The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

1) This story includes a wife who has sex with man who is not her husband, and potentially carries his baby without her husband's knowledge. If these concepts trigger you, don't give me nasty comments or bad ratings, just move on to something more to your taste.

2) This story includes broad caricatures of Evangelical Christianity and Russia. And, as you can see from the category, it is also a nonconsent story. If any of these things offend or irritate you, please choose a different story.

3) All characters are over the age of 18.

4) This work is sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life it is incumbent on all of us to ensure consent in any situation, and to show respect and empathy to those around us—not just with regard to sex, but in every aspect of life.

5) I love to receive positive feedback and constructive suggestions. I hope you enjoy it.

The problem of good and evil—

Philosophers and theologians have wrestled with it for millennia. Yet, for Abigail Jones, it had been an abstract question until today. Her life had been so fortunate, so providential, that there simply wasn't much evil in it to quibble about.

And although Abby would not have said it aloud (or maybe even to herself), it seemed to her that really, she had earned this divine favor. She was born-again, and a good Christian. She had genuine faith, and daily communion with God. She tithed, and had never strayed from the straitlaced morality of her upbringing. And, she kept her mind pure by shunning secular movies, television, music, and novels. For all these reasons, she had unswerving confidence that Heaven would continue to shower blessings upon her.

(Now—you might think the Book of Job would have raised a few questions on this point; but Abby usually skipped over it, and sometimes wondered whether it belonged in the Bible at all.)

The strange and disturbing things that had happened today, however, had thrown her smug self-assurance into question. And that was why—as she stood there in the busy airport terminal, hands above her head and feet spread wide, waiting for the security guard to finish sliding his magnetic wand all over her bare skin—she found herself pondering why bad things happen to good people.

She reflected, for example, on the loose-fitting bandeau top which dangled limply around her waist. Why had it fallen down just now, exposing her breasts for everyone to see? Was that just the result of chance interactions between molecules and physical forces? Were we all no more than pawns in the hands of a random universe? Or did God have a grand purpose for everything—even for something as simple as her top falling off?

And then her mind shifted to her crotch, where her hot-pink vinyl miniskirt had ridden up to expose her pussy. She knew every passer-by could see not only that she had just had sex, but that she'd enjoyed it, physically at least. The dampness of her snatch, the way her labia gaped open, the way her engorged clitoris poked out—these could leave people in no doubt. And, of course, she herself knew that it was true. But she was wracked by the question: should her body have found sensory pleasure in intercourse with a strange man? Surely this must signal some deeper frailty, or corruption, or wickedness in her soul? And so, by extension, perhaps all the day's events had really been divine punishment for some inadvertent sin of hers?

Next, a drip between her feet reminded her of the Russian oligarch's semen, which was slowly dribbling out of her vagina and splattering on the airport floor. If, as she feared, she was going to carry that brute's baby, then that would be true, in part, because she was so faithful to God's strictures regarding the sanctity of life. So perhaps this was all a test—a trial to see if she was strong enough and dutiful enough to obey Him even in adversity? Maybe this entire ghastly day was a result of some wager between Devil and Creator. She believed she could find solace in the idea...

And as she considered these weighty topics, and as the security guard continued to caress her flesh with his wand, she found herself trying to trace the chains of cause and effect—to understand why it all happened, and how she had been brought so low. But where to begin? What was the exact moment that all of today's mayhem had actually been set in motion?

It must have started last night, she thought—at that gala dinner at the embassy. Gosh, could it really have been less than 24 hours ago? It seemed like years... She recalled, especially, an unpleasant scene from early in the evening. People had been mingling in the ballroom, and she'd been standing awkwardly in the wings, trying to look as if she belonged there. And then... hmm, yes, maybe that was when it all began...

Abby hated fancy events, but Steven had said it was important that they attend the embassy banquet. After all, this whole trip abroad was really about raising Steven's profile and making useful international connections. Well, (she corrected herself) it was mostly about doing the Lord's work—but those other things were important too.

An embassy staffer noticed her stewing in the corner, and bustled over to her rescue. Although Steven was, as yet, just the pastor of a major suburban mega-church, his endorsement had been critical to the President in the last election; and, with his growing media presence, he could help to secure the Evangelical vote for decades to come. So, word had come down from on high: the US diplomatic team was to treat Steven and Abigail Jones like VIPs.

"Mrs. Jones," the aide said with a broad smile, "I'm glad you could join us tonight! I don't think we've met before. I'm Tom Douglass, an assistant to the Ambassador. I'm guessing you don't know too many people here."

"Please, call me Abby," she said. "I'm afraid Steven abandoned me. He's around here somewhere, button-holing people about his plans for the foundation."

Steven Jones was a lucky man, Tom thought. The staffer was struck immediately by how comfortable he felt in Abby's presence: as if he'd known her for years. The woman appeared to be in her early-30s. She had worn a conservative gown this evening—dark burgundy, with ankle-length hem, three-quarter sleeves and a high neckline—but it was tailored enough to reveal a trim, alluring figure beneath (well, perhaps a little hippy, Tom nit-picked). Really, though, with Abby, one's gaze was drawn upward—to her wide, animated blue eyes; her broad, open features; her petite nose, delicate lips, and appealing, understated jawline. All of it framed perfectly by her long, wavy chestnut tresses. She was no runway-model, Tom mused, but some would say that her particular mix of physical attractiveness and kind, approachable, giving demeanor made her even more desirable.

"Well, I'm sure we'll run across your husband. But for now, please allow me to escort you." Skillfully, he drew her out into the flow of people and conversations. "Our briefing book said you and Mr. Jones have two children. Did they come on the trip with you?"

She was slightly taken aback by this, being unused to the idea that she was important enough for a stranger to bone up on. "B-briefing book? Hmm... Um, yes, we do have two—Esther and Mark. They are 9 and 7. We didn't feel it would be a good idea to bring them—they're staying with my mother-in-law."

"You've been in Russia for a couple of weeks now, right? It must be hard to be apart for so long." Being a diplomat, Tom was good at feigning empathy.

She frowned slightly. "Yes, I can't wait to see them again. Zooming isn't the same." She felt a twinge of melancholy at the thought. For a while now—well before the big trip to Russia—the kids hadn't really needed her as much anymore, and that made her life seem a little empty. Maybe when they got back home they should think of adding to their family. It would be fun to have a baby around the house again. But it was a big decision, involving a lot of stress and disruption. Steven might need some persuading...

Seeing her glaze over, Tom realized he'd steered the conversation poorly and sought to change the subject. "Look at all these fancy people, eh? Russia does have its problems, but there sure is a lot of money and glitz here as well."

As he gestured out across the crowded ballroom, one man caught Abby's eye. He was middle-aged, and not especially tall or particularly distinguished looking. He did have a barrel chest, a quick, decisive bearing, and (as even she was able to recognize) a terribly expensive suit. But he had something more than that about him, something indescribable—a vigor, an energy, that seemed to radiate from him. And it was clear from the dynamics of the throng that they were drawn to that vitality like moths to a flame. Even amid the chaos of people talking and moving and mingling, some imperceptible combination of signals made it clear that he was the center of attention—that throughout the entire hall, it was his words and opinions and preferences that really mattered.

"Who's that?" she asked, pointing.

"Ah, you ought to be a diplomat, Mrs. Jones—you have an eye for the important people. That's Yevgeny Brosaev, one of the country's leading businessmen. You might call him an oligarch, if you prefer. And if we're talking about Brosaev, well, he's practically the oligarch. You name it, he's into it—oil, uranium, rare metals, weapons... They say that the Premier always takes his calls, day or night."

The group of people who surrounded the man was made up mostly of greying men in business suits. However, there was one who stood out: a gregarious and extremely glamorous platinum blonde, 22 years old perhaps, in a revealing dress of dazzling white. The woman also dripped with a fortune in furs and jewelry that Abby had no doubt were real. "So..., that must be Brosaev's wife?"

Tom laughed. "No, that's his current mistress, Natasha something-or-other. They say she's a real up-and-comer on the Russian pop scene."

Abby frowned at the mention of infidelity, but Tom didn't notice. He gestured at a woman standing a few paces behind Brosaev, tapping on her phone. She was in her late 20s, elegant, and more professional in appearance, with a jet-black bob and dark-framed glasses. "Now then, you see her?"

Abby nodded. "That's his wife?"

Tom chuckled again. "No, that's his personal assistant, Yulia. Though I have no doubt he bends her over the desk from time to time too." He grinned at Abby, but this time caught her shocked expression and made a lame effort to walk it back. "... Because, uh, these rich Russian guys have a different code of morality than we do.... Here at the embassy we do everything we can to discourage it, of course..." He pointed up at the balcony to a gorgeous woman of about 30, "that redhead up there, that's his wife. His, uh, third wife."

"This Brosaev sounds like a hideous person," Abby said, unable to keep a judgmental edge from her voice. "Are all Russians like that?"

Tom tried to placate her. "Well, they do some things differently here. Maybe they aren't as good at marital devotion. But Brosaev's worth knowing. And, he's a very interesting character. I'll introduce you and you can judge for yourself."

Gradually they worked their way across the room to the knot of people clustered around Brosaev. He stood easily, champagne-glass in hand, feet shoulder-width apart, chest thrown back. His voice boomed above the din in a loud, gruff baritone, and he seemed to be having a wonderful time.

"Mr. Brosaev," Tom said when an opportunity presented itself, "I would like to introduce Abigail Jones. She's the wife of Steven Jones, a very respected Christian leader in our country. He's around here somewhere."

Paying no attention to Tom, Brosaev looked Abby up and down. "Welcome to Russia, Mrs. Jones. I shall have to scold your husband for leaving you alone in a strange country."

"Well, he's passionate about his work...," she said absently.

"Yes, yes. He is a missionary for God I understand?"

"He's just the pastor of a church, back in the US. But we are here on God's business. We're helping to establish a new pro-life foundation in Russia. It's a very important initiative."

"Yes, yes, we all agree, life is very important," Brosaev said nebulously. "...So, what do you think of our country? You like it?"

Normally Abby was tactful and pleasant to talk to. At present, however—in this strange country, with this strange and corrupt man—she found it hard to say the expected thing. Maybe it was fatigue, maybe it was her offended sense of morality, but for whatever reason she just went ahead and blurted out the truth. "I... I'm just thankful we're leaving tomorrow, to be honest. Everything here is so showy and shallow and fake. And so godless. I mean, don't get me wrong—the Orthodox Church has come a long way and we're building some very good partnerships with them. But overall, there is so much sin, and so much immorality, and..." She trailed off, a hint of disgust visible in her expression.

Brosaev's face darkened slightly. Tom tried to rescue her. "What Mrs. Jones means to say is..."

Brosaev cut him off. "Douglass, what are you still doing here? Run along and find the woman's husband. Make yourself useful." Like a well-trained pet, Tom ambled off. The oligarch turned back to Abby. "It is odd that you say Russia is so sinful, when the source of most of this sin is the Western culture from America."

She found herself taken aback slightly. "Well, I don't mean to ignore the log in our own eye, not at all..." He looked quizzical, but she plowed ahead. "Yes, permissive culture in America is a big problem. The liberals in Hollywood and New York are truly doing the Devil's work. But we are working hard to fight that, too. And in the American heartland we have a silent majority of real Americans, God-fearing people, who live the way He intended. That's what we are going to bring to Russia as well."

"Ehh, why do you think we need your 'pro-life' foundation at all? The Premier has begun a major program to increase birth-rate, families. Surely that is enough pro-life for any country. Why do you want to meddle in our affairs?"

"Oh, but there are so many abortions in Russia. Every one is a baby murdered!"

"Yes, yes, abortion is bad. The Orthodox Church already says that."

"But where is the government action? We're pressing for a complete and immediate ban. And that's not all. We're also going to prohibit birth-control methods that have the same effect as abortion. Pills, IUDs, Plan-B. We're going to make sure all of these obscenities are wiped out—here, as well as in America."

"So, what, you and Mr. Jones have ten children, is that it? But then how could you have the time to come to Russia and teach us how to run things?! And even if it is good for you, I fear a career woman like Natasha over there will not find the prospect of a dozen or so brats appealing."

Abby gave the oligarch a pointed look at the mention of his mistress. "Well, I believe what God wants for Natasha is to quit living in sin. And then, yes, to become a wife and mother too... But there are righteous ways to plan a family. Barrier methods, the rhythm method, abstinence—when used within a sanctified marriage, these can all be consistent with Biblical teachings."

He gave the appearance of being bored. "OK, OK, you have persuaded me, Mrs. Jones. Let me talk to my associate here for a moment and we will arrange a donation to your new foundation."

The oligarch surmised that Abby had not bothered to learn any more about the Russian language than she had about Russian society. And he was right: when he spoke to his aide, she wasn't able to pick out a single word except her husband's name.

« Pyotr, can you believe this cunt? She thinks she can just come here and piss all over our country—and me—and then dictate some crazy Sharia laws to us. I feel she needs to be taught a lesson. »

« Sure, why not? I could have her deported tonight. That'd rattle her. » Pyotr could see the boss was unimpressed. « Or..., maybe get their organization banned? »

Brosaev's eyes glinted and he gave a thin smile. « Mm, I think a moralizing busybody like this needs a more personal sort of rebuke. I believe I'll fuck her brains out. That might bring her down from her lofty perch, eh? »

The henchman suppressed an eyeroll. « With all respect, Yevgeny Pavlovich, that's nuts. Look at her—she's cute, sure, but nothing special. And anyway, she's a religious fanatic—she'll never go for it. »

« How have you worked for me for so many years and learned nothing? She doesn't have to want it. I just need the right leverage and she'll give it to me. Listen: call down to the ministry. Tell the customs people to detain Steven Jones when he tries to leave tomorrow. Terrorism charges, let us say. And have them put it around that Yevgeny Brosaev is the person who might be able to get him freed. »

« Just slow down a minute, boss. Does she really deserve that? Seems a little harsh. Plus, the diplomatic folks will lose their minds. I tell you, she ain't worth it. Why not just let it go? »

« What, so I should just take shit from these Americans and then smile about it? No chance. Anyway, now that I've thought of it, I find I'm rather eager to fuck this bitch. It'll make a nice change from the easy sluts who usually throw themselves at my feet. »

Pyotr caved in. « Fine, whatever—but I'm going to have to call in a lot of chits on this one. » He shook his head slightly to show that he still considered the whole thing foolish.

« Just do it. Oh, and have $10,000 wired to this foundation that Jones is trying to start. »

"There," he said turning back to Abby, "it is all arranged. Your husband will be receiving a nice donation for his kind efforts on behalf of Mother Russia. It was a pleasure to meet you." He strolled away, reeling in Natasha on his arm as he went, and trailing an entourage of a dozen or more lackeys in his wake.

The next morning, well before noon, Tom Douglass rose from his desk at the embassy, as Abby rushed into his office, visibly distraught.

"Oh God, it was awful, Tom. They hit him with batons! For no reason—he didn't do anything to provoke it. Then they put handcuffs on him and dragged him away. And now they won't let me see him, or tell me where he is."

"And you're sure that there's no reason Steven might have been arrested? He didn't meet with any political opposition figures while he was here? He wasn't carrying something he shouldn't have been? Maybe a package someone else asked him to carry back to the States?"

"N-no, nothing like that. We only met with government officials and leaders of the Orthodox Church. W-why are they doing this?"

"I don't know. Maybe some turf war inside the Kremlin. Russian politics can be pretty confusing sometimes. But don't panic—we will do everything we can to help him. Do you have your passport?"

"No, th-they took everything at the airport—luggage, passport, purse. They wouldn't give any of it back to me."

"OK, don't worry about that. Your items will be impounded there, and returned once you have been issued a new exit-visa... Now then: since you called me, I've been doing some digging. They won't let me see Steven. Not until Monday, at least. They're claiming that the charges are related to terrorism, but I don't have any particulars yet. So, here is the plan. We will find you a hotel and buy you a few things to tide you over. We will engage a lawyer. Then, we will sit tight until Monday and see if we can find out what is going on."