The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

Less than two hours ago, Abby had taken a cock between her lips for the first time in her life. Back then, Yevgeny had been gentle with her. Although this should not be seen as an act of kindness, it did at least show that he possessed a degree of patience and self-control. And perhaps that was not so surprising—surely it's easier to show a little restraint when you know that, in the end, you always get what you want.

But Shevilov's situation was, of course, quite different from Brosaev's. He was an up-and-comer, a man in a hurry. Life had taught him that he had to snatch the things he desired before someone else did. And right now, what he wanted was Abby's throat.

So... no sooner had he crouched over her face, laced his fingers into her hair, and stuffed his penis into her mouth, than he began driving in deeper, using quick, urgent thrusts. With her hands braced on the floor and her head clamped in his iron grasp, she was powerless to do anything except will herself to take it. Through the red haze that enveloped her, she tamped down her desire to gag, her urge toward panic or fear, and focused on the muscles of her jaw and throat, compelling them to relax and open.

With each new inroad the man stabbed a quarter-inch or half-inch deeper, first tapping up against her frenulum, and then slipping his way inexorably down her esophagus. At last he buried himself all the way down her neck, hilt-deep. The delicate, supple skin of his ball-sac flowed up around Abby's chin, and her nose was crushed into the ticklish tangle of honey-yellow curls at his groin, and her bleary eyes could see nothing except the flat expanse of the man's washboard abs.

Yevgeny paused with his own cock shoved up her vagina. His small, bright eyes watched to see how she would react to being throated like this. He was obviously enjoying the show, but appeared poised to mock his young lieutenant when the man's impetuous plunge caused this blowjob neophyte to retch. Somehow, though, she managed to hold it together—yielding herself, unsteadily but doggedly, to every last inch that the younger man could deal out. In some unconscious way, perhaps, her Evangelical tradition had prepared for even for such an abject and corporeal form of female submission. Or maybe she was just blessed with a naturally weak gag-reflex.

As long seconds ticked away, the two men just held her there, spiked on their stone-hard shafts, immobilized, helpless. With a queasy fascination, she realized that deep in her neck she could feel the steady beat of Shevilov's pulse, distinct from her own. Her eyes watered, and her lungs were desperate for a breath, and she despaired to think of any way to escape. But just when her agitation had built to the point that she didn't think she could stand it any longer, Shevilov pulled free. She sucked in air with a shuddering gasp, and his penis drew out thick ropes of saliva from deep inside her.

Before Abby could regain any of her poise, however, he rammed home again, and this time he began to fuck her face, hard and fast. She worked to keep her throat open, grabbing gulps of oxygen when she could. Shevilov hammered with a quicker pace than Yevgeny had, but the older man matched him now, so that the two poled her with an alternating rhythm. While her hands and knees remained rooted in the scarlet shag, the rest of her body was rocked vigorously back and forth by the pounding of the two men. First the oligarch rammed himself up her backside, driving her mouth forward onto the henchman's spike. Then the younger man would slam home in front, banging her cunt backward onto the boss's cock again. Over and over and over...

As they speared her, front and back, her mind responded with something like tunnel vision. Slowly her world collapsed in on itself, until everything was dark except the parts of her that had to accommodate these two enormous erections. The feeling of Yevgeny's cock filling her soft, slippery vagina was exquisite. The sensations in her throat were more complex—overlaid on the tingling stimulation of her lips and tongue was a hint of danger and distress, that had its own kind of perverse appeal. But transcending all of these particular physical perceptions, was one single, disturbing, overarching swell of intense animal fulfilment.

Looking back on it later, she recalled that God had made the human female to be submissive to the male. And in that light, perhaps it made a sick kind of sense that she received such visceral satisfaction from surrendering herself, utterly, shamefully, to the possession of not one but two men. It wasn't like an orgasm—it was something deeper, more fundamental. She struggled to describe it, even to herself. All Abby could say for certain is that, despite her genuine moral qualms and physical discomfort, she had never felt more instinctively gratified, more profoundly satiated, than in that moment when she was stuffed full, throat and vagina, by those colossal masculine organs. She wished that it was not true, and she worried for her soul that it was—but God knew that she'd be lying if she tried to deny it.

Shevilov was young and impatient, and there was no way he was going to last long. After no more than three or four minutes of jackhammering her throat, he closed his eyes and screwed up his face and gave a fierce growl of possession. Pulling partway out, he began thrusting just the sensitive head and upper shaft rapidly between her lips. She caught the metallic taste of pre-cum (though she had no idea what it was), and felt his organ begin to spasm and pulse, but still she was startled when the first powerful jet of semen sprayed out across the top and back of her mouth. She barely managed to keep herself from choking.

Still holding her head in place, Shevilov worked her with short, quick lunges, greedily stimulating the sensitive rim of his glans against her swollen lips. Gush after gush of salty, sticky seminal fluid poured forth from his penis and landed on her tongue. She was uncertain what to do as it began to accumulate there. She didn't want to swallow the revolting stuff; yet, it seemed to her that spitting it out would be both undignified and messy. At some point, she found that the decision had simply been made for her—with the man continuing to pump his load into her, and nowhere else for it to go, reflex took over, and she gulped down a big gooey mouthful of it, sputtering and gagging with distaste.

At length, he pulled his cock free, and released his grip on her hair. As he withdrew, a few parting spurts of cum landed on her nose and eyelid. Cautious to avoid marring his suit, Shevilov mopped off his cock carefully, using big handfuls of her tousled chestnut mane, before tugging up his pants.

Peering blankly up at him, mouth agape, she was struck by how the roof lights picked out the gooey strands and droplets that festooned her hair. Despite her best efforts, she could feel that globs of drool had pooled on her chin. Traces of the semen that remained in her mouth had begun to leak from the corners of her lips; and the tears that had been streaming from her eyes were drying now on her cheeks. After several moments she remembered to close up her jaw, and swallowed down another mouthful of sperm.

Her natural impulse was to want to clean herself up—to make a start on erasing these obscene marks of male possession. The harsh reality, though, was that she was still pinned in place by the cock rammed up her cunt. Yevgeny simply chuckled at her latest degradation, and then resumed fucking her at the more deliberate pace that he seemed to prefer. Vasily gave Shevilov a high-five through the open partition, and handed over the phone so the blonde adonis could get a closeup of Abby's cum-spattered face. Her habit of smiling for the camera was so ingrained that she caught herself mustering up a weak, watery grin (though, admittedly, the façade did waver a bit each time Yevgeny pounded her from behind).

Abby felt sure the brute could have fucked her for another hour or more; yet, he seemed in a mood to wrap things up, and eager to inseminate her for the second time. Each thrust now was purposeful, decisive, and landed home with greater force. He dug his fingers harder into her ass, squeezing her sensitive, pliant haunches with an air of ownership. Her flesh twinged and throbbed at this new affront, and... and... oh God—even this indignity, too, made her fever hotter, her crotch wetter, her womb that much more eager to be impregnated. She could not explain it, it made no logical or moral sense, but she simply had to accept that it was so.

Then, without warning, she felt an intense combination of relentless pressure and pulsating throbs and dull heat between her legs that told her the oligarch was beginning to ejaculate inside her again. And, to her rising dismay, Abby realized that she was about to lose it as well—to orgasm for the second time in her life—and that this climax would be even more overpowering, overwhelming, all-consuming than the first.

Vasily's recording caught every moment as the irresistible wave of passion rose within her and stripped away her faculties, one by one. Her head swayed up and her back arched. Her lips parted wider, baring her teeth in a contorted, joyous snarl of delight. She sucked in her breath, and her eyes rolled back behind fluttering eyelids. A long, hungry, feral moan of excitement and desire began to escape her, welling up from some place deep within her gut.

And then the wave crested and crashed over Abby, engulfing her, carrying her away with it. Her body began to convulse uncontrollably—shoulders shaking, tits heaving and quivering, pelvis grinding back against Yevgeny's groin. She panted and gasped in big gulps of air, and her lips twitched, and her cunt milked the Russian's cock as if terrified to waste even a single drop of his fluid. On and on it went.

Even when the oligarch had finally finished coming inside her—second deposit of sperm safely implanted in her womb—the irresistible tremors continued to roll through her sinews unabated. The silky walls of her vagina rubbed insistently against his still-hard shaft, and her sloppy, unguarded pussy bumped up provocatively against his skin. Yevgeny shot a knowing grin at his employees as they all watched Abby's body bounce and gyrate against the fixed axis of his penis. He was content to let the woman gratify herself for as long as the reflexive spasms continued.

At last, after what seemed an eternity, she was still—head hanging down low, sticky tresses falling down over her face. Her mind was empty, her lips dry, her muscles trembling from exertion and release of tension. Yevgeny took the phone again, so he could film the moment when his penis finally sucked free from her cunt; and capture, close-up, the way her abused vagina gaped open now, so easily and enticingly. He dabbed off his cock on the top of her ass-cheeks, zipped up his pants, and reclined back comfortably in his seat. Then he and Shevilov began to shoot the shit again in Russian.

Gradually, over the course of minutes, Abby's brain resumed functioning. As she came to grips with what had happened, her face burned in shame and disgrace. To have been defiled again, used again for this stranger's enjoyment, that was one thing. But far more disturbing was the fact that she had enjoyed it again. Lost control of herself again. How had that happened? And how could she ever trust herself after something like that?

Worse still, she felt oppressed by the leaden weight of semen that burned in her belly. It wasn't really even a question of 'what if she was pregnant' anymore—because she had very little doubt that she was. For one thing, as she puzzled out the dates in her mind, it seemed almost certain she was ovulating. For another, this man was plainly more potent than her husband—she was astonished by how much sperm he had implanted in her, and to what depth. Then, on top of that, there was her body's indisputable receptivity, its unabashed pleasure in being fucked, and the tremendous force of her orgasms.

Still, even with all those facts in hand, she might have tried to deny this unwelcome logic, if it wasn't confirmed by the blunt verdict of her feminine instincts. Deep down inside, she just knew. Knew that her womb was fertile. Knew that this Russian was shockingly virile. Knew there was simply no way he could have failed to impregnate her.

Abby tried to perk herself up, to find some ray of hope that she might cling onto. Well... she might as well at least try to mop some of his semen out of herself, right? Perhaps even now (she told herself unconvincingly) it wasn't too late to avoid, um... that... And at the very least, if she cleaned herself up—erased the visible signs of how thoroughly these men had desecrated her—then surely she would feel less sinful... less polluted...?

As she stirred to rise, however, Yevgeny placed a heavy hand on her lower back, trapping her in place. "Stay like that for the rest of the drive. Put your shoulders down. That will help the sperm find its way inside you." When she hesitated, Shevilov, without getting up, lifted his leg and rested his shoe ominously on the back of her neck. Bowing to superior force, she lowered her torso to the floor, so that her bare ass poked up in the air next to Yevgeny's knee. Was it her imagination, or could she feel the man's seed begin seeping downhill toward her ovaries?

As they continued to ride along—the men chatting, and her face bouncing against the carpeted floor—Yevgeny casually reached his fingers in between Abby's still inflamed pussy lips. Without interrupting his conversation, granting her just a fraction of his attention, he began to massage her tender folds, gently, teasingly, using only the delicate motions of his fingertips. The feeling was electric; and almost at once, and without any conscious desire on her part, the preacher's wife found her mental focus being led firmly back down into her crotch for the third time today.

This time, however, the frothy sensations she encountered were entirely different than the fill and thrust of an eager cock. In fact, she'd never felt anything like this before, at least not in such concentrated form. It was mesmerizing. Deftly, taking his time, applying minutely calibrated variations in pressure, the Russian traced the delicate interiors of her outer labia... stroked up and down her hood and inner lips... tantalized the sensitive rim of her vaginal opening... circled her clit with quick, tender, utterly bewitching motions. She shivered at the cascade of nerve impulses that crackled through her system in response.

Some part of Abby felt that she ought to try to make sense of what the oligarch was doing. There was a patience and careful precision about the way he touched her which hinted at, perhaps, an unexpected sliver of generosity? Or some effort at recompense?... And yet it cost him nothing, so perhaps it also meant nothing, beyond just a way to pass the time. Or... did he reason that by pleasuring her, he could further increase the odds that she became fertilized...?

She didn't know—and, as the blissful sensations intensified, it became harder and harder to even care. Soon enough she decided it would be much easier to simply immerse herself in how she felt, than to bother thinking at all. And, oh how she felt! How was it that she had never known sensuality such as this existed?

Palpably, step by irresistible step, her excitement mounted. She had to open her mouth to suck in enough oxygen, so that now her breathing came in rapid, shallow pants. Before long, the pants had evolved into soft, lyrical, feminine moans of arousal and anticipation. She rocked her torso so that her nipples rubbed luxuriously against the fuzzy shag. Of its own accord, her pussy began to press back against the oligarch's fingers, helping him to find the best way to please her. Blood pounded in her veins, and her pelvis jerked, and fresh moisture glistened on her ruddy gash, and drops of it trickled down onto her abdomen—and when all these fragments were woven together, they created a luxurious tapestry of sensation that she just wanted to curl up in.

Unbidden, unexpectedly, her chest grew tight and her face grew hot and her back flexed. Having learned the signs by now, she realized with a start that she was on the verge of climaxing again. All of this was new to her, but she still found herself surprised by her erotic capacities. She tried to feel contrition, tried to beg God's forgiveness, but... found that she couldn't. How could she feel remorse for something that felt so good? Something that she wanted so utterly? The best she could muster was a brief moment of ambivalence and self-doubt, and then that, too, was washed away in the flood of ecstatic emotion.

Compared to the first two times she had come, this experience was like night and day. Those episodes had been powerful, frightening, all-consuming. She had felt like she was being dragged down into some subterranean part of herself. This time, by contrast, there was an effervescent buoyancy to the orgasm, like she was floating just outside herself. Although it claimed all her attention and energy, the climax remained centered on her pelvis, rather than taking possession of her entire body. The spasms were milder, more localized, and seemed calculated (by some animal logic) to maximize the exquisite sensations radiating out from her clitoris. And so, as Yevgeny continued to play her like a maestro would a violin, and as his harmonies carried her along on wave after wave of eros, the only coherent thought left in her mind was that she wished she could feel this way forever.

On and on drove the limousine; and on and on went her orgasm (or was it a thousand orgasms?)—ebbing and flowing, but never abating. Yevgeny hardly even seemed to notice her euphoria, and yet between his masterful manipulations and her own intuitive responses, she went from peak to peak to peak, gently writhing in rapturous abandon. She had had no idea that the human body was capable of something like this. Why had no one ever told her? Oh God... Oh God... Please, God: more!...

...Minutes (hours?) later, when the oligarch finally withdrew his hand from between her legs, it was like someone had poured a bucket of cold water on her. She glanced back over her shoulder, eyes dazed, hair spilling down over her flushed, blotchy face. Her expression was confused and incoherent, but also hungry in a way that betrayed just how desperately she hoped that he would start fingering her again. "Wha? Why...?"

"Look outside, Mrs. Jones—we are at the airport. It is time to claim your precious Steven and say goodbye to Russia." He opened the passenger door. Abby blinked at the bright lights of the terminal, and the throngs of people walking by.

She rose up to her knees. She tried to collect herself, to remember who she was. The ordeal was almost over—she needed to focus on that... Fortunately, she at least had the presence of mind to realize that she had better put something on before exiting the limousine. (Else, who knows?— Brosaev might very well have let her waltz out the door and into the airport terminal, stark naked.) "I need my clothes."

Vasily opened his mouth and started to say something. Before he could form the words, however, Yevgeny silenced him with a glare and did the talking himself. "I apologize Mrs. Jones, it seems Yulia forgot to pack your things. It is really unforgiveable. I will have to give her a stern talking-to."

Later, when she replayed this embarrassing scene in her head, Abby could see that Yevgeny was improvising again. Vasily must have had her clothes in the front seat, and Yevgeny had simply decided to withhold them. Probably the oligarch found he was having so much fun with the straitlaced American housewife that he couldn't resist one last humiliating joke at her expense. In the moment, however, Abby was too preoccupied to puzzle this out. All she could do was gaze up at the man uneasily and appeal to the basic facts of the situation. "Well... I need something to wear..."