Mrs Harts Ache Ch 03 Int 9

This is the twelfth installment of

Mrs. Hart's Ache

Chapter III, Interlude IX, Natasha

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Author's note: see the Index of Terms for the definition of any word with which you are not familiar.

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This is a simple tale of retribution, wherein the young hero teaches the mother of his newest girlfriend a few manners while enjoying a few adventures – sexual and otherwise – along the way.

James Mark Masterson.

Just your typical teenager. Smart... sexy... sophisticated... and always horny. With the time and bank to do pretty much what he wants to do.

And to do who he wants to do.

In this interlude we meet our hero's connection to European aristocracy, his White Russian lady.

Natasha is tall, blond, beautiful, young, intelligent, rich, sexy, sophisticated...

...and has a set of the biggest boobs that James has ever had the pleasure of meeting face-to-nipple.

Natasha adores equally Grand Opera and Mr Snake. She really

wears

a bikini and she swallows too.

Did I mention that Natasha is the daughter of Russian Royalty?

Best of all, Natasha is very much enamored of our young Mr Masterson.

Let's follow along as our hero gets to know a new lady in his life...

Happy reading.

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III The Ladies in My Life

"

...Helped Dad service a couple of aircraft. Escorted Natasha to La Bohéme. Did Natasha...

"

Interlude IX: Natasha

Next up is my connection to European aristocracy, Natasha. She's my White Russian lady.

Natasha is a 28-year-old International Banker, originally from St. Petersburg. She is beautiful, and has the smarts you would expect of an LSE grad.

Tall and willowy at about 5'10", 140, she has long wavy blond hair, sculpted cheekbones and flashing blue eyes. Her skin is perfect, unblemished and creamy-white with only the lightest of tans in the summer. Her legs are long and slender, and she has the most gorgeous ass I've ever had the pleasure of holding in my hands. With all of that, her most distinguishing feature is (are?) her formidable breasts. 34F.

Time out.

And yes, you read it right. 34F. That is not a typo. To be precise, her measurements are 34F-22-35. Huge breasts, particularly for such an otherwise slender woman.

Time in.

Set high, her breasts stand out from her chest as heavy, pear-shaped lovelies that come to points capped with protruding areolae the color of coral. Her nipples are slightly darker when crinkled, larger than gumdrops. Her nipples point skyward, and her breasts are all natural. I've been hands-on, eye-to-eye with them, so I know.

The one time we discussed them – we were in bed naked at the time – Natasha told me that she began blossoming at a very young age. But it wasn't an abrupt transition. Her breasts grew slowly over the years. Slowly enough that there are few stretch marks, though her lovelies stand out, suspended from her chest. What makes her different from most other women is that her breasts didn't stop growing until she was in her twenties, long after she had attained her adult height and shape.

Apparently, the trait runs in her family. Her three sisters, her mother and her mother's four sisters all carry the same big boob gene. Her family portrait is amazing.

Natasha is some kind of spectacular in a thong bikini. Though she does hate wearing a top to her suit, first because she always has a difficult time finding one with cups that fit, and second, because she never wore one before she came to the United States.

Like many European women and girls, she went topless when sunbathing while growing up in Russia and attending school in Spain, France and England. Family day at the beach must have caused riots.

Natasha speaks English with a Russian accent that sends delightful shivers up and down my spine. She says the same thing about my American-accented Russian.

The night of the opera, I wore my tux. She wore a black strapless evening gown, slit up the side to her thigh. She also went 'commando'.

Just for me. Sweet!

I thought the older gentleman sitting on the other side of her was going to have apoplexy. He spent more time looking down the front of her dress, watching her breasts quiver than he did watching the stage production. He had a stiffy like a bar of iron. His wife looked some kind of pissed.

Natasha never noticed. She was too wrapped up in the music. When, totally engrossed in the opera, she held my hand in hers and clutched it to her chest, the old guy almost swallowed his teeth.

At the intermission, while the ladies were in the powder room, he made a point of meeting me in the lobby. He introduced himself, shook my hand and gave me his card. I recognized his name. He's a retired businessman turned philanthropist worth about twenty billion.

He congratulated me on my impeccable taste in women. After I introduced myself, I told him that I had been awarded an academic scholarship by one of his foundations. Mr Billions almost swallowed his teeth again when he learned that I was just on the verge of entering college.

Now he wants to hire me. He doesn't yet know what the job is to be, but he wants me on the payroll. He said that he needs a young man with my kind of chutzpah on his staff; that he has a weakness for individuals that carry big brass ones, even those individuals of the female persuasion.

Time out.

I made certain that he got Natasha's card. I think she fits his weakness well. Hers may be metaphorical, but they are certainly big and brass. She is a ballsy lady.

Time in.

He also said that the sight of Natasha and me together brought back fond memories of his youth. Apparently I remind him of himself at my age.

His wife had warmed up a bit when she and Natasha returned to us, walking together. Natasha has that way about her. I guess I do too. We actually had a nice time together.

Though, after intermission, Mrs Billions did maneuver her husband so that she sat between he and Natasha. But when the lights went down, I happened to glance over and saw her casually reach over to give her husband's dick a rub as partial compensation.

A wise woman. I'm betting they both got some that night. I know Natasha and I did. And yes, Natasha swallows too.

Natasha is White Russian, with connections to the Romanov's. She swears there's not a drop of Slavic blood in her veins. Not that I give a rap, but for some reason, it's important to her.

Her great-great-grandmother was a Duchess. Purportedly, the cousin and teenage mistress of the Tsar. The legend in Natasha's family is that she had the tightest, most talented little pussy the Tsar had ever fucked. According to Natasha, he once granted her an estate with 3000 serfs because of certain rather remarkable skill she possessed.

As the story goes, she would have him lie back still while she lifted her dress, straddled his groin, impaling herself on his cock. Then remaining motionless herself, she would milk the cum from his cock with the muscles in her pussy alone.

I tend to believe the legend. Her lovely ancestress, has demonstrated the same skill for me. I do have to say though, that it takes immense self-control to refrain from pumping one's ass when a woman's pussy muscles start rippling along one's dick.

Mr Snake damn near burst a blood vessel.

Natasha and I met one afternoon when she spoke to my Economics class on international investing. The teacher, Mr Dent, thought that he might have a chance with Natasha, which is the main reason he invited her to speak.

Not happening!

Time out.

Mr Dent is 30 and single, an ex-jock type. He's also smart and a good teacher. He and I get along pretty well. But he can also be an ass. His first name is Richard. The guys call him Dick or the Dickster. The girls call him 'The Hunk' behind his back, but he knows it. He plays it up.

I mean come on! What kind of ego does a man thirty-years old have that he needs a bunch of teenage girls falling all over him?

Hell I'm just eighteen. Missy is the youngest girl I go out with now, and she's a month older than me. There are multitudes of women to play with around his age. Why not hook up with them? I do!

I do think he is smart enough to know the consequences if he dared dip into any of that young stuff. So it's all tease.

Is there such a thing as a pussy tease? If so, that definitely describes The Dickster.

Time in.

Natasha's eyes lit up when I started asking pertinent questions in English. But her interest peaked when I included a comment in colloquial Russian.

Mr Dent, got a bit irritated with that. He had me translate the comment and told me to confine myself to English. I did, but Natasha sort of ignored him and threw out an occasional phrase or joke in Russian, obviously aimed at me.

I'd get it; he wouldn't; pissed him off.

Natasha and I had a bit of a debate going about the current economic conditions in Russia. We did some intellectual sparring throughout the class. I didn't agree with everything she had to say, but It was interesting.

After class Natasha shook Mr Dent's hand briefly, but grabbed my arm as I passed. She held me there for a moment while she gave him a hurried goodbye. The poor dweeb's jaw dropped as she slipped her arm in mine and walked out the door with me.

We went to the Commons, had a cup of coffee and began talking together. She was amazed that I could speak Russian so fluently. I explained my penchant for languages, and about living on Navy bases around the world.

The Dickster walked in and saw us sitting there. Natasha didn't notice. But I could see that he was pissed as he turned away. But hey, Natasha made the choice, not me.

Time out.

I thought that I might have a little trouble with him, but I knew that he couldn't fuck with my grade. I had a 98% average going in the class, and had aced the mid-term.

Technically, according to his class syllabus, I didn't even have to take the final. I already had my 'A'. I ceased to think about it.

Time in.

Natasha and I spent an hour talking together, mainly in Russian of course. French too. She was interested to hear that I had my pilot's license. One thing led to another, and before she left we had a date set for that Friday.

There's a great little place on a lake in the foothills, a couple hours flight time away. There's a restaurant and bar overlooking the lake, and a few cottages scattered in the trees for overnight guests. They've also set up a hot tub and sauna with changing rooms and showers nestled in a little grove down by the shore. The lake is fed with snowmelt, so the heat of the spa or sauna is welcome after a swim.

The owner and his wife know me well. I've done a couple of favors for them; flying in fresh supplies, that kind of thing. Anyway, I made reservations, and we flew over Friday afternoon for dinner. The fresh-caught brook trout was excellent.

The venison steak and eggs for breakfast late Saturday morning was just as good.

I hadn't planned to stay, but Natasha insisted that we share a bottle of wine with dinner. I insisted that I would not fly after drinking. So she insisted on getting a room. What could I do, but give in.

Oh darn.

In truth, neither of us had planned to stay. Nor do I think had either of us had planned a seduction. Neither of us had packed for the night. Our reservations had been for dinner, not dinner and a room. I know Natasha liked that.

Time out.

There's another secret about romancing women: leave room for the opportunity, but don't assume anything. They

hate

it when you assume.

Time in.

She also liked it that I paid the dinner check, but didn't argue when she proposed paying for the cottage. Dinner had been my idea, the cottage hers, so it was only fair. That she paid for the room, kept us even. I wasn't putting her in my debt.

Since we were staying, Natasha wanted to try out the spa. She hadn't brought along a suit, and too, the halter dress and heels she'd worn to dinner was a bit elegant for après-swim wear. Or for a casual breakfast the next morning.

Time out.

Smashing dress, by the way. Black silk; above the knee; backless; scoop neckline. I guessed a halter bra. I found later that I had been right. Natasha rarely goes out without a bra. Smart lady. Her heavy breasts need the support, lest they stretch to her waist before she's forty. It helps that all her bras are custom made.

Oh, and Natasha – once freed of Russian winters – disdains pantihose. She prefers stockings, usually stayups, but is not averse to garterbelts either.

Her little bare pussy framed by black lace bands about her thighs is a sight to behold. Mr Snake certainly approves.

Time in.

So we spent some money in the Gift Shop. Me, I'm easy. I grabbed a pair of bags, some shorts, a shirt and a pair of slaps.

While Natasha was still looking, I ducked out to phone home and let the parents know that we were staying the night. I also checked in with the change in flight plan.

Natasha's figure was a bit harder to accommodate. Thank God for separates. She found a bikini top and bottom that matched, and that looked halfway decent. As it was, the bikini top she found that came nearest to fitting was at least a size too small. But it had the largest cups of any on the rack.

She also found a short terrycloth robe, a pair of cargo shorts, a crop-top, fresh panties and slaps. I grabbed a couple of toothbrushes and a razor. I should have gotten two.

The cottage had two bedrooms, so again I didn't assume. She changed in one, while I used the other. She wore the robe down to the hot tub, but it was like Christmas morning when she slipped it off her shoulders.

Like Missy, Natasha can really

wear

a bikini.

Natasha's new bikini was neon yellow spandex with black edging and strings. Seeing the bikini on the rack in the Gift Shop was one thing. Seeing the same small triangles of stretch fabric straining to cover strategic patches of her body was definitely another.

With her arms pulled back, Natasha's abundant breasts thrust out, spilling from the bikini top. The triangles of the cups were way too small, only emphasizing the generous size of her pillowy breasts.

In the cool night air, her nipples crinkled, darkly embossing the soft spandex cups. Knotted black bows perched high on her hips holding small triangles of yellow fabric to her mound and curved ass.

She glanced down to my package and saw the effect. My grin matched hers. Mr Snake was stirring, and she could see. I think she decided about then how she wanted the evening to progress.

It must be hard for a woman with her face and figure. She told me that about half the men she meets take one look at her chest and their dicks take over from their brains. They spend all of their time staring at her chest and trying to get her into bed.

The other half of the men are too afraid of the combination of looks and brains to take the chance of rejection.

We had discussed our relationship briefly while flying in. I had been relaxed and easy-going since we met. She noted that I had been treating her as a person, which was a refreshing change for her. I grinned, and told her that I had an attraction to organized perfection. She blushed.

We talked about a lot of things, but in the end, she knew that I found her attractive, and that I was open to a physical relationship. She also knew that I knew it was either going to happen or not. No pressure either way. It was her choice. That night in the hot tub, she made it.

I handed her down into the bubbling water, then stepped in and settled back opposite her with arms outstretched along the rim. We tilted our heads back and closed our eyes, just enjoying the heat. The cool mountain air, the scent of the trees in the breeze coming off the lake and the stars twinkling in the clear night sky were marvelous. I breathed deeply and just relaxed.

A few minutes later I felt her body slip next to mine. I put an arm around her. She bussed my cheek, then settled back again with her right arm laced under mine, and her hand resting on my left shoulder.

Her body language said "

Kiss my you fool!

", but I took it slow. Sometimes anticipation is an aphrodisiac. Besides, we had all night, and the hot bubbling water felt so good.

When I felt her turn toward me, and her hand come to rest on my thigh, I knew it was time. I gathered her in my arms and we kissed. She gave as good as she got. We both enjoyed that first kiss.

We spent another twenty minutes or so in the hot tub, touching and tasting, before adjourning to the cottage. This time, there was no question. She pulled me into her room.

The sight of her top falling away from her breasts drew the predictable response from my cock. Natasha's eyes grew wide and she muttered "Мой Лорд" under her breath when my bags came down and Mr Snake made his appearance. I knew then that I had given her a nice surprise gift too. She gave Mr Snake a

big

welcoming smile.

Time out.

There are a lot of free translation websites. Go find one.

Time in.

I gathered her in my arms for another of those long, lovely kisses, then slipped the bows from her hips. Her bikini bottoms fell to the floor. Mr Snake smelled pussy, but he also felt fur.

Natasha's pussy hair was trimmed – it had to be to wear a bikini that small – but she had a strip of thick blond curls down her mons and sprouting from the lips of her sex. I explained my prejudice. She was tempted, but wavered until I showed her the tongue trick.

Surprise gift number two for the little Russian girl with the big boobies!

Natasha laid back on the bed, propped up on her elbows with a towel under her ass watching silently while I quickly shaved her puss. She was tense at first, but relaxed in stages as I demonstrated my expertise. She was already wet, but the razor slipping along the pouty lips of her pussy made her more so. Cute little pussy!

By the time I softly wiped away the foamy remnants, her pussy was fairly gushing. And her nipples were standing so tall, they looked painful. I gave her clit a lascivious lick, which hinted at the marvelous things to come, then pulled her to her feet.

Time out

You guys with experience will have long ago recognized my error. You other guys, make a mental note: when there is a chance that your lady friend will use your razor,

always

have a spare handy.

I knew that, but it didn't occur to me that I'd be shaving Natasha's pussy. It should have. I'm smart enough to have planned on the possibility. I must have been distracted.

As you may have guessed, I sliced the

shit

out of my face shaving with that razor the next morning.

Natasha giggled as I cursed my way through it, then she kissed the boo boos away. After I finished with it, she used the razor to touch up her shave, nicking her pretty in the process.

I kissed her boo boo too.

Time in

When I finished shaving that plump little pretty that night, Mr Snake was standing at attention, saluting. Natasha grinned as she came into my arms again to kiss me. Then she took him in hand, and led me into the shower.

We rinsed the chlorine off each other's bodies, again taking extra time for touch and taste. Then she slipped to her knees to formally greet Mr Snake. She looked up into my eyes with the warm shower beating on her back, then gave me an evil smile and ran her tongue up the length of my shaft.

A shudder ran through me, and she gave me that same evil grin before engulfing the head of my cock with her warm, sweet mouth.

God it was heavenly!

Natasha took her time blowing me. And she is expert at sucking cock. Her tongue seemed to be three places at once. She fondled my sac with the lightest touch, then drew her nails across the skin, teasing. She pumped the shaft while her tongue lashed the head, then slipped the very tip into the tiny hole and wiggled it as though it was diving inside. Occasionally she'd reach through my legs and run her fingers up my ass, teasing my asshole.