The (Russian) Devil & the Deep Blue Sea

Abby's face fell and her chest felt tight. Why did her husband need saving so often? And why was this always the way he needed to be saved?

Her response to Brosaev's sick proposal was all but preordained. The essential questions had been asked-and-answered two years earlier. Back then, Abby had spent a grueling hour at the oligarch's dacha, agonizing over whether to surrender her body in order to save her husband from years of imprisonment. When the time was up, she'd decided it was worth it. So why would her reasoning be any different now that his life was on the line?

But her mood was frustrated and defiant--like a strong-willed child, who simply doesn't want to agree, no matter how sound the logic you lay before them--and she folded her arms stubbornly across her chest. "So, you're saying there would be a video of me being... intimate with a Muslim ruler? And he would show it to all his citizens? How could I possibly agree to that? It would destroy Steven's ministry, and my life! We could never face people again. Our spiritual credentials would be ruined."

The man laughed good-naturedly. "Oh my dear, you know very little of how the world works. Everyone is in a bubble these days. People hardly hear what goes on in the next village, let alone halfway around the world. Yes, on Harbali YouTube you will be a megastar. I wish you joy of monetizing it. But this is too raw for big Western outlets to pick up, even if they do love a sex scandal. And as for social media, zealous Christians in America will never see it in their feeds. The algorithms won't allow it!"

Abby bit her lip. She had no idea if Brosaev was right. But something about it rang true. Other than the financial-appeals of missionaries, she hardly ever heard about anything that happened abroad. And it often did seem as if her hippie cousin from Portland browsed an entirely different internet than the one Abby herself looked at.

She gave an inch. "Isn't there some other way...?"

And the oligarch took a mile--responding with a businesslike nod that told her she'd just said yes. "Now then, Abigail, I do feel a certain responsibility for you. You should be aware that the emir is very much of a, how can I say... an 'Arab' type."

To the evangelical, this seemed like a veiled accusation, and she found herself bristling. "Just because I don't want to fornicate with the man, it doesn't make me a bigot! The Lord tells us to love people of all skin colors. And I do... I-I mean, I would. Except, um, only in a platonic sense." She wasn't sure that had come out right.

"Of course, of course. I did not mean to say..." He spread his hands and arched an eyebrow. "Let me put it another way, Ms. Jones. Am I right in thinking that you continue to shun the evils of birth control? At a personal level?"

For an instant, this turn in the conversation confused her. "As I've told you before, barrier methods like condoms are accep-" Then she began to grasp Brosaev's train of thought. Abby had been so wrapped up in the need to save Steven, and in her own plight and what she was being asked to do, that she hadn't given any thought to what might conceivably follow on, um... afterwards...

Now she did need to think about it

.

Abby had never developed any kind of timetable for a potential fourth child. But faced with the imminent possibility, she realized that she didn't mind the idea. She loved kids. Jacob could be a handful, of course, but his arrival had also been a source of joy and fulfilment for her, in a life that had been getting a touch stale. And, if a pregnancy did occur, she could take comfort in knowing that it was sacred by its very essence--a consequence of the Lord's inscrutable resolve to bring a new soul into the world. After all, it was God Himself who had decreed that His people should be fruitful and multiply.

Moreover, this was another decision that covered well-trodden territory for her. She knew it wasn't right for Steven to be raising a child that was (almost certainly?) not his own, and without his knowledge. But under the circumstances, she struggled to feel that it was so very wrong either. Steven was a good father, and a good influence, and it was surely a blessing to bring another child into his household. Further, the man was so full of Christian charity, that Abby felt sure he'd forgive her for what she'd done if he knew. But most crucial of all--the only reason she'd ever been unfaithful was to save Steven. Otherwise, she never, never would have done it. And if a similar situation were to arise again, it would be for the very same reason.

Yet, that being said, she understood what Yevgeny was getting at. It was one thing to have a child that could plausibly be Steven's. But if the tyke's illegitimacy was impossible to conceal, then the situation would be vastly more complicated... "This emir--he's, umm, very brown?"

He nodded solemnly. "Quite brown. And I sincerely doubt he will put a rubber on his dick."

Abby pursed her lips. Fertility had never been an issue for her. So assuming she was correct about the dates, and that the 'video shoot' would take place in the near future, she judged the risk to be enormous. By following through on this scheme, she might very well save Steven--but also blow up their lives in every other imaginable way.

Brosaev leaned in and nudged her with a conspiratorial elbow. "But perhaps, my dear, you are already with child, eh? What with marital relations and such?"

Her reply came low and gritty. "Not yet. But there might still be time. Can you get me down to see Steven?"

The billionaire couldn't resist a peal of laughter. "I admire your determination, Mrs. Jones! Truly I do. But you are no fool. We have always been honest with each other, have we not? So: tell me your candid assessment--can your husband really 'get it up,' while he's chained in the hold? And with three or four engineers and gunmen watching you both? And you unable to tell him why it is even necessary? I will take you down there myself if you wish, but it is not a good plan."

It was times like these that Abby really wished she could swear. 'Fudge' just didn't cover a crisis of such magnitude! She wanted desperately for Yevgeny to be wrong--however, her heart told her he was right. Steven was just so reticent, so discreet, so gentlemanly, both by personality and upbringing. It was part of what she loved about him. But caught in the crucible that now consumed them, what were the chances that a quiet male soul like her husband would be able to 'perform' on demand...?

It wasn't in Abby's nature to lie to herself. The silence lingered on briefly, as she tried to imagine a way it could work, but at last she burst out in frustration. "Well? What do you suggest?!"

He shrugged. "Me? I suggest nothing. But if there is any service I can render you, I will be happy to do so. Who knows, perhaps our history together will suggest something relevant to your predicament."

Shutting her eyes, she let out an embittered sigh. "Oh. You want to sleep with me again."

"You say it, woman, not I... Now--is it true? Of course it is true! As I have often said, you are a most beguiling creature. And I am a man of certain appetites, which I make no effort to hide. I enjoyed fucking you in Russia, and would enjoy fucking you here. But that is not the question. The question is: what is best for you? If the choice is for me to get you pregnant with a Russian child, or for that emir to put a brown baby in your belly, then which is better? You must decide."

Abby's heart raced, and her mind buzzed with a kaleidoscope of mixed-up thoughts. How could this be happening? How could the infinite array of possibilities in God's creation be reduced to these sorry options?

If only Steven had listened to her--if only they hadn't come to Africa--they could have gone on in their safe, boring lives, heedless of the dangers the world contained. But he hadn't listened, and they had come to this place, and now they were going to have to live with the consequences. She need only glance at the half-dozen horny, rifle-toting goons idling on the decks around her to grasp how limited her horizons had become...

She breathed slowly, through her nose. She'd survived all this before. She would survive it again.

Then she opened her eyes. "Fine. I'll let you."

Brosaev's gaze had a reptilian glitter. "I believe it is wise." Rising to stand again, he planted his feet apart and opened his robe. He hadn't put anything on underneath after fucking Anneli; so this maneuver brought his burly, vigorous physique out on full display. And, it situated his penis front-and-center--directly at the level of Abby's eyes as she reclined in her chair.

The organ's thick, ruddy-brown shaft just hung there, not a foot or two away--swaying slightly, ponderous, half-erect. The inky hole at the tip stared her down; and the hypnotic effect of the thing was devilishly hard to look away from. "Open your mouth. Once you get me hard, then I'll stick it in your cunt."

Abby goggled at the man's presumption. "Here? Now?!" Yet, even amidst her shock and outrage, she still wasn't able to tear her focus away from his crotch to meet his eyes. She feared it wasn't a look that projected strength...

"Listen, my dear." He sounded like he was lecturing an unusually stupid schoolgirl. "Yes, I am a virile man. With an unprotected female like yourself--sure, I will knock you up quickly. All the same, it would be foolish to assume one shot will be enough, or even two. And time is short. If we are to save you the indignity of a bastard child, we must start immediately."

Something about his logic didn't add up. "Um, it will still be a bast-..." she mumbled. But she didn't like where that was going, and changed tack. The real issue was this: even if one accepted that it was necessary to have sex with Brosaev, there was no reason it had to be done in such an undignified manner. It needn't involve putting his dick in her mouth, for example. It needn't be undertaken out on the open deck. And it certainly need not be done with a gaggle of spectators present. "No, Yevgeny. We ca-mmmghghpppphh!!"

In typical fashion, the oligarch had ended the discussion by taking matters (and, cock) into his own hands--thrusting his glans in-between Abby's lips at the first opportune vowel. She choked in indignation and disgust, and tried to jerk away. But he'd already wrapped five beefy fingers around the back of her neck, blocking any chance at escape.

A wave of resignation flowed through Abby's frame, turning her muscles to water. She might have fought harder, but... she just couldn't muster up the strength or confidence to try. The plain fact of it was, nothing she'd ever done had had the slightest influence on the magnate. He simply got what he wanted. And it wasn't only her, either--she'd never seen anyone truly stand up to him. Even now, snared by a gang of gun-toting pirates, Brosaev somehow remained utterly unperturbed, and in full command of his destiny.

Once you knew all that, what was the use in trying to haggle over the details? What if he did stick it in her mouth; or debauch her with a whole audience watching? She'd already caved in on the key issue--she'd agreed to have sex with him. With this concession in the bank, how meaningful could any of her other objections be? The brute would just steamroll over them, like so many pebbles in the road. It's what he did.

Facing endless futility, there comes a point at which it seems better not to argue at all, rather than argue and always lose. Less bruising to the ego. And that's where the preacher's wife was now. So, she swallowed her complaints--telling herself the wisest thing was to forget about the onlookers, bend her attention to the task at hand, and get it over with as quickly as possible.

When Abby had given Brosaev oral sex before, she'd been profoundly inexperienced, and far out of her depth. And in truth, she hadn't gained much skill in the years since. After returning home, she'd done it for her husband only infrequently, and then just muddled through as best she could. She imagined there were how-to books and websites for this sort of thing, out in the godless wastes of secular America; but in the spiritually-vetted domain the Joneses occupied, such things weren't discussed.

And it was fine, really. Steven had absolutely no points of comparison, so how could he have known whether she was good at it? For the most part, the mere idea that his wife was willing to do something he viewed as sordid and demeaning, simply to please him, was enough to send the pastor into paroxysms. The only challenge was to keep him from coming too quickly.

Today, however, when Abby got down to business with Brosaev, she found herself working harder at it. She wasn't sure why; it's not like she owed the man anything. Consciously, intellectually, she'd have preferred not to give him head at all, and certainly not in a public setting. And yet... for some reason, at an instinctive level, she found herself really going for it--striving, as best she could, to measure up against the hundreds of women she knew must have sucked his cock before.

Perhaps her carnal-self took that very experience of his, and his exacting standards, as a kind of challenge that she couldn't refuse. Or maybe it was something to do with the baffling currents of female rivalry that had assailed her today, and the need to reassert her position against Yulia. But whatever it was, the impulse was potent. She knew it was wrong for her to do more than the bare minimum with Brosaev--and nevertheless, welling up from some place deep within, came an irresistible urge to try.

So, bereft of any clear rationale, driven simply by a primitive, reflexive sort of femininity, Abby labored to gratify Brosaev. And as she did, without quite realizing she was doing it, she began to mimic the way Annali had pleasured him that morning.

Well, let's caveat that. Abby wasn't keen to take all of that jumbo-sized penis in her throat. She believed it was physically possible for her to perform the act, because she'd done it with the man's aide, Shevilov. There had been something oddly fulfilling about it, as a matter of fact. However, it had been disturbing and uncomfortable as well; leaving her far from inclined to offer it up now.

All those other things Anneli had done, though? They seemed doable. So, intuitively, Abby did her best to try and replicate them.

When Brosaev pushed his cock into her mouth, it had still been covered by the foreskin. It lacked quite the same sense of buttery softness on her tongue that she was used to, and she found it vaguely disgusting. Opening wider, and trying to remember how Anneli had handled it, she reached up, hesitantly, tenderly, to slide the sheath back along his shaft.

Once that was done, she set herself to work in earnest--fondling his enormous testicles with one hand, while the other wrapped as far around his absurd girth as was possible. Perceiving that Abby had accepted her fate, the billionaire relaxed his grip on her nape, so that the woman had some leash to work with.

From what she knew, and what she'd seen today, Abby had the sense that men liked having their, uh... 'thing' not merely stimulated, but worshipped. At least, some men did. And as the wife of a pastor, abject devotion lay solidly within her area of expertise. Genuine obedience to God was the most important part of religious observance, of course. But appearances mattered too. If one wasn't seen to be humble and deferent to the almighty, then doubts might creep into the hearts of one's flock, and the tongues of church elders might begin to wag.

So today, Abby did her best to appear humble and deferent to Brosaev's penis--infusing her movements with the kind of reverence she imagined that harlot from the Bible must have used when washing the feet of Jesus Christ.

She started with the Russian's prodigious ballsac: rubbing her lips and nose against its delicate, velvety softness; kissing the base; drawing the testes gently into her mouth. She breathed in, savoring how the aroma of his masculinity mixed with the spicy notes of body-wash. How strange it was, to think of all the life stored up in there. Life that she'd once allowed him to deposit in her womb--and which, soon enough, she'd let him plant inside her again. Brosaev was a man of vibrant, overabundant energy; and she had a sudden feeling that every ounce of that energy emanated from the fiery core of his testicles.

After a bit, Abby moved on. Channeling Anneli, she stuck out her tongue and began licking a slow, sinuous path along the underside of his shaft, working her way toward the tip. Once there, she took him between her lips again, willingly this time, filling her mouth with the soft, fat, elastic head.

Earlier, the blonde stewardess had been wonderfully lively and effervescent while sucking Brosaev off. It wasn't easy for Abby to muster the same enthusiasm for what she was doing. True, she was moved by that weird, dogged determination to please the oligarch--but at the same time, she still felt contemptible and put-upon as well. Anneli's exuberance had made an impression, though, and Abby didn't intend to come in second-best. Not if she could help it.

With as much animation as she could, therefore, she thrust her head down on his pole: allowing herself--willing herself--to relish its thickness, its sheer bulk, its sleek, rich, caramel-brown skin. Using a steady in and out motion, unhurried but fully invested, she stroked her lips along his shaft, caressing his flesh freely with her tongue as she did so. And although her rational mind still despised this self-abasement, her carnal nature began to respond of its own accord. An inexplicable thrill ran through her groin as the man engorged toward full size--her reproductive organs drawing mindless delight from how large, and potent, and enticing his penis was becoming.

She recalled how Anneli had maintained eye-contact with Brosaev. It made Abby blush to consider doing likewise... but it seemed necessary and she steeled herself to try. Even while she continued slurping dutifully on the man's dick, she allowed her broad, cornflower-blue eyes to range skyward--blinking up at him, bashfully, through graceful lashes.

As she'd feared, he was gazing back at her; and the self-satisfied smirk that beamed on his face stirred up all the doubts that plagued her. Christ almighty, how could she be doing this?! Splaying herself out on a lounge chair, naked, before a man very much not her husband--cradling his genitals in her hands, putting them in her mouth, peering up at him adoringly, doing her level best to pleasure him?

She tried to look away, but his crafty stare held her there for a long moment... before finally permitting her to break the connection.

Screwing her eyelids shut again, Abby began bobbing on his shaft more quickly, as if to get the job done faster. Gradually she took more and more of Brosaev into her mouth, until at last she was going as far down on him as she felt comfortable. It must be four or five inches at least--over a third of his length--and it felt like an accomplishment. (Of course, if it had been Steven, she'd have been most of the way to the base...)

Right about then, however, an unexpected and unnerving thing happened. Even as she kept on working the man's cock, Abby felt a soft nuzzling at her pubic thatch... followed by fingers pressed up gently against the insides of her thighs, urging them apart. By rights she should have clamped her legs more tightly together; but reflexively, she spread them instead--and almost at once, was rewarded with a warm, wet explosion of stimulation.

Startled, she took a quick peek from the corner of her eye. Anneli, it seemed, had buried her face deep into Abby's crotch. Whether in response to some brusque gesture of Yevgeny's, or her own eager 'initiative,' was impossible to say. But the resulting sensations were purely beguiling. Oh, Abby still saw it as deviant for another woman to connect with her in such an intimate way--yet after the morning's activities, she was no longer surprised when her body responded. It was one thing to grasp that it was wrong, morally-speaking; and quite another to resist biological impulses this powerful, this rapturous.