The Russian Wife Ch. 09

Yes, my man too could take me "the hard way", bone me from behind, spanking my butt, or spear my face to face, with hard, strong blows. But that was the "grand finale", with him. I BEGGED him to do it, when I was ready, aroused, soaked within, wishing to feel his strength and my weakness, to belong to him as a slave... It was like the "gallop" of a Cossack dance, or some songs that starts so slowly, slowly, but then, save yourself, run for your life... "Kalìnka", "G-L-O-R-I-A". "Avva Naghila" (no, I'm not anti-Semite)...

With that fool, there was no "grand finale", it was ONLY that. Like a disco hit of the 80es or 90es: just "boom-boom-boom-boom", from the starting to the end. And I never could take disco...

The only pleasure in that whole story was to tell him what I thought, when he had the unhappy idea to ask me if I liked that. Liked that MY FOOT! I started to insult him, in perfect English, but surely not with terms I could have used in Buckingham palace... First spouting them through my teeth, and then shouting and roaring like a lioness, a Siberian tiger...

And this must be very the effect I have had on that "muscular" guy, because he didn't ever try to hit me. He just took all his dress and shoes, and run away from the room. What a cowboy! Run, rabbit, run...

Even from this point of view, my man was from another planet. When I shouted at him that way (and I shouted, yes sir, I shouted...) he did not hit me, of course: he simply shouted me back, like a lion. And I respected it. Or else, he settled me with some joke, that made me laugh like a fool little girl... Run away? Never once.

I locked the door and blocked it with a chair, just in case that nerd could try to come back (but he did not. Very wisely...), and made a good shower. No problem for the payment: the nerd has payed. To be insulted. It served him right!

Yes, I had set him down, I had told him off... But what about me? I had been lousy too. That's why I was washing me so hard. Thank god, the nerd had wanted to use "precautions", for not to contaminate himself with a Russian, maybe. So I had not to worry about "that"... But as for the rest, a shower was not enough...

I come back to the hotel we had booked, where I stayed alone. And I had another shower. I liked that hotel, me and my man always went there, when we went at sea in that town. And always the same room... and the same shower, old style, with an almost transparent curtain, no glass box or the like.

In that shower, once, me and my man... He had got into the bathroom, to shave, while I was behind the curtain, showering. But when he finished shaving, he stayed in the bathroom, looking at me. And I felt his glance, even through the curtain, guess what... I looked behind my shoulder and there he was, stuck in the presence of beauty. MY beauty.

"And this is my wife, fuck!" he said.

I smiled and kept washing up. But then, out of the blue, my man got through the curtain, naked. He hugged me and started groping me everywhere, kissing my neck, my cheeks... Cheerfully, nothing violent. If I had said "No, come on, drop it! Quit! Stop!", but seriously, without laughing, he would have surely stopped. And I said it. Bud I could not say it without laughing!

He was like a big cuddly dog. But then he started acting as a lover. He pushed my breasts up, against the warm sprinkling of the water, holding them with is even warmer, stronger hands... Who holds my breasts in his hands, he is holding my sex, he knew that very well... And the sprinkling warm water OVER my swollen breasts, my hardened nipples... He waited some minutes, then he kissed my ear...

"Bent to the wall..." he ordered me, gently.

But it was an order, And I took it as an order, and obeyed. I put my hands on the wall and waited. He did not take me immediately, he played with my body with his hands, and with my sex with his own. He made me wish to be penetrated, and then he did it. I muttered, feeling his tip opening my vulva, unable to see him, my invader, my winner... He was holding my head down, softly, while he pushed his sex inside of mine...

Sure, it was not a rape, he did not need it... A kiss, a touch, in the right place, in the right way, and I was done. The insatiable female blood, as Blok said, something inside, and your sex which soon becomes a warm lake... He kept pounding into me, slowly, without hurting me, but imposingly, till the end. A good end, for him and for me. Not exactly simultaneous, but who cared? It took my breath away, all the same... It took me some minutes to be able to speak again.

"But why I can't tell you "no", when you do this way? You touch me, and you take me... Why?"

"Because you're a whore! Huh!" he said, with the voice of a cartoon character. I laughed: he was just joking, just pulling my leg... Of course I was not a whore... Or was I? I looked at myself in the mirror. No, I was not so changed since the first time we went to that hotel. Same hair, same breasts, same pubes... Just some more fat, but always nice. Why the men should have not desired me? . They did. It had really been a stroll to take that nerd to bed: just dismiss what he said. And it had been not so easy: crap after crap... I wanted to complete the test, nothing else. I had let my ring in the drawer, close to the bed. But there was the sign on the finger, and however that fool was not the kind of man who takes care of... such things...

But even if I had found a better man? A polite guy, who could make me laugh, amuse me, or tell me something smart, about Russia, or whatever else? Would it have been better? No. It would have been less lousy, less filthy... But always wrong. Go, do it, forget. Just like a whore. No, it doesn't. If I were free, maybe. But I was not. My sex belonged to the man I loved. It was just for him. I put the ring back on my finger. Never more. With nobody.

I washed me again. Who knows why it all seemed to me so easy, before. To sleep with another man and then to come back to my man, as if nothing had ever happened. It was not so. I felt still dirty, especially between the legs. Was not a matter of semen, nothing physical. I liked to feel the semen of my man inside of me, and even if it flowed on my thighs, out of my sex... nothing bad... But it was that of MY man. I feel fine after he made love with me. And now I feel not. Yes, it was always "a dick which enters a cunt", to say it bluntly. But WHOSE dick could enter MY cunt, and make me feel happy, and not dirty? Now I knew it. Just one.

And now I did not even feel worthy to get his dick in my cunt. I did not deserve it. What would have I done, if his dick had ever entered another cunt, the one of his beautiful "sekretarsha", who seemed the daughter of a sheik, of a "maharaja", or anyone else? Oh yes, I knew very well what. "Sì, vendetta, tremenda vendetta"... Yes, revenge, tremendous revenge!

There was just one thing I could do: to come back and to tell him the hard truth: I had done what I had done. Then he could decide what to do with me. Beat me, leave me... Yes, he had slept with a whore, in the professional sense, and with other women. But then he was free. If he wanted back his freedom, now, when his wife had played the whore, with no reason at all, he had the right to get it. And if he wanted to beat me, or even to rape me, not to get sex, just to punish me... So let it be. So I told the reception I had to leave the hotel, for urgent reasons. They didn't ask why, very kind and professional: privacy first. I packed the bag, paid the bill, greeted them all and went to the station.

There at the station, for a second, I thought to throw myself under the train, when it would have arrived. Yes, "Anna Karenina", a bit played out... Once my man and I had seen the old movie with Greta Garbo on the TV: a classic, nothing to say, a step above all that has come later... And I recalled what he had said at the end. That's your trouble: you take everything too much seriously...

Too much seriously... No, my love, no "shit"... You would not understand, you don't know what I have done, you would suffer too much... For who? For ME! No, let's talk about it, before. And then we'll see how "serious" is that matter... I looked at the sky, blue without a cloud. The wrong sky to... "No ciòrt vosmì", who wants to do it? It's such a beautiful day...

It was really a nice day. The Tuscan countryside was honouring his name. Not huge, philosophical, annihilating or exalting, no in between, as ours. It was "human-sized", on a human scale. Yes, two different beauties. And I loved them both. If I had had the clear conscience, I would have just been happy. Simply happy to live, to be there. But I had not. After all, cheating one's man could even pass: "toujous perdix", always partridges, those too can be tiresome, though they are not "rotten army stew" of jailhouse broth, "balanda"... But cheating MY man with THAT nerd! How could I have done it?

I had told him I was Russian. Italian men reacted with interest and quite respectfully to this news: they talked of Russian literature, Russian movies, or simply said "it's evident, you are so beautiful!". Nice to hear. Even if they think about the bed...

But that guy... "Are you a spy?" he said, and this could even be a joke. I had said yes, as I had told to my man. And what he had said?

"And what are you waiting for to desert?"

YOU desert, you fool, if someone wants you! I have not even changed passport, though renewing the residence permit was a hassle, and in Italy I had found another family, and good friends... But the blood is not water, as they say in Sardinia. Yes, I could have EVER been a spy! "Right or wrong, my country", ain't it? I had asked to my man, once, after we had made love. If I were a spy, would you denounce me?

"You could be." he said.

"I could be." I nodded.

"Chèstno govoryà?" he asked. Do you want me to answer seriously? Honestly?

"Chèstno."

"Well, no, I think no. I am your husband, so I'm not obliged. Unless you commit a crime against the State, punished with life imprisonment, and usually espionage is not punished so, in Italy. Yes, they could accuse me of accessory after the fact, or aiding and abetting, but they should prove that I knew. It could be not so easy..."

"But would you help me? Would you take part in my mission?"

"No, not to that point..."

"Why?"

"Well... First, to actively spy against one's own country, well, it doesn't... And second... I could try to defend you physically, but I can't oppose the police, if they arrest you. And if they arrest you, someone had to take the oranges to you," he said. I get the point: the orenges, at the jailhouse...

"And why not a file?" I smiled. He put his hands, big, warm, on my buttocks, and started moving them around.

"Hmm... Well... maybe..."

I smiled, thinking about it. I was so absorbed in my thoughts that I had forgotten that there was a boy, in front of me. And that boy started to talk to me. The way he looked at me, it was clear why. He had misunderstood my smile: he took it just as an invitation, a signal of availability... Figure it out!

But after that nerd, that boy seemed "one of ours", just a bit clumsy. So clumsy that I felt tenderness, for him.

Really, I thought. For that tenderness, he could have had me. If I just had met him before. Then, maybe, it would have been not such a dirty thing. Not so dirty that I had to talk about it to my man. A few hours, "a good deed"... He was clearly a virgin boy, no skills, no tricks, the desire of sex and the shame to feel it, to approach a woman and ask her for... But the urge, the pull to do it, too. Before some damned accident... Who knows?

No, surely I would never have slept with him. But I decided to help him as I could. Reinforcing his self-esteem, letting him understand that he was not a monster, a hopeless nerd... So I smiled at him.

"You know, you are a nice boy..." I said, using the "tu", second singular person, in Italian. Like the Scottish "thou"...

He blushed, breathless for some seconds. then he collected all his courage."Ili pàn, ili propàl", all or nothing...

"But, sorry... Woulds you make love with me?"

Just a virgin boy could ask such things using the second PLURAL person, I thought, smiling. My most understanding, motherly, sweet smile. Before to shake my head no.

"Why?" he asked. I showed him the back of my hand, with a sorry face, a sad smile, as to say: "if only this would be not...". He got the message. A ring. Married woman. Off limits... "Sorry..."

"Why? You asked me what you wanted, politely. I have said "no", for my own reasons, not because you do not deserve happiness, or because you are ugly. You are not." I said, always smiling. "And you see, I was not calling the police, God did not strike you. You did nothing wrong. You can ask the same thing to other women. Just, not so, when you have just seen them..." I raised my eyebrows, he smiled: yes, it was a bit too much... "The matter is not "to ask or not to ask"... The matter is to be able to accept a "no" as an answer. You are able to do it, keep on being so, that's good. There will be a lot of "no". But even a lot of "yes"..."

The boy kept looking at me, for all the rest of the journey. With the excuse of the heat, I gave him a better view on my breasts. He deserved it. For his courage.

"You too are nice, you know?" he said. Always using the second person plural.

"Don't take it bad, guy. You'll see. You'll find other women. You'll have them, some of them. You will forget me..."

"No..." he said, shaking his head.

"Yes..." said I, nodding, smiling...

The boy got off the train one station before me. I greeted him and I remained alone with my own troubles.

Santa Maria Novella, the bus, the town. My home. I opened the door, almost hoping to find a woman with my man. In the bed with him...

No women, not even his friends, drinking beers, watching football, or kinky nonsenses as eternal students. Only him, my gentle bear...

"Why did you come back so soon?"

"It was boring, without you..."

"Mind you..." he snorted. But maybe he believed it... "Are you tired? Do you want to eat?"

"No, sit down: I will prepare the dinner..."

I prepared the dinner, looking the kitchen, and the house, as if I saw them for the last time. I had to tell him all, I knew. Even if I acted well with the boy on the train. I had been more useful for him than if I had slept with him... But all the rest that I had done remained. I had to meet the judgement of my man. And then, who knows...

We ate my dinner without so many words. I was breathing and sighing, trying to find the courage to tell him all. But I failed. He thought I was tired for the heat and the journey. There was a nice movie on the TV, but I was not in the mood of enjoying the story. I go to shower (yes, one more shower). My man thought it was just the first that day. He could not know it was the third... or the fourth...

I went to bed, started to read something, but every line reminded me what I've done. My man washed the dish, when the movies come to an end. I had turned off the light and tried to sleep, in vain.

He entered the room and undressed, without even turning on the light. You will never see me with socks... He had kept that promise, almost always. He thought it was a show that he could not inflict on a woman, let alone on his wife. That one, and the show of a run down body. That was why he cured himself, for me, not for any other, or for himself. For his generation, the word "narcissist" was an insult to be washed with blood... something not manly, at all...

He lay on his side of the bed, supine, just like me. We both were looking at the ceiling. At a certain point, he turned his face towards me. He was just hesitating, but after a while, he talked.

"Do you want to do it?"

He asked me that, as if he asked me whether I wanted to drink some water. I knew, maybe he too wants to do it. But he thought I was tired, he did not want to impose himself. And I deserved just that: jhat he imposed himself, his will, his lust, his strength. Not for fun, like the other time, in the kitchen, in the wood, under the shower. No, not this time. Seriously, by force, cruelly. So I could have even hated him, maybe. "Now I will fuck you, you whore! Take it, let me bone you, and shut up!"... That was what I deserved, what I thought to deserve. If he would have done it that way, then, I swear, I would have let him do...

"No. I'm tired" I sighed.

"All right... Good night..." He said.

He turned his back for to sleep. I remained awake, thinking to my own sensations. Dark, heat, food, love, affection. Quiet sensations, almost fetal. And in the dark, my home. The place when I lived, worked, had a good time, reading, writing letters, watching movies... Where I made love with a man who loved me. Me, my brains, my flesh... it took not so much to wake up my flesh, to take it to the boiling point, to make me desire the sex of a male inside me, to subjugate me... Or at least, I thought it was not so much. He had always given me that. But many other men would have been hardly able to do it, or so it seemed to me, judging on my own experiences...

If only I could have left it all "posadì", behind my back, don't think about it anymore... If only I could have been able to keep living, pretending nothing... Maybe he too would have preferred it. If he would have been not my husband, just a friend, a coach, a confessor, what you will... I know what would he tell me... But who makes you do that? Drop it, it's history, it doesn't matter. You love him, he loves you, that shit has happened, and it will not happen anymore, so stop, over and out. Don't complicate your lives, don't make him suffer, there's no need, no use... Don't complicate your life, rule number one: it's complicated enough, "per se". Job, taxes, diseases. And the perspective? To grow old and to die. The love, the sex, is small holidays in the dirty job of living. If you found them, don't waste them, never, for no reason. Remorses? Keep them for you. Be more patient with him, and love him a bit more. That can be your atonement. It will be easier than you think.

Yes, easy, too much easy for me. "Don't do to the other what you wouldn't like they would do to you". I would have NOT like if my man would have "gone to the left". But I had done it. And with WHO? With a fool who was not worth the half of him, by no point of view. I would have slapped my face, lots of time. How could I pretend nothing? Whore? A whore is very more honest than me, I thought: she does it for living. Why had I done it? To "verify" myself...

Stop! That thing can't go on. He loved me, and he wanted me to live with him. He would have never understood if I would have left him. And if I had to remain there, I could not do it that way. Keeping that secret, thinking to be mud, or worse, hardly worthy to have him walking over me... No, that could not be.

Yes, I felt me as mud or worse. But where would have ended up the woman he loved, who helped him to live, who can face him as I did, "khot ubèi", you can kill me, but I don't give up on this, or that. Where? I was his daughter, his mother, his mare, proud to be ridden by him, and his mistress who led him by the reins. And he needed a woman like that. That was why he had married me, that was why he loved me, and that was why his mother had entrusted him to me.

So I had to face him once more, to admit my crime and accept his punishment, whatever it was. Yes "Prestuplènye i nakazanye". any "nakazanye": a shout, a pounding, a rape... Fuck me, my love, rape me, punish me... Hurt me... Make me cry... Do to me what you want...

"I have slept with another man..."

It was done. I waited, and thought. Where will he beat me? On my face, on my belly, on my breasts? No, not there, there hurts too much... Please, my love, not there... But I didn't do anything, I didn't cover me with the blankets or with my arm. I didn't move...