The Russian Wife Ch. 03

But the policeman looked at me with no particular expression, just as I had become a part of the landscape. Doctor Rossi (in Western Europe, "doctor" is the title of all graduates, not necessarily in medicine) "kvartira" number X, had one girlfriend. Just a friend. And just one.

The only difference was that this time I had to go to the "Kvartìra", the flat, of "Doctor Rossi", so the policeman needed my documents. He asked me politely, "Pojàluista", to give my inner passport. And I gave it to him.

"Doctor Rossi" accompanied me to his flat, asking me how I felt. He was even more caring than usual: he was worried for me. I was entrusting myself to him, he had, so to say, the command of the operations, and as any good commander, he felt more the responsibilities than the perks of the position. The policeman had surely drawn his own conclusions, seeing me going up with him. Till then, I could be a honest girl with an innocent friendship with an expat. But not now. And with my documents, they knew who I was, where I lived, and everything. He thought it could cause me some problems, on the job, or for other matters. On the other hand, he knew: that day, for me, was very more important than a simple bit of sex. Really: "the first day of the second part of your life"...

"No worry," I smiled. "I know what I am doing!"

He shrugged and smiled too, and then he led me to the kitchen and show me what he had buyed, following my istructions. I wanted to cook for him an onion soup, my speciality (when I found the onions, of course). If it had to be a capitulation, I decided, it had to be so all down the line. A whore goes to bed with a man, but she does not cook for him. Officially, we had met for to eat together, as always, so first, I would have given him something to eat. And then, the rest...

I prepared the soup while he set up the table. He had an Italian kitchen. More elegant that ours, made in Eastern Germany, but nothing baroque, no frills. Practical and easy to use. I had no problems.

I was midway to the end of my work, when I heard him playing a guitar. It was not some LP or cassette, there was some mistake here and there, but all in all he played well. I did not think an executive of a company could play a guitar, but, why not? It's a way of relaxing as any other.

I got out of the kitchen and saw him on the sofa, trying a Russian song. I smiled at him, and came back to the kitchen.

THe dinner was splendid, although we almost did not say a word. He had put a table close to a window who let us look on a great park. The table was small, just sufficient to hold two dishes, some bottles and two glasses, besides the soup tureen, when I took it there from the kitchen. But the view from the window was fine, as if we were eating in a restaurant on the top of a tall building, or at the famous Ostankino tower... And after all, a table full of food and bottles is good to see: it gives on idea of abundance, and time to enjoy it...

The moment he tasted my onion soup, his face changed. I don't really think he decided to marry me in that moment, but surely something confirmed him in his decision.

I had a light makeup, nothing astounding, let alone whorish. Tooth powder and just a bit of ink on the eyes: eyeshadow was over. But the effect was fine, just a matter of knowing how to do. And i had arranged my hair on my own, no time to stand in line to some hairdresser. Shortly, "come as you are", virtually as I woke up in the morning. And I saw that he liked me so: "normal".

Maybe he did not see me anymore as a friend, and not only just as the woman he was going to possess.

At a certain point, it began to snow, quite normal, being in november. He snorted.

"Is midnight in Moscow, and I'm with you..."

"While a lot of snow's coming down..." I ensued, smiling, always on the tune of "Podmoscòvnye Vecerà". In fact, that song doesn't talk of a precise time, nor of falling snow, and not even of Moscow, precisely. But it was a fine coincidence with the Italian version of it. He sighed: the soup was over and there was nothing else serious to eat. It was the time for the "rest". And I was ready for it, ready for the rest, ready to be taken. But he seemed puzzled, as if he did not know HOW to take me. Militarily talking, "how to overcome the last 150 meters". Even if between us there were less than 150 centimeters. I was tranquil, decision was taken, "liubìt, tak liubìt, strelyàt, tak strelyàt", you love, then love, you shot, then shot...

But he was not. I asked myself why, what could it be. Maybe the point was he had to choose, now or never more: love and freedom, better, love OR freedom. If he went ahead, he would have never had the nerve to go back, and then, bye-bye freedom. I have shown him the good face of a good marriage. A woman, a dinner, a house. A being, a body, that you don't need to search in the world anymore: you just have to love it. A house where you can feel fine, to defend as a hill. And to defend is easier than to attack. But the bad face? Could he lose his youth, or what remained of it? The absence of ties?

Yes, maybe something inside of HIM, not of ME, was shouting: stop, abort it all, I want to come down, I'm sorry, no-go, nothing to do...

Or maybe... I smiled: maybe he was just worried about how to pass to the next phase without being too... say it "material"? Yes, it was the time to release the brake, for him, and he was scared to... To hurt me? To become something like a "soldafònka", a rude, lowest grunt?

He stood up, but not to harass me, just to start putting away the dishes, and I got the chance: stood up and DID NOT let him put away the dishes. I took them from his hands, put them on the table, hugged him and kissed him. Simply that.

Well, not "simply that". I hugged and kissed him as to confirm all the legends on the strong passionality of Russian women: "three times a woman" and all the rest. Like a "blùdniza", a "lost woman" (well, "lost woman"... "Lègkovo povedènya", of lightweight conduct, let's say so...).

And this freed him from his scruples. He forgot the dishes and grasped my hips. Fine! And after my hips, my hair. He had big, hot, strong hands. And he knew what "French kiss" meant. Onion-soup-flavored French kiss... Who said it disturbs? Does sour-and-sweet disturb? Yes, it made me a bit giddy, but I WANTED to be giddy, I WAS giddy already...

And he kept touching me, groping me, undressing me. Dress by dress, a dress from me, a dress from him. And all in a perfect silence. Yes, a silent dance, no more a hug, not yet an embrace. He pulled my panties down, and I let them fall along my legs, to the ground, and then I pushed them away with a kick, without stopping to kiss him. Fresh air on my sex, a sense of vulnerability, the point of his fingers... Just a bit inside... inside of me... "Alea jacta est"...

I don't know how we got to the bed. He kept touching my sex, lightly, softly, cleverly, without spearing me, just caressing my vulva, all around, from the clitoris to the space between the sex and... the other place... and back... Making me moaning, wailing, reeling... And I closed my eyes, and when I reopened it I was on his bed, under him. Looking in his nice, manly eyes. Nice, manly, and worried again.

"Do you really want to do it? Now?" he asked.

"Yes. Why?"

"Maybe we should do the things more regular... You know... I come to your house, talk with your father..."

I smiled. He wanted to make the proposal, as any honest young man. At home, to the parents, "kak polòjeno", as it has to be... He could wait yet. But I could not. For what reson? "Sa cem?"

"My father knows that I'm here. And he knows why..."

His eyes widened with surprise. Then he smiled. He knew: if I was there, and my father knew that, then my father APPROVED that... If not, I would have NOT been there... never...

"Thank him for me..."

And he kiss my neck. I feel his sex, long and hard against my pubes. And I widened my legs.

"Do your duty, "mujìk"!". A colloquial word for "man", too.

He freed himself from the last dresses and penetrated me.

Or at least, he tried. My sex was damp, my breasts were swollen, I was excited as I could be, but when he pushed to penetrate me, my body refused him. He was inside me with the tip of his sex, but he could not go further without make me suffer. He pushed slower, inch by inch, but even so, I had to bite my lip for not to shout.

No, he had nothing oversized between his legs. And he was not raping me at all. It was not his fault, it was me. Maybe it was the memory of the assaults of my first male, maybe my body was long time not more used to any male sex (yes, I was "out of training", a lot!), but now he could not do what he wanted to do, and what I wanted him to do...

Well, in the storms you see the sailor. I felt on the brink of a nervous breakdown, full of shame and rage against myself and my body. So much passion, so much hurry, and I was not able to let my man take me... What a woman was I? A clumsy Russian townie... Inferiority complex, I know, but I felt so... And he?

He was not enraged at all. He thought that he would have had me there, at his disposal, for the whole night. What could do matter a small mishap? There was no hurry.

"Hey... relax, "devchonka"... " he told me, caressing my face. "Do you want me to take you? I WILL take you. I want you, and you want it. So, no problem. We will do."

I nodded, letting him kiss my face, drying my tears with his lips. He pushed me softly to make me lay down on the bed again, and started to kiss my nose, my mouth, my chin, my neck... my shoulders... He took a minute or two to arrive to my breasts, and even then he kept kissing it very lightly, without even sucking my nipples. Just playing with them with his nose. I smiled, while he kept kissing my skin down to my belly, stopping at my hub. He blowed in it, I felt the tickle and laughed, and he poked his nose inside of it. He was just playing with me, as if to penetrate me was not so interesting, for him, after all... But then he got beween my legs, my thights... Nobody ever kissed me there, and I felt embarassed: it was so close to where I... you know what...

I tightened my legs, but his face was already in between. He looked at me, raising his eyebrows, whith my pubic hair under his nose like a pair of moustaches... It was funny, and he knew that. He was playing with his face (and my hair), by purpose. One more time, I saw that he could even play the clown, if it was for a good cause. And I laughed.

"So... do you want it, or not? Do you trust me, or not?" he asked.

Of course, I wanted it, and I trusted him. If I were not trusting him, why was I there for?

I open my legs, he nodded with a "hm!" and went ahead. First, the inner part of my thights. There is nothing special there, just skin and flesh, but it's pleasant. Maybe there are some nerves under the skin,or maybe it's just the sense of intimacy. You are there, spread legs, with a man. A man who has got up to there, with your consent, and now he can see, taste, smell your sex at his ease. He is your "pobedìtel", he has won, and he knows that. And you know that too. The rest, the sexual act "per se", is almost a formality. But he doesn't want just to bone you, rock you, empty his balls inside you. No. He looks in your eyes, enjoys your smile, the soft of your flesh, your REAL smell. And the fact that you accept him. That you wait, calm, for HE to do to you what he wants. And it's just so. You could still say "no", but you just don't think to say it... And so it was for me. He could do to me anything. And he started kissing my sex, and I let him do. He just wanted to "prepare" me. Yes, "prepare": "artpodgotòvka" preparation fire from the artillery... And it was a very effective fire. I was ashamed, but it was wonderful. He kissed me there, where he was touching me some minutes before, and I enjoyed the same, to the sqare... Above, below, to the left and to the right, between the big and the small nimphs... And then, inside. He was a real devil, that's what he was. He was already possessing me, in the real sense of the word: the demonic one... Not only because his tongue was inside my sex, but because I was in his hands, like a shaman woman is in the hands of the spirit who has invaded her... I did not understand anything, anymore, just the pleasure he was giving to me. Yes I was really "finishing", and maybe not only once. But he kept kissing my sex, as if he was willing to limit himself to that, for that night. And I wanted more, more than this...I wanted his sex inside, his strenght inside, his power inside. And I told him that, in Russian, without a bit of shame.

"Trakhnùy menya!" I said. Shake me, rock me... Yes, FUCK me!

And he started kissing my body, all the way back, up to my nipples. And this time he kissed them, he licked them, he sucked them... And I would have wanted to have some milk, in my breasts, to let him drink it, to FEEL him drink it... Drink, my love, drink, my baby... And then he kissed me on my mouth. And his kisses tasted of my sex, while mine tasted of onion soup yet, and none of us complained for it, for nothing...

"Promise me, you will always cook onion soup!" he said. I smiled: it would have been quite difficult, maybe, all the days... And then I felt his sex dive into me, sink inside of me... I winced a bit, but then I breathed, while I felt him slip in my belly... He did not hurt me now, he simply filled me... It seemed custom-made for me: exact to the hair. Not too short for not to disillude me, not too long for not to hurt me... I looked at him and nodded.

"Now it's good!". I looked between my legs, his sex appearing and disappearing, shoving into me... "It's beautiful!" I said.

He wanted to kiss me, and I let him do. Taste of my sex in my mouth, his hair among my fingers, his strong, healthy male smell in the nose... And his sex... Now it was even swimming into me, into my soaked, warm belly... His blows were deep, calm... Even a bit too much calm: something like a massage of my insides... Good, but maybe just a little too soft... I wanted to "finish" again, with his sex inside, feeling as he "finished" too... And his calm rithm was not enough for that. I look at him.

"Trakhnùy menyà silnèie!" I said. He looked at me, whith the doubt on his face. I nodded. "Silnèie!"

He complied: his rithm become faster, and his blows got deeper, stronger... And I encouraged him, more and more... I had a tone I did not recognized as my anymore: torn, as if he was ripping me. His sex was really strong, now, very hard inside of me. But I was not asking for mercy...

"Davày! Davày! Davày!" I shouted: come on, come on, come on... He understood it, or else, poor guy, he would have stopped. And He did NOT have to stop. I was HAPPY to have him inside: I loved him, and he was so clever, damn clever, and strong... I clinged to him and let him do, stronger and stronger...

He exploded inside of me, like a bomb, at the end, and me too... Yes, more than the first time, more that I ever believed possible...The greatest orgasm I had ever felt touching myself at home, dreaming to let him do what he had just done, but without the courage to let him REALLY do it, was way behind that... oh, really behind... light-years behind...

He got out of me, and I leaned on his chest. After a while I looked at him. still panting a bit.

"Spasìba", I said. Thank you. He smiled, and greeted me militarily.

"My dyèlaem ievò lùchshe!" he breathed. We do it better. "Don't you know?"

I smiled. His chest was slowly going up and down beneath me, as a rough sea under the hull of a ship. He looked at the watch on the night table .

"Midnight AND A HALF, and I'm here with you..." he crooned.

I laughed.

THe day after, he was not in the bed when I woke up. Irrationally, I panicked: he had fooled me, he had abandoned me... No, calm down: you are in his house, in his bed... Oh, yes! And for not to be in a man's house naked, I took the first dress I found, a blouse of his, and wore it. Then, I looked for him. It was saturday, but who knows, maybe he had had a call from his "nachàlniki", his bosses, for an urgent task, an important reunion... No, he was at home, just in the kitchen. Ready to take the breakfast to the bed, to me... And he had washed all the dishes too... He wa all naked, besides a white pair of boxers. And of course he looked smiling where I was naked too: down, between my legs... Well, "chòrt vosmì", take me, devil: I smiled in answer and sit, ready to taste a real Italian breakfast.

An Italian breakfast is even too light, if you compare it to a Russian one, but can be tasty.

And it was. Coffee and milk ("cappuccino"), bread, butter and jam, in that case, chestnut jam, made in Italy.

He had buttered the bread slices, added a bit of jam and a sprinke of sugar. They were delicious, like cakes from a "kondityèrskaya", a pastry shop. And while I ate them, I look at him. With the natural light from a window, it was even better that the night before, at the night table lamp's light. A shine of a male. Whide solid chest, without too much hair, strong arms, but no pumped up muscles. With those arms, he had hovered over me without pressing me, while he... Something down below, thinking about it, as if my body was preparing itself for him, again... I smiled of myself: cool it down, Sashka...

While I thought to the night before, he had shoved a bread slicee in my "cappuccino, and then eated it. I slam my hands over his arm, and he howled, as if I had really hurt him...

I smiled, then I too start to shove my bread slices in my cup. They were even better! THe butter, the sugar and the jam, heated by the cappuccino, melted in my mouth, so sweet!

I passed my tongue on my lips, and he did the same. His lips, his long, clever toungue... Again hat feeling down below... I was fine, so fine to close my eyes, to say to the Time "Stop! That's fine, don't change!"... A fine light breakfast, the memory of a fantastic night of love, and sex... That never lasting thing we use to call "happiness"... How went that old song of ours? Oh yes: "Mgnovènya, mgnovènya, mgnovènya...". Moments, and nothing more... And that was one of those moments...

"So... when do we marry?" he asked.

Well, at that point I OPENED my eyes WIDE...

"Marry?" I looked at him, shocked. It was MY line, it was ME who had to say THAT!

"Sure!" he said, tranquil. "How damn are the paperworks, the "bumàshki", here? How much time it takes?"

"But... Why?"

"Either ALL or NOTHING,", he shrugged. "That was the pact. Wasn't it?"

"I did not mean THAT!" I said. I REALLY meant THAT, but not SO: "delovòy", businesslike, "operatìvno", "ras-dva tri", one-two-three...

"Well, I MEAN it, So I repeat my question, your honor: WHEN do WE marry?"

I looked at him. He was not joking. His long face, his intelligent eyes. Serious, but with a shade of smile. A wonderful horse, ready to accept the halter. From ME... Sure, I was OVER-happy. And my parents would have been. A man who I knew I loved. And who respected me, even then, when I was sitting in front of him, without panties, with his blouse upon and the memory of his sex inside... the memory, and the desire already... He could have taken me many other times, without even pronouncing the word "marry" or any derivative. And surely he knew that. But he REALLY wanted marry me...

Stop! You have to be honest, Sashka, all has to be clear. No mix-ups, no time-delayed bombs...

"Is it for what has happened last night?"

"Is it ALSO for what has happened last night."

"Do you think I did it for that? To force you to marry me? Do you think I'm fertile, now?"

"Sashka!" he smiled. "For to make me marry you, you just had to say "let's go to talk with my father". You know. I sure would have not run away... And you know that too." he pointed his finger on me, and i smiled. Yes, I knew, both things. "You have wanted to make love, with me. And it has been a honor, besides a pleasure." I downcasted my eyes, always smiling. A honor... To make love with me, sinner... He raised my face with two finger under my chin. "But not only you did it. I did it too..."