I moan and claw at his back, trying to grab on to something, so I don’t lose myself.
I’m not sure if it works. For either minutes or hours—I can’t be certain—I’m trapped underneath an ocean of sensation, unable to breathe. Or speak. Or think.
There’s nothing. Nothing but pleasure until I hear a voice, saying, “Come back to me, krasotka. Open your eyes.”
I do as commanded and find him smiling at me.
“That was good, nyet?”
I nod, still unable to speak. And his thumbs do that circle thing on my hips.
“We will have much fun over these five days. By the time we are done, it will be worth the three-hundred thousand.”
That’s a crazy thing to say. I think about arguing with him. But I can’t speak. Can’t think.
Can’t even move. I find that out when he lifts me and places me beside him on the couch.
He stands and carefully removes the condom before depositing it in a black waste basket underneath the table. “I had good feeling from first moment I saw you. Good feeling that it would be like this…”
He trails off, frowning down at the chessboard and moves one of the black pawns forward and to the left.
I find out I’ve recovered my voice when I ask him, “Who are you playing?”
“Myself,” he answers.
Then he scoops me up in his arms and carries me to bed.
Chapter Six
I dream of nothing and wake that morning in a super soft bed.
No, not morning, afternoon my internal clock tells me as I stretch and turn over with a huge yawn—
I freeze mid-stretch when I see the Russian lying across from me, his body large and rippled with muscle. And the urge to yawn is replaced by scalding hot embarrassment as memories of what went down earlier in the morning come rushing back to me.
Who was that girl who whined and moaned before coming on a Russian stranger’s dick? It couldn’t have been me.
Could it have?
He must have put something in my drink, I think, sitting up in bed.
But then I remember that I hadn’t touched that drink he made me.
So it was something else. Something inside of me.
Something I hadn’t known was there before.
Until he brought it out.
I had good feeling from first moment I saw you. Good feeling that it would be like this….
Face burning, I rush to the bathroom. Or at least I try to rush. Cheslav’s cock was no joke. And like I said, it’s been a while. So it’s more like a mincing rush with the chorus of Arianna Grande’s “Side to Side” stuck on a loop inside my head.
After I use the toilet, I catch sight of myself in the long rectangular mirror over the double sink. Oh my God, is that me?
I look…different. My sisterlocks came unraveled from the two braids somewhere along the way. and now my hair is a tangled mess. Also, my lips are swollen. Like somebody punched me.
Or kissed me.
I trace the plump pillows as another memory unfurls. The sun had fully risen by the time he laid me down in bed. And I thought that would be that.
But then he’d stroked the sisterlocks out of my face and kissed me. Hard and possessive. Like he was the beast, and I was his claim.
Another condom got pulled out of the nightstand. And before I knew it, my legs were around his waist, and he was inside me again. Hips rolling as he mauled my lips. I wouldn’t have thought it possible to come again so soon after what happened on the couch. But I did.
When he commanded, “Come. Come now for me, my pet,” I did exactly what he asked. Falling apart as he fucked me with relentless strokes.
Only then had he let me sleep.
My lips are still tingling from that kiss. But I have to admit they don’t look bad. And my dark skin…it’s not blotchy like it is most mornings, but smooth and illuminated somehow. Like I’m glowing from within.
Turning away from the mirror, I make my way back out to the living room and slip into my clothes before grabbing the phone I left on the table.
I gasp when I see the time. It’s almost 3 pm! It can’t really be that late. But it can.
A calendar alert immediately appears, reminding me that I have my monthly conversation with Gina and Cynda in less than five minutes. And that call was scheduled for three p.m.
Gina and Cynda are not going to believe this.
Wait, can I even tell them about this?
I remember the rules he gave me last night.
No leaving.
No questioning.
You obey my every command.
One could quibble that he didn’t say, “no telling.” But I’m not sure I want to. I mean, what would I even say?
“Hey, y’all, I got blackmailed into sex by this famous Russian hockey player. And get this, I didn’t hate it. In fact, I didn’t hate it twice.”
No, I wouldn’t tell them, I decide as I type, “Still on for 3?”
But arghh, no reception. And I don’t have the WiFi pass.
Maybe I should wake up the Russian hockey player?
No, I’ll just go downstairs.
I mean, the elevator opens right into the apartment, so it’ll probably be no problem to get right back up here before he even wakes up.
I take the elevator all the way down to the lobby. And yay, the doorman is signing for a package. That means no awkward explanations about why I’m here in this luxury apartment building, wearing house slippers and Target pajamas.
I sneak past him and head toward the back door, which leads directly into an alley.
Double yay! Plenty of reception behind the building. Plus, I find a doorstop to prop open the back door.
But a simple message from Gina pops up before my text has time to go through. “Don’t hate me. Have to cancel. Something came up.”
I don’t hate her, but this is the third time something’s come up in the last three months of calls.
“I guess it’s just you and me again,” Cynda says when I call her. Judging from the background, she’s sitting in the porch swing that hangs in front of her two-story craftsman style home.
“You look exhausted,” I say.
“Yeah, girl, I just got back from Saturday rounds. Nobody had anything serious going on, but appointments took longer than they usually do because everybody’s worried about COVID.”
“Even in your small town?” I ask.
“It’s a pretty valid fear,” she answers with a tired sigh. “Most of our farmers aren’t Big Agro. They go to farmers’ markets, which can be super spreader events. I’m more worried about the people who aren’t worried if we’re being truthful. They keep on saying things like, ‘Oh, it’s just a flu. Nothing I can’t beat.’ And some of them are just sure it’s a Chinese conspiracy. There’s so much misinformation floating around out there.”
“No wonder you’re exhausted. You don’t even get two days off.”
“It’s okay. I’m glad for the extra pay I get for going on Saturday rounds. I have to save up all the money I can and sell the house to get these twins off to Carnegie Mellon. So I’m grinding like you these days,” she says with a chuckle.
I try to chuckle too, but it sounds fake. What would Cynda say if she knew her ever-grinding friend was currently whoring herself out to a hockey player?