Mystery Girl 4

This one is a bit longer than my last effort, and be warned that it has a plot of sorts, and leaves you with a bit of a mystery at the end.

Not much sex but a bit of titivating just to keep you interested.

I could have put this somewhere else than Loving Wives, but I sort of like it here.

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I'd like to introduce myself but I think it might not be advisable at this stage. I'd like to be able to tell you the name of the eastern European country this report revolves around, but for me, my life is far too precious. Too precious to risk my name to being added to the list of people that had died already in the name of democracy... Apparently!

Let's just say that I am a political journalist, and that you may well have seen my face on current affairs programs if you watch the BBC or possibly even CNN. That or maybe read one of my articles in one of the more serious newspapers.

Nuff said!

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My story starts when I applied to the appropriate government ministry for an interview with the boss man there, to discuss the unsettled political situation in one of the countries bordering Russia. A country that had originally been part of the Soviet Empire, but that had split off some time after the fall of the Berlin Wall, and was then enjoying, if that was the correct description, an uneasy courtship with the West. Unsure which way to lean, but attracted by the European Union, and in particular by the carrot of membership of currency union. This was all of course before the Euro lost much of its glamorous appeal.

Half expecting to be diverted to the top man's number two, at least till they found out what angle I was pushing, I was surprised and just a little disappointed to be given a time and a place to meet a man I'd never heard of, and for that matter couldn't find any immediate record of.

Strange, but such is the world of both politics and journalism.

Mr Smith, and yes that was John Smith of course, turned out to be a man of around my own age, let's say latish thirties or so, and not the dowdy office bound type that I'd expected. In my profession you learn to size up people pretty quickly, and I got the impression that he was more a man of action perhaps, and a man that women would naturally feel attracted to.

"So you want our opinion on the current state of affairs over there do you," he stated rather than asked, getting straight down to business in his clipped British Public school accent.

Yes," I replied. "It would be a good idea to start off with the British Government's real opinion rather than just the official line that you've been giving out."

"So that you can misquote us?" he came back, the smile on his face telling me that he wasn't that serious, but that even so, I had to be cautious.

"I have signed the official secrets act already," I informed him, though I was pretty sure he'd already be aware of that. "You can invoke that if there's something that the ministry wants airing unofficially."

"I think you can take that as read otherwise you wouldn't be here," Smith went on. "And there is something you could help us with and it could be to your advantage."

"I'm listening," I confirmed my willingness, pretty sure that it wouldn't only be to my advantage..

"Are you recording this?" He asked, and I confirmed that I was, a little surprised that he raised no objection.

"How would you like a private interview with Edin Pjanic?" He asked, my eyes raising at the prospect of actually meeting the very elusive and super rich number two in the country in question. Not his real name of course for reasons mentioned above.

"That's nigh on impossible of course," he shot my hopes down in flames, before I'd even formulated my answer. "But a meeting with his wife might be."

I've years of experience of keeping my feelings in check, and am pretty good at it. But a meeting with ... Let's call her Helen shall we ... Well that shocked me. Shocked me to the core.

"They say she's American," I probed, the stories and rumours surrounding the stunningly beautiful Mrs Pjanic spinning round my head. The prospect of such an exclusive story, causing me involuntarily to lean forward in my seat towards him.

"Thought that would get you," he grinned back at me, knowing he had my rapt attention. "The beautiful and mysterious Helen Pjanic, so called wife to Edin Pjanic, sometime mistress to the president and possibly half their senior government, and probably, currently, the most sought after woman by the world's eager press. They do say that she holds the country's destiny in her hands. Beauty and power in one such person is intoxicating, especially when nobody seems to know where she came from."

"I noticed that you said 'so called wife to Edin Pjanic'," I pointed out, never one to miss a nuance in general conversation. "Surely they are married?"

"They got married," Smith confirmed emphasizing 'got', but offering no more.

"So she is Mrs Pjanic then?" I probed cautiously, wondering where on earth this conversation was going, though never in a million years would I have guessed where it was about to go.

"Possibly not since she's still married to me," Smith stunned me with. "I'm not aware that either of us applied for a divorce, so the question of whether or not she actually is Mrs Pjanic or not, is therefore debateable."

The next few minutes passed in a bit of a dream as I tried to take in the implications of what he'd just told me. The information I already had would make a world exclusive. But I had nothing other than Smith's word, and I knew he could disappear into thin air if he wanted to.

I needed more.

I was being set up and we both knew it, but this story was too hot to let go of.

"Let me tell you a story," he said at last, and I shut up, placing my recorder out in front of him, making sure that he knew he was giving me this information freely.

If I knew then what I know now, then I would have known why it didn't worry him.

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Smith's story, verbatim, as I recorded it that day.

Helen and I met at university when she spent a year on secondment there from her college in USA. We fell in love and married soon after we both graduated. As you know I work for the British Government, and her for an American organisation in London, but in a similar field to me.

Several years in, and still emotionally and physically still very much in love we took a holiday and booked a week in a certain eastern European country, only very recently freed from the yoke of Russian imperialism. Not surprisingly they were short of foreign currency, and were offering very inexpensive stays in their historical and beautiful capital city, access for so long denied to the people from the west.

We spent our days touring the city, some of the first western tourists ever to do so, taking in the sights and visiting museums and art galleries that took our breath away. The evenings were taken up eating in gloriously decorated old restaurants, the food seldom up to what we were used to back in London, but the surroundings and enthusiasm of the service more than making up for it. We went onto a few clubs and bars, but back in those days there was something somehow lacking, even though I got a kick out of the attention Helen received, clad in her short, and by their standards at that time, rather revealing dresses. The quite open jealous looks of the women who simply couldn't buy clothes like that yet, and for the most part wouldn't compare to Helen even if they could, contrasting with the stolen lustful looks of the men at her and the envious glances at me.

Then we heard about the 'Hungry Goose' club, which only much later did I find out was a rip off of the 'Hungry Duck' club in Moscow. Not that I'd heard of that place at the time.

"Let's go," Helen giggled after the guy at the hotel had told us about it.

"No way Helen," I responded. "A male strip club? No bloody way."

"Oh come on," she encouraged me. "I went to that lap dance club with you, so you can go with me to this club."

"Not the same thing," I protested.

"I jolly well hope not," Helen laughed aloud, grinning at me.

Didn't have a leg to stand on of course, so a few hours later found us entering the rather dubious looking portals of the Hungry Goose club. Looked a bit sleazy at night with the fancy lights on, so Lord knows what it would have looked like in the cold light of day.

Then, much to my surprise I found that I had to pay an admittedly miniscule entrance fee, while Helen went in free. What sort of Male strip club was this I asked myself.

I was soon to find out.

Inside was more like a huge pub than a conventional club, with a big central bar that everything happened around. Before my eyes had even adjusted, Helen grabbed my hand and tugged me through the crowd to get closer to the action. The action in question being a couple of guys who looked like weight lifters prancing around with very little on. Little enough that I personally wouldn't have wished to stand comparison.

"Wow!" giggled Helen. "Just look at that."

"I'd rather not," I confessed, concentrating on trying to get some drinks in.

"Oh my God! What are they going to do now?" Helen squealed, and I grunted non-committedly, not at all keen on studying other guy's junk.

"Look honey, look," she cried, hopping from one foot to another. "Look or you'll miss it."

"Fine," I mumbled to myself, not wanting to have anything to do with it. If Helen was enjoying herself then fine, but for me I didn't want to look, especially bearing in mind how close Helen had dragged us to the stage.

Yuk!

"Oh my God what are they going to do to that girl?" However, did get my attention.

"Oh they're not, not really," she gasped. "She's not going to let them take her bra off."

I turned.

Bet your bloody life I did.

Up on the stage with the two hunks was a girl, maybe in her twenties. She didn't look like a stripper, and certainly wasn't dressed like one, other than the fact that most of her clothing had been removed. She was giggling and making a pretty token attempt at fighting them off, as one of them held her and the other one removed her bra.

Nice tits!

"What the hell's going on?" I demanded of Helen.

"That girl," she explained excitedly. "They pulled her out of the audience and are stripping her."

Damn it!

"Look honey, the dark guy's pulling her panties down."

And he did!

For the next few minutes they paraded the now quite naked and very embarrassed young woman around the stage, displaying her nude body to all and sundry. They then handed her down from the stage, still starkers, to some happy looking guy in the audience who I can only suppose was her boyfriend or husband. There was lots of cheering and the girl disappeared around the stage, hopefully to retrieve her clothes, closely followed by the chap who had been holding her.

"Happy now?" Helen giggled.

"Better than I expected," I admitted.

Ten minutes later and another couple of equally muscular guys jumped up on the stage, strutted their stuff for a while and then started making overtures to the various girls clustered round. Some of the more enthusiastic ones were young, for the two strippers too young perhaps for what they had in mind, but eventually a group of young women pushed one of their number forward and caught the guy's attention.

Despite the girl's shrieks of protest, that even to me, not speaking whatever language she was using, didn't sound too desperate, they hauled her up onto the stage.

To my surprise, even though I'd just witnessed the previous event, the girl twisted and struggled, giggling wildly as the two of them, article by article stripped her naked. The previous woman hadn't been too bad, but this one was a real looker. Long legs, slim waist and nice full breasts, all of which despite her feeble attempts to prevent it, were gradually exposed to the cheering crowd round the stage, and none of them louder than the group of women that she had pretty obviously arrived with.

I'd been to a few strip clubs and even a couple of so called amateur nights, but I'd never seen anything like this before. They were simply plucking girls from the audience and stripping them, and there seemed to be girls queuing up to be chosen.

The girl, still in the nude, safely handed back down to her group of friends who may or may not have recovered her clothes, the same two male performers started looking round for a new victim.

It was about this time that it dawned on me that probably the prettiest female gathered round the stage was my wife Helen!

I suspect that the two buggers up on the stage had already realised that, her shimmering long blonde hair, long slim bare legs in her little mini skirt, full round breasts in her tight skimpy top hard to miss.

One of them called out something undecipherable to her, as he offered his hand to pull her up onto the stage.

"Oh my God no!" She cried out, taking a step back, a frightened look on her face.

"Come on pretty lady," he encouraged her, this time in English, in a heavily accented, deep voice.

"I couldn't," Helen squealed, looking round at me for support, her face flushed and excited. "Tell him I can't honey."

"Tell her she can," he addressed me, grinning wildly at me, recognising me as her escort. "Tell her you want her to."

If Helen was excited, then I was off the scale. I did try to say no, knew I had to say no, but when my mouth opened no words came out. My mouth was suddenly parched dry, and I struggled to swallow to lubricate my throat to be able to voice my objection.

"Can I?"

Two short words from Helen; just four letters in total, but they were to change my life, and they encouraged me to make the worst mistake of my life.

I shrugged my shoulders.

Unable to trust my voice because my mouth was still so dry, I simply shrugged my shoulders. It wasn't a yes, but equally and more important it wasn't a no either, and before I could react further, my wife offered up her hands, and the two of them hauled her bodily up onto the stage.

Suddenly, the whole place seemed to go quiet as the crowd realised that this wasn't just a pretty local girl up there, but a beautiful young woman, and one from the still relatively unknown, and therefore seemingly exotic outside world.

From that moment I began to regret my decision, or to be more accurate my indecision.

"Helen," I called out to attract her attention as they enticed her away down the bar some. But all that did was to give her name away, and the crowd started to chant out her name.

"Helen ... Helen ... Helen.."

For months afterwards I woke up in a sweat with that chant ringing in my ears. Woke up alone in my bed I might add.

I've tried, but I find it impossible to properly describe my emotions while I watched the action as it played out on the stage. Unable to do anything about it, while frustration, excitement, regret, disgust, pride, anger, lust, uncertainty and a whole multitude of feelings coursed through me.

I watched as the pair of them toyed with Helen, teasing her far more than with the other two girls, aware that she was something really special, and milking the excited crowd for all they were worth.

It was as if a Miss World had unexpectedly turned up to an amateur night at a strip club.

The previous girl they had stripped naked in less than ten minutes, but with Helen they took their time. Oh boy did they take their time, relishing every button they theatrically undid, and every catch they snapped open with a flourish. Roaring out to the crowd as they eased her top up and off over the top of her head, grinning fiendishly as her skimpy, little, ridiculously expensive bra came into view, a symbol of the decadent west that they were only just beginning to be exposed to.

I didn't see what happened to the top, but several minutes later when they did eventually support Helen and help her as she stepped out of her little leather mini skirt, I was shocked to see one of them throw it into the crowd, an excited group of young women scrambling for it, a real and almost unobtainable trophy not yet freely available in their shops.

That's when I really got worried.

That's when I knew that going there that evening had not been a good idea at all.

This was going way beyond the humiliation of seeing my wife stripped naked in front of a crowd of excited foreigners.

Her bra gone, cast off into the crowd again, and Helen unaware or perhaps beyond caring what was happening to her clothes. The women in the crowd fighting to claim some article of western fashion, the men eager to get a first glance at a genuine pair of naked female American breasts. Helen wasn't as well endowed as the centrefolds they'd no doubt poured over for years in smuggled in copies of Playboy or whatever, but she was equally beautiful, her breasts high and tight, firm and pert but large enough to bounce around playfully as the two guys enjoyed themselves as they paraded her around the stage for all to appreciate.

They played it till the end, the crowd having grown, perhaps as word went round the other rooms in the club, the chants of 'Helen' drowned out by the huskier shouts of encouragement.

The realisation that my wife could end up getting gang raped in the next few minutes bought tears of frustration to my eyes as my impotance to do anything about it crashed home to me.

They toyed unmercifully with her last piece of clothing. These guys knew what they were doing, having no doubt stripped many girls naked on that same stage, and they used every tease they could think of. They gave the onlookers flash after flash and glimpse after glimpse of Helen's most private parts, the ones closer to the stage going wild as they realised that my wife had a shaved pussy. Helen's earlier bravado, suddenly deserting her as she fought to keep her panties in place, her efforts only adding to the excitement of the crowd. One of her tormenters, laughing wildly, took both her bare breasts in his hands and squeezed them roughly. Helen raised her hands to ward him off, only for the other guy, my wife's panties suddenly freed from her clutches, took advantage and quickly slid them down her legs.

Then they could all see it. And the devil who eventually took them off threw them to one of his colleagues, the previous two male strippers having come out to watch the spectacle. I doubted whether she'd be getting them back any time soon, if ever.

It had been an unfair struggle and Helen with a giggle accepted her fate, standing there naked, confronting the pair of them with her hands on her hips as if to challenge them as to what they were going to do next.

There she was, my sweet young wife, naked on that stage for all to see, them holding onto a hand each so she couldn't cover herself up, not that she seemed minded to anyway. Her high heels which had somehow survived only adding to the tableau.

It had to end soon. I prayed for it to end soon, confused by the hardness of my obvious erection, unable to deny that her erotic display had effected me as it had every man there. Unable to pretend that my wife being stripped stark naked in front of a baying crowd hadn't raised the lust in me to boiling point.

But I wanted it to end, even though I was terrified of what would happen to her when it did.

In a final flourish, the other two strippers joined them and all four of them took hold of Helen and held her aloft, abandoning the pretence that they weren't feeling her all over, twisting her to and fro above their heads, her squeals of excitement audible even above the noise of the crowd. The final scene was of my wife held up high, horizontally, her back arched, her tits stretched tight and her legs held wide apart in a final ultimate erotic display.

My sigh of relief as they gently released her back onto her feet was cut off as one by one they took her in their arms, pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, while the other three stroked and pawed at her naked body.