I apologise for taking so long to add instalments, but work pressures prevent me from writing any faster. I hope you enjoy the continuing tale of fantasy.
Another awakening, another beautiful woman by my bedside. Or in today's case, two of them. Both dressed, both keen to catch my attention, not that that ever was going to be a problem.
It took me a few moments to reach full consciousness, but once I had I noticed one of them was Slava. And having recognised her, I had to check again to make sure she was dressed. She was in fact naked, wearing only the scanty "clothes" that were tattooed onto her lovely body. I checked closely and finally decided that the other lady's clothes were in fact real clothes, albeit also scanty. She was wearing a very short denim skirt, a white singlet, runners and, as the saying goes, Chanel No 5. She smelled delicious.
Once Slava had ensured that I remembered her (how could I have forgotten?), she introduced me to Vanda.
Vanda had to be a distance runner: no more than about 5' 1" and without an ounce of spare fat on her. In fact she seemed to have barely an ounce of any sort of fat. And yet she looked anything but frail: her matchstick-thin arms and legs seemed well-muscled and moved with a confidence and suppleness that implied power.
As I took more notice of her, I realised she was older. Older than most of the ladies that is, but not older than me. I recalled my confusion about Chris's age back a few weeks (and a lifetime) ago, but even taking into account the healthy lifestyle of the ladies of the brigade, surely this lovely lady was nowhere near my age.
Vanda had a short bob of slightly frosted light brown hair surrounding an elfin face. She had large grey eyes that were directed at my face with a steady gaze that made me feel exposed, body and soul.
I wasn't sure, but I thought I recalled her as one of the ladies who had chased me down on that first day. She might not be a showy beauty to stand out in this brigade of radiant beauties, but as one of only two ladies she was captivating. I thought for a humorous moment how literally correct that word was, but now I was thinking figuratively. I wondered what plans she had for me.
The few moments I had had for these thoughts to go through my mind were all I was going to get.
"Get up." Slava told me curtly. She was holding out a thin dressing gown, and it was clear that I was to get out of bed right now and put it on.
But why was I reluctant? I decided embarrassment could be the only possible explanation and that that was ridiculous. However, there was to be no quarter allowed. I sat up and reached for the dressing gown, putting my arms in the sleeves and pulling it over my shoulders.
Two hands lifted me to my feet and unceremoniously bundled me out the door and down the corridor as I - for some unknown reason - tried to protect my dignity by closing the gown in front of my nakedness.
In about twenty seconds we were walking down the steps in the early daylight to the road where an old Moskvitch was waiting. Even under the circumstances I was pleased to be able to recognise the type. But Tina was standing by the open door and, despite my confidence that I was among friends, she too was brusque.
"Get in." I got in the passenger door she was holding open for me, and as soon as I sat down the door was closed on me.
Tina looked in the open window. "You are to do anything and everything Vanda tells you. Is that understood? Anything."
I nodded. Vanda was in the driver's seat and immediately we were on our way. I looked back and saw Tina and Slava watching us. I briefly recalled Slava's nakedness, even though she looked like any other beautiful girl standing there in the street "wearing" only her tattoos and standing beside the fully dressed Tina.
But back to Vanda. She certainly seemed to know where she was headed. I asked where we were going.
"Shut up. Didn't you hear what Tina said?" I nodded. "Shut the window. I don't mind if you want to freeze, but I don't want to freeze with you." I rolled up the window. I felt a little warmer.
We drove for about twenty minutes, half of that out through the outskirts of the city and half towards and then along a wild coast. Vanda drew up near a wharf, got out and walked off towards a single-masted yacht, about thirty feet long. I trailed behind her, uncertain.
Vanda was not uncertain, springing onto the gangplank and getting to work with ropes and such. Soon a sail went up and the yacht magically changed from a passive lump floating beside the wharf to a thrumming, eager animal.
"Pull in the gangplank." I pulled it in and laid it down in what looked like a suitable spot. As I stood up again, we started moving from the wharf and I nearly fell overboard.
"Watch yourself. I don't want to be pulling a drowned rat out of the water." I looked at her and thought I might have noticed a slight smile. "You'd better get below. It's a little warmer and it's not as easy falling overboard from there." I went down a few steps into a small cabin, and sat near a windscreen, alternately looking where we were headed (seemingly out to the open sea) and then around the boat to watch Vanda busy herself at the front - sorry, for'ard - then at the mast, back and forth from this rope to that.
As suddenly as the yacht had come alive, everything now settled down. The boat was heeling over and straining forward towards the horizon. Vanda came in and sat beside me at the wheel, as calm as she had been in the car. I knew competence when I saw it.
Perhaps she'd be a little more communicative now we were under way. "Where are we headed?"
"Would you understand if I told you?" At least the tone was a little gentler now. There was definitely the touch of a smile now, although perhaps a little sarcastic.
"I might not know the geography here, but are we just going for a sail or are we headed somewhere particular?"
"Yes." An unhelpful answer, but this time the smile was clear as she undressed me with those lovely eyes. Yes indeed, this was one lovely woman. The looks might not be quite as dazzling as some of the younger fellow members of her brigade, but she had a class all her own. A Bacall or a Hepburn (either of them) among the Johanssons and the Dunsts. No less sexy and no more, just different. Perhaps to someone of my mature age, yes, a little sexier.
I decided to sit and enjoy the moment, and to steel myself against the sexual subjugation that seemed inevitable. This yacht had now shrunk to a mere bathtub in the immensity of the sea hissing against the bows as the land started to diminish in our wash.
I had done a little sailing years ago, and although I was clearly a lubber compared with Vanda I thought perhaps I might at least be able to survive without becoming seasick provided we didn't encounter huge seas.
I relaxed as the coast behind us faded to a line and then nothing. We were out on the open sea. On and on we sailed, the sun climbing higher and warming us just a little.
"Lose the dressing gown." Sudden, but hardly unexpected. I stood and slipped it off my shoulders onto the deck.
"Where is the dressing gown?"
Huh? "It's on the floor - er - deck."
