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Message-ID: <38263asstr$1031598604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Russian Radiance (Ace Dyson) (M/F++) ~ by DrSpin ~ NEW to ASSM
Date: Mon,  9 Sep 2002 15:10:04 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

Russian Radiance (M/F++)
(An Ace Dyson Story)
by Neil Anthony/DrSpin

---------------------------------------------------------
* This story is published here by kind permission of Ruthie's 
Club, where it appeared illustrated by Lloyd W. Meek under an 
exclusivity period for six months. Ruthie's Club 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com) carries about 40 more of my new 
stories, including 17 Ace Dyson adventures. 

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com or neil@ruthiesclub.com

* DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer: 
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is 
to it. Any reader who is offended should not have been here 
in the first place.
---------------------------------------------------------

I sat in a circle of chairs with nine Russian women. Six of 
them were totally gorgeous, one was extremely good looking, 
and the remaining two were definitely not shabby. I had hand-
picked them for their diverse youth and beauty, and I was 
pretty sure any one of them would fuck me at the drop of a 
hat, any time, any place, any how. To them, I was the most 
desirable man on the planet. They all wanted me, to have and 
to hold, from this day forward, forever and ever, amen. 

I had a feeling the next few days were going to be hard work. 
Fancy footwork would be needed. Ah well. It's a tough life and 
a dirty job, but somebody has to do it.

"Ladies," I began, "call me Ace. Everybody does."

* * *    

St. Petersburg is a city where once the rich were so rich they 
picked their teeth with gold toothpicks fashioned exquisitely 
by master craftsmen. These and other outrageous extravagances 
are stored today in museums and gawked at by tourists. Out on 
the streets it's dog-eat-dog in the scramble for a rouble or 
two and a square meal under the new order. It's still one of 
the world's most beautiful cities, but unemployment is high, 
crime is rife, and the sweet cloying smell of corruption -- 
along with the sewage floating buoyantly in the open drains 
and canals -- wafts on the breeze.      

My boss, Colonel Ruth Webster, had told me to slip into St. 
Petersburg disguised as a well-to-do but lonely businessman 
exploring the much-vaunted attributes of a prospective Russian 
wife. The marriage agency was owned by an affiliate company of 
Pacific Rimfire International. It wasn't returning anticipated 
financial results, and rip-off suspicions were high enough to 
warrant an undercover investigation.

The Colonel set me up as managing director of a small Pacific 
Rimfire shell company and transferred adequate funds for me to 
access. Ace Dyson, 32, businessman, too busy for a social 
life, too impatient for a long courting ritual, too lonely to 
continue to burn away his life on his own, booked a 14-day 
package trip to St. Petersburg through the Russian Radiance 
marriage agency to see if he could find his perfect match.

The Colonel issued my instructions. "Your job is to sniff out 
any malpractice," she said. "Our suspicion is that substantial 
profits are being milked, because Russian brides are big 
business and we don't seem to be getting nearly enough of it."

"Ma'am, I'm no bookkeeper," I cautioned.

"You have a nose for trouble," she said confidently. "If 
something is wrong, you will fall into it with a splash."

Probable, I had to admit. Sometimes I think shit was invented 
just so I can tread in it. 

* * *

I flew to St. Petersburg via Lufthansa. I could have taken 
another airline but I tend to Lufthansa for silly reasons. 
It's the stewardesses. They all look like they've stepped 
straight out of Wagner's Ring Cycle. Towering Aryan goddesses, 
they are, with cold blue eyes as unforgiving as circling 
sharks. They don't hide their contempt for mere mortals. Even 
their first-class in-flight service is frostily patronising. 

My Lufthansa fetish started three years ago at the Sheraton 
Towers in Hong Kong. I stepped into the elevator on the 14th 
floor and found myself with an assortment of immaculate 
luggage and three blonde uniformed ice maidens each taller 
than I am, and I'm a tall sort of a bloke.

They stood like three statues in dark blue suits, black heels, 
airline-logo scarves and wide-brimmed hats. The tallest, a 
female skyscraper, had hair cropped rough and short, like it 
had been shorn with a bread knife. Her colleagues each had 
long golden hair braided into a thick plait and drawn back so 
tightly from the face it looked like torture. As the door 
closed I caught the clean whiff of expensive soap. 

"Good evening, ladies," I said politely, as one does. They 
glanced at me and looked away.

"Ready to fly, I see," I said, trying again. They glanced at 
me and looked away.

"What airline?" I asked.

This time they didn't even glance at me. "Der Lufthansa," the 
tallest one said curtly. Like, could it be any other, you 
disgusting cockroach? Like, shut the fuck up or I'll break 
your arm off at the elbow. Icicles formed on the ceiling and 
we travelled down to the lobby in frigid silence.

Of course I've been totally hooked ever since. People pay real 
money to get humiliated like that, and I can get it for no 
extra cost just by flying Lufthansa.

So I flew via Lufthansa and I was treated, as usual, like a 
barbarian. I arrived in St. Petersburg just after dark, self-
esteem stripped bare, but happy and optimistic. Excoriation is 
good for the soul. Besides, I knew things could only improve.

* * * 

A limousine service took me to a reasonable hotel on the south 
bank of the River Neva, and I found a reception party waiting 
in the foyer. A tall, elegant, and rather haughty woman 
introduced herself as Irina Mihailova, principal of Russian 
Radiance. Her clothes said she was doing quite well thank-you-
very-much, her manner said she was in charge, her appearance 
and carriage showed she was probably once a fashion model, and 
her English was excellent. Her age, I guessed, was around 40.

In dismissive, almost contemptuous, fashion, she introduced 
her companion, a thickset man with an unsuitably thin and 
disconcertingly uneven moustache. She said he was a business 
associate, and he appeared to have no interest in me at all -- 
unlike glamorous Irina, who was giving me the once-over like a 
she-wolf looking forward to breaking a lonely winter's fast. 
She all but licked her lips and bared her fangs.

"I was in the neighbourhood," she said, "so I called in to 
make sure you were safely settled in." She had a folder in her 
hand, and she pointed it at me. "Frankly, Mr. Dyson, I was 
curious. I wanted to check you out in the flesh, so to speak, 
because your file seemed too good to be true."

My Lufthansa-crushed ego re-erected itself. "I hope your 
menagerie is as impressed, ma'am," I said.

"I hope you are in good shape, Mr. Dyson," she replied. "I'm 
predicting my girls will stampede."

Better and better. "When shall I have the pleasure of meeting 
them?"

"We start tomorrow. A car will call for you at nine. In the 
meantime, glance through these portfolio books and let me know 
who takes your fancy." She snapped her fingers imperiously and 
the moustache walked over and dumped two fat albums in my 
arms.

"Ma'am, I'm flattered, of course, but I hardly regard myself 
as star quality."

"Most of my foreign clients are, shall we say, somewhat less 
attractive than you in many areas." She opened the folder and 
glanced at it. "Your age is perfect, your income is excellent, 
your home is superb, you come from a desirable country, you 
have never been married, and you have no children. Apart from 
that, you have a certain physical style. Mr. Dyson, you should 
be able to have anybody in those two folders you want. All of 
my girls will be after you. You'll be the star of the show."

* * *

The hell with Der Lufthansa. The hell with all Germans, and 
with all airline stewardesses. The catalogue of hopeful 
Russian brides was a revelation. So many truly beautiful 
women, so fresh, so young, so naked in their ambition to get 
away from the former Soviet Union. Could there be so many 
versions of Anna Kournikova running loose, free, and available 
in Russia? Were they all genuine? Or was the catalogue a scam 
-- a come-on, with photographs of models and manufactured 
personal details?

I was delivered by limo next morning to a sort of a club, by 
the look of it -- not a nightclub, not a sports club, but 
somewhere in between. The driver ushered me in a side 
entrance, and in an office I again saw Ms. Mihailova. She 
pinned a stiff identification card to my breast pocket, mostly 
in Cyrillic script, but also bearing in English the name 
Dyson, Donald. I took up a blue marker pen from the desk and 
made the appropriate correction.

"Only my mother knows me as Donald," I told her.

"As you wish," she said. "Are you ready to meet some of my 
girls?"

"Some? How many will there be?"

She consulted a clipboard. "Seventy three."

My mouth dropped open. "Lady, you must be kidding."

"Don't worry," she said. "There will be nine other visiting 
gentlemen in attendance -- five from the United States, three 
from Germany and one from Scotland."

She led me into a big, noisy, open room filled with chattering 
females. Conversation didn't stop completely, but it 
definitely lulled. Suddenly I knew how a stripper felt walking 
on stage -- except that this crowd would only stop shouting 
'take it off' when I got down to my wallet and credit cards.

"What do I do?" I asked the boss lady.

"Nothing. The girls will come to you. Take note of any who 
particularly take your eye. By tomorrow I want a list of your 
best nine."

She walked away to talk to a greying and balding man in his 
forties. Nine finalists for the Ace competition. It was 
definitely a buyer's market.

I took stock. Jesus. They really were, in the main, an 
amazingly attractive herd of sheilas. Anna Kournikova's 
siblings were everywhere. The catalogue had told no lies.

A tall brunette with cool, calculating, grey eyes appeared 
beside me. In her heels she was nearly as tall as I was. She 
was wearing a black-and-white spotted dress, and her name tag 
called her Natalya Nikonova.

"Hi," she said huskily. Sexy voice, deliberately and 
provocatively. "I like you."

"Cheers, Nat," I said. "You can call me Ace."

She looked at me uncertainly. "Ice?"

"Close enough."

"I like you, Ice," she said again. "You like me?"

I sure did. Who wouldn't? She was slim, lanky, and leggy, not 
nearly as pretty as some in close proximity, but she carried 
herself with experienced authority. Natalya Nikonova knew what 
the hell she was doing. She'd been around the circuit more 
than once.

She leaned her face closer, grey eyes smoky. "I fuck you 
good," she promised confidentially, and with confident 
assurance. 

I didn't have the slightest doubt about it. Visions of her 
long legs wrapped around my waist played in short loops in my 
brain. She pursed her red lips into kissing shape and handed 
me a small card containing her details. "Ask for me," she 
said, and moved away.

A younger, green-eyed brunette replaced her. "Mr. Dyson," she 
said in excellent English. "My name is Lina. Come and sit with 
me and my friends."

She was stunning -- tall, slim, wearing a short black dress 
with thin shoulder straps. I allowed myself to be led to a 
small table where she took a seat with three other women. They 
were all quite young, and Lina acted as interpreter. Julia was 
19, Evgenya, 20, and Larisa, 23. Lina was 21, and a journalist 
at a small suburban newspaper. She hoped to get a journalism 
job in the West.

All four were extremely attractive. Why weren't hordes of 
young men falling at their feet? Why were they listed with a 
foreign brides bureau?

The answer, as it filtered down, was that there was no 
particular shortage of young men around, but that the young 
men were particularly short of prospects for a young woman 
seeking a safe and secure future. Jobs were scarce, crime was 
rife, and young Russian men, they alleged, had a compulsive 
taste for alcohol and drugs.

Conversely, good guy Ace had all the right moves. I owned a 
house in sunny Sydney, plus a company, a healthy income, a 
flash car, plus sober habits. Or so it said in the file.

They wanted to be married, and not in cold and cheerless 
Russia. They wanted children. They wanted security. They 
wanted the West, where any good-looking girl could grow up to 
be rich and rewarded.

Ms. Mihailova approached, so I took cards from all four of 
them. They were so fresh, so pretty, so forward, so unguarded, 
and so totally fuckable. If it was legal I'd have married all 
four on the spot.

The boss lady took me around various groups, and I met yet 
more eminently fuckable women - more than I'd seen in one room 
ever. I was starting to get quite a collection of cards. Names 
and faces were beginning to blur. So many, and so many of them 
eligible and edible.

A brassy blonde chatted to me but I was a little dazed and 
fazed. Her English was good, but my attention was unfocused 
until she mentioned she was a bookkeeper. Bingo. I reminded 
myself I had a job to do here. I was undercover. I was not 
really about to get married to one of these tasty beauties at 
all. A bookkeeper who spoke English passably well could prove 
a handy ally. Her name was Marina Kaprilova and she was 22. 
She had skills I needed to snoop into Russian Radiance's 
financial affairs. She also had excellent cleavage. I looked 
down the front of her dress and paid closer attention.

"I'm a Virgo," she said. Well, that was something that could 
be fixed up right smartly. Under the sun, moon or stars, I'd 
certainly be willing to give her an Australian souvenir.

"Marina," I said, "I think we should spend some quality time 
together."

She beamed happily and handed me her card.

* * *   

That night I met scores more Russian sheilas. Some had been at 
the morning gathering, others were new faces. We were on a 
harbour cruise, another get-to-know-you function for ten men 
and enough women to fill a whole softball league regional 
division. They had dressed up for an evening out, and the 
array of talent was dazzling.

I collected many more cards, and two or three of them would be 
going into my Naughty Nine, the shortlist I was due to give 
Ms. Mihailova. A definite inclusion was Tatyana Gurova, a tall 
and strong aerobics instructor and masseuse with an awesome 
body that could be sold in seconds in Saudi Arabia for piles 
of petro-dollars. She was 26 and a divorcee. Her ex-husband 
was probably regaining his life force at a sanatorium by 
sipping hot nourishing broth through a straw. Tatyana had not 
much English but she promised with her dark eyes that she'd 
crush my bones and grind them into fertiliser.

I'd been drinking champagne -- not by preference, but because 
men in red coats kept giving it to me. It was sweeter than it 
ought to be and slightly sticky, but I drank it without a 
thought because I was busy playing the flirt with an endless 
queue of sexy women and my attention was not on what was in my 
hand. Mistake. Champagne, or its bubbly equivalent, has a 
habit of going straight to my brain and turning it into 
fermented slush. Ease up, Dyson, I told myself. Next minute 
you'll be legless.

I wandered fuzzily into a corridor looking for a dunny to 
urinate a gallon or two of champagne and blundered into what 
looked like an angry discussion between two men. They stopped 
when they saw me, although they had been speaking Russian 
anyway, and a hand carrying a fat bundle of American dollars 
disappeared inside a coat. One of the men was familiar. From 
his thin, unbalanced moustache, I recognised him as a Russian 
Radiance employee. He gave me a patently false smile and bowed 
slightly. The other man, thin and bony-faced, simply stared at 
me coldly. I stepped past and moved on, bladder insistent.

I found the door with the universal symbol and was about to 
hurry in when a hand dropped on my shoulder. "Ice," said a 
female appearing from the door with the other symbol. "I was 
looking for you."

"Natalya Nikonova," I said crisply, in the infectious Russian 
manner. Two days in St. Petersburg and I was starting to use 
full names. I'd taken her card and looked her up in the 
catalogue this afternoon. She was 29, divorced, employed as a 
secretary, and had a seven-year-old son.

She looked pleased. "Remember what I told you?"

"Indelibly," I said. "Hell's bells, Nat, I'm busting for a 
leak. Now is not the time."

She understood my intentions from body language if not 
dialogue, and lifted her hand away. I pushed through the door 
and unzipped, pointing purposefully at the urinal. The hand 
clapped on my shoulder again. Hey! She was with me again, up 
close and extremely personal.

"I hold it for you," she said, her other hand already getting 
there. "I did this for my son when he was small."

My need was pressing and would not be denied. I let go a 
steady stream against the porcelain, pissing where she pointed 
me. She watched intently, and when I finished she shook me 
with an experienced wagging hand. Then she lifted the hem of 
her black dress and wiped me dry.

Still gently holding my soft and contented cock, she lifted 
her bold eyes and looked me a question. I read it easily. 
Which orifice?

Answer: The best one, designed biologically for the purpose. I 
took her elbow and steered her to the door, pushed her back 
against it to block any surprise visitor, and gave her great 
big for-your-mouth-only kiss. In a flash the dress was hiked 
up past her waist and her pants were jerked down past her 
knees.

Tall girls are easy standing up. It means you don't have to go 
through a strength-sapping series of knee bend exercises that 
would test the stamina of the cream of a crack anti-terrorist 
force. With champagne-induced recklessness and conviviality, I 
banged her hard and fast against the toilet door.

Naughty Natalya put on a damn fine show. Maybe I was good. 
Maybe she was desperate. Maybe, probably, it was promotion and 
propaganda, as she tried to ram home the point that any fair-
minded Aussie would be mad not to snap her up and whisk her 
off to the great brown southland as the new missus and live-in 
bedmate.

She sighed, she moaned, she cried, she groaned. She babbled in 
Russian, grabbed and clutched me with long and strong fingers, 
and carried on as if she was experiencing a miraculous 
religious conversion. But whatever, it was hot and heavy sex, 
and when it was over I was breathing hard and perspiring 
freely.

Natalya Nikonova, divorcee, secretary, mother of one, smirked 
at me slyly. "I fuck you good," she said. "This time, every 
time, all time."

Sure. It would be a fierce and feisty engagement, I didn't 
doubt. After the wedding day? Well, I wasn't going to find 
that out anyway - because I wasn't getting married. I might 
have been drunk but I wasn't that drunk.

* * *         

Things got a bit hazy. I swore off the champagne but good 
vodka appeared, and it was so goddam smooth it wasn't like 
drinking at all. People seemed to be leaving the boat, and I 
noticed it had docked. I sipped at my vodka respectfully. Time 
to go home? Hell's bells, I was just getting the taste.

The boss lady had hold of my arm. Good old Irina. She wasn't a 
bad stick. Hmm. She wasn't a stick at all, when you looked at 
her. Bloody fine figure of a woman, if you liked them pillowy. 
"I've sorted out my nine sheilas," I told her. "But I think 
it's more like twenty. Beautiful fuckbunnies, all of them."

"Mr. Dyson, you're drunk," she said.

"Tanked? Not me, Reeny. Just mellow. I won't be drunk for 
minutes yet."

"Perhaps I'd better take you back to your hotel." She snapped 
her fingers and a minion departed down the ramp to organise 
it.

"Top idea," I agreed. "We'll empty the bar fridge in the room. 
It's a good old Aussie tradition."

In the back of the limo, I was surprised to find myself 
leaning comfortably against soft and cushiony Irina. It must 
have been the slope of the seat. "Now listen, Reeny," I said, 
trying to put things on a businesslike level. "These nine 
sheilas. Is it all right if I take them for a test drive? I 
mean, what's the protocol here?"

"Test drive?"

"A bloke needs to know what's under the bonnet before he buys. 
You know, give 'em a spin. Check out the motor."

"Am I to understand, Mr. Dyson, that you expect to sleep with 
my girls as part of your selection process?"

"You bet," I said, patting her on a warm and comfortable 
thigh. "Would you buy a used car without giving it a turn 
around the block?"

"Mr. Dyson, Russian Radiance does not peddle sex."

"It sure does, Reeny. How many marriages for excellent but 
regrettably fat and frowsy cooks are you brokering these 
days?"

She chuckled. "It happens. You might be surprised."

Maybe. Maybe there was a scheduled fat cook's tour. I was 
certainly on the root rat's tour. Never seen so many fuckable 
females in two days ever, and it was all going on the Pacific 
Rimfire expense account. I rested my head contentedly on 
Irina's shoulder. Life should always be so good.

Back at the hotel, I produced a bottle of vodka with a 
flourish -- but Irina took it from my hands. "No more for you 
tonight," she said firmly. "You will be spending tomorrow 
afternoon with your nine chosen girls, and you need to be at 
your best."

"Yes indeed, my nine special root rats," I said. "You have a 
point, dear lady." I emptied my coat pocket of cards, and they 
spilled all over the place. "I want all these."

"Mr. Dyson, there are at least forty cards on the table."

Depressing. So many beautiful women who would fail to make the 
cut. "I can't get a dispensation?" I smiled winningly. "Maybe 
because I'm a really good bloke with a heart of gold?"

"Nine, Mr. Dyson. Only nine."

"Then you must help me choose, Irina."

"Gladly, but let's sober you up first and get rid of some of 
this unseemly sentimentality." 

She rang down for strong coffee and then disappeared into the 
bathroom. I heard the shower running, and she poked her head 
around the bathroom door. "This is for you," she said. "It 
will clear your head and stop dehydration. In here, please, 
Mr. Dyson."

Motherly directions. But she was probably speaking sense. I 
kicked off my shoes and padded into the bathroom. Immediately 
she had her hands on me, unbuckling, unbuttoning, unzipping. 
In mild astonishment I lifted my arms and feet on instruction 
and soon wound up naked.  

Irina left the bathroom but, just as I was thinking about 
getting into the shower, she re-appeared, unbuttoning her suit 
jacket. She slipped it off, undid a button, dropped the skirt 
to the floor, and hung both on a hook on the back of the door. 
She was wearing a white slip, and I do love a slip on a woman. 
It is the sexiest item of all women's clothing, but you just 
don't see them being worn much any more. "This dress is very 
expensive," she said. "I don't want it splashed."  

The white slip had an effect on me, and I was at half-mast and 
showing growing interest. "I see too many men in not good 
condition," she said. "Too old, too fat, too selfish, too much 
eating and drinking. Russian men eat and drink too much." Her 
hand reached out and she stroked four fingers down my abdomen, 
between my left hipbone and my groin. "This is the best part 
of a man in good condition. So flat, so hard, so masculine, so 
completely different from a woman."

My erection could not possibly have stretched another 
millimetre, but her hand avoided it. "Your shower, Mr. Dyson," 
she said. "In you go."

Dutifully I stepped under the shower and allowed hot water to 
hit my face, and I let it happen for a while. Refreshed, I 
stood aside and looked for Irina. She was sitting on a stool, 
removing her stockings.   

"I have a rule about not sampling my clients," she said. 
"Usually. But tonight I'm feeling sentimental."

Okay. That worked for me. She was surely no spring chicken, 
and the face make-up was applied in several protective layers, 
but she had a certain appeal. Advancing age had filled out her 
figure to a generous and comfortable degree, and her legs were 
long and slender. Besides, I had a job to do, and pillows can 
whisper secrets.

"You'll join me in the shower?" I asked politely.

"No," she said, draping the stockings over the towel rail. 
"I'll go outside until you sober up. A woman in Russia can go 
to bed with a drunk anytime, and I'd prefer to wait until you 
can do what you think you can do."

It seemed to be a common complaint. Fortunately, champagne 
travels quickly to the brain but also leaves it quickly. Vodka 
hangs around, but I hadn't had all that much of it. I stayed 
in the shower until I felt more clear-headed, wrapped a towel 
around my waist, and went looking for her. She was propped up 
in bed, decently covered, leafing through a catalogue of her 
women and matching them against my cards.

"There are some excellent young women here," she said to me, 
peering over the top of her thin, gold-framed reading glasses. 
"Are you serious about them?"

"That's tomorrow's business," I said. "Tonight I'm looking 
only at you."

She put away her glasses in a case on the bedside cabinet and 
patted a space on the bed beside her. "I was a model once," 
she said. "I lived in London for many years, and I had many 
lovers. But today I'm married to a man who drinks too much. He 
wants sex infrequently and at inconvenient times. He's 
overweight and he's lazy, and more than half the time he is 
unable to carry out his intentions." She unwrapped my towel. 
"You are in good shape, you're strong, and you're obviously 
virile. It is that potent virility that makes me break my 
rule, Mr. Dyson. I want some of it."

Her hand roved over my body, and I grew thick and hard in a 
flash. She ran the flat of her hand hard down my stomach and 
seized my erect penis around the base. "So fierce," she said. 
"So powerful. I drip with desire for you."

Florid Russian embellishment, but that's the way they are. 
Back home they say: "Hey, Ace, let's fuck, and put out the 
garbage when you leave."

I got the message, however. Older woman remembering how it 
used to be. Husband finding it hard to get it up. She was 
looking for a peasant fuck, not a pleasant one. Down and 
dirty, full throttle, and spare the sweet words and 
tenderness. Okay. It worked for me. No bother, Mrs. Irina 
Mihailova.

I hammered it to her, long and hard. Her lips curled back and 
her face took on a feral snarl. Funny how they do that. They 
look at you like they hate your guts, but they sure don't act 
like it.

Natalya Nikonova had skimmed off my high-octane additives 
earlier in the night, and consequently I was in no urgent need 
to spill the juice. I kept on at her, relentlessly. I knew I 
could go on and on, maybe -- if someone attached a drip feeder 
to me -- for weeks. She wanted it rustically, a good old-
fashioned rogering, and she was getting it.

Her violet eyes blazed at me and, hips rolling, she got right 
into the fast-paced rhythm. Slowly and deliberately, she 
pulled up her legs and wound them around my waist, crossing 
and locking her heels. I rammed home hard and ground 
vigorously into her pelvis. She babbled something in Russian, 
and when I looked into her eyes she was looking back 
indistinctly, her mouth open. She was hunched into me and I 
ground against her, our pubic hair twisting and matting, 
making friction. I withdrew but slammed back quickly, crushing 
hard against her again. All of a sudden she went over the 
precipice, gripping me tightly with her legs and throwing her 
arms wide on the bed. Her head lifted from the pillow, eyes 
tightly shut and mouth wide open. I saw her back teeth and the 
strained and corded muscles of her neck. Then she fell back 
wordlessly and her legs rolled off my back and down beside me. 
She opened her eyes and looked at me with that strange feral 
hostility.

"There is a ruthless streak of violence in you," she said, 
softly. "But tonight I like it."

Who? Me? Hardly, old girl. I was a well-known soft-touch 
pussycat. She pushed at me with her pelvis, nudging. "But you 
have not finished," she said, "and I am still here."

Right. There was still plenty of petrol in the tank. I took it 
slowly, building up, picked up the pace, and then slammed into 
her. Astonishingly, she started pummelling me on the chest and 
shoulders with balled-up fists. She wanted me to stop? It was 
hard to be sure, because she had her eyes screwed shut. 
Violence, she said. I lunged harder than ever. The bedhead 
rocked against the wall, beating time with our pushing and 
shoving.

Her eyes snapped open and she stared at me wildly. Then she 
opened her mouth and let out an odd bird-like screaming whoop 
they might have heard four floors down in the lobby. Her hips 
thrashed about and I was nearly thrown off her. Okay, okay. 
Hang on a few seconds. A few seconds. Yes. I released, letting 
it go in a slamming thrust.

Much perspiration. My pulse was fast. She lay under me like a 
corpse. I thought about getting off her but my muscles had 
gone on strike.

I probably dozed for a while, and woke when she started 
wriggling with discomfort. I eased away and lay beside her. 
"Strenuous, Mrs. Mihailova," I said.

"Brutal, Mr. Dyson," she said, her voice croaking.

"Which is what you wanted."

"I should go home but I am unable," she said. "I will have 
coffee and toast for breakfast."

* * *

Over breakfast we chatted politely. No reference was made to 
the events of the previous night. I decided to take the bull 
by the horns.

"On the boat I saw one of your people handing over cash to a 
man I wouldn't want to be on the same street with," I said. 
"Problems?"

She studied me with cool eyes. "These are matters every 
Russian must deal with," she said. "Ten years ago I would have 
had to pay money to the Party. Today I must pay to the 
criminals who control this city."

"Or else?"

"Or else I would be murdered, my girls kidnapped, raped, 
ransomed, my business ruined." She shrugged. "It is the way of 
things today. One day, we hope, it will pass and better times 
will follow."

Maybe that was all there was to it. No mystery at all. This 
job was getting easier by the moment.

* * * 

I sat in a circle of chairs with nine Russian women. Six of 
them were totally gorgeous, one was extremely good looking, 
and the remaining two were definitely not shabby. I had hand-
picked them for their diverse youth and beauty, and I was 
pretty sure any one of them would fuck me at the drop of a 
hat, any where, any time, any how. To them, I was the most 
desirable man on the planet. I was a prize catch, a passport 
to a better life.

I'd spent most of the morning studying their profiles. There 
was Marina Kapralova, of course. She was my bookkeeper, and I 
hoped to use her skills to gain evidence of the marriage 
agency's protection payments. She was a blonde, 22, 5ft7in, a 
cheeky bundle of perky promise.

I couldn't have left out the beautifully-groomed and well-
spoken journalist I met on the first day, Lina Victorovna. She 
was dark-haired, 21, and 5ft8in. And I'd added her three 
friends -- Larisa Filonenko, 23, 5ft8in, a florist who worked 
in her mother's shop; Evgenya Pokutnya, 20, 5ft4in, a customs 
inspector at the city's main railway station; and Julia 
Korshenko, 19, 5ft2in, a cashier at a whitegoods discount 
warehouse.

Tatyana Gurova was the awesome 26-year-old fitness instructor 
and masseuse I'd noted on the boat trip. Ludmila Kolechko, 24, 
was another tall one. She was an economist, she had wild and 
tangled brown hair, and she had rich and lush figure. Milena 
Bizyuk was a choreographer -- 5ft6in tall, slim, a classic 
straight-haired blonde. She was 26, had fantastic legs, and an 
air of distant scorn I found appealing. 

To complete the list, I had added one simply out of curiosity. 
Mariya Borozdina, just turned 18, was a first-year university 
student. She was a slim, beautiful, long-legged, auburn-haired 
pixie, and I wanted to know why a lovely girl barely out of 
school would put herself up to be married to a strange older 
man from a foreign land. Were prospects at home really that 
grim?      

It was an amazing collection of women. Any red-blooded bloke 
would trade a kidney to bed any one of them. I had them 
clustered around me in a circle, sitting in upright chairs 
politely and expectantly. Every single one was wearing a dress 
or skirt, and every single dress or skirt was short, which 
seemed the norm here in St. Petersburg. There were legs 
everywhere. Some were world best standard, others merely 
excellent. I could have sat there contentedly, just looking at 
them. But the agenda called for more.

"Lina will translate for those who need it," I said. She 
smiled, nodded, and started to do so immediately.

"Ladies, call me Ace," I said. "Everybody does. You should not 
treat me as somebody special, because I'm not. I have no idea 
why women as attractive, intelligent, and special as you all 
are would want even to contemplate matrimony with such an 
ordinary, run-of-the-mill bloke like me. You could do better, 
believe me. You deserve better. I am amazed that any of you 
should be in this strange situation, and today I'd like to 
come to some sort of understanding of why it is so. Tell me. 
Talk to me. Why would any one of you want to marry me?"

Silence. They were all looking at me intently, and I could see 
there was a problem. What? Maybe they were thinking this was 
some sort of contest, and what they said would be scored 
against their chances.

"Ladies, this is just a chat - a free-for-all discussion. I'm 
not marking anybody up or down. I plan, with your approval, to 
take each one of you out to dinner over the next few days so 
we can get to know each other better. Relax. Nobody's being 
tested here. I'm just curious."

Ludmila Kolechko, the curvy economist, spoke up in Russian and 
Lina began translating, and it was a pessimistic litany of 
life in Russia for young women who had hopes and dreams. 
Others started nodding, agreeing, adding comments. Ludmila had 
a sexy deep growl in her voice and she was wearing a purple 
dress that contained -- with some difficulty -- her hourglass 
figure. But I stopped looking at that and paid her appropriate 
and proper attention.

Russian men were the pits, she said. More or less. They were 
egotistical beyond reason, they drank too much, they took 
drugs too much, they treated their women badly and often 
violently. Permanent, reliable jobs were scarce. The economy 
was unpredictable and inflation was out of control. There was 
always a war close by and terrorism was never far away. Crime 
was rampant. In the old days of Communism, political 
corruption was the way it was. In the new days of a free 
market economy, criminal corruption had taken over. Police 
were inept and incompetent. Gangsters called the shots. Any 
business hoping to survive had to pay protection money.

In these circumstances, aspirations for a family life were 
narrow and uncertain. You couldn't count on a job with steady 
income. You couldn't count on being safe, inside the home or 
outside it. St. Petersburg was a beautiful city, but you 
couldn't live there and raise a family with any hope of 
security. If you valued home and family, and Russian girls 
apparently did, then you had to get out of the place and look 
for it elsewhere.

I got the message. "So I'm not a superhunk at all," I said. 
"When it gets down to it, I'm just an unmarried guy with a 
valid passport issued by a desirable country."

No no no. I wasn't. Not at all. I was the best of this year's 
bunch by a long way. I was still young, relatively. I wasn't 
ugly, I wasn't fat, I wasn't bald, I was tall, and I didn't 
have bad teeth. Most girls wanted the USA or Canada, but 
Sydney during the Olympic Games looked wonderful. I had money, 
a home, security. Significantly, I didn't have a divorced 
wife, alimony payments, bad blood, and a litter of brawling, 
spoiled, and resentful kids.

Their frankness was refreshing and appealing. I was beginning 
to feel some sympathy for these sheilas, and thus a twinge of 
guilt. I was an impostor here, with no plan to get married. 
All they wanted was a husband who could give them a home, a 
family, and security. I had the means to carry it off for one 
of them. Easy. No problem, really.

A Russian Mrs. Dyson? Maybe it wasn't so far-fetched. Besides, 
they were gorgeous girls, all of them. Could I? Would I? Was 
it time for Ace to settle down with a Russian doll?

* * * 

A sportsman always plays it fair, and I decided to take my 
Russian menagerie in alphabetical order. First up was Evgenya 
Pokutnya, the 20-year-old customs inspector. She'd be on the 
menu that very night.

Through her friend Lina, she protested. No fair, she said. It 
was already after four o'clock, and she didn't have time to 
get home and get herself ready for dinner at eight. She lived 
a long way from the city centre, and public transport would be 
crowded during peak hour. I gave her a bundle of dollars and 
told her to take a cab home and a cab back. Right. That fixed 
it. She was gone in a flash.

"She is my best friend," Lina confided to me, looking 
troubled. "If you took her to Australia and left me behind, I 
think I would kill myself."

"But what if I took you to Australia and left her behind?"

"That would be her bad luck," she said seriously. "Her English 
is not so good. Perhaps I should be there tonight as an 
interpreter."

"Only if you're interested in a threesome," I said.

She blushed. "Ev is a good friend, but not that good."

Ms Pokutnya was a beautiful young woman. She had straight dark 
hair, jaw length, with a girlish fringe, and calm, sad 
looking, grey-green eyes. She arrived in a simple black dress, 
short in the Russian fashion, and she was clearly nervous.

How do you joke with and put at ease a woman much younger than 
you who struggles with your language? If you find out, tell 
me. Her bio said she was looking for a man with a great sense 
of humour. But not in English, it forgot to add.

The Ace-style banter did not work. With each sortie she became 
increasingly alarmed, and appeared to be under the 
misapprehension that I thought her hair was bad, her chest 
flat, and her table manners gauche. I sighed, gave up all 
attempts to be witty, and reverted to body and sign language.

The restaurant had been cheerfully recommended by the suave 
concierge at the hotel. He must have been a part-owner. The 
food was plain and stodgy, like a steel factory cafeteria. All 
in all, things were not going too well.

I got out of the joint as soon as I decently could and steered 
her the few hundred yards to my hotel. She remained nervous 
but she wasn't surprised. She expected this, I could see, and 
knew it had to be part of the deal.      

In my room, I poured her a glass of wine, and she threw it 
down in two deep draughts. She'd been gulping at the stuff in 
the restaurant like it was a lifeline, and she clutched the 
glass and blinked at me. She appeared confused. It dawned on 
me that she was somewhat under the weather. Slow seduction 
would not rescue this assignation. Either I would have to send 
her home in a cab, or tackle it straight and blunt.

I sat in a chair and signalled to her. Take off your clothes, 
I said with my hands and fingers.

Evgenya Pokutnya might have been half-cut, but she understood. 
Shoulders tense, she put the wine glass on a table and slid 
down a short zip at the side of her black dress. She grasped 
the hem with both hands and pulled it up her body, sad and 
worried eyes watching me until it went over her head. Like the 
good and tidy girl she undoubtedly was, she reversed the dress 
and draped it neatly over the back of a chair.

She was wearing black pants and bra, and black stay-up, thigh-
high stockings. She had a slim, unextravagant figure. The bra 
pushed up her breasts to make the best of them. I pointed at 
her shoes and she stepped out of them, and bent over to slide 
the stockings from her legs. Great legs. And her skin was 
smooth, pale, and fine. I waved my hand at her and she 
unhooked the bra and slid it down her arms, then removed her 
pants. She stood naked and straight, facing me, arms at her 
sides.

Nice. Elegant. Small breasts, uptilted, flat stomach, 
narrowish hips, black pubic hair, not a lot of it. She had 
the girlish body of a mid-teenager, which was not surprising, 
because it wasn't long since she'd been one.

Her hand flew to her face and clapped over her mouth. She 
doubled over, straightened, looked at me with absolute horror, 
and bolted for the bathroom. I heard the unmistakable gagging 
sound of somebody throwing up. Oh dear. I let her be. When you 
vomit you don't want company. Eventually, after taking a 
prolonged throatal assault, the toilet flushed itself clean. I 
waited for a while and then got to my feet. Poor little 
Evgenya was huddled in the corner of the bathroom, cold and 
naked, weeping. I pulled my dressing gown from a hook on the 
door, draped it over her, and left her alone, without looking 
too closely. Pretty girls puking don't look their best, and 
ought to be allowed to retain any remaining shreds of dignity.

After some time she trudged back into the main room, eyes red 
and teary, wearing my gown. She looked bloody awful. I guided 
her to my bed, stashed her in it, pulled up the blankets, 
turned out the lights, and headed downstairs for a drink at 
the bar.

Some things are not meant to be.

* * * 

Tragedy is a cornerstone of Russian culture, but from it they 
derive hope and inspiration, and a sensitive visitor to the 
country ought to follow suit. After breakfast, with the 
unfortunate Evgenya safely sent home in a cab, I picked up the 
phone and changed the game plan. That night I was scheduled to 
be with Julia Korshenko, another young one, and one of 
Evgenya's friends. But there was a still a day to fill, and I 
decided to fill it with a woman more likely to embrace the 
spirit of the occasion. I went to the last on the 
alphabetical list and organised a guest for lunch.

Fitness instructor Tatyana Gurova arrived at the lobby of the 
hotel wearing what looked like an ankle-length raincoat. She 
was wearing pink-and-white sports shoes, and she explained in 
battling English she'd been taking classes and hadn't had time 
to go home and get changed.

"We could have lunch brought up to my room," I suggested.

She was 26, a divorcee, she'd gone a few rounds on the ropes 
of life, and she knew when to salute the flag. She smiled 
broadly, and so did I. Things were looking up. 

In the room she tossed the coat aside, and my mouth fell open. 
She was wearing a one-piece red leotard with a deeply scooped 
neckline. And if that wasn't enough to sear the eyeballs, she 
had damp sweat patches under her arms and below her heavy 
breasts. Immediately I dissolved in a stew of lust. 

Tatyana saw my reaction and laughed. She swept her shoulder-
length dark hair up behind and above her head with both hands, 
which she knew damn well made her tits lift and present 
themselves like altar offerings to a pagan god.

"You like?" she asked. "You want? Okay, but Taty want to go to 
Australia."

Gee, that was pretty blunt, if more honest than I was being. 
But if that was the way she wanted to play it, then so be it.

"Yeah," I said. "Too bloody right I want. But I fuck other 
girls too, then I decide about Australia."

She dropped her hands and looked at me crossly. "Sweet little 
girls want play happy families," she said derisively. "Taty 
not sweet, not little."

No. Not by a stretch. I had a foreboding in my water that life 
with Tatyana Gurova would be taxing and tempestuous.

"Maybe," I said, "maybe I marry a sweet little girl and take 
Taty to Australia too. Give her an apartment. Give her money 
and a car. Fuck her on Saturdays. Maybe Sundays too."

She digested this. Then she grinned. "Okay," she said 
cheerfully. "I find plenty other Australian men if Ace go 
away."

I didn't doubt that for a second. She was an absolute 
knockout, radiating sexuality. Could be a Las Vegas showgirl, 
easily. She'd knock them down like ninepins. Guys would crawl 
on their hands and knees for her.

She lifted an arm and sniffed her armpit. "Taty smell," she 
said. "You want I take bath?"

"Nah," I said, although the prospect of seeing her in the tub 
was electrifying. "Maybe I like the way Taty smells."

She grinned again. "Okay. I take it off now."

It came off in a flurry of flying clothes. Things went 
everywhere, and it was distracting. It's not easy to 
concentrate on body exposure when it's not gradual, and when 
shoes are flying past your face. When it was all gone, 
however, she stood up straight to be admired. The hands went 
up again, sweeping back her hair.

"Really quite good?" she enquired.

Quite. Really. Like the big old coathanger on Sydney Harbour 
is really quite a good bridge.

Tatyana Gurova was a big, strong woman. She had it all -- the 
curves of a 1950s pin-up girl and the muscle tone of a new 
millennium tri-athlete. No fat, no sag, no stretch marks, no 
imperfections, and all on a body designed by Satan to bring 
down popes and princes. She was simply stupendous.

"I want BMW," she said.

Eh? What?

"For car in Australia," she added.

Oh. Right. A BMW. A fine motor car, but not on my salary. 
"What colour?" I asked.

"Red," she said.

"It will be delivered to your door the day the Seattle 
Seahawks win the Super Bowl," I promised.

Satisfied, she advanced. "Okay," she said, hips swaggering and 
breasts swaying. "We play now."

We played like the Seattle Seahawks never had and never would. 
If you can compare sex to a game of football -- and in some 
respects you can -- then this was a war of attrition. Which 
she won. She must have, because I didn't know she'd left me 
until I woke and found her no longer there.

Tatyana took no prisoners. She beat me to a pulp. Maybe one 
day I'll find the courage to tell you about it.

* * *

Evgenya Pokutnya, who'd spent a night puking in my bathroom, 
was not only a customs inspector, she was a virgin. This was 
revealed to me by little Julia Korshenko, her friend, at yet 
another dubious restaurant the next night.

Aged 19 and just 5ft2in, Julia was the smallest of my Naughty 
Nine. I'd paid little attention to her, and she was only in 
the selection because she was one of the four pretty girls I 
met in a group on my first day in St. Petersburg. She was 
certainly very pretty. She looked sweet, soft, and innocent.

Turned out, she wasn't. Innocent, that is. She knew all about 
Evgenya's unhappy experience, and she made it clear from the 
outset she would not be travelling a similar path. She was not 
a virgin. Had not been since she was fifteen.

"Ev and Lina try to keep it for marriage," she confided. "So 
old-fashioned, no? Life is not so romantic."

Julia Korshenko had reason to be cynical. Ten months earlier 
her boyfriend, a junior Army officer, had been blown to bits 
by a car bomb in Chechnya. She did not seem bitter about it. 
It was, I guessed, the Russian way. But she certainly wanted 
out of St. Petersburg. She pitched herself with some 
determination - great cook, great housekeeper, frugal, wanted 
to raise a family, faithful, loyal, honest. And she'd sleep 
with me that night. Wanted to do it, looked forward to it. 

Yeah, sure. Why did these Russian girls place so much emphasis 
on being good little home-makers placed on this Earth solely 
to please men? This was the 21st century, not the 19th. As she 
leaned forward earnestly across the table, the top of her 
dress fell open. She had lovely, fleshy, soft, young breasts, 
from the tops I could see, and I came to the view that the 
19th century had its moments.

Little Julia was a little serious, but she was also a peach. 
She wore a near-ankle-length, dusty-blue, long-sleeved dress 
with a deep, square neckline. No bra. It was obvious from the 
way her breasts rolled and spread as she moved. Clear grey 
eyes, a longish, straight nose, and a red-rosebud mouth. She 
had long hair but drew it back behind her neck, and long 
strands fell loosely down the side of her face. Outstandingly 
pretty, fresh, clean, and young -- the sort of firm and juicy 
girl you'd like to slice up and serve with creamy vanilla ice-
cream for a refreshing and delicious dessert.

In my room, she simply melted into sex with me. No fuss, no 
drama, nothing super-charged. In truth, she was something of a 
lie-there-and-take-it sort of a girl, dictating nothing, 
demanding nothing. She was soft, feminine, smooth, easy, 
relaxed, and -- unless I wasn't seeing something -- perfectly 
happy. I sensed a culture of acquiescence, of knowing her role 
and what she should do and how she should behave. I was a man 
who wanted to fuck her, and she was a woman who was 
comfortable about being fucked, and who appeared to enjoy 
herself in a quiet and unassuming way.

A perfect candidate, little Julia. All she ever wanted to be 
was a good wife to a husband who loved and valued her. If 
there had been a report card, I'd have given her a triple-A 
rating. Only 19, quite lovely, and such an uncomplicated, nice 
girl, she was the proof of the claim that Russian women make 
wonderful wives because they know their place.

That place would not be with Ace Dyson, faker, dodger, fix-it 
man, and wary dingo. A lot of guys look for a woman who'll 
always be there for them. Not me. Maybe it's my suspicious 
nature. The women I follow greedily with my eyes are 
capricious. They are multi-faceted, and they change with the 
direction of the wind. They are unpredictable beasts. 

You know, it's men who are sentimental. Women rarely allow 
time for such indulgent frippery. They are essentially 
practical. I believe it has something to do with the structure 
of the pelvis.

I had plenty of opportunity to study Julia Korshenko's well-
formed but under-utilised pelvis. She stayed the night and the 
next day. We lazed, and rolled around comfortably. Your job, I 
asked? Fuck the job, she said, though more politely. She 
hadn't been paid in five weeks. It appeared employee benefits 
were somewhat uncertain in St. Petersburg, and throughout 
Russia. You worked and hoped to be paid for your efforts. 
Small wonder crime was more than just an alternative 
lifestyle.

* * *           

I'd barely waved off Julia in a cab when Larisa Filonenko 
arrived for her dinner date. Curses. I'd let the time get away 
from me, and you ought not do that when you're juggling nine 
sheilas on a tight schedule.

She was a bright and bubbly girl. Perhaps it covered 
nervousness, but it looked like that was the way she was. She 
had rich, glossy, auburn-tinted, breast-length hair, and she 
was model-height tall with a typically slim and elegant 
figure. She had the best legs I'd yet seen in Russia, and that 
was saying something. Exaggeration legs, they were. Almost 
impossibly long. Naturally she dressed to show them to 
advantage, in a short black dress with a transparent mesh 
panel across her tummy, matching stockings, and high but 
blocky heeled shoes.

Larisa's real charm, however, was above the neck. She was just 
that little bit monkey-faced, with cheeky eyebrows and lively 
eyes, and a curved mouth that looked like it was ready to 
laugh at any moment. That face had been her downfall, she 
revealed later. She'd almost been a successful model, but the 
agencies couldn't come to terms with her facial quirks. They 
decided she wasn't pretty enough.

Silly buggers. She was cute to the highest degree of 
definition of the word. And naughty. I just knew she was going 
to be naughty. Everything about her said so.

Having had appalling luck with recommended restaurants, I let 
Larisa lead the way to an unpretentious caf�. She said it was 
good, plain food. Well, it was better, if still stodgy. I was 
beginning to have serious doubts about Russian cuisine. Maybe 
a fine Russian cook was equivalent to an hilarious Swedish 
stand-up comedian - possible, but not likely.

Her English was barely sufficient but we surmounted 
awkwardness because she seemed breezily intent on having a 
good time. We went dancing at a nearby club, where she threw 
herself into whirling dervish gyrations with such heroic 
energy that she developed a fine moustache of perspiration 
beads above her upper lip. There's something about sweaty 
girls I can't resist. Perhaps it's the pheromones. Whatever, I 
was becoming seriously interested in keeping her. This one, I 
thought, was a gem.

She hadn't, though, made up her mind about whether or not she 
would sleep with me. Not that she spelled it out so precisely, 
but it's what she was thinking and what she meant. I was 
getting good at interpreting strangled English, occasional 
Russian, and the body language of St. Petersburg's women. 

I was fine with that. Really. These Russians were making me 
lazy, and I was starting to think that any woman would lie 
down with me as a matter of course. Sooner or later I would be 
returning to climates where such an attitude would convert me 
overnight to celibacy. Larisa's wake-up call was timely. But I 
really, really wanted her. I decided sophisticated seduction 
techniques learned in the demanding School of Trial and Error 
were needed.

"Larisa, come back to my room with me," I said.

"Okay," she said cheerfully.

"Let's go to bed," I said.

"Okay." 

Whew. I'd carried it off. It was touch-and-go there for a 
while. The pulling power of a simple request should never be 
under-estimated.

What a jolly dolly she was. A year-long flirtation with the 
model industry when she was sixteen had dissipated inhibitions 
about taking off her clothes. She knew how to stand, how to 
walk, how to look non-awkward when naked, and that's a talent 
some but not many women have instinctively. She also had an 
uninhibited, direct approach to sex. When it's time to do it, 
you do it. In my experience, models and nurses are like that, 
for opposite reasons. Models are accustomed to being stared 
at, and they generally have a narcissist, laissez faire 
attitude about sleeping with anybody, male or female, who 
hangs about long enough admiring them. Nurses deal daily with 
all that's not so beautiful about the human body. They tend to 
have a blunt and earthy approach to sex - like, let's do it 
immediately, in the brief time left while organs are still 
healthy and functioning.

Larisa Filonenko had fantastic legs. Naked, she stood 
straight, with her feet positioned just so. When she became 
horizontal, her knees were bent flexibly, never stiff and 
flat, one leg bent more, and one ankle placed correctly behind 
the other. I sat on the edge of the bed looking at them 
appreciatively for quite some time. She propped herself on 
straight arms and waited for me. She knew all about her legs.

She fucked competently but not inspiringly. That model thing. 
They can't help it. I grant you access to my splendid body. 
It's the approved access that's the important part, like 
logging in with a password. What follows is relatively 
mundane.

Look, I wasn't complaining. She was a terrific girl and I 
liked her a lot. But there was no spark to it. We were not 
made for each other. She would never fall in love with me, nor 
I with her.

She couldn't stay the night, because she had to be early at 
work to open her mother's florist shop. I got some good sleep. 
There was still much, or many, to be done.

* * *      

I don't wonder that lonely spies often become double agents. 
Left long enough to your own devices, your purpose becomes 
diluted by your environment, and you gradually take the shape 
of what you pretend to be. I looked at myself in the bathroom 
mirror and told myself ten times in succession that I was not 
actually in St. Petersburg to find a Russian wife. I had to 
stop giving these girls marks for marriage potential. There 
would be no Mrs. Dysonova.

Mission back on track, I rang and arranged a meeting with the 
blonde bookkeeper, Marina Kapralova. I intended strictly 
business, but she had other ideas. Yes, I did have an 
international driving licence. Yes, I could catch a cab to 
where she was currently working, a car dealer. And yes, why 
not pick up a spare car from the lot and go for a nice little 
spin in the countryside? Maybe a rural lunch? Sure, why not? 
Summer in St. Petersburg was apparently all too short, and the 
weather was certainly pleasant and mellow.

The spare vehicle off the lot turned out to be a stubby, 
shiny, brand-new Mercedes SLK open-top sports car straight off 
the show-room floor. Marina, who had fluent English, murmured 
to me to say nothing, act prosperous, and follow her lead. I 
shook firm handshakes with eleven men in a straight line, 
flashed my credentials briefly and discreetly to one of them 
at Marina's request, got behind the wheel of the sexy 
German beast, over-revved the engine, and took off way too 
fast, just like a rich and arrogant foreigner should.

Marina's luscious tits jiggled as she laughed. I'd never seen 
her in a dress not low-cut. She was a bit trampy -- yellow 
hair with dark roots, low-cut dresses, pushed-up breasts, 
unnecessarily dramatic make-up, a lot of gold jewellery, and 
cat's eyes promising mischief. No problem. I'd spent half my 
life with trampy women. It was comfortable ground.

I followed her directions through traffic as she explained the 
ruse about the car. She'd get a nice little bonus for 
introducing me. It didn't matter that I wouldn't be buying the 
car. She'd string it out for another six months with talk 
about me possibly setting up offices in St. Petersburg. 
Meanwhile, we had a nice car to drive into the country.

We did. Once out on the open road the SLK attached itself 
romantically to the bitumen and punched out its own space in 
the country air while the CD blasted heavy metal music. 
Shifting the gears, and with an easy blonde laughing beside 
me, I was as invincible as a crime boss and almost as 
dangerous.

Lunch was rustic. Sweet Russian beer, crusty home-made bread, 
chunky cheese, lots of exotic but strange-tasting relishes. 
Afterwards fresh strawberries and cream. The roadside inn had 
been there for three centuries, barely modernised, and it 
reeked of the days of imperialism, and dusty travellers in 
horse-drawn coaches.

We sat on hard seats on opposite sides of a thick, wooden 
bench. She leaned her elbows on the table and, like an 
imperialist courtesan, flowed the tops of her breasts in my 
direction. "They have rooms here," she said.

We grappled on a huge and hard four-poster bed. I suspected if 
I had the time to look underneath it, I'd find a warming pan 
with a long handle, and certainly a chamber pot ornamented 
with blue salamanders. Marina Kapralova tossed her hair and 
laughed a lot, showing even rows of clean, white teeth. Her 
pubic hair was as black as the Mercedes SLK outside in the car 
park, confirming the dark roots of the fraudulent corn-yellow 
hair on her head. Her thighs were a little chunky, and her 
breasts quite small. She was not an Anna Kournikova sibling. 

She had many faults, but she was the best shag I'd had in St. 
Petersburg because she was greedy and demanding. Knew how to 
do it, and knew how she wanted it done to her. This was the 
sort of sheila I was accustomed to -- not the soft, sighing, 
compliant servants of the past few nights. Plus she could 
swear properly in English, and that made me homesick.

"You're not going to marry me, you bastard," she said with 
quiet conviction as we lay face down, side by side, resting. 
"You're not going to marry any of us."

I turned my head and looked into her streetwise eyes. "I 
might," I said defensively. "You never know. I've been 
thinking I could do worse."

"Ace, I don't know what business you're up to, but it's not 
marriage business."

"Marina, what's your hourly rate?"

"Fuck off, Ace. You think I'm a prostitute?"

"No, for bookkeeping. Specifically, for bookkeeping advice."

"I take whatever work I can get."

"I'll pay you a thousand US dollars to mock me up an estimate 
of the books of Russian Radiance," I said.

She literally jumped in the air and landed sitting on my 
chest. "How much?"

"You heard. Can you do it?"

She considered, calculating. "Maybe. I can make a good guess 
at how many girls they have and I know how much they charge 
us."

"And I can tell you how much they charge me, right down the 
line. You should be able to make an educated guess at their 
administration costs."

"I think so," she agreed. "It's a deal. Why?"

"For a grand, I also get to keep my secrets," I said.

"For a grand, you also get more than one fuck after lunch," 
she said, reaching back to grab my soft penis. "Mr. Dyson, you 
can get anything you want."

* * * 

Lina Victorovna was a virgin. I knew this because her friend 
Julia told me, but I didn't know if she knew I knew. I had no 
compulsion to deflower her, and I didn't need the action 
because I was getting plenty, but it made our scheduled date 
interesting, to say the least.

She was 21 and smart. She looked great and she carried herself 
with a lot of confidence. She wore clothes as well as they 
could be worn, her English was excellent, and she had a tall, 
strong, and fit body. She wasn't truly pretty, but she had a 
face full of character, and she was certainly extremely 
attractive.

So why? She didn't look or act like a virgin, however 21-year-
old virgins look. What was the deal? Keeping it for her 
husband, as Julia said? Maybe, if she was old-fashioned. But 
it was unlikely to be as simple as that.
 
We didn't have dinner, opting instead for drinks in the hotel 
lounge. She talked easily about herself, and I was in good 
listening mode because I was curious.

This was her first experience at a marriage agency, as it was 
for her three friends. They'd all gone into it together. She 
did not have high expectations, but she knew she would 
struggle with her career and her hopes in St. Petersburg and 
she thought the foreign marriage thing was worth a try. If she 
did marry a local man it might be hard to carry on working, 
because traditional family values were set against it. I found 
that hard to believe, and prodded her further, which brought 
the Russian Orthodox Church into the picture. Her family 
was stoutly devout. She was heavily indoctrinated. So would be 
any man her family approved enough to marry -- except a 
foreigner, who would not be Russian and therefore could not be 
Russian Orthodox, so it didn't matter. Curious logic, but 
there it was.

It made convoluted sense, and it explained in part her intact 
circumstance. His Holiness, Patriarch Alexy II of Moscow and 
All Russia, sat perched on her shoulder. But the 15th 
Patriarch had no jurisdiction over foreigners, so sitting in a 
bar with Ace Dyson, heretic, was like having a get-out-of-jail 
free card at Monopoly. You could even contemplate sex with 
him, because God's CEO in Russia wasn't watching, couldn't 
even imagine it happening, and thus would never know.   

Anyway, that was my interpretation. She didn't say all that, 
of course. I put together the big picture from snapshots as 
she talked about her life and her aspirations. The four of 
them -- Lina, Evgenya, Julia, and Larisa -- had met through 
the All-Church Orthodox Youth Movement. Some took it more 
seriously than others, and family background played a 
substantial role. 

Lina had toured outside Russia as an occasional member of the 
Russian water polo team. She wasn't quite good enough, she 
said, to be a regular, but sometimes she won a place as a 
reserve because others were injured or unavailable. She'd been 
to Hungary, Poland, Spain, and Germany. She had a taste for a 
more emancipated life beyond St. Petersburg. She thought 
Sydney during the Olympic Games telecasts looked wonderful. 
And, although she did not say so, that was why she was here, 
offering me her virginity. It was time to take a chance, 
because the opportunity might not come again.

I'm not the most principled person you'd meet. I can't deny 
the flaws in my character that people point to, because my 
track record stands against me. It's been a lifelong struggle, 
but sometimes I really do try hard to be a gentleman.

"Lina," I said, "it's not compulsory that you sleep with me 
tonight."

She blinked, startled.

"I can see that you thought it was," I continued. "But you 
ought not go against your beliefs for a shameless 
opportunist like me. It's not very likely we will be married. 
Nothing personal, Lina, but it's not likely I will get married 
at all."

"But . . ."

"Things may not be what they seem," I said. "If I duped you 
into it, I couldn't look at my face in the mirror tomorrow." 
Well, for a few guilty minutes, anyway.

She sat back in her chair and thought about things for a 
while. "I think I'm disappointed," she said eventually.

"Sorry, but I don't think I'm worth marrying anyway."

"Not that," she said. "The other."

"Ah, the other. Lina, having saved it for so long, why would 
you give it away to a passing bandit like me?"

She blushed. "Somebody has been telling tales."

"You think that, when push came to shove, I wouldn't know?"

She blushed further. "I hear you're very experienced."

"Think about it, Lina. In a few days I'll be gone and I doubt 
I'll ever be back."

"Maybe that's what I want."

"Is it?"

She looked down deep into her drink. Then she looked up. 
"Yes," she said, clear-eyed and determined. "I've made up my 
mind. That's what I want."

Blahdfucken virgins. Some guys get off on it. Not me. If you 
have a shred of decency, and I hoped I still had a sliver or 
two, you have to accept the deflowering of virgins as 
something akin to being godfather at a christening. It's an 
obligation. Duty. Giri -- the Japanese word for the burden 
that must be borne. I was in for a slow and patient night.

When did I last do the virgin thing? This puzzled me as we 
rode the elevator to my room. It was years ago. Yes, that 
part-Greek girl. It had been a similar situation -- family 
pressure and traditional values, and she'd bottled it for too 
long. I'd picked her up at a party, although it might have 
been the reverse. She was 21. She was married now, with two 
kids. I bumped into her at a supermarket a few months ago, and 
she kissed me fondly on the cheek. "Ace, you bad man," she 
said, smiling, and she looked for a brief moment like she 
might cry.

Lina Victorovna marched into my room like a woman on a 
military mission. "Wait," I said, as she lowered the straps of 
her dress over her shoulders. "There's something I want to 
say."

She waited, hand suspended on her arm, fingers on the strap. 
Her eyes were questioning. Yes? Now what?

"At any time, you can stop and leave," I said. "At any time, 
without recrimination. If you call stop, I will stop." I 
gestured at her hand on her clothes. "And there's plenty of 
time. You don't need to get undressed immediately."

Her fingers worked at a short zip on the side of the dress. 
"The more we talk the more nervous I get," she said. "Let's 
get on with it."

She got on with it. Methodically, determined on her course, 
she undressed until she was naked, occasionally flicking a 
glance at me while I stood and watched her, and she sure was 
something to watch.

She stood casually, left hip stuck out, and folded her hands 
behind her back. Lovely. An agile, strong, lean, fit body, and 
without doubt she put constant work into it. The workout 
signs, the confidence, were unmistakable. Middle-sized breasts 
with just enough weight for a curving, graceful drop, slim 
hips, buttocks with a hint of muscle, pubic hair shaped for 
high-cut swimming costumes, long and shapely legs. She knew 
she looked good.

"Lina, you look far too good to be virginal," I said.

She stood openly, almost brazenly, unconcerned about my 
scrutiny. "I'm not exactly innocent, you know," she said. 
"I've been with men plenty of times." She smiled cynically at 
my raised eyebrows. "I stayed a virgin the usual way. Men are 
easy to please."

I took her in my arms and she folded into me. To begin, kiss. 
Kiss more, keep kissing. Kissing is sexy, kissing is intimate, 
kissing is non-threatening, kissing dismisses devils and 
doubts. Standing, we kissed often and long, and everything 
became languid and relaxed. My hands roved smoothly over her 
body. Gosh, but she was trim.

With her on the bed, now naked myself, I thought I would get 
her ready with my mouth and tongue, get her going, get her 
well down the path, but she would have none of it, and pushed 
my head away from her thighs unambiguously and with a flicker 
of irritation. Okay, back to kissing, this time horizontally. 
I kept my hands away from her pussy. She would tell me when 
she was ready.

When she was ready she didn't say a word, but she looked at me 
with the look that said it. I pushed into her in small 
increments, slowly, and stopped when I knew I must. She looked 
the look again, and I pushed through as smoothly as I could 
manage. Just a twitch of her mouth and a flicker of her eyes, 
nothing more, and I waited for the signal to continue. In such 
increments, I got in all the way. She smiled at me, pleased 
with herself, and I started to fuck her as gently as I could 
manage.

I'm just another bloke, not a worker of miracles. I've read 
about women having orgasms from first-time vaginal 
intercourse, and I guess it's possible. But not likely, I 
don't think. Lina Victorovna had no orgasm but she was happy. 
Very, very happy. She cried because she was so happy, and that 
made me happy too.

It stung, she said. Didn't really hurt, but stung. Yeah, 
that's what I'd heard, and I'd also heard it keeps stinging 
for a couple of days. She went into the bathroom for a long 
while. When she returned she cuddled into me and we fell 
peacefully asleep.

She left in the early morning, before the dawn. It meant we 
didn't have to talk much, and that was good, because I didn't 
want her to demean herself by saying thank you.       

* * *    

Ludmila Kolechko cancelled. She was entertaining a marriage 
proposal, according to Irina Mihailova's message, from the 
bearded Scot. Huh. I'd been gazumped by a middle-aged and 
hairy Scotsman. Well, I knew from a brief chat with him that 
he lived in Glasgow, which meant Ms. Kolechko would be finding 
out that the grass is not always greener on the other side of 
the fence. Glasgow, eh? Good grief. Best of luck, Ludmila. She 
didn't know it yet, but her new home would make St. Petersburg 
look like a fairy paradise in comparison.

* * * 

Curiosity kills cats, and it has landed me in deep shit more 
than a few times. I had selected Mariya Borozdina purely 
because of her tender age, and I was curious about why a girl 
of not much more than school age would want to put herself 
into the coarse and carnal hands of an older foreign man. It 
appeared, from discussions with other candidates, I now knew 
the answer, but -- hell and britches -- she was only just 
eighteen.

It turned out she lied about her age. But I'm getting ahead of 
myself.

Mariya rang and suggested what sounded like an interesting 
alternative to our scheduled dinner date. I would go to her 
place, where she lived with her family, for a typical Russian 
home-cooked meal. Her family. Hmm. I pictured a grizzly bear 
of a man, unshaven, growling at me sitting beside his darling 
daughter while spearing boiled potatoes directly from the 
cooking pot with a long-blade hunting knife. Curiosity won 
out, however, and I went.

She was a little cutie, with great big dimples in her cheeks 
and a smile that would soothe the breast of a vicious guard 
dog. She met me in the street outside, which was just as well, 
because she lived in a grim, rectangular apartment block that 
appeared to have more rooms in it than a high-security prison. 
The elevator didn't work, and we climbed a dank and suspicious 
staircase to the seventh floor. She skipped ahead of me 
excitedly in a short black skirt and a black tee-shirt, curly 
red-brown hair bobbing. Not unusually, her legs were long and 
just terrific. Female tourists insecure about their legs 
should stay the hell away from St. Petersburg.

The apartment was a warren of small rooms but surprisingly 
cheerful. One reason was that there was no dour dad carrying 
vodka bottles by the neck, as I had feared. Three apparently 
happy females lived in the place -- Mariya, her mother, and 
her younger sister. All three fluttered around me as if I were 
a rich uncle bearing gifts. Fortunately I'd stopped along the 
way to pick up a huge bunch of pale yellow roses.

It's a clich� but it's also a fact that Olga Borozdina looked 
too young to be the mother of these two girls. She looked and 
acted like an older sister. Oddly, she was the shortest of the 
three, and fourteen-year-old Ksenia was the tallest. Mrs. 
Borozdina's English was nil, Ksenia's not much better, and 
cutie Mariya's was basic, learned at school.

A pale vegetable soup, followed by an aromatic mutton stew, 
and indeed there were boiled potatoes aplenty, and finally a 
rich chocolate cake. All unfussy, but fine fare. A wholesome 
night, friendly, with three women smiling and laughing. They 
were bursting with questions about me and what I did and where 
I lived. By keeping it simple, we talked for two hours.

Mariya stood at the table. "Now we go to bed," she said. I 
looked around quickly. Fuck. She meant me. No doubt about it, 
and nobody else but me seemed taken aback. Her mother and 
sister simply smiled.

Er, right. Feeling ridiculously unsophisticated, I stood and 
thanked Olga Borozdina for a wonderful dinner. She patted my 
hand affectionately. I turned to little-big Ksenia, and was 
met by a searing and lustful gaze that shocked me all over 
again. Christ Almighty. The girl was fourteen. She shouldn't 
know how to do sinful things like that.

It was a double bed in a room softly-lit and obviously 
prepared for the occasion. On the dressing table was a small, 
framed wedding photo. "My father died in a rail accident," 
Mariya said, noticing me looking at it. "I was only ten."

"This is your mother's bedroom," I said.

"Yes. I have to share a room with Ksenia."

Shit. This was now distinctly past starting to feel not so 
good. "Mariya, you don't have to do this," I said. "It's been 
a nice night. I should just go home."

She ripped the black tee-shirt over her head. Lovely little 
tits. No bra, which I hadn't noticed. "Not go home," she said. 
"Come to bed."

I hovered uncertainly. She flicked a button and wriggled, and 
the skirt fell down her legs. Quickly she bent and took down 
her pants. "Ace, come to bed," she insisted.

In my next life I fully intend to be a priest. I will be a 
saintly man and I will never do wrong. I will be able to turn 
aside from smooth-skinned, clean-limbed, delectable teenage 
girls who look so young and fresh you just know it has to be a 
crime. But that's in the next life. In this one, beyond 
redemption, I was a dead duck.

She cuddled me eagerly under the sheets in her mother's bed, 
and her hand went straight to my rampant and evil cock. "Dear 
God," I muttered. "Mariya, please tell me you're not a 
virgin."

She laughed deep in her throat. "No bloody way, Aussie."

And no way was she. Her hands were too sure of themselves, for 
a start. She knew when it was time, and opened for me with the 
smooth proficiency of a woman who knows what works best for 
her, and how and when. She'd done this often enough to be at 
ease with it.

Such a small girl, breadth and width, and so elastically tight 
it was difficult to maintain control. Gripped so snugly, it 
made me want to holler, make a fist, and go for broke 
immediately. No no, Ace. Hold your horses. I was the senior 
partner here by a long, long way, and I had to do my best for 
this pretty little thing. 

I did her good. I did her better than any of them in St. 
Petersburg. I felt I owed it to her to give my best. With 
her mother looking on from the picture frame on the dresser, I 
ploughed Mariya Borozdina's tight furrow with all the 
expertise that experience had taught me. I did her good. 
Believe me, I did.

"You are my best lover," she said, lying beside me with an arm 
thrown possessively across my chest. "I am happy to marry 
you."

Cat-killing curiosity resurfaced, pushing away a twinge of 
guilt. "How many lovers have you had?"

"Some," she said. "I start young. I also go to bed with four 
foreign men before you. In hotel room. They not very good."

"Dirty old swine," I said, meaning it and sidestepping 
hypocrisy. "You didn't invite them home?"

"No, first time with you. We try new scheme."

"We?"

"Sure. My family. We all try to get me married and away from 
home. We all be better off."

I needed to avoid this, so I took a couple of steps back. "Did 
those other foreign men realise how young you were? You must 
have been only seventeen."

She giggled furtively. "Sixteen. I lie to agency about my age. 
Must be eighteen to take part. I only turn seventeen three 
days ago. Don't tell."

Don't tell? You bet your sweet little under-age tits, darling. 
Shame surged through all my canals. Down in Hell, they were 
building an honour board just for me. When I arrived there'd 
be a ticker tape parade.

I lay paralysed by guilt. Ace Dyson, bastard, schoolgirl-
fucker, and I wasn't even going to marry her like she so much 
wanted. Jesus. I didn't know if I could marry her. It might 
well be illegal. Hang on, the mother would gladly give 
consent. She was in it up to her neck. Visions ran fast-
forward in my mind. Me, arriving in Sydney with a schoolgirl 
bride. Mariya beside me with my pals at the football. Shit. 
The Colonel. Would she understand? Sure, like hell she would.

Mariya snuggled up closer. "You marry me," she said, "and then 
we bring mother and Ksenia to live with us in Australia. You 
get me, you get mother, you get Ksenia, all make you very 
happy man."

My fast-forward visions collapsed. I was doomed, and I 
deserved to be.

"Sleep now," she said. "You rest."

I woke with a start when she slid into the bed. She must have 
left me for a time. She pulled up the blankets and pressed her 
warm body against mine, and I slept again. And again woke, 
because she was whispering in my ear. "Ace," she said, I think 
for the second or third time. "She is very nice woman."

What? Who? Not the one standing, bending over, and speaking 
into my ear, obviously. Mariya was probably talking about the 
one huddled next to me in the bed, the one stroking my erect 
penis.

What? Who? I searched with my hands. A softer woman, smaller. 
Eek, it was my prospective mother-in-law, and she was clearly 
looking to know me better.

"Very nice woman," Mariya repeated, soothingly and 
insistently. "You are best lover. You love her too."

Mariya left and shut the door quietly, leaving me with her 
mother and without choice. What the hell else was I supposed 
to do? Kick her out of her own bed? Oh well, at least she 
wasn't under age.

I did Olga pretty good too, not because I was concentrating, 
but because I wasn't. I did her dreamily, dispassionately, 
mechanically, but the effect was pretty good because I was 
slow, smooth, patient, relaxed. She clutched, sighed, and 
moaned, and when she came she babbled off a stream of Russian 
that was starting to sound familiar. Maybe I should find out 
what it meant.

I woke again and pre-dawn light was tinting the small, square 
window. Mariya was lying beside me again, behind me, 
whispering in my ear. "She is very beautiful. Only two lovers 
but they just boys. She love you, Ace."

What? Who? Oh shit. The one with the long leg thrown over my 
body, the one with the muscle-hard lump of a breast prodding 
my chest, the one with the damp and furry snatch gliding 
adamantly along my thigh. Ksenia.

Instantly awake, I sat bolt upright, scattering them both. "No 
fucking way," I said loudly. "She's fourteen."

Mariya's hand was on my shoulder, pressing me down into the 
bed. It was bloody cold, so I slid back down under the 
blankets, and both of them were on me in a flash. "She love 
you very much," said Mariya into my ear, as Ksenia angled her 
crotch into my hipbone and slid her leg against mine.

Yeah, sure. They all did in this household. It was the 
Borozdina Bonus Package. Buy one, get two more thrown in. I'd 
walked wide-eyed into a honey-pot mantrap.

More than two hands were all over me. I lay on my back, 
looking at the ceiling in the grey light, and just for a 
fleeting second I thought I saw tiny demons writhing and 
dancing in the mottled shadows. Yeah, yeah, I was going to 
Hell. Bugger off, demons. Tell me something I don't already 
know, or get thee behind me. For the third time that night, I 
put my hand on a female thigh, and Ksenia acquiescently rolled 
on her back and parted her legs.

Oh yes, she certainly felt young. There was a certain silky, 
smooth, and lean-muscled feel to her body. Mature women are 
generally soft, young ones much less so. The exception was the 
breast. It was very firm, quite hard, but the nipple was soft 
and imprecise. She wasn't the first 14-year-old I'd covered 
with my body, but she was the first since I was fourteen 
myself.

She wasn't tight to get into but, oh my, she was tight when I 
was in. It was a grip like a curled fist. She was terribly 
excited, trembling with it, and there was a sharp little 
insistent jab against the base of my cock when it lodged 
snugly and securely inside her. She was going to go off like a 
New Year's Eve skyrocket.

The light was growing in strength, and I could see a flat, 
smug little smile on her face. And in her grey eyes, 
unmistakable lust. Mariya had snuggled up beside us, and her 
hand was gentle in the small of my back. I waited while Ksenia 
adjusted to having me inside her, and the illicit thrill of it 
all made the air heavy and still.

I began to move, and immediately her eyes widened and she let 
out a slow hiss. Whoa. This filly was in the home straight 
before the race had barely started. I guessed, knowing the 
family plan, she'd been building up to it all through the 
night.

I did Ksenia good, too. Not that it was all that problematic, 
because she so much wanted it so. All I had to do was live up 
to her expectations, and after trigger-happy fumbling boys, 
that was easy.

Not that easy. She was so damned tight, and her own tiny 
diamond-hard trigger was nipping at me, that I had to clench 
my jaw to maintain control. The resulting bared teeth and 
snarl, as I loomed over her, made her blink in alarm. But 
Mariya, watching, clucked soothingly and stuck a finger in her 
mouth. Ksenia accepted it immediately, sucking.

Wham. She went off like an alarm clock, instantly, without 
warning. She issued a strangled wail that sounded like it was 
running backwards, and she thrust her hips so hard at me on 
the upstroke I nearly fell out and off.

Quietly, quietly, I waited, moving gently and never quite 
stopping, and then she was back again, greedily wanting more. 
Off to the side, Mariya was examining her finger. It was 
punctured and bleeding.

The girl wanted more. But it was my turn, and I wasn't going 
to wait, and she would have to find her own way with me if she 
could. I started to fuck her hard.

I shoved into her, letting all of Ace go. No matter who they 
brought in next, there was no more left this night. Ksenia had 
the last of me, and I slumped, sapless, already slipping away 
to a dark and peaceful place.

I woke alone, and heaved a sigh of relief. There's such a 
thing as too much, and I still had six days left in St. 
Petersburg. I dressed and found my way cautiously to the 
bathroom, and then the kitchen. Three women beamed cheerfully 
at me. Breakfast, and plenty of it, was going on the table. 
Mrs. Borozdina, smiling affectionately, gestured me to a 
chair.

Guilt was eating such a hole in my guts I feared the black 
coffee would leak out through it. These three sheilas had put 
a lot of work into me. Now I was going to walk out and never 
see them again. There would be no proposal, no engagement, no 
marriage, no instant extended family, and no sunny days in 
Sydney.

They were still wearing nightgowns. Mariya's was semi-
transparent and she was wearing not a damned thing underneath. 
Her fabulous legs looked fabulous. Wow. Olga's nightgown was 
long, but it gaped open as she bent over the table and her 
ample breasts swayed in front of my face. Whew. Ksenia's 
nightgown was very short, as if she'd outgrown it suddenly. In 
the corner of the room she was squatting on her haunches, 
pouring milk into a bowl for the cat. I looked up her legs at 
the dark, hairy, forbidden valley I had explored not long ago. 
Whoa.

If I didn't get out of here soon, I might never leave.

* * *

Milena Bizyuk was my Anna Kournikova. Not that she looked like 
the beautiful baseline blonde. Not remotely. But she was your 
classic Russian long-haired blonde, the genuine article. She 
had green -- really green -- eyes, and she stood tall and 
straight with such poise, style, and grace that you felt like 
breaking into applause.

She presented regally because she was a dancer. She played the 
piano, she had danced since she was small, and now she was a 
choreographer and dance teacher. She wanted desperately to 
continue her career in the West, with good reason. Here she 
was just another dancer among thousands. There she would be 
special. 

She came visiting in a tiny black skirt, a tight black top 
buttoned all the way up to the neck, thick black stockings, 
and shiny knee-high black boots with square but high heels. 
She was also carrying a sizeable pink sports bag.

Milena stood before me, upright, back straight, hair falling 
in waves over her shoulders and down her back, green eyes 
regarding me steadily. "Maybe," she said, as if to herself.

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe you are the one," she said, although she sounded 
dubious. She had a long, straight, aristocratic nose. She was 
a knockout, but I no longer had a glass jaw. These beautiful 
Russians were not paralysing me any more.

"What's in the bag?" I asked.

"You don't want me to stay the night? The others did." Her 
English was good enough to convey a smudge of contempt.

"Bad experiences?"

She hadn't yet cracked a smile. "Do you care?"

Interesting. This one came without cream and sugar. Well, it 
was a change. "Dinner?" I asked.

"Not especially. I have to watch my figure."

"I'll watch it for you," I said automatically, and wished I 
hadn't. No smile. No nothing. She stood there, pink bag beside 
her, waiting.

"My room, then?" I ventured.

She picked up her bag. Yep, that was the right call. In the 
elevator she continued to study me gravely, and insecurely I 
felt I was being found wanting. But maybe it was just those 
disconcerting green eyes.

Milena Bizyuk tossed the bag smoothly on the bed and looked at 
herself in the mirror. She turned slightly one way, then the 
other.

"Classically trained?" I asked.

"Of course."

"Bolshoi?"

Still looking at the mirror, she switched her eyes to mine 
and, for the first time, smiled. But thinly. "Mr. Dyson," she 
said wryly. "It is easier for you to become an astronaut than 
for me to dance at the Bolshoi."

"Cr�me de la cr�me?"

"The top one percent of one percent. And I am too tall and too 
heavy."

I knew from her bio she was 5ft6in and 114lb. "I never saw 
anybody who looked more like a dancer," I said.

"You like dance?"

"I don't dislike it."

"Shall I dance for you?"

"Milena, I think you must."

She twiddled the dials on the room radio and settled on a 
piece of sombre classical music I did not recognise. She set 
herself, and slipped away smoothly into slow and seductive 
routines, hands graceful, always moving, head high, neck 
arched. She made barely a sound, though she was wearing block-
heeled boots. She did not look at me once. Like a deadly 
serious musician, she seemed immersed in what she was doing. 
She stopped when the music did, and looked at herself once 
more in the mirror.

"You are a beautiful woman and a beautiful dancer," I said, 
without faking it, because it was true.

"Four months ago," she said, "I danced naked every night, in 
public, for twenty performances. It was a naked ballet."

"Gosh," I said, impressed. "That can't have been easy."

Now she smiled. "It was exhilarating. Shall I dance for you 
again?"

"I shall die a wretched beggar if you don't."

She smiled openly at me now. Some women you talk to, some you 
listen to, others you watch when they dance.

She flicked open the small buttons on her vest top, one by 
one, and peeled it away. No bra, and the smallest breasts I'd 
yet seen in Russia, but cute. The boots unzipped, and so did 
the skirt. She sat beside me on the bed and unrolled the black 
woollen pantyhose, and finally, down came her black pants.

Dear me. Deary, deary me. She was all-blonde from head to 
foot, and that is so rare. On her forearms, little golden 
hairs. On her tummy, a fine down you wouldn't see unless it 
was against the light. And between her legs, pubic hair of 
burnished gold -- not of course the same colour, tone, and 
texture as that on her head, but gilt-edged, true-blue, sure-
thing blonde.

She extracted a cassette player from her pink bag, and stood 
in the centre of the room. "Hair pinned up?" she asked 
politely.

"God, no. Let it flow."

Once again, that little curled-lip smile, that touch of amused 
contempt, as she stood prettily with ankles crossed and hands 
resting lightly on her hips. What was behind it? What did it 
mean?

"This is my solo dance from the ballet," she said. "It's 
called, 'Genitals'."

The music was slow, squeaky, discordant, jazzy, much of it 
delivered by a scratchy-sounding, off-key saxophone. Her dance 
seemed less of a dance and more a series of exaggerated poses 
-- slow hand sweeps and body stretches, a lot of it on the 
floor. Much wide open leg stuff, pelvis thrust out 
aggressively.

Genitals, yes. That's indeed what the dance was all about. 
Elementary, when you thought about it. Milena Bizyuk was the 
Golden Pussy. She didn't need to shave to show the shape of 
her sex. The hair around it was transparently light. As she 
twisted on the floor, rolling, crawling, stretching and 
flexing, nothing was bearded or disguised. She didn't even 
have tits to distract you from it. Well, she did, but they 
were sharp little pointed things that gravity seemed not to 
influence.

"Awesome," I said, when it was over. Artists must have 
applause, in some fashion. "You must have been the star of the 
show."

That smile. "I was."

She sauntered over to the bed and flopped on her back. She 
even managed that elegantly. The Golden Pussy was on display, 
it was irresistible, and Milena Bizyuk knew it very well.

I dipped my head and ran my lips through that soft, fine, 
spun-gold hair, and she sighed contentedly and spread her 
legs. So. Pussy licking was on the agenda, for the first time 
in my Russian experience. Others hadn't looked for it, hadn't 
seemed to consider it. Russian sex, thus far, had been 
heterosexually straight and traditional. But the Golden Pussy 
was special, obviously. Yeah, fair enough, it was. I bent my 
head to the task.

I lapped, teased, poked, and nibbled to the best of my 
ability, and she wriggled, urged, and sighed her way to what 
looked and sounded to me like a highly satisfactory result. I 
lifted my head, pleased with my efforts, and met her green-
eyed gaze. "Not too bad," she said patronisingly. Still that 
lilt of contempt in her voice.

Not too bad? She made it sound like a C+. Oh yeah? Compared to 
what, lady?

"I have a live-in lover," she said, anticipating my query. 
"She is a woman."

I started laughing, and then I couldn't stop. For some reason, 
it struck me as hugely funny. I fell over on the bed and 
laughed so long it nearly hurt. It was just so completely 
unexpected. The prospect of a lesbian on the desperate foreign 
bride market was deliciously ironic.

She waited patiently, faintly amused, for me to finish. "Oh 
dear," I said, wiping my eyes with the back of my hand. 
"Milena Bizyuk, you must be the naughtiest woman in all St. 
Petersburg. What on earth are you doing here?"

She propped her golden head on a hand. "I can't get out of 
Russia any other way," she said calmly and without 
embarrassment. "I've tried, but my dancing is not enough. I 
need a Western husband."

"A very understanding husband?" I suggested.

"I was hoping it might be you."

"You are a beautiful woman and a beautiful dancer. 
Unfortunately, I will not be marrying anybody this trip. 
But I promise to keep you in mind. I've always fancied a 
marriage of convenience."

She bounced off the bed and began putting on her clothes. 
"You're okay, Ace," she said. "Not too bad at all."

"For a man," I added wistfully.

She didn't stay the night. In fact she didn't stay five more 
minutes, and I didn't blame her one bit. Why would she?

* * * 

Marina Kapralova spread herself over the sheets on my bed, 
fucked and lethargic. I sat at the desk, looking at her 
occasionally in the mirror, and glanced through Marina's 
spreadsheets on the operations of Russian Radiance.

It wasn't evidence because so much was based on supposition, 
but the figures told a story that looked and smelled true. 
Certainly there was a substantial shortfall somewhere. With 
the definite knowledge that regular payoffs were being made to 
a crime syndicate, it was simple to conclude why the profit 
line was in trouble. Based on Marina's figures, it looked like 
the protection racket was costing Russian Radiance around 
$US30,000 per month.

"Good job, doll," I said over my shoulder. "I love you."

She rolled over on the bed. "So marry me and take me to your 
beautiful country," she said.

"Can't," I said. "But I'll give you one thousand dollars in 
compensation."

"You think you can buy me off, you kangaroo bastard?"

"Yes."

"Quite right. But no cheques, please. I can only be bought for 
cash."

Marina Kapralova was okay. She might have been rough and 
ready, but I liked her best.
      
* * *

I was sitting at the table in my room, hammering on my Compaq 
Notebook and working on my Russian Radiance report for the 
Colonel. The work had to be done. She'd expect it immediately 
on my return, and I'd left the last night in St. Petersburg 
free for that purpose.

I expected room service at the door, not Lina Victorovna and 
Evgenya Pokutnya. Especially not Evgenya. Last time I'd seen 
her she had a terrible case of Terminal Embarrassment.

"Let's go back to square one," offered Lina brightly, while 
Evgenya looked anywhere but at me.

I blocked the doorway suspiciously. "Remind me."

"I offered to act as interpreter on Ev's date with you."

"I remember," I said. "And I said -- only if you're interested 
in a threesome."

They stood there, saying nothing. My mouth dropped open. 
"You're kidding. You two? In a threesome?"

Lina blushed. She did that a lot. "Not exactly, but I thought 
Ev deserved another chance."

Perhaps she did. Everybody has spew horror stories in their 
past. I stood aside and ushered them in. They sat together on 
the couch. 

"Ladies, I'm going home tomorrow, and I want to be fair," I 
said. "There will be no last-minute marriage proposals."

"It's not that," said Lina. Her friend seemed to be occupied 
looking out the window at the lights of the city. "We had a 
talk, and Ev thinks it's time."

Sometimes I can be slow, but not that slow. Ms. Pokutnya was 
up for defloration. I saw it. It made sense in a roundabout 
manner. Four friends, and now only Ev qualified for the 
nunnery. I might have earned a good report card from Lina. 
Maybe Julia and Larisa as well. Three mouseketeers plus Ev 
d'Artagnon, who might have made it but she threw up on the 
carpet. She'd have little to talk about when the four got 
together for lunch.

"Okay," I said carefully. "I can see where Ev fits in, but 
what's the lovely Lina going to do?"

Again Lina blushed. "She wants me to stay."

"And do what?"

The blush persisted. "Interpret."

"Interpret what?"

She flashed her eyes at me angrily. "I don't know, but I know 
I have to stay."

Well, it had to be done. Once again I appeared inexorably 
obliged. Not that it wasn't without appeal, mind you. Pretty 
Evgenya had never quite disappeared from my memory bank, and 
Lina's uncertain but attending role leant the situation an 
exotic flavour rapidly gaining my attention.

"I have to go down to the front desk," I said, which was true. 
"If you can tear her away from the view, settle her in bed 
while I'm gone."

I was gone 25 minutes. Russian administration is not famous 
for its efficient brevity. The room was dimly lit by one small 
bedlamp, and Ev's face watched me from a pillow. The rest of 
her was fully covered by sheets and blankets. Over at the 
table, Lina sat in the shadows. Showtime.

I disrobed and headed for bed. I had worked up a head of steam 
about this event, and I was ready, an upstanding man, to do my 
duty. Ev's face, up closer, appeared indistinctly 
apprehensive. I couldn't believe, at the age of 20, that she'd 
never seen a stiff dick before, but maybe she hadn't looked at 
such close range at one that was imminently going to spear her 
in a warm and tender place. I backed off, went around the 
other side of the bed, and slid quietly beneath the sheets.

She was on her back, and I slid my hand over and gently ran it 
over her bare tummy. For goodness sake, she tensed like a 
patient about to go under the dentist's drill. It was early 
days, but the devirgining of Evgenya Pokutnya, railway station 
customs inspector, was not going well.

I snuggled up to her in friendly daddy bear fashion. For 
goodness sake, she was laid out in the bed like a cadaver on a 
morgue table -- legs straight, arms straight, fists clenched, 
jaw set, eyes fixed on the ceiling. I had been thinking I 
might kiss her, but you can't kiss a rigid corpse.

In a shaky voice, Ev spoke some Russian. "What is she saying?" 
I asked Lina in the shadows.

Lina sighed audibly. "She thinks you are too big for her."

"Silly girl. I wasn't too big for you."

"No." She sighed again. "She wants me beside her."

"Then you'd better do it, Lina, because this isn't happening."

She appeared and sat on the edge of the bed beside her friend. 
They talked, and then Lina stood, took off her dress, and got 
into the bed. They talked some more. "Okay," Lina said to me. 
"You can proceed."

"Do I have to?" I complained, but keeping the complaining tone 
out of my voice so Ev wouldn't know. "This is turning out to 
be less fun than a seminar on testicular cancer." 

"Please," she said. "You must kiss her."

Ev allowed herself to be kissed, and that was nice. She was a 
sweet and lovely girl, if spectacularly timid. Lina's close 
presence, and she was so close I could smell her, seemed to be 
making a difference. Things were warming up.

We kissed, and things warmed up a lot. A whole lot. Ev rolled 
over, facing me, clamping to me, and behind her Lina settled 
into the bed and eased closer. My roving hands were meeting no 
resistance now, and I reached out and found Lina too. She was 
pressed into Ev's back.

Much better. In fact, pretty good. In fact, getting hot. Ev 
was loosening up by the minute, but the heavy breathing was 
coming from Lina. Interesting.

"Tell me when she's ready," I said softly. "But don't ask her. 
Find out for yourself."

I heard a sharp intake of breath from Lina, and her hands 
moved to comply. She ran a hand along my cock in the process. 
"You're ready," she said. "That much I can tell."

Lina did some work, and I didn't get in the way. Whatever she 
was doing worked fine, because Ev was sighing and murmuring 
little bits of Russian, and she rolled on her back and spread 
her legs.

"Ev is ready," Lina said with some certainty.

"Stay close," I said, moving into position. "And get out of 
that underwear."

I was on top of Ev, kissing her ardently, and I reached out to 
confirm she was doing it. My hand closed around Lina's shapely 
breast. "You're also on the menu," I said, "so don't go away."

"I won't," she said. "But Ev first."

Things had changed almost magically. Ev was as slippery as an 
eel, and she squirmed and wriggled to get me inside her. She 
thought I was too big for her? Jesus, I went in so easily you 
could be mistaken for thinking she was a call girl on her 
fifth customer for the night. It was so easy the hymen went 
down in the first smooth push, and it went down without even 
token resistance.

In to the hilt, I waited like I should wait for a virgin to be 
relatively comfortable. Ev didn't want to wait. She thrust at 
me with her pelvis. Go on, she was saying. Don't spare the 
horses.

I stopped being virgin-conscious. Caution didn't seem to be 
needed or wanted. I fucked her like I'd fuck a woman I'd had 
many times before.

Ev had natural talent. She picked up the rhythm immediately. 
She was one of those females who seem to suck you inside, draw 
you in, ride you instinctively like you were a 500 cc 
motorbike. It was two people doing it, not one to the other.  

She started the Russian babble I'd heard a few times now in 
St. Petersburg. First time, and she was going to get there. 
Whether it was me, her, Lina, two of us, or all three of us, 
whatever it was, the Goddess of Fucking was smiling down on 
little Ev. I fucked her long and smooth, and I thought I'd get 
to watch when she came, but Lina's urgent hands were suddenly 
all over me, and that brought me undone in a flash. Ev was 
racked in the throes of orgasm but so was I. I heard it and 
felt it but I didn't see it, because my head was up, mouth 
open, eyes screwed shut. Damn. A debut gold medal. I really 
wanted to see that, and I missed it.

"I'm so jealous," said Lina, close to my ear. 

Huh? Oh yeah. I was lying foggily on top of Ev, and maybe I'd 
been there a little longer than a gentleman should. I eased 
carefully away and flopped down between the two of them. 
"You'll have to wait," I said to her. "That was a ball-
tearer."

Ev's hand reached out and found my face. She raised her head, 
pressed a hand briefly against my lips, and fell back against 
the pillow. I think it was a kiss -- all the amount of kiss 
she could currently muster.

Later I fucked Lina, while Ev snuggled up close. But Lina 
didn't get her gold medal. She would have to stay jealous.

Both girls still lived with their parents, and they went home 
soon after midnight. I didn't try to dissuade them. I was all 
fucked out in St. Petersburg.

* * *

By arrangement, Irina Mihailova was at the airport to see me 
off. I told her it wasn't her fault I was leaving without a 
prospective bride. She'd done her best but I wasn't ready, and 
that was all my fault.

She shrugged. "Maybe you'll come back when you are ready for 
us," she said. "Maybe you'll come back to see me."

"Maybe," I said. "But I'll need twelve months to recover 
first."

Maybe she wouldn't be in business another year, because my 
report recommended Pacific Rimfire get out of the marriage 
business with all possible speed. Maybe I should have been 
feeling guilty. I'd fucked the boss, nine of her girls, and 
two of their close relatives.

I was thinking about telling Irina the truth when I got 
distracted. An impossibly tall blonde walked past, towing a 
luggage cart. She was wearing a Lufthansa uniform and an 
expression of utter loathing and contempt -- not for me, but 
for every person in the terminal. I clamped Irina's cheeks 
with my hands and kissed her hard on the mouth. "See you," I 
said, and scampered after the towering stewardess like a 
beagle with its nose to the scent.

"Enschuldigen Sie," I gasped, catching up with her. She paused 
and looked down at me. Man, she was high -- 6ft2in at least. 
"Going to Rome, by any chance?"

"Ja," she said, frowning.     

Fabulous. "Klasse Erste?" I asked.

"Ja."

Even better.

Piss off, Russian Radiance. You didn't have the world mortgage 
on tall blondes. High-flying Lufthansa was about to bring me 
down to earth.

"Look for me on the flight," I said to her.

"You?" She curled her lip. It was not a smile. "I don't think 
so," she said.  

* * *

The view from the Colonel's office was magnificent -- the 
harbour, the bridge, the Opera House, she had it all. It was 
winter but the sun shone fiercely. The harbour was choppy, and 
ferry boats bobbed and struggled against a strong breeze. So 
clean, so open-aired, so shiny. Back in St. Petersburg the 
summer was ending. The days would become shorter, and bright 
hopes for a better life would diminish with the waning of a 
weakening sun.

But they were Russians, and they'd been running that seasonal 
and emotional gauntlet for a thousand years. Nothing would 
change a fraction because Ace Dyson had been there.

The Colonel finished my report and slapped it on her desk. She 
looked at me long and hard, and I wished she would not, 
because she was starting to know me much too well.

"You know," she said, as if thinking out loud, "I have this 
feeling that I've just paid good money for the sex holiday of 
a man's dreams. What would you say to that, Dyson?"

"I would say nothing, ma'am, because whatever I say will not 
change your opinion."

She pursed her mouth. "I also have this feeling that we were 
looking for a sophisticated solution to a simple problem, and 
that one phone call might have done the job. What would you 
say to that?"

"We were not to know, ma'am."

"No," she agreed. "And we do have a result, because Pacific 
Rimfire will sell its interest in Russian Radiance immediately 
to a German buyer, and hold all further investment plans in 
Russia until law and order re-asserts itself."

"A sensible strategy, ma'am."

"In the circumstances, Dyson, we will keep any doubts about 
your adventure to ourselves. Let California assume we are both 
brilliant, yes?"

"Indeed, ma'am."

She sat back and relaxed. "These girls you interviewed. Were 
they beautiful?"

"Not at all, ma'am. Quite ordinary. Nothing special."

"Liar," she said. "I've seen the catalogues. I was half 
expecting you to bring back a young Russian bride."

"Impossible, ma'am. I'm already married -- to my job."

"Get out of here, Dyson," the Colonel said mildly. "And clean 
up the horse shit on the carpet on your way out."

ENDS

Edited by Ruthie and Nat

* DrSpin/Neil Anthony is at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

* also at neil@ruthiesclub.com and at http://www.ruthiesclub.com

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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