Authors: Michelle Woodward
“Why, of course” Sophia felt a little impatient to know what was the conversation that was going on.
“Certainly, it will be my pleasure, Sayonara, Mr. Takeshi!”
Sophia looked expectantly at Trey about the phone conversation “So? What did he say?”
Trey had a mischievous smile on his face “You’ve done a good job Mrs. Robson!”
“What do you mean?”
“Well the merger is happening” Trey sounded ecstatic
Before they could continue the conversation, Trey’s phone rang again and they saw it was Ray and both of them felt a little awkward.
But the call had to be taken so Trey cleared his throat, with the call on speaker and answered the call.
“Good Morning Ray”
“Good Morning and congratulations Mr. Robson! I believe Mr. Takeshi has already called you to give the news.”
“Yes, thank you, very much”
“No problem at all, I have the contract ready with me here, so should we meet at your office to sign it or should I drop by your home?”
There was no hint of any emotion in Ray’s voice and both Trey and Sophia had been taken so much by surprise that it was a few moments before Trey could say anything.
“Yes of course Ray, you MUST drop by at our place, should I send you my address?”
******
There was a matter of an hour between the call and Ray’s arrival at home and Sophia found herself thinking how the day’s events would unfold. Trey had been involved in a flurry of activities and phone calls after his talk with Ray, but Sophia found some time in her hands. Though she was not sure if their meeting would end up in a sexual frenzied adventure like yesterday, yet she wanted to believe that it would. If it happened she was determined to have Ray’s cock in her pussy. And she wanted to be prepared.
She put on a red silk short robe. Pairing it with a pair of red high heels, she kept her hair open and let it fall all over her cascading in beautiful ripples. She looked in the mirror and was pleased with what she saw. Her tits spread out beneath her robe and her broad hips gave way to beautiful legs anyone would want to be entwined with. She truly looked like the full woman that she really was.
As the doorbell rang, Sophia went to open the door but saw that Trey was already there. She could hardly walk and realized that her pussy lips had already swollen in anticipation for Ray.
Meanwhile, Trey brought Ray into their spacious living room and Ray handed him the contract. The contract had a place for Mr. Takeshi’s signature, a place for Ray and a place for Trey to sign. While Mr. Takeshi’s signature was there, Ray’ signature was missing, Trey looked up inquisitively at Ray.
Understanding what Trey wanted to know, Ray said with a rare smile “All in good time Mr. Robson!”
Sophia meanwhile came into the room with a champagne bottle and three glasses and laid it in front of Ray. As she bent down she gave more than an ample view of her naked breasts and her robe parted near her legs to reveal her inner thighs. It was more than enough temptation for Ray and today he didn’t lose any time. He grabbed Sophia and laid her on the sofa with her head on the armrest. He loosened her robe to reveal the creamiest of bodies, replete with curves and creases. Her huge tits spread out and as Ray slowly removed the lower part of the robe she parted her legs to show off her shaven pussy, it was glistening with her juice.
“Put your hands above your head” Ray ordered standing with his hands on his hips and Sophia complied, she was loving every minute of this and the best part was that Trey was watching. Trey remained seated on the sofa opposite to her; he had taken off his pants and was stroking his dick.
Sophia felt currents of desire passing through her just at the way Ray looked at her. Ray quickly got out of his pants and stood stroking his enormous dick. Sophia’s head was spinning, she wanted it inside her.
Meanwhile Trey also saw Ray’s dick and suddenly felt an unusual desire, a feeling much unknown to him. He wanted to touch it, feel it and kiss it.
Ray asked Sophia to get up and he went and lay down on the sofa and pulled Sophia on top of him facing away from him. Sophia was a big girl and her gash was big too, but it was not big enough for Ray’s cock and it pained her. But Ray showed no mercy, he kept on forcing his cock in her till it was completely inside and then he held her on her hips and made her move on top of him. At first the rhythm was slow but soon it gathered tempo and Sophia’s tits heaved heavily on to the sides, her love handles jiggled with the even thrusts and so did her plump ass. Ray’s heavy hands supported her tits and Sophia heard herself moaning like she had never moaned before. Her desperate pleas rang out through the house and echoed everywhere. In fact her cries made her feel more dirty.
“What was she doing? Being fucked by a complete stranger in her house? And enjoying every bit of it?”
Suddenly, Ray stopped and she looked to see Ray asking her to turn around facing him. She got up and turned and sat down on Ray again, slowly inserting the heavy dick. By now she had enough juice to help the big fat shaft slide in easily and started moving up and down, It was heavenly, she felt full and complete, every thrust made her breathless as if Ray’s cock was making a permanent place for himself inside her body. And then suddenly Sophia felt something on her back and turned around to see, Trey positioning himself behind her. Before she could ask what he was going to do, Trey had started inserting his fingers in her butthole. Sophia was shocked; she had never done anal before, she was scared it would hurt. It did hurt, but it was pleasurable pain and as Ray’s thrust and Trey’s fingering got synchronized she felt the most amazing sensation, like nothing she had ever felt before. As it went on for some time and Sophia was just about getting used to it, Trey took his fingers out and then thrust his cock inside her. The shock of the sudden thrust was soon overcome by ripples of pleasure coursing around her pelvic region.
Sophia let go, she raised her hands above her head to hold her hair up and she fucked herself and got fucked. It was amazing how three different individuals matched each other’s rhythm. Sophia reached the most amazing climax that day and she moaned and cried during her climax, she didn’t notice but Ray took the papers from the side table and signed on them while keeping on looking at her.
Ray did not come, it was as if he was saving it for something else and once Sophia was done Ray moved from below her leaving her as if she was one his many conquests and moved towards Trey. Sophia was spent completely and lay on the sofa, while Trey took out his cock from her asshole and plugged it onto her pussy. She moaned with pleasure and pain, she was just not getting enough. She sat up on all fours with Trey’s cock in her pussy form the back. While Ray took hold of Trey’s mouth and circled the tip of his cock on his lips. Trey didn’t wait for long; he put his mouth over Ray’s cock and sucked on Sophia’s juices.
But Ray seemed impatient; he took his cock out of Trey’s mouth and went behind Trey, spread his legs and slowly tries putting in his cock. Unlike with Sophia, Ray does it very gently with Trey and though Trey is very apprehensive in the beginning he allows Ray to enter and slowly starts enjoying the gentle thrusts. Trey supports herself by holding onto Sophia’s tits while Ray’s thrusts increased in tempo. He fucked Sophia harder, until Sophia came again and collapsed on the sofa. Meanwhile as Ray’s thrusts become deeper Trey heard Ray grunt, he started to stroke his own cock. Ray soon came inside Trey and shot off his load on his ass. But before Trey had any time to think, Ray came forward on his knees without warning and took Trey’s cock inside his mouth. At this moment Sophia too got up and started flicking the tip of her tongue along Trey’s lips. Trey almost came immediately, such was the force of the sensation, but he held on, he wanted to feel this unusual combination of pleasure for some time more. As Ray took Trey’s cock in deeper and deeper until he could feel the back of Ray’s throat, he felt his whole body shaking with delight. The feeling seemed to come from the tips of his toes and reached almost every point in his body and when he finally came inside Ray’s mouth, Trey felt like the moment was eternity. All three collapsed on the sofa and nothing but sleep could revive their spent bodies.
The business meeting had ended successfully and the merger was completed.
THE END
Sunshine. Sunshine is important when you’re frying blini, thought Nastya. As she pours in the water over the flour and eggs, mixing it all with a tall wooden spoon, she thinks about all the times she swears the batter can hear her. Smooth, yellow batter slides from the ladle onto the pan, and the first sizzle is always the one that you hear with bated breath. Because the batter can rebel against you at any moment, sticking to the pan, and then all you’re left with is a sticky, gooey mess that nobody wants to eat. Everybody always wants to eat what Nastya puts out on the table.
That’s what Maks used to say, anyway. He was the one who started the trend of all their customers calling her Nastya, too, which is a short version of her name, affectionate, like a kitten curling up next to you in a warm, living pile. Anastasia slides the last blin, so far removed from what the Americans know as pancakes it might as well be living on a different planet, onto a spatula and transfers it to a plate that is stacked high. She turns the stove off and waits for the pan to cool. As the steam rises up into the sunlight, and her gaze lands on the full circle of the crepes before her. And as always, the tears come because the memories of Maks come. Maks, and his blonde hair and his big, booming laugh, and his tan skin. Maks, who dazed her on the bridge overlooking the central canal of Moscow with his youth and his promises, who stole her away from her home and brought her here.
They met when she was twenty-two and he was three years older. She knew nothing but food, how to mix and pound and knead, how to chop and pluck feathers from chickens. She lived with her mamma in one of the last-standing cottages on the dividing line between urban and rural Belarus, not daring to dream of anything bigger. Because who among the realistic dreamed of something better than what they had? It was a recipe for disaster, and so she beat egg whites until they had the stiff white peaks of meringues and chopped heads of cabbage to stew in boiling water and their own juices on a rustic stove in rustic pots that were used by her grandmother. It was her mamma’s birthday, and she needed some vodka for the table, even if it was just the two of them. She hadn’t had a chance to brew their homemade moonshine, and she didn’t have time now.
She met Maks while she was haggling over a bottle at a kiosk near the runok, the local marketplace run by busy, wrinkled old women whose wizened faces and loud, brash voices never quite seemed to match up. She noticed him, of course, but didn’t think much of him, her gaze passing over him like water over a stone. He looked just like any other guy, Slavic in the lines of his face, his eyes the color of the clear, cloudless sky above them, although his clothes were definitely far above what you could dig up at the runok. She was just getting the price of the bottle down a few more thousand rubli when he came up behind her and slid the amount the vendor was asking for into the small slotted space. She whirled around, furious.
“Who the hell are you? Take your money away, I don’t need your charity!”
When he smiled, it was the self-assured smile of a man who is both impatient and worth his salt enough to know that he is. “I value my time more than my money,” he told her, his eyes scanning her up and down. The vendor had hurriedly taken the money before it could be snatched away, thrust out the vodka bottle in question, and closed down the kiosk for lunch. The deal was over.
Anastasia was steaming. “That was way too much for the bottle! I can brew better stuff at home than that, and I wouldn’t even need that much to buy the potatoes for it!” She didn’t like the way he was looking at her was making her feel, too hot and round and blooming; she felt, quite suddenly, as if she couldn’t control her breasts and hips and thighs, couldn’t hide them underneath her dress.
“I like a woman who knows her drink well,” he told her, the energy coming off of him in waves. “Tell me, though, if you can make it better—why didn’t you?”
He got her with that question. They walked for hours, ending up at her mamma’s birthday, where he shared the vodka bottle with them. It went better three ways, anyways. They met the day after, and the day after that. Maks lived in Moscow and he was in her town on a working vacation, the kind that they had back then, and after two weeks, it was over. But by then, he had charmed her, and he was inviting her to visit him in Moscow. Her mother flat-out said no. “No ring, no deal,” she said, and Anastasia went anyway. Maybe she had always been rebellious, or maybe she saw the first glimmer of hope in her life—a visit to such a big city might be her ticket out, because a visit could mean a ring sometime later, sometime soon. Maks lived with his own mother anyway, so she could have someone to hide behind, if she got scared.
And she was, at first. Maks was not violent, nor was he a drunk, but he was a man, and she was afraid she was sending him the wrong message by going alone to visit him. She needn’t have worried. He introduced her to his mother, and for what must have been the first time in the history of the world, they got along splendidly. She learned where he bought his clothes, and that while he was working for his uncle, he had relatives in America. And that was where he wanted to move. She felt that same energy in him as when they first met, and it spooled out of him in wild spirals, a motivational force that made her faith in him match her attraction to him. That kind of intensity is always sexy, in its own right, and Anastasia was far from immune from such a person. She didn’t mind. In fact, when, at the end of her two-week stay with Maks and his mother, Maks dropped down to one knee on the bridge overlooking the statue of the founder of the city, she felt like her heart had jumped up from her chest into her mouth, and that the waters unfolding beneath her were her own life path, spreading its bounty. Maks meant protection. Maks meant America.
She supposes now that she always knew that that’s where he was headed. And her stilted life made her easily seduced by the prospect, and also by Maks. Despite his intense energy, he proved to be tender in bed, taking care of her and he was gentle; in this, he was always light years ahead his counterparts, for they still lived in a time and a place where a man’s pleasure was the only one that was normalized, and women were still vessels. She always loved his body, the long length of it, no excess fat anywhere. She loved the way she looked in his eyes, lush and ripe, despite the ordinariness she harbored in her heart. In her, she knew he had felt that he had found a partner, and so he was the first to look past her fine blond hair and pink-lipped mouth to ask for her opinion. She knew, even then that she would follow him anywhere.
He first suggested it when they were already in bed together. She had moved in with him and his mother after their wedding, a fact her mother had not been happy about, but what were you going to do? There was no denying things were easier in Moscow, more advanced. Nastya liked having a washing machine and a T.V., and it was these things she was thinking of, laying with her hair spread over Maks’ chest, post-coital, when he first talked about moving to the states.
She immediately shifted from the warm, languorous mood that being naked with Maks induced to a state of alertness. She rolled over until she was looking sideways at him; she had to see his face. At first, she said nothing. Then she asked.
“How?”
His uncle would sponsor him, he told her, blue eyes excited. He’d get him the papers he needed, the ones that would say he already had relatives in America. He had raised enough seed money with his two buddies, Roman and Anton, to start up a food market. He would bring his mother along; in this, Nastya did not question him. She knew her mother believed you should die where you were born and would never move. But she did catch on one detail of the plan, the one that was nearest and dearest to her heart.
“A food market?” she asked softly, tracing a finger across his chest.
“Imagine it, Nastush, a food market! With a little restoranchik up front where you can make the best dishes fresh, and people can sit and eat. I can sell the kielbasa, you can slice it. I can order the fresh fish, you can fold it into all four corners of the kuliebaika.” When he spoke, Maks unconsciously grabbed her hand in his, as if they were one and the same body and soul, and she knew that anything he did for himself, he did for her.
She said yes.
Standing in the kitchen of that food market now, she recalls those first few weeks in America, when life seemed to be going so fast it almost slipped right through your fingers. She takes the plate of blini and puts it on top of the glass top display of all the soft cheeses; they are as soft and fragrant as her own creations. Whoever wishes to can add it to the blini, wrap the slightly crisp edges around them into delicious flutes, and cut them open or chew on them while holding them with the bareness of their fingertips. The back door bell rings, and Anastasia knows who it is straight away. It is Roman, and he has this week’s flour, a necessary staple of her store.
It was Roman, her husband’s best friend, who brought him the news. She came across them arguing in the back amidst the latest shipment of sardine cans, and she hid behind the racks of pickle jars to listen.
“I won’t pay him that much for the watermelon,” Maks was saying, and she knew he was angry.
“Why not?” Roman asked, but he looked like he already knew.
“Because we pickle them ourselves. He’s asking for top dollar for the product, plus the cost of brining and the containers. I won’t have it. I don’t care if he IS someone important here.”
“Maks, please understand… I can’t take that message back to him. It looks like you have no respect for him.”
“I don’t have any respect for him.”
Nastya knew they were talking about Boris Isakovich, who went by Gosha, locally. He essentially controlled all the associated Eastern European food markets in their area, and had thug-like underlings who would go and collect what Gosha felt was his due. In return, he paid off the local police to look sideways when the goods that would come into the businesses would either have to be smuggled in—how else were you going to get caviar by the pound if you weren’t going to go to the dock warehouses—or if a worker’s papers weren’t exactly, well, presentable. Cheap labor and rare goods were accessible to all—for a price.
If you happened to be like Maks, in the states legally with your green card, and you weren’t looking to buy through Gosha’s distributors, it did not mean in any way that you were safe from having to pay off krusha, literally translated, meaning “roof,” but in fact referred to protection from the local cops. Because Gosha’s men might trash your place, steal the sardines you were importing from your uncle back in Omsk. Maks told her he was not afraid, and as brave as she’d like to have believed her husband to be, she knew that he was thinking about the promise he made to his mother.
“Why go to the land of the free,” she had said, “if you have to belong to someone else?”
It wasn’t so much that Roman and Anton, who had helped Maks with the seed money for his business wanted to belong to Gosha. It was more that they had not brought their mothers overseas with them and being with Gosha involved a certain lifestyle that Anastasia imagined was quite seductive. And they were so young when it all started—who isn’t seducible when they’re young? Young men with fast cars, access to all sorts of goods, and power. Young men in America were addicted to power the way that the middle-aged were addicted to alcohol back where they came from. And so Roman went to work as one of Gosha’s distributors, and when she came across them arguing, she saw that there was concern in the young brunette’s eyes. He was genuinely concerned that if Maks did not start purchasing from Gosha, Gosha would make trouble for him.
If Maks was concerned about this, he did not show it. Those were golden days, at the start. It was all the way that Maks had promised her it would be—the food market with the apples in brine, buckwheat sold by the scoopful, sweet Turkish delight and Strela chocolates, cones in their bright gold foil wrappers. A small kitchen in front for Nastya, for her blini, manti filled with meat, and pirogies of stewed cabbage and potatoes. She rolled everything out by hand, mixed all the dough recipes from scratch. They built up a steady customer base, which was unsurprising since they lived in an area where immigrants from their hometowns lived and were brimming over with nostalgia for a taste of the old country. Many of these were men who were trying to raise enough money to bring their wives and children to meet them in the states. No matter where they found their pleasure at night—it was assumed that men had roving eyes—there was still nobody to prepare them the homemade meals they were used to. Word got out around fast that Nastya’s blini were the best to be had. But the best thing was a separate apartment from Maks’s mother, where Anastasia did not have to fear being overheard through paper thin walls when she and Maks were making love.
Anastasia pauses for a moment before heading to the back to meet Roman. It is painful to remember those nights with Maks, because it is this that she thinks she misses the most—being touched, being stroked and parted by a man’s hand. She has not felt it since Maks has been gone, one month already. She has noticed the way that Roman has been looking at her, like she is a new car that he would like to acquire and take for a ride. What she hates most of all is how this makes her feel, sickeningly as if she might just not mind. She shakes it off, trying to convince herself that she has simply grown lonely in Maks’s absence.
“How much for the flour, Roma?” she asks the tall, light-brown haired guy hauling in a huge sack of flour. He looks up at her, eyes twinkling mischievously even as they are full of feeling, one that Anastasia is familiar with, but would not like to admit.