The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

She lost all track of time, but at last it was done. The oligarch's seed was spent, the contents of his balls blown deep into her cunt. Her own orgasm had subsided, leaving her body feeling exhausted, warm, fulfilled... and her mind in utter turmoil.

He pulled out and wiped his cock on her snatch. Then, not bothering with underwear, he pulled up his slacks, grabbed a fresh shirt from his desk drawer, slipped on socks and some shiny black loafers, and took a sportcoat from a rack in the corner. He dressed with easy, confident motions; and although only moments before he'd been buried in her to the hilt, spraying her insides wildly with semen, he now looked ready for a business meeting or night out on the town.

Dazed, disoriented, Abby raised up on her elbows. She cringed to see that a mix of fluids and cum had already begun to leak out of her, and was now dripping down her ass and pooling on the table. Someone would have to clean that up. And there was so much of it! Although she could feel that most of Yevgeny's seed still remained inside her, the puddle on the tabletop alone seemed like more than she had ever seen contained in one of Steven's used condoms.

With wobbly legs she stood. More liquid seeped from her, and for a minute she could do nothing but stand there, immobilized, trembling slightly, a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach. As she swayed there, rooted in place, her mind followed each warm blob of semen in turn—tracing the sensations as it slowly trickled down her inner thighs, until another one oozed out to replace it. Gradually the wave of revulsion subsided. Moving gingerly, her vagina still feeling stretched-out and slightly sore, she hobbled around to the other side of the desk, where her clothes were. Yevgeny was leafing through some papers, evidently deciding what to put in his case to take with him. But when she leaned stiffly over to pick up her panties, he glanced up. "Leave your clothes. Yulia will get them."

Not knowing what to do, still feeling overwhelmed and stunned into passivity, she straightened and stood there, naked, feet set slightly apart, shivering a little. Occasionally a drip fell from her sodden pubic hair or between her swollen cunt lips, and pattered lightly on the varnished wood of the floor. Blankly, she watched as an abstract pattern of oily white dots collected below her.

At length, Yevgeny grabbed his briefcase and stalked toward the door, seizing her elbow and pulling her along as he walked by. Her faltering legs struggled to keep up. In the outer office, Yevgeny barked a few commands to Yulia in Russian, then paraded Abby back through the house, stark naked. The maids and staffers they passed stared at her with wide eyes—struck, perhaps, by the way her tits wobbled as she stumbled along, or by the droplets which glinted like diamonds in her still-damp snatch.

When they reached the foyer, the same security agent was there from before, lounging on a chair by the wall, looking at his phone. When Brosaev appeared, the man jumped up and opened the front door. (He also took the opportunity to ogle her top to bottom, she noticed, making no effort to hide it.)

When she saw the door swing open, she realized Yevgeny planned to take her outside this way. On top of all the other indignities, this was finally enough to shock her out of her stupor. "Hey, stop. I-I need my clothes. What are you doing?"

He acted like he was only half listening to her; and when he responded, he used the tone of voice that she used when one of her children was pestering her. "I told you, Yulia has them. She will give them to the driver. You don't need them in the car."

Even as he talked, he pulled her through the doorway. A long black stretch-limousine waited ominously in the driveway. At the sight of it, a surge of fear and adrenaline jolted through her system. Where was he taking her? What did he have planned for her? Lurid visions of being ensnared by some white-slaver ring raced through her mind, and for a moment, this gave her the strength to stand up to him. She stopped and wrenched her arm free. "No, I won't get in! I did what you asked. You said you'd help Steven!"

He turned and faced her. Feeling her nakedness acutely, Abby blanched at the temper she could see flaring in his eyes. He clearly did not like being shown up in front of the man at the door, or the chauffer standing beside the limo. When he spoke, his voice was low, but it had a cold, brutal intensity. "You don't want to fuck this up now. Get in the car. We are going to the airport. You will meet your husband there. Unless you screw it up."

As quickly as it had swelled up, the defiance now began to drain out of her again, like a deflated balloon. "B-b-but... I don't understand. Why can't I have my clothes?" It was a whimper of defeat.

With a visible effort, he tamped down his rage. He forced out a mirthless laugh and tried to shift into a more expansive register. "My dear, we are simply going to have some more fun on the ride to the airport. No big deal."

What could he possibly mean by this? "B-but you... you already did it... you promised..."

"Oh honey, it is true that I only planned to fuck you once. But then you told me you are completely unprotected. What can you expect a man to do when he finds out something like that? Of course I am going to take another chance to get you pregnant. So, I renegotiated our agreement a little. It happens all the time—just business."

This confused her even more. She knew he had come—the proof of that was crusted on her thighs. So, how could he do it... again? She felt sure that it took men a while to be ready again after sex—it usually seemed to take Steven a week or more. "But, but... who's going to do it?"

He gave a genuine laugh this time, to see the bafflement on her face. "Oh my little church mouse—have you never been with a man who could go twice in an hour? Why I could fuck you all night if I had the time. So don't worry—," and here he poked her lightly on the abdomen, "I am not going to share the chance to put a baby in there with anyone else."

Grasping her elbow again, he pulled her the rest of the way to the limo. The driver opened the door for them, and Yevgeny pushed her inside. The vast passenger compartment was fitted out in garish red velvet. Abby was startled to find that someone was already there, sitting at the front end of the compartment, facing backward toward the door. This man was in his late-20s, blonde, with a chiseled face and strong jaw. He was seated but seemed tall, and gave the impression of being very powerfully built underneath his dark suit.

The stranger eyeballed her casually, as if he rode around with naked women all the time. "What is he doing here?" Abby asked warily.

Yevgeny peeked in over her shoulder and chuckled again. "Ah, this is Shevilov. He is also catching a ride with me this evening. He is harmless." Shevilov gave her a thin, cool smile.

Abby retreated to the rear corner seat, as far from Shevilov as she could get. She crossed her legs (in what she hoped was a discreet maneuver) and folded her arms across her breasts so that the nipples were concealed. She knew she was leaking on Brosaev's upholstery, and for a minute it felt like a small victory. But then, with a sigh, she realized that his staffers would be careful to clean it up long before the boss could even notice it. Such men were just untouchable...

Yevgeny got in and sat right up next to her, hip to hip, skin to trousers. Laying a heavy hand on her bare thigh, he looked her close in the eye, with what she took to be a frank expression. He spoke as if they were on familiar terms. "Don't worry. As I said, we are going to the airport. Your precious Steven will greet you there. So listen to me now. I am saying this to you with sincerity, as a friend. You just made a big payment to me. And I don't give refunds. So you would be a really stupid cunt if you fucked things up now."

A fourth man seated himself up front, next to the driver. It was the security agent who had been manning the foyer. The partition window was open, and the goon took up with Abby where he had left off—letting his eyes range easily over her naked body, a contented look on his face. Accidentally she caught his eye, and he gave her a toothy grin and winked. She reddened and looked away.

Soon the car began to move, taking them through the gate and onto the road back toward Moscow. "You know, Shevilov," the oligarch said, speaking in English, "I was reading something very interesting the other day." The other man grunted. "Well, we all know that a man holds back some sperm in his balls when he shoots off. You fuck your girl after dinner, of course you still want to fuck your wife when you get home that night, right? But what most people don't know is that the best sperm, the fastest and strongest, the most likely to get a lady pregnant—they don't come out the first time. They come the second time he shoots off. The doctors, they have discovered this. I found it very interesting."

Shevilov smiled slightly. "Good to know boss." Abby groaned inwardly.

Yevgeny switched briefly to Russian. « Kavellin called. You remember that gentleman I was telling you about? He's still giving us trouble. I need you to do the thing we talked about. I think that should be enough to shut him up. » Shevilov nodded laconically.

"But enough business," Yevgeny said, turning to Abby. The ride will not take so long, and I need to shoot another load in you before we get there. Get on your hands and knees," and he gestured toward the plush red carpet.

Dear God, he really was going to do it to her again, right here in the car, in front of everyone. But she was confused by the specifics of his request. "Sh-shouldn't I get on my back? How can we have sex if I'm on all-fours...?"

Yevgeny chortled. "I tell you Shevilov, I have 18, 19-year-olds all the time, but this American housewife is the most innocent woman I've ever fucked. She is like a nun, I have to teach her everything!" He turned back to Abby, speaking to her as if she was a toddler. "It is very simple. You Americans have a name for it, in fact. 'Doggy-style' it is called. So: you just get down there on hands and knees, and I will fuck you from behind—like mounting a bitch. Perhaps you will like it, most women do."

Abby felt cold, numb. She knew, dimly, that there were people who did perverted things like this. But she and Steven tried to avoid even hearing about anything so filthy and depraved, let alone doing it. That was why they avoided secular culture so, well, religiously.

Yevgeny's icy stare did not brook any delay, however, or make any allowances for her moral qualms. She would just have to get over them. So, with shaky limbs and moving awkwardly in the confined space, Abby got off the couch and lowered herself down in the middle of the compartment. She positioned herself with her ass faced towards Yevgeny and the back of the car—that seemed to best match the obscene pose that he had just described.

Peeking over her shoulder, she saw the magnate undo his fly and pull down his pants. His penis sprang out, ruddy-tan, hard, veins pulsing visibly. Already it was engorged to full size, showing no sign that he had ejaculated inside her not twenty minutes before. Leaning forward slightly, he prized her legs apart.

Abby shuddered to think of the view he had of her backside. Her pussy was still sloppy and swollen from the last pounding she had received. It was distressing how easily her lips and vaginal entrance gaped open again now to allow him access; and mortifying to sense that her asshole was spread wide before him as well. In such a demeaning pose, how could she not feel helpless, vulnerable, stripped of her human dignity?

He hadn't even entered her yet, but the sensations were already beginning to pile up, one on top of another—the sight of his meaty cock emerging from his pants; the brush of his fingers on the sensitive skin of her inner thighs; the tickle of the air conditioning playing over her tender, exposed folds; the eerie way her skin prickled when he loomed up behind her like a rutting bull. What horrified her, though, was that these sensations had begun to stir up emotions. From somewhere deep inside of her, unbidden, impious, irrepressible feelings of anticipation and desire were bubbling up, whetting her appetite to be fucked...

Dear God (Abby was forced to admit), part of me wants this to happen! It made a mockery of her faith, her morality, her principles—and yet, it was impossible to deny that her body sought more of the demonic sensations she had felt in his office; that it craved to be filled up again by his penis; that it hungered to bathe again in the Russian's sperm. She had not yet dried from his last assault, and already she could feel new waves of wetness lubricating her, preparing the way for his next onslaught. How could this be happening to her—how could she betray herself in this way? It was appalling!

Oblivious to her agitation, Yevgeny centered his pole on her opening. Then, grabbing a big handful of each buttock, he shoved his way inside. That first stroke wrenched a soft, hoarse, involuntary moan from Abby's throat. It felt so... so... Oh God, please forgive me—it felt good. Although her vagina remained loose from before, he was able to create a good deal of friction from behind—the thrilling kind of friction that she had unwittingly come to appreciate over the last hour or two. Indeed from this angle his head and shaft seemed to rub up against electric regions of her vagina that she had never before known to exist. Even the way the man's leaden ball-sac nudged up against her clit was tantalizing...She hated what was happening, hated him, hated herself—and yet she could not help praying that it would never stop...

« Hey boss... » She looked up through disheveled locks, with unfocused eyes, to see that the guard in the front passenger seat was saying something in Russian. « You want I should close the screen so you have some privacy? »

Yevgeny replied in English. "No, Vasily, leave it open. Enjoy the show. Hey, pull out your phone and record it."

As he had in his office, the oligarch began slamming his cock freely into her all-too-willing cunt, using steady, insistent strokes. Her body shuddered and her ass rippled deliciously with each impact. The idea of his groin thumping up against her asshole was indecent, but... God help her, the sensations it produced were sublime.

Her wide, blank eyes stared vacantly into Vasily's phone as he filmed her being raped. There didn't seem any point in trying to look away. Most of her brainpower was consumed by the shrill chorus of nerve endings firing between her legs. Still, she did have enough presence of mind left to shudder at what the video must be like. She could visualize it clearly enough: the stoic set of her shoulders as she tried to brace herself; her tangled tresses, flushed face, and parted lips; the dangle of her tits, and the way they knocked against each other when Yevgeny struck home. Not to mention the guttural moans which she could not help but utter each time he hit bottom. Would it look like she was enjoying it? She feared so.

Yevgeny grunted with satisfaction. "Hey, Shevilov, hand me Vasily's phone." Abby could not rouse herself to peek and see what Yevgeny was doing, but she knew well enough. He was recording the sight of his pole as it pistoned in and out between her ass cheeks. Not content with that, however, he pulled her hair, twisting her head so she was forced to look back at him, and into the camera. "How is it Mrs. Jones? You like my cock?"

She wanted to shout: "No! Go to Hell, you demon!" But it was impossible—she was too intimidated, too overwhelmed, too hyperstimulated... In the end all she could get out was "Mmnmmhmm." Apparently satisfied with that, he released her, and she set herself to absorb his blows again.

Yevgeny handed the phone back to Vasily. The pounding went on, and in a bit the oligarch spoke again, this time in Russian. « Shevilov, you want a piece of this? »

« You want me to fuck her too, boss? »

« Well, listen, you'll get a kick out of this—the slut isn't using any birth control! And she's one of these religious nuts—no abortion. She left herself wide open! What an imbecile! So I'm going to put a baby in her. But I was thinking, since we're here... » He glanced down briefly at where his cock intersected her cunt, and arched a significant eyebrow at his lieutenant, « ...why don't you fuck her throat? Consider it an advance bonus on that job we talked about. »

Shevilov didn't need to be asked twice. Pulling down his trousers and boxers, he showed that he was well-endowed in his own right. He spit on his hand and began stroking his manhood, perking it rapidly to life. Even through her haze of overloaded senses, intense preoccupation, and physical and emotional exhaustion, Abby wondered at this odd development. What had they said to each other? Why had he taken out his... thing? Yevgeny had said he wasn't going to let someone else come inside her. Maybe the man was going to, um, masturbate? It was a sin, but she had heard that many people did it anyway...

As Shevilov went on kneading his dick, it bobbed not a foot or two away from Abby's face, and she could not help but stare up at it. It was cut, and a fairly pale pink color, and clearly quite large—though she couldn't tell how large at first. To her consternation, it expanded rapidly, eventually growing to match even the boss's member in length (though not quite in width).

When the man was fully hard, Yevgeny answered Abby's lingering questions. "Open your mouth, now honey. Shevilov is going to fuck your face."

Wait, what? He wanted her to take two men's penises inside her at the same time? It was too much! How could she ever respect herself again? The very idea was horri... MMMFHGHMFH!!!

Oops. Apparently Shevilov had been too eager to wait while she processed this latest insult. Instead the man just plunged his cock into the slight gap between her panting lips, as if it was a wedge. Reflexively she opened wide, and Shevilov gave a musical groan of delight as he thrust his glans easily up and over the back of her tongue, and across her palate.

It was just as well, perhaps, that Yevgeny did not tell Abby the English term for the position she was in now. For one thing, she would have doubted that such an implausibly degenerate act could even have a name. Surely no woman had ever been defiled like this before?! But then, too, the imagery that the phrase would have inspired—the mental picture of herself being spit-roasted, skewered at both ends by these two merciless rods of masculine flesh—it might have created more shame and self-loathing than the sanctimonious female could have borne.

Or, perhaps she was too far gone to care by this point. Even with only one cock to deal with, Abby had been finding it hard to think, hard to fight it, hard to hold onto herself. God knew she was trying to stay righteous, but her head was addled, buzzing with the alluring and addictive feelings that Yevgeny's prick elicited from her crotch.

Now, when this new cock forced its way into her mouth, it created a second locus of riotous sensations for her to process and manage—a second enormous burden on her overtaxed mental and emotional faculties. Taken together, they were enough to drive the last vestiges of conscious thought from her brain. Of necessity, she had to set aside her resistance and repugnance, and simply give herself over to the moment. She had only one task before her now, and that was to ride this mad whirlwind of physical subjugation and tactile arousal and jangling nerve impulses through to the end.