The (Russian) Devil in Mrs. Jones

Before they could come to a resolution, the first guard returned with a clean wand. The rest of the scan did not take long—all that was left was her lower legs and the soles of her bare feet (though she narrowly avoided an embarrassing sprawl). The man holstered his machine and thumbed through some paperwork. "Are we done?" Abby said with timid hopefulness.

"Please remain in position. We must take exit photo for our files." He snapped his fingers. One of the others strolled lethargically over to the kiosk, picked up a camera, strolled back, and shot several pictures from different angles. A few of his co-workers used their phones to capture similar (though presumably less official) images.

Then the first guard handed over her passport. "Thank you Ms. Jones, you are free to go. Your luggage will be loaded directly to your plane. We hope you will visit Russia again very soon." And just like that, the guards walked away.

Abby pulled the top back up over her breasts and tugged down the skirt to more-or-less conceal her snatch. There was a palpable sigh of disappointment from the crowd (though Abby was baffled to think what more they could have hoped to see) and the security line began to move again. Even as Abby was still trying to cover herself, the policewoman took her by the elbow and hauled her off toward the departure gates. They exited by a side-door and strode quickly across the tarmac. At length, the officer deposited her at the bottom of a mobile stairway.

It led up to a sleek Learjet, engines idling.

Abby was free.

The stewardess indicated which seat Abby should use in the luxurious passenger cabin. Unlike the others, it had a clear plastic protector on it. That seemed like something Yulia must have arranged; but Abby didn't have enough pride left to feel offended.

She was also too far gone to worry about the fact that her husband wasn't there. She just plopped down in the seat. Despite the plastic, it was comfortable—large, reclined, well padded. The spacious, billionaire-class compartment also boasted loads of room to stretch out. Her muscles felt weak and trembly from the after-effects of stress and adrenaline. But, for the first time all day, she felt like she was safe and in control of herself.

As she sat there, striving to compose her thoughts, she recognized that she was caught in the contradictory grips of nervous tension and utter exhaustion. 'Over-tired' her mother would have called it. (This recollection made Abby smile dryly—as if her mother would have understood the first thing about the day she had just had!)

But it occurred to her that if she acted relaxed, then maybe she would become relaxed. So, she closed her eyes and slouched down further in the plush seat. She allowed her head to loll back, and her arms to lie limp at her sides, and her thighs to flop open comfortably. She breathed a deep sigh... It felt good. She didn't feel relaxed, exactly, but she did feel that she never wanted to move any of her muscles ever again... Well, except for her eyes—they were fidgety.

After a moment they fluttered open, and she discovered that the skirt didn't cover anything when she was sprawled out this way. Her wedge of dewy, copper-brown pubic curls was on full display. And worse, in the gap between her legs, her pussy had yawned open again, allowing her puffy red clit and inner labia to peek out indelicately. She felt like she ought to cover up. Or at least want to cover up. But she couldn't rouse herself to move—she was just too numb to care. She did learn, however, that she enjoyed the tickling sensation produced by the occasional stray drop of cum, as it trickled out of her cunt and oozed onto the plastic beneath her ass...

The attendant bustled back into the compartment. She was blonde, young, and pretty, and spoke English with a flawless British accent (though Abby guessed she was Russian). She also wore an unsuitably skimpy uniform. Probably (Abby supposed), Brosaev fucked her every time he flew on the plane. Bet she took birth control pills, though.

When the woman stopped beside Abby, and glanced down to see the American's bare genitals, a startled look crossed her face. She quickly composed herself, though, and asked if Abby wanted something to drink. Back home, the preacher and his wife rarely even had a beer. "Bourbon," Abby said weakly.

In a minute, the stewardess came back with the drink. When Abby reached up for the glass, her top fell down around her midriff. This time, neither woman even batted an eyelash. Abby just leaned back and took a long draw from the tumbler. It warmed her insides, and seemed to dull her ragged nerves.

No more alcohol for nine months, she thought blankly. She raised her glass in a silent, slightly sardonic toast to motherhood... In all seriousness though, she was glad, in a way, that the perplexing question of whether to have another child had been resolved. She knew she should feel cheated or angry or violated because the decision had been taken out of her hands. But strangely, she found she was more relieved than anything else... And in fact, the longer she thought about it, the more she realized that she was actually quite excited by the prospect of becoming a mother again. It had been fun when Esther and Mark were small—good times. She would enjoy having a new baby in the house...

At some point, this train of thought led her to wonder whether Yevgeny had any (ahem, other) children. He was a well-known figure in Russia—she would have to see if there were any family details and pictures on the internet... And it occurred to her (though she would never have said it out loud) that if one looked at Yevgeny with unsparing logic, one could argue that his DNA had a lot to offer a child. The man was strong, outgoing, successful. In short, a winner... His flaws obviously stemmed from his upbringing—his godless childhood and lack of a moral compass. You could even say that the luckiest child would get the genes of someone like Yevgeny, but be raised by a father like Steven. Yes, you could say that...

After a while she took another long pull. She didn't have to figure it all out right now. She cleared her mind, and spent a few minutes just watching her stubby, rose-brown nipples rise and fall with her breathing.

Abruptly, she was brought out of her reverie by a commotion toward the front of the cabin. Straightening up, she saw that it was Steven! An immigration agent was unlocking his handcuffs. Hastily she re-covered her crotch and breasts with her inadequate scraps of clothing.

The official left, and Steven approached, dropping heavily into the seat next to her. Even as he did so, the engines revved up and the plane began to taxi out of the gate. Steven looked pale and exhausted, as well as slightly bruised. Usually he was meticulous, but now his jaw was covered with stubble, his hair disheveled, and his clothes wrinkled and stained. His eyes were watery, bloodshot, demoralized. He had so much on his mind, that he hardly seemed to notice his wife's bizarre appearance.

Abby gave him a little space. She could tell he was finding it hard to shake the effects of being jailed and beaten, even for just a day. He had no experience of feeling terrified, despondent, helpless, and therefore he had had no defense mechanisms to get him through it. She saw, however, that he was making a conscious effort to pull himself together, for her sake. Within a few moments, he had recovered enough to be able to look up and catch her eye without worrying about breaking down. "Oh Abby, thank God..." Putting his arm around her bare shoulder, Steven pulled her in for a kiss—loving, if perhaps light on passion. "I knew the Lord would not forsake us! The guards said Brosaev arranged my release? Do you know—is that true?"

The aircraft lifted off the tarmac and rose into the air. "Yes, I... I-I asked Yevgeny to help..."

"You? You asked him? Oh honey, how brave! The Lord must have guided your footsteps."

"Yes, I... um..."

"I tell you, Abby, that prison was awful. I thank God that you didn't have to suffer it. But I never lost faith. Just as the Lord made the shackles fall from Peter's hands, so I knew he would send me a miracle... I must say, though, I never expected that God's instrument would be Brosaev! I had no idea he was so righteous."

"Y-yes, he... um... a r-real miracle..."

For a minute or two, Steven leaned comfortably back in his seat, his self-confidence beginning to soar with the knowledge that God had wrought such wonders on his behalf. Then he glanced at his wife again; and this time he must have registered her absurd attire, and the pale, crusty streaks on her face and thighs, and the bird's-nest quality of her hair, and the faint look of hysteria about her eyes, because a puzzled look crossed his face. "Hey honey, why are you...?"

He was interrupted by the soft chime to indicate they were at cruising altitude. Abby understood exactly what she would have to do next. It would not be easy—at this moment, she felt too exhausted, too sore, too overstimulated, too despoiled to really want sex with Steven. And maybe, secretly, she also feared that he would prove a letdown. But, to put it plainly, Yevgeny was right—it was vital (for her own sanity as much as her husband's) that Steven be established as a plausible father for the child that she knew very well was growing in her belly. And it needed to happen now. That way, at the very least, she could always take comfort in knowing that she had given her husband a fighting chance.

So, she turned toward Steven and clutched his arm. And, although in her own mind she approached this as a job to be done, she knew Steven was not apprised of all the facts. Therefore, she tried (with mixed success) to introduce a note of seduction into her voice. "I did miss you Steven. I'm so glad to have you back. And I... I want you to make love to me... Right now."

Turning white, he glanced around, and then (despite the fact that no one else was in the compartment) replied in a hoarse half-whisper. "Abby, what's gotten into you? We can't possibly do that here!... Maybe later, once we get to a hotel..."

Steven had a point—the stewardess would no doubt soon return to check on them. But Abby didn't care. Ignoring his protests, she got out of her seat and knelt on the floor in front of him, pressing his legs apart so that she could plant herself between them. Then, as she gazed up at him with loving eyes, she nudged the blue tube-top off her breasts so that it fell around her waist.

Steven stared at her dangling tits and erect nipples, and his pupils got wide. He felt hopelessly disoriented. He was starting to wonder if his wife had had a mental breakdown. Or been possessed by a demon. She reached up and began unzipping his fly. Nothing like this had ever happened before—he couldn't begin to guess what she had in mind. "Abby, stop. Stop! What are you doing?"

Her voice was matter-of-fact. "I told you—I need you to make love to me. Now." He jerked as she reached inside his briefs and grasped his penis (which was beginning to come to life of its own accord).

"No. Not now. Later. Look, I don't even have a..." He mouthed the word 'condom.'

Abby had no problem fielding that one. "I've been thinking about having another child, Steven. For a while actually. And now that I have you back, I... I just don't want to wait a moment longer."

She pulled his dick out from his underwear and kissed it lightly on the tip. He felt flushed—his heart pounded and his breathing was heavy. Already, his penis was almost completely hard. His mind reeled with the strangeness and unfamiliarity and sinfulness of the experience. This was unthinkable, and yet... maybe it would be better just to go with it?

In fact, maybe... (he thought, as he drifted away on the blissful sensations of a woman's mouth on his cock for the first time in his life)... maybe this was exactly what God had intended for them all along.

END