The Russian Wife

In the eighties, in Russia, there was no honeymoon trips for "Just married" couples. Or at least, they were just starting to become usual. "Svàdebnoe puteshèvstvie", this was he Russian term. My man would have liked to go home with me for a while, to Florence, but he could not leave his work place for a long period, and not even I could get a passport and a visa so easily. So we had decided to make our "mistery ride" to Leningrad (confidentially: "Pìter") and back, on what had become a real, unofficial "train of love".

Some people, especially young, unmarried couples, took that train and went back and forth between our two "capitals", and so they had a discreet, although not always comfortable place to do what they intended to do, however. And nobody, not even the KGB, seriously intruded in it. Let alone tried to repress it.

So we went to the ticket boot with our passports (that's the rule, still now, in Russia) and get our tickets. My man had a business visa, valid for the whole USSR, and the lady in the ticket boot understood very well why we asked two tickets to go and back. We were neither the first nor the last... But there was a lot of people in line, so she did not said a word: just looked at us with a "you-don't-fool-me" smile...

Maybe because she had more time, maybe because she was elder, the lady who controlled the ticket near the train was a bit more intrusive. She asked us, whether we were married. My man said yes...

"A spràvka yèst?" she asked. She wanted to see a documental proof. I hesited to show my passport with the annotation of our marriage (on Italian passports this is not possible), but my man had a certificate, and he showed it to her without problems.

The lady seemed satisfied. He gave back the paper with a slight smile.

"Svàdebnoe puteshèvstvie..." she snorted. She knew we would have been back the morning after, it was on the tickets... quite a short trip...

"Màlo vrèmeni" answered my man, shrugging. Few time... The lady smiled wider. She too appreciated a foreigner who spoke Russian, with not so much accent...

"Posdravlyàyu..." she said, inviting us with a wipe of her hand to climb on the wagon, as if she was inviting us at her home. We thanked her for the wishes and climbed.

"A bit curious, that "bàbka"..." my man said. "Bàbka" was the colloquial term for a "no more joung" lady... but not yet a "bàbushka"...

"It was nothing." I snorted. "She was worried that you were corrupting me, maybe..."

"Corrupting you?"

"Yes! She knows the custom, that is, that young people use this train for making love. And likely she closes her eyes about it: she too has been young. But she has seen you, a foreigner, and me, a poor, young, naïve Russian girl... So she has thought you were getting me to make love with you on this train, that is, you were taking advantage of me, of my naivety, of me weaknesses... And she was galled about it, maybe. This train is even HER train, after all, she is responsible of what happens on it... But when she has seen that we are "mush I jenà" already, well, then... "Vsyò v poryàdke", all in order! We can go with God!"

"Yes, it can be!" my man laughed. "What do you think she would have done, if we had not been married?"

"I don't know. It depends on the limits of her zeal... And I ignore them... Maybe she would have let us pass all the same, but not with her best wishes, as she has done... Maybe with a very unfriendly glance, for both, especially for you... Or maybe she would have called the police, and they would have ascertained if we were going to make love for love, or for money..."

"Or for a pair of jeans..." my man said. I nodded, snorting.

"Or for a pair or jeans..."

We reach our compartment. My man said it was not so different from that of an old Italian train. Not new at all, spartan, a bit run down, but the bedcloths were clean. And that was the matter.

We were perfectly conscious that we would have not seen "Piter", except what could be seen from the railway and from the station, if not just from the train. We would have visited it another time. We were not there for tourism... Or maybe yes. "Experiential tourism", so to say...

We shut the door of the compartment, set up or light luggage and then we were facing each other. My man caressed my cheeks.

"Do you want to do it now?"

"I'm a bit hungry..." I said.

We ate what we had carried with us for dinner. Something like picnic food, but we ate it looking at each other, as if we were at a romantic restaurant, not necessarily in Russia. And the noise of the weels of the train did not disturb us at all. For all I care, it sure was not an orchestra with violins and tenors, but it was fine all the same: something like classic jazz (not be-bop, for God's sake!), played very slow, very quiet... rhythms who were talking to our insides, surely to mine... We know what we were going to do...

And surely somewhere in the wagon, someone was doing it already. Moans and little cries of a woman, clearly not averse to what his man was doing to her...

My man smiled, and me too...

"Poyèkhali?" he said.

"Poyèkhali!" I said. As Gagarin said when they launched him in the space. Let's go!

We put away the remains of our meal and hugged each other, starting the undressing sequence we knew so well... No need for words, no need for music... He wanted to take me, and I wanted to be taken, seized, penetrated by him... My sex was already dilated to the maximum depth, my juice was outpouring on my panties when he pushed them down my legs.

He bent for get them before they reached the dusty pavement of the compartment, and I raised a legs and then the other to allow him to take them. He sniffed them, and smiled.

"Gorgeous smell!" he said. He knows it was my own smell, from my sex, from my moist... And it was abundant...

""Tam Rossìya pàknet"!" I answered, smiling. It was a verse of a famous poem. "It's the smell of Russia", more or less...

He snorted, dropped my panties on a seat and hugged me again, keeping undressing me, touching me... I felt myself in his hands, my moans became almost pleading, childish, something like "please don't hurt me"... I knew he would have never done it, unless I asked him to be stronger, but when he caressed my sex, my vulva, I felt so weak, unable to defend myself, at his own mercy... It was the pleasure he gave me, the feeling I could not stop him, not even if I wanted it... He was so delicate, but I felt his strength, just on his fingertips, against my flesh... He could do to me what he wanted, how he wanted, at the speed and with the violence he wanted...

"You know what day is today?" he whispered in my ear.

"It's you birthday, I know..." I told him. He had told me not to buy any gift. He would have asked...

"Now, I would like to ask you something, as a gift..."

"What?" I smiled. It would have been something kinky and sexy, it was clear.

"Put yourself on all four..."

I came back instantly on the planet Earth. This was TOO MUCH "kinky and sexy" for me!

"You know I don't like it! It's beasty!"

"But it's my birthday!"

I looked at him and shook my head, smiling. Maybe he could have forced me to do it, without raping me, just making me come with his fingers, making me weaker than I was already, and then overcoming my soft refusals... But maybe he was afraid he would have hurt me, if he did that way. So he was ASKING me that, like a child... It's my birthday, mom, please, give me that...

""Nu làdna"!" I said: okay, so let it be... He hugged me again, caressing me everywhere, kissing me, and I was ready to do all he wanted, again...

"Now..." he said. I bent, offering him my back, but before he was too close, I looked at him.

"Not in my..."

"Oh! Of course, by Jove, no!" he said. He had got what I meant: not in my ass. I would have felt fear, pain, shame and disgust... His sex was made for fill my belly, to swim in my moist, to make me feel dominated and happy to be, but not to rummage in my...

"Oh!" I said, when he got into me. Better: I said "Oooohhh"... It was better than usual... It seemed to me quite longer, bigger, harder... Of course, it was more or less the same, but my sex was quite shorter, tighter, due to the position, I thought... And I thought he knew that all too well... "Dèlo tèkniki", a matter of technics, another lesson I was happy to learn... From behind is not beasty, it's good... Provided it is in the right hole, and it was... His sex inside, his warm, strong hands on my hips... I felt as a mare mounted by a stud: slowly, firmly...

He bent a bit over me and started caressing my belly, then down between my legs... He knew how and where to be strong, or delicate... he started to caress my pubes, my thighs, my sex... he was dilating me from behind, and touching me, sweetly torturing me in front... his fingers were playing with my clitoris, with my nymphs, and my moist kept outpouring from me, greasing his fingertips, his hand...

I was moaning, pushing my back against his belly, offering myself to his blows, totally in his hands, at his mercy... It was so good to be boned that way, by such a man, such a male... Another one in his shoes (so to say) would have taken the chance to sodomize me, maybe, likely. But I was sure: he would have never done it... so I could abandon myself in his hands even more...

"Silnèie?" he asked.

"Chut-chut silnèie!" I decided: just a bit stronger... He increased slowly the rhythm and the depth of his blows. And it was fine, really fine... True love and good sex, who can ask for anything more?

I started fancying. He was he, but not exactly he... His body, his sex, but different... A bandit, yes, a "krutòi pàren", a "though guy" who does not dance... or a sultan, a "khan" from the steppes... and I a victim, no, a concubine who enjoyed to belong to him, even knowing to be just warm flesh, for him... a shoe for his feet, a scabbard for his sword...

And it was quite easy, because now he was really possessing me, imposingly, shaking me all, very strong... "trakhàt", in the real meaning of the word... And I did not see his face, so I could figure whatever face, whatever expression on it... the face of an invader, of a cruel winner... Maybe he could do it so strong because he didn't have to use his force for not to weigh on me, for hovering above me... so he was using all his power, just for pounding into me... And it was wonderful!

Yes! I was not a concubine whatsoever, and he was not a khan whatsoever... He was Suleiman, the greatest sultan of Ottoman history, and I was his wife, Rossellana... A Russian girl, kidnapped in the south of Russia, then sold in Turkey as a slave, who became first a concubine and then the most loved wife of the sultan... Yes, I was her... and he was him... Strong, hard, when it took, but even wise, faithful to his friends and to his love... And male, male, male... Oh, SO male!!!

I "finished", shouting and moaning, but I did not feel him coming into me. So I let him keep pounding me, slower... but at a certain point, I felt something exploring me in the "wrong" hole: his sex was still where it had to be, so I realize: it was his finger! I shouted, but it was not so painful. His finger was lubricated by my own moisture, and he did not push it too hard. Then I looked at him, almost laughing.

"Posòrit vsyù Evròpu, ktò pàlzem lèzit v jòpu!" I told him. A quite popular joke. You dishonor the whole Europe, if you go with your finger in the...

"And who the heck gives a damn about Europe?" he said. I shouted again when he fully penetrated me, but compared with what I was feeling in my belly, occupied and roamed by his sex, it was just a tickle. So I just "pretended" to shout, and he knew he was not hurting me... And he kept pounding, from both sides, but with two fingers. It was not so bad, after all. He was just possessing me, I belonged to him, front and rear... And I liked it!

But hey, he did it without my permission! So he had to be punished, at least symbolically, with a bit of sense of guilt...

"You are a monster!" I grunted, between a moan and the next.

"Yes! A monster with two... Hm?" he said. When I realized what those "two hm" were, I burst out laughing: two sexes, two "dicks"!

"Really a monster!" I cried, always laughing. And he laughed too...

We kept making sex until the morning, and I mean it: not one of us slept, that night. Given some conditions (a REAL compartment, first of all), its's not so bad to do it on a train. Uncomfortable, a bit wild, if you wish, but... "Kak mòlodi my byli"... yes... how young we were...