Vadim
The drive from Moscow was long, but the commercial building was priced reasonably for its location and funnelling money into legitimate assets always paid off in the long term. Diversity in business was required for stability. Legal and illegal, side by side.
My phone vibrated in my jacket.
Radovan: We just returned home.
I glanced at the time. That was a long shopping spree.
Me: Much damage?
I wondered what she might have bought for herself. Her stipend sat untouched in the account. Her performance had earned her the cards.
Radovan: She never bought a single thing.
I stared at the screen.
Radovan: Correction. She bought some food.
I didn’t bother questioning him.
Neither of us understood women.
What I did know was that she wouldn’t be happy about her brother joining as our latest shestyorka. He had been placed with Grigori’s men in the north, but I kept tabs on the boy. He and his sister shared the same authoritarian issues.
It turned out my wife was unlike any other woman I had encountered.
Perhaps it was time to show her a little more of my world.
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It was later than usual when I got home.
We had fallen into something of a rhythm.
Before the sun came up, before training, I would go to her and drop a load inside her.
That morning fuck set me up for the day.
Then again in the evening, with the occasional afternoon entanglement on the days I worked from home. She never failed to perform.
I found her curled up on the couch in the sitting room, the television casting blue light across her face. She startled when she heard me.
“I heard you broke my bank today,” I said. “Spending all my money.”
She stretched her arms out and yawned with complete lack of urgency.
“It isn’t money I’ve worked for,” she said, reaching for the remote to pause whatever she was watching.
I recalled someone mentioning she had worked in an office. Something unremarkable.
“What was your job?”
“Research,” she said, with a faint smile that didn’t elaborate.
“You have a new job now. It comes with perks.” I kept my voice businesslike. “A bank account has been opened in your name. Your monthly stipend has been added. I’ll leave your card in your room.”
“It feels more like prostitution,” she muttered.
“So why not enjoy the benefits?” I said. “We’ll be going to one of my clubs tomorrow night. I suggest you find a suitable outfit for the occasion.”
Her eyes widened.
“Outside?” she said, and then pointed at me as though confirming a fact she hadn’t quite believed. “You are taking me outside of this house?”
“Apparently a difficult concept to grasp,” I said, turning to leave.
When she had arrived the Chechen situation had kept the house on lockdown — I couldn’t blame her for assuming she was confined indefinitely.
But as long as her byki remained with her and she was home when I required her, there was no issue.
The byki kept her safe and ensured no other man had access to her.
Any future child needed to be mine beyond question.
“Dinner, then bedroom. Ten o’clock, sharp,” I added, and left her to grumble at my back.
At the top of the staircase I paused.
I looked west.
The temptation to simply stay in her room tonight was there — practical, efficient, easier access in the morning without the crossing of the house in the dark. It made logistical sense.
It was also an invasion of the one space I had kept entirely my own.
I turned east toward my bedroom.
I showered and came back down to find the dining room set and Olya moving between the kitchen and the table with quiet efficiency. One place setting. The chair across from mine was empty, her glass absent, her side of the table bare.
“Mrs Dragunov already ate,” Olya murmured, and withdrew.
The room was still.
It was the way I preferred it.
I began to eat. The borsch was good—rich and dark, the way Olya made it, the kind of warmth that was wasted on an empty room. My eyes moved to her chair. The quality of an absence that has a specific shape.
I should have added more clauses to the contract.
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Spartak saw me coming and moved away from her door. When I opened it she wasn’t in bed and she wasn’t naked. She stood at the window, curtains drawn wide open, her back to me and the dark grounds beyond the glass behind her.
“I started my period,” she said without turning. Her voice was hard and flat simultaneously—the voice of someone delivering information they expect to be punished for.
I paused.
Sixteen days married, then the Chechen delay on top of that. Ovulation followed the period—which meant a window, a timeline, a specific number of days to work toward. Inconvenient but manageable.
“Right,” I said, tugging off my robe. “But your mouth still works.” I moved toward the bed. “Lie down. Head off the edge.”
Her head snapped around.
The expression on her face cycled through several things in quick succession before settling on irritation.
And just like that, I didn’t give a damn about a little blood between us.
I looked back at her without concern.
Her eyes moved to the bed for a second before she walked toward me.
That anger and resentment kept her back stiff and her head held high.
“I think you’ve forgotten who owns you, Iskra,” I murmured as she moved into position. “I won't be inconvenienced by a little blood.”
Her hair fell down the length of the bed while her eyes stared up at me, her hands clenched at her sides. I moved to rest my cock over her face before shifting to place my balls on her while I began to unbutton her top.
I pried the material apart until her breasts were on show. When I began to massage them she didn’t react. Not until I started toying with her nipples—alternating between tugging and pinching before palming her breasts again.
I smiled when I felt the faint trace of her tongue lick my cock.
My hips moved forward, dragging my balls over her face, and when I pulled back she grabbed my cock like a well-trained toy. I felt her warm breath before she began to lick my length, her hands circling the head—pulling and pushing, mimicking a hole.
“Here is your purpose,” I said, drawing back to press my thumb down on my cock.
Her mouth opened and her head dangled off the edge of the bed.
A single glance at her legs told me everything. The way she squeezed her thighs together. The tension along her spine as she shifted on the bed.
I eased into her mouth, pressing her breasts together and gripping them hard enough to make her moan around me. The tip of my cock teased the back of her throat, nudging back and forth against the barrier.
“Your purpose is to serve me,” I growled, and thrust straight down her throat—driving past the resistance and embedding myself there.
Her fingers curled around my thighs.
Not to push me away. To hold me deeper.
I flicked my thumbs over her nipples until they hardened. Her hips shifted on the bed. I began to move—pulling and pushing my cock down her throat, each stroke burying me deeper, her drool beginning to drip down my balls and back onto her face.
“Blood is part of my world,” I said, punctuating the point with several sharp thrusts. “It won’t keep me away from your pussy.”
Her desperate hands crept up and gripped my ass, encouraging me to fuck her harder. The wet sounds of my balls slapping her face and the muffled grunts as my cock violated her throat were like music to my ears.
But I wasn’t done yet.