Supposing seduction was Razin’s assignment, how then should she react? Resist or succumb? Which was the better choice in her fight for survival? The dilemma remained evenly balanced in her mind and psyche, answered yet unanswered since last night. Now, with a few minutes left, a choice had to be made. No more equivocating.
To resist. If she refused to sleep with Razin, if she rejected him, the KGB would never know the truth. They would have to order Razin or someone else to rape her coldly or they would simply have to torture her. Either course would mean
suffering fright and enduring pain, yet the satisfaction was that they would still not know the truth.
To succumb. She would emerge unscathed, except in her psyche. It was the quick way to survival, but they would have an approximation of her conduct in bed, information for their imposter, and somehow a victory. Yet, it struck her, this outcome was not inevitably so. Her submission to them could also trick them into a terrible defeat.
Yes, it was possible to do as they wished, and still convert their victory into their loss, and heighten her chance for survival. In submission, she could see, there remained another option for her. If she did sleep with Razin, she would be volunteering the act and she would be in full control. She could control his findings by misleading him, by acting contrary to her normal behaviour in bed. She could mislead Razin, and he in turn would mislead the Second Lady, who would then invite Andrew’s suspicions.
There it was. So simple. An opportunity to help herself, as well as her husband. Yet, not so simple. One thing militated against it. Letting another man enter her, abuse her, cheapen her. Not once in her marriage to Andrew had she ever been unfaithful to him or even fantasized sex with another man. Only twice, before her marriage, had she had affairs with men, short immature affairs. Making calculated love to a barbaric stranger was not part of her nature. Worse, this man who would soon be here, an enemy on a destructive mission, was a person she despised. He was an enemy of her mind. He was an enemy of her body. He was an enemy of her husband, of her country, of every ideal she cherished. She was filled with revulsion at the thought of him inside her. Yet, as she had overcome her upset at the image of her husband in bed with another woman tomorrow, by realizing he was a victim of deception, and his act a mere exercise, she could now see that Razin’s violation of her body could be reduced to a mere physical exertion. Sexual intercourse without love violated neither body nor spirit. The important thing was that this act might give her a means to reach her husband. Razin was the only conduit, through use of the
imposter, to enable her to send a message to Andrew, an alert and a warning.
Which to do? Resist or submit?
Immersed in thought, she wandered to the bar, poured herself a second cognac and water, and drifted toward the bedroom, slowly sipping her drink. By the time she reached the foot of the bed, her mind was made up. She knew what she must do.
From that moment, she ceased thinking about her dilemma. She had come to her decision, and all that remained was to act upon it. With a glance at the clock, she began to strip off her clothes, article by article, until she was totally nude. Barefoot, she went into the bathroom, started the shower, adjusted it to warm, and stood under it letting the needles of water stimulate her skin. She soaped herself thoroughly, washed away the suds, turned off the shower and stepped out on -the soft rose rug. She observed herself in the mirror as she dried, the high breasts, flat abdomen, soft triangle of pubic hair, generous hips, full thighs. Not bad, not bad at all. Dry, she found perfume, dabbed it behind her ears, between her breasts, and in her pubic hair. Doing so, her mind went to protection, some contraceptive device. She worried about this, then remembered her bathroom travel kit, one she always kept filled, even between trips, so that she would not forget anything. When she and Andrew had tried for a baby, she had placed her diaphragm in the kit against some future need. Could it still be there? She sought the kit and, to her astonishment, there, it was her very kit, or one exactly like it. The KGB had overlooked nothing, had duplicated every possession she had brought to Moscow (presumably to make her return foolproof when she was exchanged, if she was exchanged).
She turned the kit upside down, dumping out its contents beside the wash basin. Apparently, everything in her original kit was also here. It was more than astonishing. It was frightening. She refused to speculate on how the Russians had done it. She put it out of her mind. A more immediate concern demanded priority. Sorting through the scattered
toilet articles beside the basin, she found it, the good old diaphragm (or good new diaphragm) along with a tube of spermicide. With relief she prepared the diaphragm and inserted it into her vagina.
In a drawer, she poked through her nightgowns and selected the sheer white one, the short one that would fall not quite to her knees, and she wriggled into it. She went to her closet for her flimsy lace negligee, which she had not worn since her bondage, and she pulled it on. At the wall, she turned off the overhead light, put out a standing lamp, and left on the two dim ones on either side of the bed.
The double bed.
She drew back the spread, folded it, put it aside. She considered the thin blanket, tugged it loose, and brought it back toward the bottom of the bed. She puffed up the pillow.
Satisfied with her handiwork, she retrieved her drink and finished it. About to go to the living room bar for one more refill, she saw Razin appear in the bedroom doorway. Tonight, somehow, he looked bigger, more muscular than she had remembered. He was wearing a brown sports jacket, a shirt open at the collar, beige slacks. Her eyes went from his flat black hair and bushy eyebrows to his bashed nose and thick lips. He had wide powerful shoulders and a narrow waist. She had not inspected him this closely before.
The reality of his person, overlaid on her recent decision, gave her a moment of panic. She wanted to retreat from her decision, but she knew that she must not. She needed support. One more drink.
‘Hi, Alex,’ she said. ‘I was hoping you’d come by.’
‘I wouldn’t miss the chance to enjoy your company,’ he said, removing his jacket and tossing it on an armchair behind him.
‘Here,’ she said, handing him her empty glass. ‘I could do with another cognac and water. Easy on the water.’
‘I’ll join you,’ he said, accepting her glass and disappearing into the living room.
‘Oh, and Alex,’ she called after him, ‘put on some music loud enough for me to hear.’
As the music came booming in, Billie inspected the bedroom one last time, then made for the chaise longue. She stretched back on it, allowing her negligee to fall open revealing her abbreviated nightgown and part of the flesh of one thigh.
She tried not to imagine him naked. She must think only of her motivation and the end result.
He returned to the bedroom carrying two drinks. He halted to look her over. ‘Very fetching,’ he said. ‘You are truly a beautiful woman, Billie.’
‘Quite a compliment from you, Alex.’
‘Too restrained,’ he said, handing her the darker of the two drinks.
She lifted her glass. ‘To you,’ she said, ‘for being such a wonderful man and for saving my life.’
‘To you,’ he said, touching his glass to hers, ‘for enriching my life. I I’m sorry it had to be this way.’
He lowered himself to the floor, at her feet.
‘Even if it is this way,’ she said, ‘life doesn’t have to stop, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t.’
‘So let’s live a little. Drink up.’ She could feel the strong cognac going down her throat, fanning out behind her breasts, heating her, dizzying her slightly. She looked down at him, while he drank. He seemed surprisingly young. She took another big swallow of the cognac, and kept the glass to her lips until it was empty. She set down her glass.
His eyes met hers. ‘How are you?’ he asked.
‘Fine, never better,’ she said. ‘How are you?’
He finished his drink. ‘Do
you really want to know?’
‘Of course, I do.’
He put a hand on her uncovered thigh. ‘I’m insanely in love with you, Billie. I’d give anything on earth to have you.’
She took his hand. ‘I’ve been thinking about it, too. I realize I was foolish yesterday. I want you, too. Very much. Let’s not waste any more time.’
She felt almost a surge of relief. She was committed.
He scrambled to his feet, his hand grasping her hand
tightly and bringing her up off the chaise longue. He tried to embrace her, but she slipped away. ‘I don’t want clothes between us,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I want nothing between us. I want us together in bed.’
Moving toward the bed, she divested herself of the negligee, let it drop to the floor. About to do the same with the short white nightgown, she paused, and wheeled slowly to wait for him. His shirt was off, the ridged, muscular, hairy chest bare. He had already kicked aside his shoes and socks. His belt was open. The trousers came down, and he stepped out of them. He was wearing tight bulging white briefs. He bent to tug them off, and when he straightened to full height, the freed penis was rising, pointing at her. She tried to avoid looking at it, but couldn’t help herself. It wasn’t particularly long, but it was thick, my God it was thick. The ugly appendage was approaching her.
She whirled about from it, her back to him, and lifted her arms. ‘Alex, help me off with this.’
His hands had the hem of the gown, drew it upward in one sweeping motion, over her loose blonde hair and head, and she saw it flung away. His hairy arms came under her arms, his large palms covering her breasts. She could feel him like the barrel of a pistol pressing against her soft buttocks. Heaven help me, she thought, and was momentarily afraid and nauseated.
He released her breasts. His arms scooped her up off the floor, carried her across the room, and deposited her on the bed.
His eyes were fixed on her nakedness. She wanted to cover her vagina, her navel, her nipples, wanted to hide her nudity, wanted to start all over with her clothes on and refuse to undress, but it was too late. She tried to keep her eyes off him, determined to remain in control and remember what she had planned, the purpose of this humiliation she was trading for freedom.
For fleeting seconds she welcomed Andrew in her mind, a quiet, neat lover, sweetly kissing her breasts, softly caressing her body, lightly rubbing her clitoris, gently rising above her
to go between her parted legs. His lips on her lips, she warmly holding the sides of his head. His trunk lowering between her thighs, his erection finding her warm opening and sliding inside, his restrained, steady thrusting, her hips rising to his rhythm. No other movements except his thrusting. Passive, he, she, except for the constant thrusting. Then faster, faster, until he came with a gasp. No words spoken. She pulling him down on her, over beside her, and he reaching for her clitoris, and after a few minutes she coming with a shudder and an emission of breath. Then they would lie back, each silent, recovering, and he would offer her a cigarette, and take one himself, and gradually he would begin talking, wondering about her day, speaking of his day, office gossip, Cabinet meetings, other meetings, frustrations, hopes, secrets. At last, cigarettes out, they would sink into sleep.
Civilized, comfortable, warm.
How she wanted it tonight.
She felt the mattress beside her dip, the bulk and rough flesh of reality beside her, and memory vanished. Reluctantly, she opened her eyes to the stranger. Her heart thumped. It was time to begin.
Begin what? Begin how?
Her woeful inexperience gripped and held her. She summoned every resource of secondhand knowledge movies seen, books read, tales heard - angrily trying to perform as a woman Andrew had never seen.
She arched the top part of her naked body toward him, her shoulders back, her firm globular breasts with big pink nipples still flaccid nearer to his face, all provocatively hot and wanting. His response was instantaneous. His hands caught her breasts underneath, his mouth kissed and sucked at the first nipple, until it hardened, and then the other nipple. She groaned, groaned more loudly, and she could feel his excitement, as her knees came up. His mouth left her. He began to leave her, shifting toward her knees. She knew where he was going. Not yet, she told herself, not yet.
She grabbed for his shoulder, fingernails digging in, and pulled hard, trying to bring him back to her. ‘No, don’t -
wait, Alex, wait!’ she cried out. ‘I like to do the other first. I love it. I want it.’ She reached for the swollen penis, her fingers trying to encircle it, as she wormed her way from beneath him and pushed up higher against the pillow. She opened her mouth and brought it towards the penis.
This was going to be the meanest part, the part she had debated and dreaded. Fellatio was foreign to her, something she had never performed. She had kissed Andrew there several times but he did not like it. That was why she must do it now, transmit her love of the act to the imposter. But it revolted her, the idea of taking a male appendage in the mouth, especially this gross one. It seemed dirty and demeaning. Maybe not with someone you loved. But with this rotten bastard - it had to be done, it absolutely had to.
She closed her eyes, opened her mouth, and closed her lips on the distended head of his cock. She brought it deep into her mouth - it pushed at her palate, rubbed the inside of her cheek, flattened her tongue - as she tried to suppress gagging, and perspiration broke out on her brow. Incredibly, the thing was growing bigger, filling her mouth entirely, crowding against her throat. She was uncertain what to do next. Instinct told her to suck, to simulate sexual intercourse. She drew her lips back the length of it, then with a hand pushed it deep in her mouth again. Her head continued to go back and forth over the stiff shaft.
He was making little sounds in Russian, and gurgling something in English that sounded like, ‘Good, so good, good.’ Now he had a hold on the back of her head and was pushing it, pulling it.
She tore at his hands, jerked her mouth free, choking, coughing, ‘Now, Alex, now, please.’ She was working to position her body under his, spreading her legs as wide apart as possible, imploring him, ‘Put it in me - let me put it in, let me. Oh, I love it so. Fuck me, fuck me good.’
She had the love muscle in both hands, drawing him down between her legs. She was eager to be done with it. In minutes it would be over with. But she must still perform, complete her act to perfection.
His cock strained in her hands toward her vulva, found the outer lips, and she let go. With great power he plunged into her, deep, deep into her. The soft walls of her vagina spread and stretched to accommodate him, and her inner thighs quivered. As he filled her, she realized with a small shock that a lubricant had not been needed, that her vaginal canal was hot and wet on its own.
She tried to understand her wetness, but immediately was shaken out of all thought. He was going now as if his cock was attached to a high-speed pile-driving mechanism. In and out of her, hammering faster and faster, ramming his cock inside her. She tried to hold his arms as her body trembled and her teeth rattled and her head began to be slammed against the headboard. She forced her heavy eyelids open briefly, and realized the dark face hanging over her was watching her, watching every expression and gesture, recording her behaviour. Christ, she’d almost forgotten. He was doing this to report to someone else. She’d almost forgotten her plan, her programme. She must perform for him in another way, impress her aggressive behaviour upon him. She must make this into something he would never forget, and would remember to report.
She tried to catch her breath. ‘Alex, Alex - Jesus - you’re tearing me apart.’
At first he did not answer. He continued fucking her, as her vaginal tunnel expanded. Panting, he said, ‘Too hard? Want me slower?’
She dug her nails into his arms. ‘No, goddammit, harder! I love it. I love you. Don’t hold back. Give it to me harder!’
With painful effort she brought her legs off the bed, high in the air, hooked a leg over
each of his shoulders, and locked her ankles behind his neck.
This sent him into a frenzy of jackhammering. He had her by the ass, lifting her as he pumped wildly. She felt like he was splitting her in two and she tightened on him before her brains were knocked loose. She battled to hold on to her senses, trying to recall and retrieve something of her plan. Her plan, her plan. Deceive him, try everything she had ever
heard or read. Immediately, she began to sway and buck, cling to him, ride the wild stallion, up and down with him, clawing at his chest, screeching obscenities she had never used before. A glimpse caught the crazy smile on his face, and she ripped at his flesh, screaming steadily as he impaled her against the headboard and pumped away like a madman.
She counted the seconds, the minutes, expecting him to come, but he did not come. She renewed her exertions, but her thighs and buttocks and legs felt dead. Still, she tried to drive him to a climax, rolling her ass, clamping her thighs, beating her fists at him, screaming and screaming, but he kept right on fucking her and would not come.
Then she felt something strange inside her, something she had never felt before with a man in her, it was like an explosive force rising low inside her, a feeling unsought, unexpected, unknown, the desire to have her vagina burst open and erupt. She felt herself beginning to drown in a flood of water, with the geyser in her vagina about to shoot a mile high. Then she knew, she knew for certain. She was losing control, she was on the verge of a mammoth orgasm. She wanted to cry because she did not want it to happen the first time in intercourse with this hateful oaf. And worse, far worse, it would spoil her plan. She could not orchestrate her moves if he gained control, if her body betrayed her to the monster and gave in. Her fingers grabbed the top of the headboard behind her. She bit her lip, and begged her battered senses to take over and not let her vagina surrender.
(1980) The Second Lady Page 26