I was feeling fuzzy around the edges from too little sleep–a situation my host was no doubt planning on capitalizing on. I was on the back foot, and that had always been his plan.
I felt more awake after a cool shower, so I took a walk around the magnificent gardens of the impressive estate. The weather in Moscow in July was stunning. The sun offered a welcome respite from the icy winter months. True to form, and much like a Hollywood movie, the poolside was awash with gorgeous young women wearing very little.
They were, no doubt, playthings to entertain the male guests. The thing about Russian beauties was that they understood the game all too well. A beautiful body and a willingness to use it liberated them from a life of poverty into one where they were taken care of. As long as they did as they were told.
“Hello,” a stunning bottled blonde purred at me in Russian.
“Hi.”
“Would you like a drink?”
She didn’t wait for me to respond before she waved over a waitress who was on hand in no time with vodka, ice, and shot glasses on a tray.
The blonde poured a healthy shot into a glass, topped it up with ice, and handed it to me.
“Thanks,” I said and threw it back.
“Nothing like Russian Vodka, hey?” she smiled and poured me another.
The Old Russo-Baltique Vodka retailed at roughly $740,000 a bottle. It wasn’t the most expensive of the Russian vodkas, but I supposed it was good enough for poolside drinking.
“It will do,” I smiled and winked at the beauty.
“You are American?” she asked.
“Yes.”
I’d been in the states for ten years. My once-thick Russian accent was a little watered down. The blonde must have picked up on it.
“You have a wife back in America?” She tried in her best English.
“No.”
My answer pleased her.
“I am Tatiana. What is your name?”
“Max.”
“Tell me, Max,” she smiled, “when last did you have a good Russian fuck?”
I was about to swallow my tongue when Igor’s voice behind me interrupted the gorgeous Tatiana’s offer.
“Excuse me, Sir. Mr. Yegorov is early. He’d like to see you now.”
Tatiana’s disappointment was second only to mine. It must have been the sun, or perhaps the vodka, or possibly the blonde’s raw sexuality, but I found myself in the mood for some Russian hospitality.
“Don’t disappear, Tatiana,” I smiled.
She grinned and downed the vodka she’d poured for me. Then she placed the glass down on the ground next to the lounger where she sat, got up, ran her fingers lightly over my cock, slipped out of her bathing suit, and dove into the pool.
Fuck me.
Igor pretended not to notice. I followed him to the drawing room, trying to walk off the onset of a chubby. There was something to be said for Russian hospitality.
Grigoriy was seated on a plush leather sofa. He didn’t bother getting up when I entered the room. I wasn’t that important. The sixty-something-year-old had come across to Moscow from Ukraine when he was a young man. He married into Moscow’s Russian Mafia royalty, which made him exceedingly more dangerous than someone born with the proverbial silver spoon. Grigoriy wasn’t ever going to let go of his iron grip.
I was a small fish, so it was up to me to approach him and kiss his hand. I did it even though it sickened me.