(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.
