The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

"Yes, of course, of course. I know some of my other women have left things in the car. Let us see." He started rummaging in a storage compartment below the seat.

While she waited, Abby remained kneeling on the floor. With her torso upright now, the reservoir of semen that had been marinating in her uterus was free to start flowing again. As it began to slowly leak from her cunt, some of it coated her inner thighs, and some dribbled silently onto the crimson shag. It was troubling how accustomed she'd become to the feeling of this stranger's seed between her legs.

Outside, passers-by were beginning to notice that a naked woman was visible through the open door of the parked limo. A few of the more reckless ones even tried to poke their heads in through the doorway, only to be waved away by the menacing arm of Shevilov.

Before long, Yevgeny had found some things for her to put on. "... I believe... this one is Natasha's, and... aha! Marta left this at New Year's..." He glanced up at Shevilov. "Remember Marta?" Shevilov smirked and held his hands up to his chest to indicate a pair of DD knockers. Yevgeny laughed. "Of course you do." Then, gripping the clothes in one hand, the oligarch closed up the cabinet. "OK, these should work. Let's go." And with that, he stepped out of the limo.

Abby was confused. Why hadn't he handed the garments to her? Why had he gotten out of the car? Wavering indecisively, she looked at Shevilov for a clue, but he just gave her a wry smile and pointed a finger toward the door. After a second Yevgeny's head peered back in. "Well? I don't have time for this. You can get out, take the clothes, get dressed, and fly away. Or, you can ride with me to Natasha's and we will all get drunk and have fun together. So make your choice, because I'm leaving!" It was a false choice, of course. He could have spared a minute or two so she could dress in the relative privacy of the limo. He just didn't. It was up to her to deal with it.

In later years, Abby struggled to explain how she managed to step out of the limo at that moment, fully nude. But she knew it was not a matter of being strong enough to do it—more a case of being sufficiently desensitized. She felt intimidated and powerless. She felt so thoroughly degraded that it didn't seem she could fall any further. And anyway, she was simply too exhausted, emotionally, to care what anyone saw or thought. So... she simply got out of the car. Her only concession to modesty was a halfhearted effort to cover herself, with one arm across her breasts and the other covering her crotch.

Instantly, a knot of people began to form around the limo, cameras flashing and phones tweeting and people chattering excitedly to each other in several languages. She knew that all human beings are tainted with the evil of original sin, and yet it was still disturbing how irresistibly people seemed to be drawn to a good-looking woman deprived of her clothes.

"Mrs. Jones, Abigail," Yevgeny said with mock-courtesy, "it has been a real pleasure. I hope we can do it again the next time you are in Moscow. These are yours to keep." He held out an extremely small bundle of garments—dangling them far enough away that she was forced to reveal her tits in order to snatch them.

He turned to get in the car; but, at the cost of exposing her pussy too, she grabbed his arm. "Wait," she hissed. "What if I am pregnant? What am I going to do?"

"Well my dear," he said blandly, "you are a big girl, and you can do whatever you want. If your faith tells you to keep it, then I suggest you fuck your husband as soon as you get on the plane. That way, neither one of you will ever have to know for sure."

Breaking free from her grip, he got in the limo and closed the door. A crowd of a hundred or more people had surrounded her by now, taking pictures, nudging each other, and gawking at her naked body. Oblivious to them all, Abby watched despondently—shoulder slumped, arms dangling at her sides—as the car sped away and vanished in the distance.

Abby was snapped back to life by a gangly, pimply twenty-something with ginger hair, who pressed up against her shoulder-to-shoulder, reached an arm behind her back and cupped her breast, and then took a selfie of them together. He pinched her nipple and walked away, several chums slapping him on the back as he went. Glancing around wildly, she realized that at least a dozen other people—mostly men who appeared more or less perverted—were lining up to pose with her (and/or molest her) as well. She had to get dressed!

She paled when she saw the 'clothes' Yevgeny had stranded her with. As a top, there was a skimpy royal-blue bandeau. It seemed to have been sized for a woman with a much larger bust measurement, and the elastic looked like it was about spent. For down below there was a micro-miniskirt, hot-pink, that appeared to be made of some kind of stiff plastic or vinyl. She just stared at the ensemble for a moment, shaking her head and very nearly letting loose with a hysterical laugh. These clothes were hideous, ludicrous. She wanted to stuff them in the nearest trash-can.

But, the sad truth was that they were all she had to work with. So, doing her best to fend off any onlookers that approached her, she started to get dressed, beginning with the top. Pulling it over her head, she found that it was far too big for her. In fact, the fit was so bad that she almost despaired of being able to wear it at all. At length, however, she found that it would stay in place if she sort-of dangled it off her nipples, and allowed it to ride low in back. And if she didn't move. And her nipples were hard.

Naturally, as soon as she bent to step into the skirt, the top slipped from its perch and her tits popped back out again. More photos were taken. Sighing with frustration, she left it and went to pull up the neon-pink mini. With a wax-job and playful underwear, a certain kind of slut might have worked such a peek-a-boo number shamelessly to provoke and tease. But, being neither a slut nor in possession of underwear, Abby found it was next to useless. It barely came down far enough to cover her snatch when she stood stock still (if it even did come down that far—it was hard to be sure without a mirror). She had little doubt that whenever she moved, she would flash everyone in the airport.

Rebalancing the bandeau atop her nipples again, she began inching toward the terminal entrance in her bare feet. She was pursued by a gaggle of fascinated observers and videographers, and it was all she could do to hold up her top with one hand, while the other hand constantly adjusted her skirt to try to keep her pussy under wraps.

As Abby slowly picked her way along, she saw a stocky, red-faced policewoman approaching. The officer had a quarrelsome air about her, and Abby feared that she was about to be arrested for public exhibitionism. However, when the woman huffed up next to Abby, she spoke respectfully, in broken English. "You are with... Mr. Brosaev, yes?" Abby nodded. "Good, I am bringing you to plane. Come!" She didn't seem to take any particular note of Abby's appearance—perhaps she was accustomed to shepherding all-but-naked females to the tycoon's aircraft?

Waving her baton freely, the officer cleared a path through the mob. She strode quickly, despite her short legs, and Abby was forced into an awkward jog to keep up. Private bits of her kept poking out from every part of her clothing and it was a constant struggle to try to stay covered. Their rapid pace also increased the flow of Yevgeny's cum from her vagina. Smears of it lubricated her inner thighs as they brushed together, and pearly blobs lay dotted across the terminal floor in her wake. She could sense that she was attracting the stares of pretty much everyone they passed.

After a while they reached a checkpoint. "Security inspection," the officer said simply. This was the very spot where Abby had faced injustice and fear earlier this morning. Now, on top of all that, the idea of being scanned and x-rayed in her current state of undress evoked a certain amount of black humor. Everyone in the blasted terminal was inspecting her body from head to toe—she thought caustically—where did they possibly think she could be hiding anything?

With an effort, however, she did her best to tamp down her negative emotions. If she could just surmount this final obstacle, then she would be free to rejoin her husband and escape this ungodly country. She needed to focus on staying upbeat and cooperative, so she could get through it as quickly as possible.

The policewoman eyed her doubtfully, up and down. "Where is passport?"

Ah, this could get complicated. Would the woman understand her? Abby tried to stay calm and talk slowly. "I was here, at the airport, earlier today. The security control kept my passport. They should still have it. The name on it is Abigail Jones."

The woman scowled at her, as if Abby was a stubborn child who was trying to be difficult. "Ye‑es—must have passport to keep security."

The American felt that her courage was beginning to fail. Why was everything so impossible? So unfair? What had she done to deserve this?... She tried again, this time in pigeon English accompanied by big gestures. "Security has passport. Me—Abigail Jones. Ask them." The officer stared back at her, confused, face increasingly beet-colored and foot tapping.

By now Abby's eyes were starting to tear up, and her voice took on a plaintive note. Was it possible she had suffered all this, only to be defeated at the final hurdle?... "M-Mr. Brosaev... he said I can go. He promised... Please just ask them..."

Dropping the oligarch's name seemed to rouse the officer into action, like a magic talisman. "Wait here," she said. She stalked over to the security kiosk and began jabbering with a couple of the guards there. When she failed to get the response she wanted, she started to hector and browbeat them. At length, one of them made a call on his radio, and eventually another guard meandered over, carrying a small blue booklet.

All three guards and the policewoman strolled back over to where Abby stood at the side of the security line. One of the men, evidently the most senior, flipped open the passport and made a show of comparing the picture to the scantily-dressed woman before him. "How are you today, Ms..."

"Mrs. Jones," she said, "Abigail Jones."

"Yes Ms. Jones. I hope you enjoyed your visit to Russia."

She tried to be as pleasant as she could. "Um, yes, it was, uh... v-very nice."

"And the people, you find they are good?"

"Uhm, o-oh yes... everyone has been, um... v-... very kind..."

"Good, good. If I may say, that is a very nice outfit."

His delivery was so deadpan that she couldn't tell if he was trying to mess with her, or this was just part of the standard script he used with every English-speaking woman. "Um... uh, th-thank you."

"So, I understand you are travelling to Germany this evening? Using aircraft owned by Mr. Brosaev? On personal business?"

"Yes, that's right."

"Very good. Now—as you know, you were flagged by passport control earlier. Therefore, we must conduct a personal security inspection. Routine procedure. Then you will be free to go."

"Of course, just tell me what to do."

"It is very simple. I am sure you have seen this before?" He held up a magnetic wand and she nodded. "Good, I must scan with this, and then we will be done. No problem. Now, please stand with your feet on these marks, and arms above your head. As you see in the diagram." He gestured toward a human silhouette on the wall depicting the usual posture for a security check.

Automatically, Abby started to comply, but she quickly realized that there was nothing simple about it—not in her current get-up. Hesitant even to lean over too far, she peered down her nose and saw that the two footprints on the floor were set over a yard apart. Gingerly she started spreading her legs to match the required angle, but as soon as she did so, she felt the rigid hem of the skin-tight vinyl skirt begin to ride up. She edged her feet to perhaps two-thirds of the way, and didn't dare go any further.

Then, slowly, apprehensively, painstakingly, she raised her arms. Her breasts were pulled upward and outward by the motion of her shoulders and forearms; and she could feel how precariously her top was suspended from her nipples as they shifted in position. But... it... didn't fall. As she finally attained a semblance of the necessary posture, she allowed herself to breathe an imperceptible sigh of relief.

The guard circled around to the other side of her, frowned, and then cleared his throat and tapped his cane on the wall impatiently. "Please put your feet on the marks."

Fair enough—she had known she was fudging it. Warily, she began inching her feet further apart. She winced as the edge of her skirt started sliding upward again too, more-or-less in lockstep. And then, suddenly, she gasped, as a surge of coolness between her thighs signaled that the forced air of the concourse had begun flowing freely over the damp, matted locks of her snatch. She froze, and cautiously motioned as if to reach down and tug the hem of the skirt. The guard intercepted her arm with a nudge of his cane and a stern glare. "Please remain in position until I have cleared you to proceed." It was not a request.

Abby didn't see what else she could do. Still moving with care, she spread her legs further. Inexorably, the skirt rode up in the same proportion. And then her cheeks turned a bright crimson and her stomach flip-flopped. Good Lord, she could actually feel the stiff line of her hem combing through the wiry curls of her mound—as if to apprise her of its gradual ascent up her groin. It was no longer a matter of wondering whether her pussy was visible to the entire concourse—there could be no doubt of it! And still her feet were too close together.

Earlier, while she had been waiting (legs clamped tightly together) for the policewoman to sort things out, the flow of semen from Abby's vagina had subsided, and the tracks on her skin had dried and crusted. Still, her cunt had not nearly recovered from the fuckings it had received—it remained slack and wet and engorged. So now, as her thighs parted, she was mortified to feel her labia spring open again, of their own accord. And today's events had taught her, well enough, what kind of view this would create for the guards, the passers-by, the people in the security line. With her legs spread wide and the line of her skirt boosted several inches above the apex of her crotch, they would be able to watch her pussy blossom in all its glory. They would see her bright-red gash unfurl amidst coffee-colored fur; her meaty, inflamed lips gaping open; her plumped-up clit poking down provocatively; and the gleam of male fluids that coated every ridge and pleat.

And not only that, but having seen everything, they would know everything. That she had just been fucked, and that she had been aroused by it, that she was the kind of woman who would prostitute herself to anyone with the right kind of leverage. At that moment she felt profoundly vulnerable, and thoroughly disgraced—and she couldn't decide which of them was worse. Her face burned.

Just when she had stretched her feet to reach the required spots, as if to put the finishing touch on her humiliation, she heard a drop splat onto the linoleum floor below her. And then another. She seemed to have an endless supply of Yevgeny's seed inside her, and with her legs parted, it had begun to flow once more. Her lip quivered and she appeared utterly forlorn as she stood there, frozen in the necessary posture, staring off into space and trying not to look anyone in the eye. Every so often another creamy glob would splash down into the growing puddle between her feet. She tried her best to ignore it, but with each new plop she could not help flinching slightly, as if she had suffered a blow.

The guard looked down at the floor for a moment, and grimaced in disgust. Then he began to wand her (stepping carefully to avoid treading in the pool of semen). Regulations evidently required that he keep the device in contact with the subject at all times—even if she was hardly wearing any clothes. To start with, he scanned Abby's bare arms, shoulders, and upper back—that did nothing more than tickle. But predictably, as soon as the guard began running it under her arms and along her flanks, he dislodged the bandeau, and it fell down to her waist. She twitched as if to pull it up, but this time it took only a dark scowl from the man to remind her to keep still.

Up and down the security line, people nudged each other and pointed toward the strange woman being searched off to the side—the one whose top had just fallen off. And enough of them spoke English that she didn't need any guesswork to know the kinds of things they were saying. ("Is she naked?" "I think she has something on..." "Yeah, but you can see her boobs and her... jeez, look!" "They let hookers work the airport here?")

The guard moved the wand to her collar bone and gradually worked his way downward. Taking each breast in turn, he massaged the gently swelling flesh on the topside, and then pressed upward on the underside so that it was lifted by a couple of inches. Finally, he tenderly fondled each areola with circular strokes of the appliance.

In her conscious mind, Abby barely registered this government-sanctioned molestation. She had retreated into a reverie on the day's events—pondering what it all meant, and how it had all happened. But her body continued to respond of its own accord. The more the machine felt her up, the more flushed her chest became; and when her nipples encountered its cold plastic touch, they reddened and popped out still further.

So, onward the wand progressed, stroking her lower back and giving each ass-cheek a lingering, intimate caress. Then, moving to the front again, the guard ran the device firmly up the insides of her thighs. It slipped easily between her parted labia, exciting the already sensitized folds within. When it rubbed sensuously up against her clitoris and vaginal opening, she jumped and let out a small yelp.

The scanner's touch was chilly, and stimulating, and evocative. It wrenched Abby right out of her melancholy musings on the recent past, and sent her off on strange new tangents. Bizarre images came into her mind. She found herself wondering: what would happen if the man eased the long plastic wand right up inside her? And: oh, what if then, he began to run it in and out of her, slowly, gently, pulsing it with just the right tender rhythm? And what if she was rubbing herself while he did it...? A fresh gush of fluid coursed through her canal. Where were these scandalous thoughts coming from?!

The guard did not switch over to dildoing Abby with the device, however. Instead, startled by her soft cry, he withdrew the appliance from between her legs (causing a look of disappointment to flit briefly across her face). For a moment it appeared he was simply going to carry on the with the scan, proceeding on down the rest of her body. But then he noticed that the wand was coated in what was obviously semen and vaginal fluid. Tsk'ing reprovingly, he showed it to the policewoman, and added a derogatory comment in Russian. The officer nodded her agreement and fixed Abby with a disapproving frown.

Holding the appliance with exaggerated disgust, the guard walked off. Abby didn't dare move—just stood there, blushing furiously, arms above her head, bare tits dangling, legs apart and pussy exposed, dripping sporadically on the floor and 'dressed' in a manner that was worse than being naked. After a while, several more guards straggled over to bicker loudly with the ones who had detained Abby. It seemed that her presence was causing a backup at the security line—too many people distracted, too many trying to hang back and see what would happen next.