The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

Seeming to move of its own accord, her body made one more graceful revolution (thus allowing the Russian to take in her broad, shapely backside). Then, completing the turn and facing him again, she halted uncertainly, having just about used up her bag of tricks. As she stood there, Abby was barely even aware of the tension that was plain for any outsider to see in her body-language—in the way her thighs pressed tightly together, for example, or how her jaw trembled, or her arms hung stiff at her sides. And when she sought positive confirmation that she was meeting his expectations, it came out in a half-whisper: "Do you like what you see?"

"Gorgeous," he beamed, "a real American 'girl next door.' But please, don't be so shy. You must show me what's between those delightful legs of yours!" As he spoke, he flicked a finger side-to-side in a gesture that she should open herself.

It took Abby a second to even understand what Yevgeny was asking; and when she did, her face burned with a new surge of heat. In truth, she would not have thought to spread her legs for his inspection in a million years. Although she disapproved of nudity as a matter of principle, she was able to comprehend how some people might find the human form, as a whole, beautiful. Like a sculpture in an art museum, for example. But why on earth would any man want to observe that shameful, private part of her in particular? She had no idea.

Nor, even once she'd made the leap, could she imagine that she might have revealed those secret parts by turning around and bending over, or perhaps going down on all fours. Indeed, as she pondered how to respond, the only frame of reference she could find for exposing herself this way was seeing the gynecologist. But there was no stirrup-table here...

Dubiously, she eyed the chair next to her. Should she just plunk herself down in it? She certainly wouldn't want someone lounging on her furniture stark naked! After a brief pause, however, she decided it must be what he wanted, and seated herself delicately. From there, she eased her torso downward until she was resting on her tailbone, head propped against the back of the chair. Then, heaving an anxious sigh and gulping down her misgivings, Abby drew up her legs, took hold of her knees, and pulled her thighs apart.

She tried to tell herself it was just like at the doctor's office; but the fact was that even a medical exam was intimidating, and here there was the added dimension of sleaziness and exploitation. She found she was unable to look Yevgeny in the face while spreading herself open like this—if she caught his eye, she felt she would die of shame. The oligarch didn't care: his attention was focused squarely on her pussy. Hidden at first by a light scattering of hair, her lips had parted easily as she opened her legs, to reveal her dusky-rose gash. Inside, her hood, clitoris, and inner labia ran as a long line of delicate folds from top to bottom. Her clit had a bit of meat to it, and poked out impudently as her pussy unfurled; the opening to her vagina, however, still remained discreetly concealed.

"Oh my dear, you are too adorable. I must commit this image to memory." Abby cringed inside, as it occurred to her that this stranger was learning things about her body that her husband never had—perhaps even things she didn't know herself!

It was excruciating to have to hold her pussy open for this rapacious Russian's amusement. The moment seemed to linger on for hours, and bit by bit Abby felt her soul being crushed. The room was silent except for the ticking of the clock; but her heart pounded so that she felt that it must be audible too. Yevgeny's shiny, black, unblinking eyes seemed to bore their way in between her legs. Her gaze remained vacantly off to the side, fixed on a particular book on the shelves. It had a leather cover. Her arms trembled and felt clammy. Her quad muscles had begun to tire.

At length, he exhaled and stood up beside the desk. He set his feet comfortably apart, and raised his forearms, palms up, in a beckoning gesture. "Now, my dear, I think it's time that you come over here and get to know me better."

Abby lowered her legs and sat up. It was a relief to quit that uncomfortable, humiliating pose. As she rose from the chair, however, the power differential in the room remained impossible to ignore. There he was, fully clad in sweater, button-down shirt, herring-bone slacks—the very picture of power, refinement, and relaxed self-assurance. And here she was, naked from top to bottom, tits dangling slightly, crotch bared. She felt indecent—robbed of her dignity and self-respect. But worse, she felt dreadfully vulnerable—stripped of every last defense against the raw lust that she knew burned in men's hearts. Indeed, if clothing was what had distinguished man from animal since the days of Adam and Eve, then where did that leave her at this moment? As a savage? A creature? A slave?

One thing was clear, however: he was the one dictating the terms of the situation—there was no choice but to approach him. She crept forward as slowly as she dared, but as soon as she came within arms' length, he grabbed her firmly by the waist, and jerked her close. She winced as he planted his palms on the slope of her lower back, right where her ass bulged out, and began digging greedy fingers into the supple flesh below.

Reflexively Abby tried to raise up her arms (as if to at least slow him down), but found they were pinioned to her sides by the strength of his grasp. As she bumped up against him, her yielding breasts and tender nipples were chafed by the prickly wool of his sweater, and his groin rubbed insistently against her unclothed mound. She gulped to feel the bulge of his erection through his pants. Then he pressed his lips to hers.

Instinctively, she gasped and drew back. Although she had more-or-less come to terms with the grim prospect of intercourse with this stranger, she was surprised to realize that she hadn't anticipated kissing him at all. And now that it was happening, she found (irrationally?) that it felt like the more intimate of the two acts, and the greater burden on her sense of personal integrity. After all, she was used to keeping a certain mental distance from sex—accustomed to thinking of it as something Steven 'did to her' (even if this was not an entirely fair description of their relations). But to kiss, romantically, was entirely different. In her mind, this was a truly mutual activity, and one which implied a deeper and more genuine connection on her part.

She only balked for a split-second, however—the rational side of her had not forgotten the need to feign enjoyment. Sensing her reluctance, Yevgeny ranged one arm up her bare back, so that she remained locked firmly in his grip; and, after a brief hesitation, she began kissing him back. His lips were insistent, but also soft and warm as they pressed lingeringly up against hers. He kept one hand planted on her spine, so that she remained pinned to him; and with the other, he began to grope freely down and under her buttock, kneading her silky skin with purposeful strokes, delving alarmingly close to the private areas between her legs.

Before long, his mouth parted wider and his tongue began probing for entry between her lips. This was another rude shock—Steven and she never kissed that way! She did have some notion of what 'french kissing' was about, but really she'd always thought it sounded a bit nasty. Still, she didn't see any way out of this, either; so, after another fleeting pause, she dropped her jaw and let him inside.

Physically the experience was not unpleasant (quite the contrary, actually, if she were honest about it). His breath had an agreeable mintiness to it; and once he had forced his way in, his tongue moved with a deft agility that was not overbearing. In fact, it seemed to draw out her own tongue as well, until the two became locked in a kind of unholy pas-de-deux. Moreover, Abby was chagrined to find that the rush of sensations caused by this kind of kiss seemed to have a physiological effect on her—deep in her crotch she felt a tingle and a hint of moisture. And yet, in her mind, she reeled, and her breaths came shallow, almost panicky. It just seemed so wrong!

At length he pulled back and relaxed his hold (though his hands remained lightly on her hips to keep her close). When he spoke, his voice was low, but the words were blunt and brooked no refusal: "Good girl. Now, suck my dick."

Abby staggered under the weight of shock and disgust. If she wouldn't even let Steven put his tongue in her mouth, she certainly had never let him put his... thing in there! She doubted her husband would even want to (...and, if he did want to, then he at least had enough sense not to tell her about it). And yet, she knew people did it, and she believed that it was even possible for a man to finish that way. So perhaps if Yevgeny wanted to do it like that, then she could get it over with quickly, and she wouldn't have to do those... other things?

Anyway, it wasn't as if she had a choice in the matter. She swallowed her gorge, and—still standing uncomfortably close to the oligarch—began working her hands in under the hem of his sweater. Moving awkwardly at this angle, it took some fumbling around at his waist to unfasten the button and open the fly. That done, she slipped an exploratory hand inside the man's trousers. She jumped when her skin brushed against the warm, throbbing mass of his penis, barely contained by the flimsy fabric of his form-fitting briefs. It was like she had touched a live wire.

Moving carefully to avoid further contact of that sort, Abby used both hands to work his slacks down until they fell easily around his ankles. He was wearing skimpy black briefs—little more than a speedo really—that emphasized both the heft of his package, and its impatience to burst free. Slowly peeling the taut-stretched fabric from his flanks, she allowed the shorts to drop as well.

As soon as she had released it, Yevgeny's erect cock sprang loose, almost like something mechanical. It slapped heavily against her abdomen, producing an audible thump. It was a rich, warm caramel color, hairless, with a shaft that was long and wide. So wide, she thought disbelievingly—like a log... And though she tried to censor herself, she could not resist comparing it to the only frame of reference she had. After all, it was plainly obvious that the Russian's organ was much, much bigger than Steven's ever got. There seemed little point trying to deny that. Still, it looked kind of funny, and not just because it was clean-shaven. It appeared pointier and smoother, without the ridge around the end that her husband's had. After puzzling for a second, she realized that he must be uncircumcised.

Yevgeny stepped out of the pile of clothes, pulling off his house slippers and socks as he did so. Still standing at his ease, feet apart, face expressionless, he fixed her with a steely gaze, as if reminding her of unfinished business. "Suck my dick," he had said—they both knew she couldn't do that standing up. She looked him back in the eye for a long moment; and then, unwillingly, lowered herself and knelt before him.

The man's penis hovered so close to Abby's face that it filled her frame of vision and made her cross-eyed. It was enormous, and seemed to stare back at her mockingly. Wincing, she reached one hand up gingerly to clasp his testicles—the heavy, hairless sack so massive that her fingers stretched to contain it. Then she looked up at him with a questioning expression, her piercing blue eyes half obscured by messy brown bangs: "Please... what should I do with the...?" She gestured slightly with her free hand toward the end of his dick.

He gave a hearty laugh. "So my dear, you never encountered a man whose skin does not retract when he gets hard?" Indulgently, he reached down and slid the foreskin easily back down his shaft, exposing the head and giving the rod a slightly wrinkled appearance around the middle. The whole spectacle made him seem even more foreign to her, and she found it distasteful. Still, the end result did look more like what she had expected to see. (Not that this made the prospect of putting her mouth on it any more appealing!)

She bit her lip and leaned her face closer to the horrid thing, lifting her free hand to grip it lightly around the shaft. (She noticed that her thumb and index finger didn't come close to touching when she reached them around its girth—Steven's wasn't like that) Then, closing her eyes, trying to blot it all out, Abby allowed her lips to lightly brush the tip. His glans was soft and warm, and she had to admit that its springy consistency did have an appealing quality to it. Opening her mouth, she took the head inside.

Poor Abby—she really had no idea what to do with a penis once it was in her mouth. Life had simply not prepared her for this moment. The best plan she could come up with was to suck it like a popsicle. This was not a worthless notion, but it did leave a few things to be desired. It didn't occur to her to move her head, for example, so there wasn't really any in-and-out action. Nor did she think to do anything with the rest of the shaft, or his balls, but simply held them limply in her hands. As a result, her efforts focused solely on the two or three inches that penetrated between her lips. She did everything she could to stimulate this section, however, squeezing and suckling with a blend of tenderness, energy, and single-minded intensity. Like it was a rocket-pop on the 4th of July.

After a bit, she peeked up for a clue as to whether she was doing it right, and was startled to make eye contact with Yevgeny. He had a self-satisfied look on his face, and had evidently been peering down on her the whole time. She shuddered to think what a vulgar image she made, down on her knees, naked, nipples hard, with some stranger's penis poked between her lips. Still—the man seemed happy. Even as she blushed and closed her eyes again, he let out a contented grunt, as if to confirm it. Despite herself, she felt validated in knowing that her labors were appreciated.

And she was not wrong: the sensations induced by Abby's sucking action were, indeed, pleasurable. Yet, she left no doubt that she was an utter novice when it came to the art of the blowjob. Yevgeny had to suppress a chuckle—here he was, a man who had been blown by the best hookers on four continents, serving as a training dummy for this naif. Seriously, though, it was a special moment. Never had he experienced oral from a woman who exhibited such a touching combination of pathos, inexperience, and raw determination. She was way out of her depth, and in danger of losing herself, and yet she kept giving away bits of herself to him anyway. It was something to treasure.

He decided the least he could do in return would be to give her some tips. Gently, the Russian grasped her head, reaching both hands behind her ears. She was startled by his touch, and jerked, but he held her in place, softly but firmly. Keeping her pinned, he began to thrust his dick in and out between her lips. His movements were slow and considerate, entering her just a few inches so that she didn't gag. In another mood, he might have been inclined to force his full 9 inches straight down her throat—but, today it was enough that this self-righteous American preacher's wife had submitted to him, and was about to cuckold her unwitting husband. He felt he could be generous.

She complied with his movements readily enough, and continued massaging him with lips and tongue while he slowly pistoned her mouth. He gave another groan, louder this time, which signaled his pleasure in both the physical stimulation, and his moral domination over her. For long minutes he continued to work her face. Bubbles collected at the corners of her mouth, and her knees felt raw, and her jaw ached. Even so, she was ashamed to admit that his evident enjoyment, as well as the tactile sensations she herself was experiencing, seemed to be adding fuel to the fires in her sinful flesh. The puzzling itch and unaccountable wet between her legs, which had first been roused by his kiss, had not been dispelled by this latest indignity. On the contrary—they were becoming more pronounced. How was that possible?

At last he pulled free. Blobs of saliva rolled down her chin, her lips were swollen, and she found herself panting to try to suck in more air. She was glad to have him out of her mouth, and yet she felt a vague disappointment. He hadn't climaxed—and that meant the ordeal wasn't over.

"Get up," he said, breathing heavily. She rose, her body trembling slightly. His voice wasn't cruel, but it had a steely edge to it that she didn't recall hearing before. It was the tone of someone who was used to getting what he wanted, and who was going to take what he wanted now. He brushed aside the papers and pens from half of his desk and gestured to the space that was cleared, not bothering anymore with social niceties. "Lie there while I fuck you."

Despite all that she had been through so far, Abby blanched at the crude nature and blunt delivery of the man's latest demand. She had known what was coming, but she had at least expected to be bedded in, well, his bed. Certainly, she and Steven had never done it anywhere else. And, as far as she knew, sex always involved the man lying on top of the woman. It was hard to see how that was really going to work on this tyrant's office desk. The whole thing only added to her sense of confusion and alarm.

And then, compounding these feelings, was her sudden realization that any passing boater would be able to watch the whole thing through the bank of windows. Or (she thought with a flinch), maybe had already been watching while she sucked Yevgeny's cock. She shuddered to imagine it.

Still, the die had long since been cast—there was not a thing she could do about it now. The woman bowed her head in shame and resignation. She had to hoist herself up slightly to sit on the edge of the desk. Her feet dangled, not quite reaching the floor. Feeling like a sacrificial animal on the altar, she leaned back until she was lying flat. He hadn't cleared enough space, and her head ended up resting awkwardly on a rather thick book. At least she hadn't landed on any sharp corners.

She glanced anxiously down the length of her naked body to where Yevgeny stood. He was stripping off his sweater and shirt, using short, efficient movements. He draped them casually on his chair. He was big and barrel-chested; and his torso was covered with coarse black hair (much more so than her husband). He wasn't sculpted like a movie-star or underwear model; yet, beneath a layer of bear fat, he was clearly a disturbingly powerful man.

Unbidden, the image came into her mind of what would have happened if her husband had been free to burst in on this sick tableau. Would Steven have fought the monster who was about to violate his wife? Presumably. But if he had (she admitted to herself with a queasy sense of certainty), this Russian would have beaten him to a pulp, methodically and remorselessly, without even exerting himself very hard. And then raped her in front of him. She could see it all with such lurid clarity that, although she knew it was only a figment of her imagination, she still burned with humiliation for her overmatched mate. (Bizarrely, her crotch felt more damp than ever.)

As her mind reeled with these sick notions, Yevgeny lifted up her knees and pulled them apart. Reaching deliberately between her thighs, he stretched her pussy lips open even wider. Then, using the tips of a couple of fingers, he lightly probed her vaginal opening.

Brosaev was not a generous lover, any more than he was generous in business or politics. It was not in the man's philosophy to go down on a woman, for example. Yet he was not entirely heedless of his victim, and it gratified him to find that despite her moral and intellectual qualms, her body had prepared itself for what was to come. Indeed, her cunt gaped open slightly now, as if inviting him to enter, and the interior was slick with her fluids. Good—he would enjoy her more that way.