The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

Case in point: at various times in their marriage, she had thanked God that He had not called them to make any major sacrifices for their faith—to become missionaries stuck in some Third World hellhole, say, or impoverished servants to some destitute and dysfunctional community. But, if she was honest with herself, she knew quite well that she would never have allowed either Steven or herself to hear such a summons. She simply did not intend to live that way.

So perhaps that is why, in this moment when circumstances had spiraled far beyond her control, she could abhor Yevgeny's indecent proposal, and yet find herself entertaining it as a viable option. It would, at least, be a way for her to reassert some influence over the situation. The man's advances would be loathsome; but they were surely endurable, and would soon be over. And if the alternative was to spend years as the wife of a jailed political prisoner—alone, impoverished, pitiable—then abasing herself for one evening began to seem like the lesser evil.

Yes, the longer she sat there, the more it seemed not only possible, but maybe even prudent for her to accept the oligarch's Faustian bargain.

Precisely an hour after he had left, Yevgeny sauntered back into the room. He exuded an air of nonchalance, as if he did not care what decision she had made—as if it was nothing more than a used car salesman's 'take it or leave it' deal. He ambled over to one of the chairs near the acres of window and sat down. Resting one leg across the other, and tilting his head forward slightly, he gave her a frank look. "Shall I have Yulia call a car for you?"

She sat, legs tight together, hands in lap, frame rigid and back stiff. Staring straight ahead so as not to look at him, she spoke quietly, a little huskily. "This thing you want..." Her voice trailed off.

He laughed. "Is very natural. Happens every day... True, if my wife cheated on me, I'd have her killed!" He flashed a toothy grin at Abby, who did not respond, or even glance at him. "...Ha ha, I am kidding you. No—if she did it to get me out of jail, I swear I'd give her a medal."

"But what would Steven say? How could I face him?"

"You make things hard on yourself, woman. Don't tell Steven. He will be happier that way. You will face him like a wife who did what was needed to save her husband and her family. History has taught us Russians how to survive. You Americans could learn a thing or two from us."

Without moving her head, she fixed the man with a hard, sideways glare. "How do I know you will keep your word?"

He put a hand to his chest in mock insult. "Now you injure me. I did not get all this by being a soft heart, but I also did not get it by breaking my promises. In America all you know is buying and selling, the almighty dollar. Here in Russia we really know how to trade—you know, the thing that makes you happy, the thing that makes me happy. Maybe that is what we do best. So: you make me a happy man, and you and Steven will be on that aircraft tonight. It does not need to be any more complicated than that."

They were both silent for a long moment. Yevgeny gazed out the window with a placid look of unconcern on his face—the tapping of his foot the only sign of rekindling irritation. Abby stared straight ahead again, her expression stony, trying to think... trying to come to terms in her heart with what logic told her she had to do.

At last, she turned toward him directly. Still sitting rigidly, face set in a stoic mask, it was only the hoarse note in her voice that betrayed the depth of her emotional turmoil. "OK... I'll do it... But only for Steven..." Yevgeny didn't make a move, didn't say anything, but just gave her a sharp stare, as if expecting something more. An awkward silence fell, and as it lingered she got increasingly uncomfortable. Finally she felt she had to break the logjam. "So, ...aren't you going to tell me what to do...?"

He huffed in exasperation at this. "Ah, you frigid Americans! Have you not been listening? What you need to do is make me feel good—you know, make me feel like superman! You think it makes me feel good if you are limp and begrudge me, and have this look on your face like I am some unfortunate disease?"

He stood abruptly, voice rising toward a sharp staccato. "Look: your husband, he is running out of time. Make up your mind what you want. If you want him returned to you, then you had better show that you appreciate me. Make me happy. Seduce me. If you cannot do that, then just leave." Her neck swiveled so that she could follow him as he stormed over to his desk. He dropped into his chair, took some papers out of a satchel, and started thumbing through them. His body language signaled that he was done talking.

Still lighted on the couch, gazing toward the Russian oligarch who studiously ignored her, Abby was wracked by tension. She didn't know what she was supposed to do. She didn't know if she could do what he asked. It was one thing to lie back and take it, but how could she act as if she wanted it? She bit her lower lip and felt it quivering. Tears blurred her vision.

She wished so badly that she could let it all out: could let the sobs roll up from her gut, let the tears cascade onto the floor, let herself lose control. It was all too much. But that wasn't what Yevgeny wanted. It wouldn't help Steven—on the contrary, it might doom him to some Siberian gulag. There was no one there to guide her now, no one to pick up the pieces of her shattered psyche—it was all on her.

So, with a shallow, shuddering breath she tamped down the tears, the confusion, the urge to flee. A fragile wave of calm washed over her. Once again, she had made a decision. Not only was she going to do this thing, but she was going to do it with every appearance of willing desire, just as this thug demanded. It was another piece of herself, another portion of her integrity, but she was willing to trade it away, too, in exchange for Steven's freedom.

She stood and paced evenly across the room, until she stood before Yevgeny's desk.

He ignored her approach, continuing to leaf through his papers as if oblivious to her presence. Abby took the opportunity to scrutinize him more closely than before. Though she hated herself for it, she made an effort to summon up some sort of feelings for him. As a woman who had long felt comfortable in the role of a loyal wife, it was difficult. And, in truth, Yevgeny was not exactly her type—face a little too pointed, lips a little too thin, eyes a little too beady, hair cropped too short. Rat-like, she thought with a shiver.

Yet, she had to admit that he was far from repulsive. His features were even and complexion good; he seemed energetic, fit, and strong; his manner was smooth and confident. And, above all, the man undeniably had a kind of animal magnetism. The same force of personality that had allowed him to dominate a room full of tycoons and politicians could not fail to work some of its magic on her under the present circumstances.

Moreover, adding weight to that inexplicable charisma was his ostentatious wealth and power. Abby was a down-to-earth woman whose head was not easily turned. Nor did she trust his motives or honesty in the least. Yet even so, it was impossible for this plain preacher's wife not to feel at least a bit of a thrill, a certain rush of excitement, to have attracted the attentions of such a man. She knew without a doubt that these were sinful feelings—the Devil whispering in her ear, as her mother would have said. But she also knew that during the coming ordeal, anything she could do to draw on her sinful nature, lean into it, harness it, would aid her in doing what needed to be done.

She blinked the drops from her eyelashes and cleared her throat. Yevgeny glanced up searchingly. She blushed, feeling suddenly disoriented. Having made her peace with what she must do, she realized that she still hadn't reckoned with how it could be done.

For the sad truth was that Abby simply had no concept of the art of seduction. Oh, Steven and she had a nice enough sex life, she supposed, but it had always been bare bones, and by now was entirely rote. In recent years, their church had tried to stay modern by embracing positive messages about marital sex; but she and Steven had both grown up in the shadow of older traditions, which taught that carnality was immoral, dirty, a danger to body and soul. God-fearing women, in particular, were supposed to meet their husbands' natural needs, but never to really want it themselves. As a result, she had always tried to suppress her own, um, urges. Instead, she waited for Steven to initiate, and then just lay back while he did his thing. It felt good, and she enjoyed the sense of closeness with him. But their one-sided fumblings did not provide her any roadmap for what to do now.

Still, she would have to try. She opened her mouth to begin again with Yevgeny. When she spoke, she did the best she could to soften her voice, so that it didn't reveal the jagged emotions that coursed through her veins. In fact, the words came out so quietly that they barely even reached him across the broad expanse of his desk. "I-I don't want to fight any more, Yevgeny. We got off on the wrong foot before. I do want for us to make each other happy. I do want you..."

He smiled and leaned back in his chair with a creak, crossing his arms behind his head. "Good, good. I could tell you were a woman with sense. Now, my dear, let us start with those clothes. They hide away far too much of you! You should take them off now, so that we can get to know each other properly. Give me a little show."

"Here? Now?" She felt suddenly clammy, uncomfortable. Not that she or Steven were entirely prudish with regard to the sex act itself. They did not find it mandatory to douse the lights and hide under the covers, for example. Yet, still—they never really granted themselves license to delight in each other's bodies either. Such behavior would be too loose, too embarrassing. Not once in their marriage had she given her husband 'a little show.'

"Sure, why not? I like you, you like me—so why not show off? You know, make me hungry for you."

She looked like a deer caught in the headlights. She regretted, now, the plainness of her attire, and of the underwear beneath it. Of course, there was nothing else in her suitcase (or her closet at home for that matter) that would have been any more appropriate to a strip-tease. That simply wasn't her. But what she was wearing felt woefully ill-suited to what was being asked of her. Perhaps (she thought), having the right costume would have made it easier to play the part of a strip-joint floozy.

Equally, it was uncomfortable to imagine flaunting the flesh that lay beneath her clothing. Not that Abby was ashamed of her physique. The body was God's creation, so she felt justified in taking good care of it. She made a point of frequenting the 'girls-only' hours at the church's fitness center. And she worked hard there—water-aerobics, weights, cardio. Her muscles were strong, her figure trim, and her belly firmed and flattened despite carrying two kids. It was only natural to take some pride in that.

Sitting before her, though, was a man who had a stunning wife, a stunning mistress, and apparently any other female he wanted. Abby did not put herself into the same category with women like that. Her body was fit, but it wasn't sexy, was it? For instance, she had always thought there was an imbalance between having wide hips, but breasts that were on the smaller side. Also, she remained excessively self-conscious about her now-faded pregnancy stretch marks. And since nursing, her nipples had always seemed to poke out more than she thought they ought to. Even she would admit she was being overcritical, but she couldn't entirely shake these feelings of self-doubt. Would Yevgeny really want her when he saw her? And what if he didn't—would he still help Steven?

The Russian seemed to sense her mood. "Come, come, you think too much! No more thinking—just 'go with the flow,' as you people say."

Yes, go with the flow. That was good advice. She tried to shut off the gears turning in her mind. Or at least to mute out the sound that they made. Just do, act—that was the thing.

Even going with the flow, Abby was in no great hurry to disrobe, and she took her time in kicking off her flats. The bare wood of the floor was cold and smooth beneath the soles of her feet. That had been easy enough—but she knew that from here on out, each humiliation would be more demeaning than the last.

Nervously, she tried to force herself to look the oligarch in the eye—as if to prove (to him, or herself?) that despite the things she was about to do, she would not lose track of who she was, or allow herself to be disgraced by it. She untucked the satin blouse from the waistband of her skirt. Then, reaching behind her back with one hand, she slowly began undoing the zipper. As the frock gapped open, she shivered to feel the cool air caress the small of her back.

When the pull would descend no further, she tugged the sleeve off her left arm, and used it to help wriggle her right arm out. Then, wishing that she'd worn something she could remove in a more dignified manner, she lifted the top over her head (hair cascading messily over her face) and dropped it to the floor.

Underneath, she was wearing a simple, full-cup white bra. Truthfully, it was not as if she really needed a bra at all. She bought B-cup lingerie, and barely filled it out. Still, her nipples did need some corralling. More to the point, her mother had taught her that a polite woman never went out without a bra. Wearing one (she thought with some irony) had always given her a sense of security, control, propriety. Would she ever feel that way again?

Shedding her full-length skirt posed no difficulties. Reaching down with both hands, she simply eased the waistband over her hips and allowed the garment to fall to the ground, before stepping gingerly out of it. Her legs were long and smooth, with pleasing curves and a bit of muscle. Her panties were plain and white like the bra, but cut rather high in a way that favored her hips. Yevgeny found them attractive.

Her impulse now was to rush—to strip down quickly and just get this part of the ordeal over with. But the brute had said he wanted a show, and Abby sensed he would be unhappy if she appeared too hasty. Being down to her underwear, she knew she had to do her best to make the rest of her undress, um, 'sexy.' She had the vague impression that this process normally involved poles and dollar bills; but, in terms of practical knowledge, she had nothing racier than jazzercise classes to draw upon.

Just go with the flow, she told herself again. Pasting a phony smile on her face (years of emotional support to lonely parishioners had at least taught her how to feign positivity), she laid her palms on the back of her hips, so that her fingers curved down over the tops of her buttocks. Then, her entire frame began to sway, shyly, in tempo with the feverish throbbing of her pulse.

The oligarch's wolfish grin broadened, giving her fragile confidence a much-needed boost. She arched her back, so that her modest rack jutted out in front and her rear stuck out further behind, and began to slowly turn in place—continuing to rock her haunches rhythmically from side to side as she did so. When she was facing 180 degrees away from him, she paused and leaned partway over, feet apart and hands on knees, so that her satin-clad butt was presented even more prominently.

Her face was hot and her palms sweaty. It seemed to her that she must appear ridiculous and conspicuous and vulgar. But, glancing over her shoulder at Yevgeny's rapt, predatory eyes, she felt a certain sense of gratification. Not that she was happy to be doing what she was doing, certainly. But she was at least pleased that, despite her own awkwardness and uncertainty, Yevgeny seemed aroused, rather than amused. As much as this was a dreadful ordeal for Abby, she knew it would have been even worse if he'd mocked her. Or rejected her.

She straightened and resumed her turn, until she'd completed a full circuit. Still grinding her hips fluidly and maintaining eye contact, she ran her fingers through her already tousled hair, before reaching behind to unhook her bra. She flicked the strap off each shoulder; and then, reaching under the cups, she pushed them up, covering her breasts with her hands as she did so. She was struck by how warm her palms felt as they slid across the silky skin of her nipples.

Abby let the moment of suspense stretch out for a few beats, before slowly dropping her arms. She'd intended for the bra to fall free, but it snagged on her elbow and she had to wiggle to get it to drop to the floor, giving her newly-revealed breasts a little jostle. That made her feel like a klutz again.

The crisp air of the room struck her bare torso. The impact seemed almost physical to her, like a light slap. As if (she thought) she needed any reminder of just how exposed she was! And even though she had no need of it, she still sucked in her tummy self-consciously—much as she might have done while changing in the locker room back home, overly anxious that the women around her might be judging her bare body.

Of course, the main attraction on offer now was her tits. Abby had never been particularly fond of them. The areolae were medium sized, and ruddier than the pale pink she would have preferred. The nipples were usually flat, but when they got hard they poked out nearly half an inch. They were hard now. Mostly, she had always wished her breasts were fuller—more womanly, she would have said. However, Yevgeny seemed to find much to like in their gentle swell and slight hang (at least if one could judge by the dilation of his pupils).

She resumed her slow, silent, elegant dance. Her finely-sculpted shoulders and collarbone rocked appealingly, and her now-braless tits swayed slightly from side to side. Unhurriedly, she gave another full turn, so that he had a chance to appreciate the pert profile of both breasts, and the smooth curves of her back.

She wished she could end it there. If she could have preserved the modesty of at least her most intimate parts, then she would have felt she had salvaged a good bit of her dignity. But Abby could read the situation, and the man, better than that. Any protest of hers, any obvious foot-dragging, would just spoil things, and increase the danger to Steven. After all, Yevgeny had made his price clear enough—she had to give herself to him and allow him the pretense that it was done willingly. Otherwise the deal would be off.

So, she put her thumbs inside the waist of her panties, and began pulling them down. She moved slowly—more from reluctance than from any attempt at seduction, but the effect was much the same. Soon enough. the dark curls of her pubic hair appeared above the band. Gradually more and more of her thatch came into view, narrowing in a V shape, until finally she reached the apex of her legs. Her thighs were closed-up tight, and it took a few tugs to get the panties free. Then they dropped around her ankles. She stood before him, fully exposed.

She wasn't sure where she had got the idea (probably from women's magazines, though she rarely indulged in secular culture), but Abby was pretty sure that in the godless modern world, women were supposed to be hairless at the crotch. This had always struck her as both obscene and ridiculous. True, she trimmed herself carefully, to prevent any possible embarrassments with her swimsuit, but that was about it. Now, though, she endured another moment of anxiety, wondering how Yevgeny would respond to her natural appearance. She gazed at him, searchingly, apprehensively, but detected no sign of displeasure or disgust—and, despite all her humiliation and dishonor, found herself heaving a sigh of relief that the bargain still stood.