My Moscow Conversion

My name's Rachel Goldman, and I work as an auditor with the British Foreign Office. I'm 35 years old, five-feet-five tall with a heart-shaped face which I flatter myself is pretty, brown eyes and black hair which I wear in a bob. I'm curvy with D-cup boobs, big hips and, I admit, a slight paunch on my belly. So that's me.

I'm based in London, but a few weeks ago I was given a two-month long assignment to our embassy in Moscow. My fiancé, Paul, wasn't too happy about me being away for so long, in a country he regards as a dangerous corrupt fascist state, and two months seemed unusual to me as well for a straightforward auditing job. But the embassy's accounting had been a bit haphazard for a while, and my manager wanted me to do a thorough job and oversee a reorganisation of their finance department, including training the staff on a new whizzbang IT system we're introducing. So heigh-ho, who am I to question the wisdom of my Whitehall masters? Anyway, I'd never visited Moscow, and I was looking forward to seeing some of its famous sites.

I had a couple of weeks to prepare so I gave myself a crash course in basic Russian language, just enough to get by. Paul was a bit cool with me on the drive to Heathrow, clearly thinking I should have refused to go. On the flight I watched a travelogue about my destination, and I was met at Domodedovo Airport by a chatty young junior attaché named Penny, who led me to a black limousine driven by a monosyllabic Russian chauffeur. On the nearly two-hour journey to my accommodation she filled me in on some of the people I'd be working with and some highlights of Moscow, all of which went in one ear and out the other due to tiredness and a headache.

The British embassy has some onsite staff accommodation but that was all taken so I'd been allocated an apartment owned by the embassy on a busy boulevard in the upmarket Tverskoye district. It was light and attractive in a white neo-classical five-storey block, and I had a nice view of a small public park. I was amused by the presence of a photo portrait of the queen in the entrance hall, but after Penny left I took down one of the prime minister. I had a day's grace the next day and undertook a walking tour of the city, seeing Red Square, the Kremlin and St Basil's Cathedral, Gorky Park and the vast GUM department store. I'm vegetarian and I was lucky to find a nice Georgian restaurant with plenty of veggie options, and an English language menu, only a short stroll from my apartment.

Penny arrived bright and early the next morning to guide me to a very grand metro station, decorated with chandeliers and statues, and onwards to my first day at work at the embassy. I'd hoped it might be housed in a beautiful former Romanov palace but in fact it's a rather ugly modern building overlooking the Moskva River. It's a huge building, with about 250 staff. Apart from Penny, who was to be my secretary and assistant, the finance team gave me a pretty cool reception -- I don't suppose anyone much welcomes someone turning up from head office to tell them they're doing a crap job. I met some of the other staff in the embassy restaurant though and they seemed friendly and welcoming enough. I thought at first they were either joking or paranoid when they told me to be careful what I said, but it seems that despite regular sweeps for bugs our hosts are quite ingenious at finding ways to listen in on conversations.

I soon got to grips with the dodgy recordkeeping in the finance department and satisfied myself that any discrepancies were down to sloppiness rather than intentional malpractice. By the end of the week I felt I'd already made good progress in tidying things up. Over coffee on Friday afternoon Penny asked me to join her and a few friends on the staff for drinks at a couple of bars that evening. To be honest I'm not a big drinker or much of a party animal, but given the lack of warmth from the other finance people I was working with I didn't want to look stand-offish so I agreed.

There were eight of us and the three other women had taken casual clothes to change into but I was still in my work clothes -- navy blue two-piece suit, skirt just above my knees, cream open-neck blouse, navy tights and black low-heeled pumps. The four blokes were still in their business suits but had removed their ties and unbuttoned their shirts to mid-chest. We crowded into a taxi and headed for an area near the Kremlin called Kitay-Gorod where there were numerous bars and restaurants. First stop was a vodka bar where it seemed some of our party were well-known. Despite my protestations the lads insisted on buying me vodka shots, which I was instructed to down in one. I managed to draw the line at three, and thankfully I was able to order a plate of draniki (potato pancakes) with sour cream to soak up some of the alcohol.

Next stop was an Irish pub -- isn't there one in every city on the planet? -- where a member of our group from Belfast, Eddie, placed a half-pint of Guinness in front of me before I had chance to say no. (Penny only told me the following week that the sod had had the barman put an additional shot of whiskey in it.) Eddie started to try and chat me up and I confess that, feeling flattered and a little tipsy, I light-heartedly flirted with him. I insisted on buying myself a tonic water next in case someone spiced it up with vodka. After another hour we moved on to a shadowy side street filled with a musical cacophony. There were only four of us left by then -- I would have preferred to call it a night but Penny had drunkenly linked arms with me with a vice-like grip and I felt I should probably continue to keep her company.

I began to have second thoughts when we entered a doorway and descended a flight of rough stone steps towards the deafening racket. It turned out to be a heavy metal club, a small room filled with gyrating young people, mostly men, all dressed in black. The tiny stage crammed into one corner was taken up by a band consisting of tall skinny men thrashing drums and guitars and a dumpy young woman in a leopard-skin vest tunelessly screeching into a microphone. It's not my kind of music at the best of times and I couldn't understand why the hell my colleagues had chosen such a dump. It turned out the reason was the cheapness of the rot-gut vodka the joint sold.

Eddie continued to try to get into my knickers but the cool air on the street had sobered me up a bit. He's very sweet, and quite good-looking, several years younger than me, but I flashed my diamond engagement ring at him and told him firmly that I was in a happy relationship and hadn't come to Moscow to screw around. I declined a drink and sat miserably, pushing Eddie's arm from my shoulders, deafened by the racket, wondering how soon I could decently excuse myself.

Casually gazing around I noticed two very striking women, I guessed in their early 20s, leaning on the bar, staring fixedly at me and shouting comments to each other. Clearly identical twins, they were both tall and slim, well over 6 feet in the high-soled Doc Martin-style boots they were wearing, with thin arms, ghostly white in the garish club lighting, exposed by black short-sleeved T-shirts and long gangly legs in black drainpipe jeans. Both had a shock of orange hair, panda-like black eye make-up and black lipstick, and a silver ring through one nostril. The only difference between them was their shirts -- one showed a picture of a band and their name in Cyrillic letters, the other had an image of a middle finger and text which I guessed said Fuck Off. They saw I'd noticed them and exchanged a glance then burst out laughing. I tore my eyes away embarrassed and pushed Eddie's face away from my ear, where he'd been trying to mutter something at point blank range.

Just as I'd made up my mind to leave I became aware of a shadow falling over our table. I glanced up to see the twins -- in my mind I'd dubbed them Misha and Masha -- looming over us. They both leered at me and one of them shouted something at me over the sound of the music. Eddie seemed to find their comment hilarious and he yelled something back to them, at which they laughed and wandered away. I asked him what he'd said and he replied "I said you're taken."

Bearing in mind the lascivious way they'd been looking at me I asked "What the fuck did she say to me?" Bloody Eddie just grinned and winked, then stood up and tottered in the direction of the toilet. Penny and the other remaining guy chose that moment to say goodnight. I wanted to go with them but it seemed impolite to leave without letting Eddie know so I reluctantly hung on.

After ten minutes it became obvious the bastard had slipped away without me noticing so, fuming, I pushed my way through to the ladies loo before finally getting out of the shithole. I was quite shocked on entering the loo -- there weren't individual cubicles, just three WCs screwed to one wall and some wash basins screwed to the other with grubby mirrors over them. I almost walked straight out again but I was desperate for a pee so, praying nobody else would come in, I squatted on a toilet and tried to make it quick.

I'd just got my pants and tights down around my ankles when the door squeaked open and, to my horror, Misha and Masha walked in. It was too late for me to stop at that point and I was very aware of the tinkle of my pee hitting the water in the bowl. They feigned surprise at seeing me there then turned their backs to me, fussing with their make-up in the mirrors and commenting to each other. I was certain they were watching my reflection and I felt my face colouring in embarrassment. When I finished I tried to pull my tights and pants up without raising my skirt, flushed and, ignoring the other women, speed-walked towards the exit.

A second before I made it the one with the Fuck Off T-shirt, Misha, swivelled on one foot and barred my way. Before I could react, her sister had grabbed me from behind in a bear hug and lifted me off my feet. They dragged open a narrow door in the wall I hadn't noticed before and wrestled me into a small room which appeared to be a cleaners' cupboard, snapped on a light and closed the door behind us. The one holding me, Masha, pushed me to the end of the room where I slammed into a wall and a couple of vacuum cleaners.

I was terrified. With the noise from the stage I realised there was no point in screaming. With shaking hands I held out my handbag to them in the hope they just wanted to mug me. Misha snatched it and threw it to the floor; then she grasped my chin in one hand, squeezing hard, and slammed her lips to mine, her tongue thrusting roughly into my mouth. For a moment I was too shocked to react, then I placed both my hands against her chest, pushed her back and slapped her face. Her response was instant, a fierce back-handed slap which rocked my face sideways, shook my brain in my skull and gave me a taste of blood in my mouth.

I was stunned and in the next moments each of them grabbed one of the lapels of my jacket and they pulled it halfway down my arms, pinioning them behind me. Then, in case I still had any ideas of resistance, Masha punched me in the gut, driving my breath from me. Misha pressed herself against me, again forcing her tongue on me, squeezing my boobs painfully. I felt a metal stud in her tongue rasping against the roof of my mouth. My body shuddered with a sob and I felt tears rolling down my cheeks, but I knew I was powerless to stop these girls doing whatever they wanted to me. I should say at this stage that although I've had plenty of male lovers over the years I'd never had the slightest desire to be with another woman. At that moment I felt horrified and revolted by my situation.

Still raping my mouth with hers, Misha edged her body to one side and Masha gripped the lapels of my blouse and ripped them apart, sending buttons pinging against the walls of the narrow room. As she slid her soft warm hands inside my push-up bra I tore my face away from her sister's and wailed "No, please don't do this. Take my money but..." I got no further as I felt a sharp point pushing against my throat. Swivelling my eyes down I saw that Masha was pressing the tip of a vicious-looking knife into my skin. My tears flowing freely now, I closed my eyes and felt myself starting to hyperventilate. I'm not religious but I began to silently pray for a miracle to save me.

Masha pulled at my bra and, with a knife of her own, slit the material between the cups, causing them to fall away and expose my boobs. They clearly sensed I'd entirely surrendered myself to them because her sister removed her knife from my throat and folded it away. They both pushed me back against the wall with a hand each on my upper chest, hurting my pinned arms, and I emitted a shuddering gasp as two mouths attached themselves to my boobs, tongues swirling my nipples and sharp teeth nibbling and grazing them. Feeling utterly defeated and humiliated, I raised my eyes to the ceiling and tried to detach myself from what these young bitches were doing to me.

I became aware that despite my fear, or perhaps because of it, my long nipples were swelling in response to the ministrations of their tongues. I murmured "Oh god" as I felt a hand pushing under my skirt and up between my thighs. I tried to shuffle my feet together but a booted foot roughly kicked them apart and my left nipple was bitten hard, making me yelp in pain. The exploring hand pressed against me and fingers rubbed at me through tights and pants. One of the girls muttered "Ona mokraya" and they both chuckled. I'd learnt both those words in my studies but it took my fogged brain a few seconds to work out that they means "She's wet."

Shockingly my nips now felt achingly stiff. Masha's mouth left my breast, only to be immediately replaced by Misha's right hand. I wailed helplessly as they pulled my tight skirt up over my waist and Masha's hands gripped the waistbands of my pants and tights, pulling them down my legs to my ankles. Her knuckles stroked across my bald mons -- Paul likes me to shave it -- then I felt her soft lips pressing against it in a kiss. I gasped and squirmed involuntarily as several of her fingers pushed inside my pussy and she started fucking me with them, to be joined by her tongue as she lapped at my slit and clit. Even as I told myself I hated this I could feel how wet I was, and I could hear a sucking noise as her fingers slid back and forth inside me.

Misha, while still stroking and tweaking my boobs with her fingers, started kissing me again. As a heat built in my belly I felt as if my legs would buckle; but before that could happen Misha placed her hands on my shoulders and pushed me down into a squatting position. Masha pulled her fingers from me and placed both hands on my bum cheeks to pull me hard onto her mouth as she ran her tongue up and down inside my pussy and around my puffy labia. Misha stepped away for a moment then I felt a new shock as she stepped astride me -- she had dropped her jeans and a pale white belly and ginger pubic bush hovered inches from my face.

I tried to beg her not to make me do what she wanted but my mouth felt too dry to speak. She placed her hand behind my head and pulled me forward onto her. Seeing no alternative, and remembering the fearsome knife in her pocket I compliantly extended my tongue and licked at the pink slit she'd thrust against my mouth. She gave a throaty chuckle and pushed me even harder onto her. I was starting to pant as Masha licked me closer to orgasm. Misha hiked up her jeans: for a moment I thought she'd already had enough of my tongue, but she swung a leg over my shoulder and pushed them down again. In that position her cunt was tight up against my mouth and I was able to lick its full length and inside it.

I was desperate to please Misha in fear of the consequences of failing to do so, and judging by the way she was rocking her pussy against me, and the volume of the musky-salty juices I was tasting, I was succeeding. It lasted maybe a minute or so more before my pussy exploded onto Masha's face and stars exploded in my head. Even as I licked wildly at Misha I tried to tell myself I was not enjoying any of this, it was just my body reacting to stimuli, but I could feel my hips jerking at her sister as I kept cumming and cumming on her tongue. Before I was finished Misha gripped my head tightly to her with both hands and I felt her juices gushing onto my tongue and face.

Finally my ordeal was over. Misha, panting, extricated herself from me and grabbed a duster to wipe at her pussy. Masha fell back onto her bum and wiped my juice from her lips and chin with the back of her hand. I felt sweaty, my face was soaked from Misha's cunt, my arms hurt like hell, my pussy felt achingly stretched and I was struggling to bring my breath back under control. After some seconds of regaining her breath, Masha stood and pulled me to my feet. She then kissed me, smearing my own nectar around the inside of my mouth. Her tongue was also studded.

As she did that, Misha tipped the contents of my handbag out onto the floor, took my cash from my purse and dropped it back onto the pile. Then she snatched my left hand and pulled my engagement ring off my finger. The two of them then adjusted their clothing and walked from the cupboard and out of the toilet, leaving me there. I freed my burning arms, stumbled to one of the wash basins in the toilet and immediately threw up. Then I splashed water onto my face, tidied my own clothes as best I could, regained the contents of my handbag and stumbled through the now half-empty club and up the stars. Thankfully there was a taxi rank nearby and, clutching my tattered blouse closed with one hand, I half fell into the first car, saying a small prayer of thanks that Misha hadn't taken my bank cards, or found my mobile phone in my jacket pocket.

I didn't report the assault. I didn't trust the police, and even if anyone at the embassy believed such a bizarre occurrence I was too embarrassed. So I told nobody. I covered up the bruise from Misha's slap with make-up and tried to behave normally at work, although I felt distracted and had trouble concentrating. If Penny thought I was quieter than usual, or that it was strange I spent the week eating homemade sandwiches or salad at my desk rather than using the staff restaurant, she didn't comment. Neither did she say anything about my increased number of trips to the loo, where I locked myself in a cubicle and sobbed quietly into a handkerchief.

On the Sunday night after the assault I had nightmares and awoke in a cold sweat. On the Monday night I had an erotic dream, in which I was making love, but I jerked awake with a shock when I saw the face of my lover on the dream wasn't Paul but Masha/Misha. I found that my hand and my pussy were sticky from playing with myself in my sleep.

I told myself over and over that I'm not a lesbian, and that what had been done to me in the club was horrific; but I couldn't understand what was happening to me. I didn't speak to my fiancé all week, ignoring three phone messages from him. On the Wednesday I again dreamt about the twins, and on the following days I frigged myself visualising the sex I'd had with them, even at work a couple of times in the loo. I started to wonder if I was losing my mind.

But today, Saturday, the most extraordinary thing happened. It was mid-morning, and I'd just showered and dressed, after another of those sexual dreams, when the doorbell of my apartment rang. Apart from the embassy staff I knew nobody in Moscow so I approached I warily. Looking through the spyhole I saw a tall young woman standing there. She wore a plain red T-shirt, white cotton jacket, a short blue denim skirt and sandals revealing pale feet with unpainted toes. The nose-piercing and the garish black make-up had gone, her lips instead painted a gentle pink. It was impossible for me to tell whether this was Masha or Misha; in fact, but for the mop of ginger hair I wouldn't even have been sure she was one of my assailants.