Russian Resolution Ch 02

(This picks up, right where the first part of the story left off...)

She left me there as she had before: naked, my cock stiff, my heart pounding and my head crazy with wanting, and again she left the curtain open a bit, leaving me exposed if any passer-by happened to look back into the stall. This time I tried to calm myself, tried to stay nonchalant, and vowed not to make eye contact if someone did seem to notice me. That wasn't so easy, when I realized a pair of women strolling arm in arm had stopped and were whispering, looking at me, laughing. I pretended not to notice, but my cock, which had just started to calm down was having none of it, and grew again, stiffened right up, wanting all the attention it could get.

Dasha came back then, with several pairs of pants, some shirts, and a bright smile. She gave a little laugh and kind of tossed her head, her long red hair flowing and her breasts swaying lightly under her light dress.

"These should all fit," she said. "Try them on, see what you like."

They were all very good quality, nice linen, the pants thicker material than the shirts. She watched me, commenting, and apparently had good taste. I liked it all, and told her so,

"Wear what you want, and I will wrap up the rest," she said.

"All of it?"

"You need clothes, don't you? You can't wear that ridiculous stuff you had on before," she said. "These look good. Wear them. I will fold these up for you. Come along."

I came out with her, and saw that the two women were still there, shamelessly watching me, laughing. Again I tried to pretend to not notice them, and really, my head was full of Dasha. I couldn't imagine that she was done with me, and I knew I wanted to put myself in her hands. I felt almost scared, certainly shy, but I had to say something.

"Can I ... can we ... see each other?"

"Silly boy, of course," she said, her voice low, soft.

"Today?"

"You're so eager for me to play with you?"

I nodded.

"You're not afraid I might - hurt you?"

"I don't think you're mean, Dasha," I said.

She looked in my eyes a moment, and then nodded.

"I'm pleased you think that way," she said. "We can meet this evening, in the garden across the street, at the statue of Pushkin. You know Pushkin?"

"Of course," I said.

"Of course," she echoed. Then she gave me the other clothes in a bag, and when I asked her how much it all was, she laughed and shook her head. "I don't want any money from you. That would not feel right. These are yours, from me."

If there ever would have been any doubt in my head about seeing her again, that would have knocked it out. But there hadn't been.

I spent the day walking the city, wandering, looking. The beauty of Russian women has become almost a cliche, but in those days, when the Cold War had just ended and few had seen inside the Soviet Union, it was still a wonderful surprise. I felt like I'd never seen so many beautiful women, long hair, long legs, grace. And of course I was already excited, from what Dasha had done with me, and the expectation, the anticipation that she would play with me more. It didn't hurt that girls and women noticed me, my long hair stood out, and my penis wouldn't quite settle down - and sometimes that was noticed, too.

Knowing we were going to meet at a statue of Pushkin, I thought I should get something by him, and at a little antiquarian bookstore I found a copy of his poems and of his novel in verse, and bought them both. I was looking at the beginning of the novel, sitting on a bench facing the statue, when I heard footsteps, and looked up to see Dasha.

The grace of her movements astonished me. She was casual, calm, almost careless as she walked, her long read hair swaying down her back, her strong leg flashing out of the dress that fell just past her knees, the golden freckles across her broad face. I forgot every other woman I had seen and lost myself in her.

She took my arm and we started to walk in the garden. It was quiet, evening, the sun gold over the trees, lighting the pink, green and yellow houses around. She asked me about my day, what I had done, and seemed pleased that I had merely wandered, explored.

"My husband loved to walk the city, even though he lived here all his life," she said, and she held my arm tighter a moment. "I hope you don't mind me talking about him. It's just - he was just about your age when he died, and you look so much like him, and - maybe I got carried away today, but - he let me play with him like that, he would let me do things - he knew that letting me have control didn't mean he was weak. He knew it was the ultimate bravery to surrender yourself to another."

She was close against me. I could smell the warmth of her body, feel her muscles as she walked, and her words filled my head.

"He sounds like a very smart man," I said, my voice catching in my throat as I felt my cock stiffening.

"You feel that too, don't you," she said. "That's what this is, isn't it?"

Her left hand came across her body and pressed against my hard-on, closed half around it.

I couldn't deny it, and didn't want to. I knew what I wanted.

She nodded at a bench at a curve in the path. There was no one else around, evening coming on. The city was strangely quiet, even at midday, back then.

"Let's sit down," she said.

When we did, she stretched her legs out straight in in front of her. I followed their line out to her feet, slender in light canvas sneakers, and I thought of how she did nothing fancy, and yet had captivated me from the moment we started talking.

"My feet get sore, standing all day," she said softly.

"You should put them up, let them rest," I said.

She turn on the bench and moved a little away from me, as she did placing her feet lightly in my lap.

"Is this what you mean?" she asked.

I nodded and put my hands on them.

"May I?" I asked.

She shrugged, her smile turned to teasing. I slipped one sneaker off, then the other, and started to massage her right foot. Her toes were long, slender like her foot, her legs, and her feet were somehow both strong and delicate, with high arches. As I massaged, I turned to face her more. She let me take her right foot, but brought her left into my lap, and pressed it against my cock.

"Take it out, Dean," she said.

"What if someone..." I looked around.

"You can cover it, if someone comes," she said. "Take it out."

I gently put her foot down, and nearly tore open the fly of my pants, letting my hard-on stand up. As good as the fresh air felt on my exposed cock, when she pushed her foot against it, grabbing it just under the head between her toes, that felt even better. And when I lifted her foot again, without thinking, without pausing, I brought it to my face, to my lips, and began to kiss her sole. My eyes were closed, but I heard her sigh and laugh, heard her say tenderly, "Oh my, you sweet boy. My feet are dirty, you know."

Yes, her foot tasted of salt, of sweat, and I could feel little grains of sand or dirt, I don't know what, but I kept kissing her sole, up to her toes, and I licked between them, sucked them into my mouth, kissed them, all the while feeling her rubbing my shaft with her other foot. I had opened my eyes, watched her watching me, her smile nearly laughing, her eyes dancing.

She squeezed my cock between her big and middle toes, surprisingly strong, and pressed with her heel against my balls, the pressure right at the place between pain and ecstasy. As she released, a gush of precum came up, and then another. As I kissed my way to the arch of her right foot, she rubbed her left up my shaft, then took her right foot away from my lips and gave me her left, which was wet with my goo.

I sucked at it, licked it up, tasting the tang of my own juice with her salty, sweaty feet, felt the joy of her watching me do it.

"Do you like that?" she asked. "Do you like kissing my feet, Dean?"

"My god I do," I murmured into her sole.

"You don't mind that someone's watching you? A woman on her balcony - don't look - she's enjoying the evening, enjoying you pleasing me. You don't want to make her self-conscious."

"She can watch," I said. "I - I'm not ashamed of kissing your feet. I don't care who knows."

She moved her foot away from my hard-on, giving it a last little kick as she pulled it away.

"Stroke yourself, Dean," she said softly. "Show her how much you love my foot against your lips."

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed my cock and started stroking it, holding her foot to my lips with my other hand, kissing her.

"What must she think of you? A grown man, jerking off while he kisses a woman's foot, her toes. And you're not ashamed at all? Embarrassed? What if you meet her, if she recognizes you - someone you work with - a student. With your long hair, she would know you right away, on the street, with her friends - would she tell them? Would they come to you, tease you-"

I kept on stroking myself, trying to control myself but slowly going faster and faster, her voice in my head building everything up until I felt on the verge of cumming, of shooting out everything - but she must have felt it. She pulled her foot away, grabbed my arm and pulled my hand off my cock.

"No, Dean," she said. "Not now. Not yet. Not here. That's for later. Come home with me, we'll have some dinner. You can meet my sister."

My heart was pounding, I was almost out of my mind. My cock was twitching, so close I could feel it, feel it wanting to burst out. I felt my face burning.

She slipped her feet into her light sneakers, stop up and took my hands, brought me up, too, before I had even put myself away. I was afraid to touch it, feeling just my fingers on it could set me off. Again I looked in her face, the fine lines at the corners of her gray eyes, her wide smiling mouth, her straight red hair, bold as she herself.

"Put it away and we'll go home," she said.

I gently got it inside, closed up my fly. Then I saw the woman, youngish, blonde like so many here, leaning on the railing of her balcony over the garden.

"Don't worry, Dean," Dasha said. "She wouldn't have watched if she didn't like what she saw. I'm sure she'll think about you a lot now."

And with that, we started out of the garden, to her home.