Chapter 3

BETWEEN HER NAKED THIGHS....

Nickie was having a dream. He tossed in his sleep. He frowned.

"Now, Nickie!" pleaded a girl in his dream.

"Now? Are you sure you don't want me to kiss your breasts some more? That left one, for instance. It doesn't look quite as swollen as the other. Let me-"

"No! You've done that already! They're practically raw!" She cradled her breasts protectively. "What I want is the main event! You know. The feature attraction! Now! Right now!"

Her breasts heaved froward, the roseates of her nipples expanding as she unfastened Nickie's trousers. "Oh," she moaned in disappointment, a disappointment that reflected the pang of the unrelieved ache between her naked thighs.

She had let him kiss and suck her breasts for twenty minutes and still he had experienced no upsurge. She felt a challenge. Nickie was always a challenge. Getting him aroused was a major accomplishment.

But she felt equal to it.

She sighed and bent her head to the uninspired organ. It hardly made half a mouthful, but she kissed anyway. She kissed and sucked and even bit it, ever so gently, which made him say ouch.

It was not the kind of response she had in mind.

She took his hand and ran it over her luscious legs, which were tensed with desire so that the veins on the inside of the thighs stood out under the succulent flesh. For a moment he tightened his fingers on her midnight triangle.

He drew in his breath and twisting his fingers in the hair, yanked her against him by means of it. She giggled with relief and parted her legs over his forearm, wiggling against it.

But his moment of arousal was over as quickly as it had begun, vanishing without warning, like a summer squall. Nickie put his head in his hands. "I can't do it," he moaned. "I just can't do it"

The girl's eyes softened. She sat down on the bed beside him and stroked his hair. "Dorogaya," she murmured in sympathy.

In Russian it meant darling.

It was natural that Nickie should be speaking Russian. After all, he was a Russian. A Russian with his dorogaya, alone in an apartment rather unusually comfortable for Moscow. Alone at dusk on a cold winter day.

The girl took a copy of Pravda and begun to rustle it She was pretty sure the place was bugged and she wanted to say something confidential.

"Nickie," she whispered, "I think you're in trouble."

"Yes," he replied dispiritedly. "We've been meeting for three months now and only twice have I ever been able to manage the-uh-main event. Maybe I'd better see a doctor. It's just my work. I'm so worried about my work. I'm so tense. You would be too if you'd never managed to fill your quota in twenty-four months!"

"But Nickie, dear," she soothed, "it isn't your fault. Who can help it with a job like yours?"

"Yes. I know. That is, I know that no one knows what happened to them. They disappeared. Siberia at best. Maybe shot or in prison."

"You just can't imagine what it's like, being in charge of American-aimed propaganda," Nickie moaned. 'They are so stubborn. Americans! I write and write and write. I swear I turn out leaflets that would be a credit to Tolstoy. And still they do not defect! If some Americans do not defect soon, I'll be in terrible trouble."

"That's what I was trying to tell you!" the girl hissed, redoubling her rustling of the newspaper. You're in trouble! Listen! When I came in I saw a man watching me!"

"Well, that's not such a wonder with legs like yours," said Nickie.

She blushed. "No, no," she said. "I mean it wasn't really a man. It was one of them. The birddogs! The secret police! You know-you can tell them by the way they walk.

"Oh dear," said Nickie distractedly. "What'll I do? Oooh!" He seized one of her breasts and clung to it as a sort of security symbol, twisting it worriedly. She climbed onto his lap spraddle-legged and pushed herself against him, caressing him with the tips of her breasts while she rocked gently back and forth on his lap.

There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. Nickie squeezed the girl more tightly. "This is it!" he groaned. 'The moment I've been dreading for two years! They're coming for me! Oh, Great Lenin's mustache! What'll I do!"

"Nickie, look!"

He looked where she indicated. He had almost forgotten that she had been massaging his manhood with her own little delectables. Now it was quiveringly upright as though it possessed a mind of its own.

"Oh, do it! Do it, Nickie!" she squealed. The footsteps were louder. Nickie could feel the floor vibrating.

"Not now!" he gasped.

"Yes, now!" Tears came into her eyes. "Think of how long I've waited! How patient I've been!"

Nickie considered. This time tomorrow he would probably be dead. At least he could give the girl this memory-she read the consent on his face and, with a cry of joy, she rose slightly and, impaling herself, sank down slowly, gasping with the thrill of the penetration.

"Comrade! Open up!" They were pounding at the door. On Nickie's lap the girl rose and fell feverishly, her rear waving, her arms in a vise about his neck.

"Open up or we shall be forced to break in the door!" came a cry. There was more pounding. It rose to a crescendo. Then there was silence, followed by the thud of shoulders crashing against the door

"Ah," sighed the girl. "Hurry, Nickie!" He thrust upward fiercely. He knew that Russian buildings were very flimsily constructed.

"Wham!" The door gave. Half a dozen pairs of police boots trampled on it as the officers entered. The girl continued to writhe. Nickie buried his head against her shoulder and closed his eyes. He did not want to see the police.

But, after all, the police were only human. They formed a semicircle around the pair. "You may finish, Comrade," one said.

Nickie was grateful for every minute before the prison doors closed around him. He tried to delay her ecstasy, but she was too eager after her long wait.

Her nails dug into his back and she flailed him with her fists when he tried to slow the action of their furiously moving bodies. The bed, which wa-as flimsily constructed as the building gave way, the slats snapping like kindling twigs under the onslaught of their pounding thighs.

Amid the rubble she took over the initiative, throwing herself atop her lover and flattening her big breasts against him as her rear rose and fell.

"Listen," Nickie hissed, "don't you know the climax is better when you take it nice and easy? I'd like this to last, you know. Like say-fifty years."

But his partner was not to be put off even fifty seconds longer. Any climax was better than one and she wasn't the patient type. Paroxysms swept over her churning body and, to judge by the violence of her convulsion, she had lost not a bit of intensity because of the rapidity of the congress.

She screamed as she hit the peak of her passion and was plunged over it into bliss. In that scream Nickie thought he heard his death knell. And as she slid away, he saw, sorrow of sorrows, his manhood still upraised, like a mighty oak tree, still unfelled.

Nickie sighed. Such were the hardships of Russian living.

She asked for a cigarette. He took a package of the Russian brand, Papirosi, off the bedside table and gave her one. It amounted to about half an inch of tobacco in a cardboard clyinder.

He lighted it for her, and she inhaled, a frustrated look coming to her face. She pinched the tube to push the tobacco closer to her mouth. Grimacing, she inhaled again.

"Goodbye Nickie," she said, as the police encircled him and marched him away. He was a dead man.