresistible rhythm and pressure he'd maintained while taking her from behind. And especially the third orgasm--born not of penetration at all, but only the light, teasing stroke of his fingertips across her delicate pleats. Perhaps, conceivably, those were things she could do?

Unwillingly, Abby wrinkled her nose, parted her lips slightly, and stuck out the tip of her tongue. Tentatively, she lapped at Yulia's ruddy folds a few times (her manner bringing to mind a kid dared into licking an icy lamppost). The Russian woman writhed smugly, and tousled Abby's hair. "Good girl. That wasn't so hard, was it?"

Gaining confidence, Abby forged ahead. Using longer strokes, she ran her tongue along the inside of the woman's labia--left, then right... left, then right... A guttural purr vibrated in Yulia's throat, and she began a gentle, side-to-side rocking, matching Abby's tempo. For a few beats, Abby opened her lips, and sucked in Yulia's chunky, engorged clit--willingly this time, completely, massaging it tenderly with her tongue, and feeling it twitch in response. Then Abby pressed her mouth upward into Yulia's crotch, and began to lick... steadily, sensuously, earnestly... right at the base of the woman's nub.

Her oral caresses were slow and steamy at first; but gradually their speed mounted... building... building... Alongside her, Abby couldn't help but notice the grunts, and jostles, and thwacks of Brosaev driving himself up into Anneli. And at some point, she realized she'd unwittingly sync'd her own pace with that of the man's thrusts. The idea made her grimace--but she didn't dare change what she was doing, because it seemed to be working. She could tell by the way Yulia's tissues had swelled and softened; by the irrepressible quiver of tension she felt in Yulia's pelvis; by the fresh rush of fluids she tasted drizzling down over her chin.

Through it all, Abby felt strangely dissociated. She recognized that Yulia was attractive--but honestly didn't feel attracted to the woman. And yet... the longer she went on eating Yulia out, the more her mind began to connect the pussy in front of her with her own genitals. There was something bizarrely auto-erotic about it, almost as if she was pleasuring herself.

Every sensation she gave the Russian seemed to provoke a shadowy echo between her own legs--so that, step by step, Yulia's growing arousal was mirrored in the excitation and longing that coursed through her own sinews. Abby's hips wriggled reflexively, hungry for stimulation, and her crotch was decidedly damp. None of this was familiar to her, none of it was comfortable, but caught up in the wild extremes of this moment, it was hardly possible for her to even think, let alone rein in these involuntary cravings.

At some point, amidst her own haze of gratification, Yulia must have noted the transformation in Abby. Leaning back and reaching an arm behind her, the secretary hooked two elegant fingers firmly into Abby's vagina, pressing her hand against the American's plump clitoris as she did so. Static electricity crackled in Abby's brain. She hadn't noticed herself becoming relaxed and receptive, but Yulia's digits slurped inside her easily, right up to the third knuckle. Automatically, instinctively, Abby's body met the incursion with gratitude--her thighs opening wide, and pelvis jerking skyward. She would have gasped with delight, if she hadn't been smothered under the other woman's crotch.

Brosaev's throaty snarls and rising cadence indicated he was close to finishing, and Yulia seemed determined to match him. Taking charge, she mashed herself harder down onto Abby's face: rocking her groin back-to-front in time with the man's pace, kneading her clit against Abby's nose. Goaded by some animal impulse, Abby stuck her tongue as far into the assistant's cunt as she could. And she thrilled when Yulia rewarded her for it--ramming her fingers up into the American, over and over and over, palm smacking deliciously against Abby's vulva...

Even now, Abby's conscience sought to turn her away from wickedness. It reminded her how much amusement Yevgeny must be taking from the sight of her degradation. God, how she must look--squirming on the bed stark naked, breasts jiggling, nipples outthrust, legs flung wide, while her nude rival sat on her face and stuck a couple of fingers into her private parts. The last thing she should do is compound such dishonor by enjoying it!

But these warnings went for naught. Images of the scene might very well return to haunt her in the months and years to come. But at this particular moment, caught up in the throes of heat and passion and iniquity, Abby was far too wound up to be deterred by such niceties.

When the end finally came, everything seemed to culminate at once. Brosaev let loose with a roar of satisfaction, as he began ejaculating inside Anneli. The blonde spun out a breathy, lilting arpeggio as she climaxed as well (or at least offered a convincing facsimile). And Yulia? Yulia's body threw itself into a series of rapturous spasms--back arching gracefully... pussy grinding convulsively... thighs squeezing Abby's head tight... cunt flooding Abby's mouth with its juices...

The preacher's wife hardly registered any of it, though, because she'd tipped over the edge as well. Driven out of her wits with arousal and nervous excitation, Abby's spirit flitted briefly away from this mortal coil--soaring aimlessly, exultantly up into strange and uncharted realms of ecstasy.

In place of the fulfillment she usually got from having a man inside her, she found something else instead--some unfamiliar and disturbing new source of beguilement. The perversity and odd duality of pleasuring another woman's genitals, at the very same time that her own were being pleasured, seemed to lend power to her orgasm, and a dark, profound intensity.

Her hips bucked, and her vagina trembled, and her womb pulsed. Heady, transgressive waves pounded through her spine (just as Yulia's fingers continued to pound up inside her...). And finally, that tide engulfed Abby's brain--submerging her individuality beneath an irresistible flood of rapture, and indecency, and absolute surrender...

Afterwards, Yulia rolled off--wedging her body assertively in-between Abby and Brosaev, while Anneli cuddled up against the oligarch's other side. Abby squeezed her legs together tightly, and just lay there, staring up at the hand-ornamented ceiling... immobile... trying to focus on her breathing...

It made her feel dirty, having let herself go like that. Those few times when Steven had given her an orgasm, it'd been a little embarrassing, but she told herself there was nothing unseemly about it. Not really. Then there was the awkward fact that Yevgeny, too, had brought her to orgasm. That was a source of shame, without question; but one she'd learned to live with. Today, however, a third name had been added to the list, and that person wasn't even a man, let alone someone she remotely liked or respected. How could she ever make peace with that...?

After a few moments, Brosaev bounced to his feet and threw on a robe, his scarcely-diminished erection making the garment tent out gaudily. "I should sell workout videos, eh?"

Yulia hopped out of bed as well, pausing to cop a possessive feel of Abby's snatch as she did so. Abby flinched; and Yulia threw her a 'what are you going to do about it?' sneer.

Anneli rose more slowly and sauntered off to the bathroom. After a minute or two she returned, mopping her crotch with a towel. By the time she'd perched the white skipper's cap on her head, Brosaev was getting restless. "Mrs. Jones!" he clapped his hands briskly, "Do you plan to lie there all day? Come, lunch will be prepared."

The women straggled through the ship, lagging behind Yevgeny's long strides. In the dining room, they sat to devour a sumptuous meal (quail's eggs, pâté, champagne...). And as they ate, certain vague cues cautioned Abby about a shift in the communal dynamic.

Without question, Brosaev had been the dominant figure in every scene that Abby had ever witnessed him. It was impossible for her to conceive of a male more 'alpha.' Before, however, Abby had always viewed herself as at least taking precedence over Yulia. Now, this comfortable sense of superiority was under assault.

It's not that Abby was prone to the sin of pride. Quite the contrary. Yet for all that, it had seemed both natural and necessary to recognize herself as being a cut above the personal-assistant. After all, Yulia was not only hired help, but also godless, essentially a whore, and a prickly 'b-word' to boot!

It was deeply unsettling, therefore, as the meal wore on, for Abby to sense that the ground had shifted under her feet. Subtle signs conveyed that her place in the pecking order had fallen dramatically. If Brosaev was the alpha, then Yulia now seemed just a rung below him--whereas Abby herself had tumbled to a slot much further down. Really, she debated, who had higher status at this point, Anneli or herself? Perhaps the only saving grace was that the Scandinavian girl didn't seem much interested in playing the game.

Abby tried to shake off her discomfort. It didn't matter what any of these people thought, she told herself. They were all horrible individuals, deeply in need of Christ in their lives. She had to focus on getting through this, and protecting her family. That was all that mattered.

But logic did little to salve this injury to the ego. Whether it was reasonable or not, Abby felt humiliated, and cowed--so much so, in fact, that it wasn't until the plates were being pushed back and they were sipping their drinks, that Abby finally got up the nerve to speak on the matter filling her mind. "This luncheon was wonderful, but... I'm worried about Steven. Is he ok?"

Brosaev paused, a final bite of foie-gras toast balanced halfway to his lips. "Your husband is fine! You think I would neglect one of my guests?"

"Where is he? Can I see him?"

"He is in the engine room, where these pirate cocksuckers put him of course! But my dear--you don't want to see him. He's chained up, and it's very hot down there. I was worried about heatstroke, to be honest, so I had them remove the rest of his clothes. It would be too painful for you to see him that way, and he would be embarrassed." He saw the corners of Abby's mouth turn down. "Hey, do not be glum! I sent Anneli down this morning to tend to his needs." He cocked his head at the stewardess. "Is that not right?"

She nodded absently. "Mm-hmm. He kept saying the Lord would sustain him. But he's got plenty of food and water too. And I offered to suck his dick, you know, just to cheer him up, but he said no." The blonde looked a trifle miffed.

"Yes, yes, he is a very righteous man. It is good you use your initiative, Anneli, but of course he doesn't want you to suck his dick. Unless, perhaps he will change his mind later, who knows. ... So, you see Mrs. Jones--his every wish is catered to!"

The oligarch savored another flute of wine, giving Abby plenty of time to thank him for his concern. She declined the opportunity, however, and at last he shrugged. "The girls wish to lay out today. As one of my women, Abigail, you will join them. Forward deck, I think!"

Abby followed Yulia and Anneli up to the bow of the ship. Three deck chairs were scattered about there, and the other women staked out places. But Abby dithered. It seemed impossible to just laze in the sun and do nothing. Not when the situation was so dire, and she was still so worried about Steven.

Yet, in trying to devise some constructive course of action, her mind came up empty. She wanted desperately to go and minister to her husband--but, as much as she hated to say it, Brosaev had a point. Wouldn't Steven find it emasculating for his wife to see him chained up and naked in some hold of the ship? Wouldn't he rather be spared the embarrassment? And for that matter, wouldn't Steven prefer not to witness his wife this way, also nude, and flaunting herself in front of whatever guards or mechanics might be down there? Surely none of those things would be good for either his morale, or his psyche.

Yes, she decided at last--for the moment, the best thing she could do was to simply be patient and avoid adding any more trauma to what they'd already suffered. The time for reuniting and healing would come once their ransoms had been paid, and they were free.

Satisfied with this logic, she reclined stiffly onto the remaining lounge chair and rested her eyes. For a few minutes, the women enjoyed some blessed solitude. The yacht was moving fast, churning through even the largest waves with a sense of raw, effortless power. The wind was cool and salty over the prow--but the glinting sunlight warmed Abby's bare skin, and before long she began to feel almost drowsy...

The thing that startled Abby back to alertness was a sense of being watched. Cracking her eyelids slightly, she found herself face-to-face with one of the pirates. The man was loafing at the front of the bridge deck, one level above her, not ten feet away. Even as she watched, he leaned casually out over the rail to ogle her bare-skinned physique from top to bottom, eyes lingering shamelessly on her tits and pussy. If he started drooling (which seemed quite possible), she worried it would drip down on her toes.

After a while, the gangster noticed Abby's slitted gaze. He threw her a wink and a sloppy leer; and then slipped a grimy hand down the front of his dungarees.

She froze. True, she'd been stripped before the entire gang the previous night--but at a moment of tension and danger like that, her own nudity had been a secondary concern. Now, sprawled out at her leisure and facing no other immediate threats, it consumed Abby's thoughts. How could she just lie here, knowing that one of the brutes was using her like a real-life Playboy centerfold?!

Abby was beginning to see why Yulia and Anneli had chosen the other seats: theirs faced away from the bridge overlook. She considered trying to turn her own chair the same way. The problem was that it had a ponderous steel frame--extra-heavy, as if to keep it from flying off in a hurricane. The woman envisioned herself trying to drag it... body bent double, legs flexed, back straining, breasts dangling... No, it didn't seem likely to do anything for her dignity.

Even as she was mulling this over, a couple more thugs came sauntering up to the railing, taking up prime viewing positions alongside the first. And then, one of the deckhands decided it would be a good moment to coil ropes at the bow--drawing yet another pair of guards over to keep tabs on him. Feeling the eyes of more and more men boring into her naked form, Abby's face began to shade a hot, rosy red. She wondered what was running through their minds. Were they imagining the things they would have done to her, if Brosaev's authority and prestige hadn't held them back? She feared they were...

At last, Abby shifted position discretely, so that one hand shielded her crotch, and the other arm lay across her breasts. Then she squeezed her eyes shut again and tried to block it all out. She hoped she looked casual this way. It was the only thing she could think to do.

None of the men seemed in a hurry to go anywhere, though. Instead, the seconds simply ticked away, while they all filled their roles in this prurient tableau. Abby lay there, rigid and awkward, pretending she had not a care in the world. Her admirers, meanwhile, waited patiently, giving the impression they had all the time in the world.

She wondered what would break the impasse...

Well, the woman really should have guessed it would be Brosaev. And by the time he finally came striding onto the deck, a half-hour or so later, Abby felt something close to relief at his arrival. "Ah, Mrs. Jones," his voice rang out, "there you are! I bring grave news."

He approached and stood over her--his broad, powerful silhouette eclipsing the sun. "I have been talking to this bastard pirate chief. Regrettably, he learned that your husband is a very famous Christian leader in America. And, he has located a buyer who will pay more for him than your insurance."

"What?" Abby squinted up at him, confused. Who would want to 'buy' Steven?

"You know of Harbalistan, yes?"

The truth was that beyond the Holy Land, Abby didn't pay much attention to this part of the world. She had only the fuzziest notion of what Harbalistan was. A... country of some kind? She wasn't sure that was right, but she nodded anyway.

"You see, the ruler there, Emir Fazil, is a man with problems. Rebels and suchlike. So, he dreams of a grand gesture against your husband. Fazil believes it will make him strong--show his people that he is a true Muslim, and can stand up to America."

Her heart sank. "What kind of 'gesture?'"

Brosaev's face was dark. "My dear, it is painful for me to even say it. Those devils--they intend to cut off..." His voice trailed away, unable to finish the sentence.

Abby's brain reeled and she felt she'd be sick. She probably would have fainted if she hadn't been lying down. "Dear Lord, they're going to cut off his head?"

He nodded. "Yes. And all the rest of it too. ... But do not fear, Mrs. Jones, I have a plan to save him. Unfortunately, it may entail certain, hmm... sacrifices on your part."

Abby didn't register much of what he said, except for the fact that Steven could be saved. "How? What do I do?"

Brosaev lowered to sit on the edge of the lounge-chair next to her, resting a heavy hand on her bare upper-thigh. "It will not be easy. But I think you will find it is the only way forward. And based on past experience, it is something you are perfectly capable of doing. What you must understand is that Fazil's gambit is desperate and foolish. To, ah... molest a prominent American in such incendiary fashion? It would make him an international pariah. He would end like Sadaam Hussein."

Abby's brow furrowed. "Yes, I see that. So, we need to persuade him it's a mistake. How do I do it?"

Brosaev shook his head slightly. "No, you misunderstand. As I say, the man is desperate. We will only change his thinking if we can offer something to ease that desperation. So, my idea is this... if there were a video, showing the emir fucking the wife of a prominent Christian leader, that would serve the same purpose, would it not? Fazil could flaunt his power, without inflicting even a scratch on poor Steven. And it would hardly be a crime America could punish him for--not so long as the woman was willing. Or, at least appeared to be so on the screen."