Russian Resolution

When I woke, for a moment I had no idea where I was. The light was golden, there were no sounds but birds and maybe children playing, laughing. I seemed to be floating somewhere, and then it all came back -- St. Petersburg, the high-ceilinged bedroom in my new apartment, the big double window opening onto the courtyard, a little dusty playground, trees, gravel walks and old battered benches frequented by groups of old men and women. I didn't remember -- and then I did. I'd come back from the university, taken a shower, then without dressing lay down on the bed and must have passes out. Jet lag maybe, or being somewhat spent after Akiko's treatment, and cumming in Lyudmilla's hand. The light -- I had no idea what time it was. I got up and went to the window, as though I'd be able to tell from the sun, the sky, anything out there. I must have been barely awake. I stood for I don't know how long at the big window -- it went from nearly the ceiling to about mid thigh, with light lace curtains -- before I realized there were two girls on a balcony right there, on the building perpendicular to mine. They were looking down into the courtyard, not at me, and I moved slowly back into my room, and got dressed.

I was at the statue first again, and when I saw Dasha coming, I felt the excitement again. She'd let her long red hair loose, something few women seemed to do here, and it flowed like a river lit by sunset, the way her long legs swung her hips, her casual confidence, in her movement, her smile, her gray eyes on me, waiting for her.

Her smile played on her lips as she stood before me. Amid the freshness of the air off the trees, the flowers and grass, and the drifting stink of the car and truck exhaust, the dust, I could smell the warmth of her body, and the flood of her hair.

"Come. Let's go," she said.

She took my arm and turned us along the path we'd taken the day before.

"You went to the university today?" she said. "Tell me what happened there."

I took a breath, but somehow all I could do was tell it all, and I did, from how the girl had seen us, to seeing her, how we were left alone and had to confront what she'd seen, how I had let her do what she would, whatever she wanted, and how she had. And then how Lyudmilla Ivanovna had caught me, and took me in hand. I was ashamed of myself, felt worse than ashamed, and when I was finished, Dasha said nothing for a moment. Then, to my surprise she reached over and grabbed at my penis, hanging flaccid, ashamed I guess too.

"Well, that's something," she said when she let me go. "It doesn't excite you to tell it. I know the girl, or, I have heard of her -- her intelligence, from Lyuda. She -- Lyuda -- is an old, old friend and I cannot fault you. She -- we share some of the same inclinations. She had told me about you, when you were hired, how Mitya said you looked just like my Daniil. If she caught you like that, she could not resist -- and you are not the kind of boy to stop her. This girl, though, Akiko?"

I nodded.

"I suppose it is unfortunate she saw you -- us," she said, but she laughed then. "Unfortunate for you, or maybe not. I think she will want to keep humiliating and abusing you, despite her cute face."

"Are you angry?" I asked.

"Angry? No. Why? Things happen. I do not own you. And -- I see how you are still looking at me. I don't own you -- but I think we both know you will be mine. Now, let's go."

We turn around and walked out of the park. She talked casually about mundane things, her day, customers, the other women in the market stalls, as though my story had never been. I watched the city, the few strange little cars, skinny teenagers in styles I had never seen before, so many blond, fair skinned. Everywhere people were selling things: books, plates, cups, silverware, little statuettes, kitchen supplies, knit things I couldn't identify, embroidery. I listened to her voice, let my eyes drift, and felt myself carried off somewhere, like when I'd woken up, where I was completely lost.

Then we we entered the courtyard of a building, went to a dark stairwell, and climbed. It was up five flights before she took out keys and unlocked three locks on a metal door, then started on more locks on a wooden door inside. It opened into a narrow hall, half-blocked with a dark wooden wardrobe with things stacked on top. She took off her shoes and put her feet in slippers.

"You can wear these, Dean," she said. "They will be yours now."

The slippers were new. I took off my sandals, put my feet in the slippers, and followed her into the apartment. It was more ornate than mine, and full of stuff -- books and clothes and furniture, heavy chairs, rugs hanging on the walls -- a woodland scene of bears, another of a boy and girl riding a wolf. There was a double door out to a balcony and sun rushed in around us, all deep gold.

"Sit down with me a moment before I finish dinner," she said.

I sat, but she was gone a moment, and when she came back, she had changed into a simple cotton house dress that buttoned up the front, with pale blue flowers scattered all over. It fit her body closely, showing off her waist and wide hips, her small high breasts, and the very short sleeves bared her strong, firm arms.

"I was thinking yesterday evening," she said as she sat beside me. "Of Pushkin and that novel in verse of his, you reading it and -- your attentions to me in the park. As a girl I read it, and those bits -- how they excited me. You too? How he could be so open about such a thing, and in a book we were all supposed to read as a masterpiece."

She lifted her legs, her feet bare, and the housedress fell open a bit up her thighs. I did know just what she meant, and remembered my own surprise and yes delight, at the unexpected turn, and the "jealous of the waves" that got to touch those feet he could not touch with his lips. There being no ocean waves here, I slipped to my knees on the floor before her, and not even lifting her feet, bent forward to kiss their smooth warmth.

I heard her sigh softly, felt her toes curl under my lips, and then she said, "My dear boy, did you do as I asked you to?"

I look up at her, the thrill of being there bowed before her, and nodded.

"You masturbated?"

"Yes," I said. "Thinking of you, I had to."

"How many times?"

"Twice."

"And you collected your seed?"

I nodded.

"Show me," she said."

Reluctantly, I left her feet and got my bag, brought out the little jar I had found in one of the cabinets in my kitchen, which now held as much of my sperm as I had been able to catch. When I gave it to her, she looked at it, opened the jar, smelled it.

"Two times?" she said.

I nodded.

"It looks nice, Dean, a good amount, nice color," she said. Then she handed it to me, still open and said, her toes playing up and down, "Pour your seed on my feet, and you can lick it off."

"I -- I wish I had cum on your feet in the first place," I said.

"And you would have licked it up?"

I nodded. "Could I -- now?"

"You mean, jerk off on my feet?" she asked, her toes dancing slowly now, up and down. "That's what you want?"

"Yes," I said softly. "Please. I'm so hard."

"Are you? Let me see," she said.

I straightened up and undid the fly of my pants, pulled out my hard-on.

"Oh, my, you are, aren't you?" she said. She brought her right foot to my shaft and pushed at it, to one side, then the other. "What is this about, Dean? Why is it so big right now?"

"Your feet," I said. "That I might -- kiss them."

She caught the cloth of my pants in her toes and tugged, then did the same with my shirt, saying, "Take these off. Get them off."

I quickly pulled off my shirt, then stripped my pants, too, then said, "Now can I --?"

She shook her head.

"Don't be so impatient, silly boy. You have all that good seed we don't want to go to waste."

So I did as she said, pouring what I could of my cum on each of her beautiful feet, and then setting to slurp it up, kissing her, and licking her, sucking her smooth skin, all the while looking up her long legs to her face, her eyes watching me. It was delicious, the feeling, even knowing that with the salt of her feet I was licking up my own jizz. I wanted to touch myself, to stroke it, but instead took her foot in my hands. She opened her thighs slightly, giving me a view up between them to the darkness where her panties, her bush must have been. Then she closed them, laughing, saying, "Poor boy, you think you see it, but -- not yet. For now the only juice you get to taste is your own."

I felt myself throbbing, my heart, as I started nibbling at her. She lifted her feet together, and brought them together to my face, so I was now kissing and licking her soles, her high arches. My hand started to move to my stiff shaft, but she said, veers gently, "Don't touch, Dean. It's my feet you should pleasure."

My attention returned, and the excitement of the denial, of her control, her tenderness, and submitting, I knew I was dripping. And then, a noise and she said, "No, my sister. Up."

She gathered my clothes more quickly than I could have, took me by the arm and brought me somewhere -- it turned out to be the bathroom, the old fashioned Russian kind with just the sink and tub, the toilet in a separate closet. I only came to myself after the door was closed and she was gone, my pants and shirt left on a big basket on the floor.

It took a bit, but I gradually calmed down. I took up my pants and pulled them on, then my shirt, and then I noticed what was in the basket. It was underwear, worn, simple cotton stuff, pastel colors. But I could not resist. I took a pair of yellow panties, brought then tony face, the sharp smells, something musky, salty, something else and my cock was alive again, just like that, and I pressed the cotton close to my mouth and nose, as though to kiss through them to the body that had worn them, when the door opened.

"Oh," a young woman said, as I quickly dropped the underwear to my side. "I didn't realize-- Didn't mean to interrupt."

She was shorter than Dasha, with straight brown hair, parted on the side, long, but oddly boyish. She was strong, her body in the closely wrapped house dress, sleeveless, showing the muscles of her shoulder, her upper arms.

"It's ok," I said. "I -- I'm done."

She laughed.

"Those are mine, by the way, not Dasha's. It's OK. I won't tell," she said, and then she was back out the door.

I didn't know what she'd seen, other than the underwear -- hers -- in my hand. Enough, I guessed, and now I would have to go out and face it all. I breathed deep, cold water on my face, settled down a bit, then went out.

The two of them were in the kitchen, Dasha chopping something, her back to me, her sister facing me, leaning against the counter, crunching on a whole cucumber.

"Oh there you are," Dasha said, turning around. "This is my sister, Irina. No reason for you to be shy. We're not close in age, but still, very close."

"He does look just like Daniil," the younger woman said. "Just as pretty. Is he just as sweet?"

Dasha smiled at me and shrugged. "So far." Then she started back to her work. "You two go get the table ready, while I finish this."

Irina watched me, a little smile on her lips and in her eyes. There was motion in her, but not the liquid fluidity of Dasha's long arms and legs and hair. She was more rooted, solid, even with her curves. She was like a tree in the wind, turning. moving, but still rooted. I expected her to say something, to tease me, to let Dasha know what she'd caught me doing, but she just shrugged.

"I never would have believed it," she said. "If not for his hair, and even that, I could see Daniil this way."

Dasha turned from what she was doing and looked at me a moment, then shook her head and turned to her sister.

"No, this is Dean, not Daniil. There will never be another of him, but it's true, I had not looked at another man until I saw this sweet boy," she said, the she came to me and touched my face.

"You must be tired of hearing so much about him," she said, but the way she touched me, I felt again her power over me, just in the light caress of her fingertips, an electricity, and I could have fallen at her feet right then and kissed them again as I had in the park, but it was as though she was holding me up -- again, her power.

"It seems an honor that I could be compared to him at all, from what I hear of him," I said.

She nodded.

I felt my cock stiffening, felt it pushing out wanting to rise, and I knew that if she looked, Irina would be able to see it, and I was sure she would look, but, even though I felt myself blushing, I didn't care. It was what Dasha did to me.

"Go you two," she said. "I won't be a moment."

In the other room, Irina started to clear the low table in front of the couch, and there was the open jar I had drunk from. She of course picked it up, looked at it curiously, and then sniffed at it and laughed. She looked at me, and I could see something of the same command Dasha had in her eyes, though, with her powerful body, it was less subtle. She smirked a little, but not meanly, I thought, as she said, "She must be having fun with you."

The food was all kinds of salads -- tomatoes and cucumbers in sour cream, some pickled fish and some also in sour cream, carrots, beets, pickles, cheeses, bread and more bread, and tea. We each had a shot of samogon -- homebrew vodka -- but that was all. It burned clean in my throat, went straight to my head, but somehow with clarity, and after that it was just tea we drank. We talked and talked. They both asked me about what I would teach, pushing me deeper and deeper into the subject, surprising me -- both of them -- with what they knew of poets, poetry, Russian and English and others, too. There were books all over the apartment, which I guess I had assumed were Daniil's, but apparently they were all well read. Sitting between them, smelling Dasha's river scent, and the earth of her sister, feeling the casual touch of both, and their laughter, their teasing and prodding of me, yes, I was excited and didn't want to be anywhere else. And then suddenly it seemed, Irina said, "I have to be up in the morning. I will leave you too. Dean, I am very glad to have met you, glad to see you -- do not hide yourself. Goodnight."

She was up and gone, and then Dasha said, "Help me bring these things back to the kitchen."

Once there, filling the sink with all the little plates that between the three of us we had cleaned of food, she said softly, into my ear, "You like my sister?"

Before I could answer, her hand was on my hard-on, squeezing it. "Is this still for me?"

"Dasha, you know--"

"She is your age, and -- beautiful, I think. She would take charge of you. Don't you know she would. What she would make you do. That bottom of hers. I know you saw, she was an athlete you know, strong. Her ass--"

"It's yours I -- want," I said. "Dasha, could I -- would you let me prove it?"

"Just how would you do that?"

"First I -- "

"Yes," she said. "That's right. Take them off."

I pulled off my shirt, then dropped my pants and stepped out of them. Being naked in front of her again, I felt again the shiver of excitement, and the loss of control, and I started to tell her, "Today, when I was -- jerking off, I thought about -- I kept seeing you, your bottom, wishing I had been bold enough, imagining kissing, my -- my lips--"

My hand had gone to my shaft but she said, "No, Dean. Don't touch yourself. There's something else you want, isn't there?"

"Yes, I -- please, may I -- may I kiss your bottom?"

"Right here in the kitchen?"

"Anywhere," I said.

"And if Irina comes?"

"I don't care."

"You don't, Dean? Or do you want her to? Do you want her to see your lips on my bottom, to see you naked and licking her big sister's ass? Is that why this is so hard?"

She gave my penis a light slap.

"You want her to see what a good boy you can be?"

"I don't care if she sees how I worship you. Please, Dasha," I said, and then I went to my knees in front of her, and then brought my lips to her feet, started to kiss them.

"And if I just want you at my feet tonight?"

"Then I will love them," I said.

"Come into the other room," she said, but when I started to gather my clothes she stopped me. "Leave them here. My sister's gone to bed. And if she hasn't--" She laughed. "You won't hide yourself from her -- your true self. Though, I think she already sees who you are."

She led me out to the living room, where the lights were not as bright. The doors to the balcony were open on the night, leaves rustling, the night still not fully dark -- or dawn coming already, I wasn't sure which. She sat on an armchair, slipped her feet out of her slippers and curled them. I felt the anticipation too, and dropped again to my knees. I heard her sigh as my lips found her toes. For how long I was lost in them, running my tongue between them, tasting the saltiness, hearing her laugh light as the leaves, and then when I glanced up her long leg, I saw how her thighs were parted slightly, could see -- or maybe only imagine, what was there, her panties, curls of reddish hair sneaking out, the swell, the wetness, the warmth and deep scent of her pussy. I found myself kissing the sole and the arch of her foot, holding her, cradling by the ankle and the outside of her long, graceful foot, and all the while, dreaming my way up there, to her wetness.

"Oh, Dean," she whispered. "You're not looking up my skirt, are you? You know boys are not supposed to look up a woman's skirt."

"I -- I'm sorry, but I -- I couldn't help it, once I saw, how could I look away," I said, just as softly, still kissing her foot.

"No, that's not enough," she said. "It's naughty. It's not nice. You -- I have to--"

She closed her legs, though very slowly, I thought, and smiling too as she shook her head.

"I didn't want to, but now, now I have to, Dean. I have to punish you, you know that. Looking up my skirt when I haven't said you could."

She took her foot away from me -- pushed with it against my face, pushed me back and then took it away, all the while watching me and shaking her head.

"Come here now, Dean," she said, patting her thighs. "Here, across my lap."

I got to my feet and stood naked in front of her, my stiff cock swinging back and forth. Cool air and voices came in the open balcony doors, the buzz of a little Russian car driving by in the street below.

"Your penis is still so hard, Dean," she said, taking it in her hand and giving it a few slow strokes. "You know what's coming, don't you?"

"Yes, Dasha. I -- you're going to spank me."

"That's right. And still, this is stiff--" She let go and pulled it down the way she had in the market stall. She pulled it down far, point it at the floor and I couldn't help but groan with the sweet deep pain of it, watching the beauty of her fair freckled face, her red hair.

"I can't understand this. It -- hurts, doesn't it?" she asked, and she pushed down further.

I tried to stifle a cry, but could only barely hold it in.

"But you don't want me to stop, do you? You can ask me to. It's all right. If it's too much--"

She pushed down further, pushing my stiff cock almost back between my legs, and I groaned louder, gasped with the pain shooting up through me in rivers. All I could do was shake my head and squeeze out, "Oh Dasha, god, don't--"

"Don't?" she laughed.

"Don't stop. I -- I'm yours. You know I'm yours."

She suddenly let my cock go, and it sprang back up, whacking my belly, the pain all instantly drained away, my head cleared.

"It's so pretty, Dean. So many girls, women -- they would take it--" She again tenderly closed her hand around my red shaft. "They would love to kiss it, to lick it--" She brought her mouth, her beautiful lips closer, closer to the swollen head, dripping precum. "To suck it, Dean, to kiss your lovely penis here, here, down here, your balls--" She moved her head lower, gently holding my shaft up to my belly, exposing my aching balls. "To suck them tenderly into their eager mouths while they stroked you. Wouldn't you want that?