Incestory: Kiska

It wasn't too bad this time; he was kinder than usual and pulled it out of my mouth before ejaculating. I'd learned to fill my mouth with spit to make it more ... palatable; absolutely nothing could ever make it tolerable.

Sometimes he was kind enough to let me spit it out onto my tits or along the long shaft of his uncircumcised cock. Sometimes he wasn't so kind and insisted I swallow.

It had always tasted like caviar to me ... I couldn't be the only woman in St. Petersburg who hated the taste of caviar but it seemed that way; waiters and hosts practically forced it on you in every venue.

"Yes, Kiska," he grunted as the ribbons of his hot cum splashed across my pursed lips and cheeks.

I tilted my head to try to prevent it from getting into my eyes but he wasn't having it my way today. His grip on my hair was too strong for me to pull away and I could feel the hot splashes across my eyelids.

When I was a child and he called me 'Kiska', or 'Kitten', my heart would soar ... now it left a foul taste in my mouth; it tasted like his foul sperm.

Just to compound my misery he slapped my cheeks with his penis to smear the cum around before finally jerking out the last drops onto my chin.

"So good, Kiska ... you are always the best!"

He was done using my mouth now, so he let go of my hair to pull up his white-striped blue tracksuit pants.

I stayed where I was, kneeling before him in the bedroom doorway of the flat my Father rented for me, covered only in the sheer sky-blue French peignoir he'd bought me to wear last year - the one he liked best - anything I could do to get my shameful duty over quickly was an advantage to me.

"Do you know why I'm here today?" he asked.

I knew exactly why he was here; just not why he was here so early this time.

"You almost made me forget," he walked across the room to his mid-length black leather jacket draped over the back of my wooden desk-chair. It was the kind of jacket all of the local gangsters preferred.

Irrational fear gripped me when I heard his gun clank against the arm of the chair as he dug in the pockets. I was relieved when he pulled out a white-ribboned rectangular jewelry box instead.

Vasily 'The Headhunter' Chominkov was the most dangerous man in the region. Tall and muscular - he was a big man among big men.

It looked like a necklace case.

I stood and wiped the cum from my face with the sleeves of the much-hated peignoir.

He tossed it to me and cheerfully sang out: "Happy Birthday, Elenya!"

I let it fall to the floor at my feet without trying to catch it.

I'd forgotten my own birthday; I was Nineteen now.

"Thank you, Papa," I said mechanically.

He watched me for a second and I watched him back. I could tell he wanted me to say something more but I didn't see the need to thank him profusely after having just taken a load of his cum on my face.

"Well then," he sighed, "I will call you later," he gestured at the gift on the floor, "Let yourself enjoy something, Kiska."

Then he left.

I kicked the box under the bed with the rest of the unopened gifts that my lovers felt the need to leave me.

*****************************

After I showered away my disgrace, I decided that I would celebrate my birthday after all.

I chose a particularly short black miniskirt and a sexy button-up white blouse that flared around my wrists and bared my midriff. I'd discovered that a sexy navel was the quickest way to a man's heart - regardless of what the old mother's would tell you.

The shoes were the hard part and I struggled before finally selected a pair of black knee high leather boots. It was snowing a little already this year and boots were always perfect with the skirt in any case.

I decided to top it off with my long elegant Chinchilla fur coat, a gift from some of my father's gangster friends in South America.

I laid out the clothes on my bed and stood naked before the full length mirror that covered a wall of my bedroom to see myself.

The reflection in the mirror smiled at me in greeting.

I imagined that she was what my Mother looked like, though I'd never remembered seeing her. When I'd tried to ask Father about her, he'd ordered me to never speak of her or ask him questions about her again. I didn't even know my mother's name. All I knew of her was that my father said she was a whore.

*****************************

I turned from side to side and the reflection echoed my movement.

"Hello, Kiska," I said to her.

The Woman reflected in the mirror was so much more beautiful than what I thought anyone had any right to be.

She had high cheek bones and full sensuous lips, brilliant emerald green eyes. Her large breasts were young and firm, crowned with perfect pink nipples. My father had said that if every girl had those breasts he could finally kill the expensive German surgeon he employed to fix up his whores.

Her breasts, torso, navel, and hips, were all in perfect symmetry, and even the trimmed stripe of blonde pubic hair that ran down to thick full vulva and labia was pleasing to the eye. The legs were thin, long, and well muscled.

She looked like an object of fantasy and there was no doubt that men found her attractive.

I opened a package of smuggled French Oils I'd been saving for a special occasion.

"It's my Birthday today," I informed her.

"It's your Birthday, Elenya," Kiska said, running her thin oily hands over herself, "Let yourself enjoy something."

She lowered herself to the bed and vulgarly spread her legs to show me her pussy. She ran her hands down her body, spreading the oil over her skin until her fingers found the tender parts and the swollen lips between her legs.

She slid two fingers entirely into herself and rolled her hips while her other hand pinched and pulled at her pink nipples.

Our eyes locked and I watched her fuck herself in the mirror until we both came together, our moans echoing off of the glass.

*****************************

The club was amazing - and it was completely temporary. It wouldn't take long for a new club to appear somewhere else when this one sank into disfavor.

Places like this would open up, have a good run, and close their doors either due to pressures from the police or pressure from the dangerous mix of criminals who would descend on the place as it gained in popularity.

They would both be looking for new victims.

A year ago this place had been some sort of storage cellar for fruits and vegetables for a Soviet era market that had been at street level and now it was another posh hangout.

I sat at a private table lit with red candles in jars and sipped a screwdriver made with stolen Sicilian Blood-Orange juice and harsh potato vodka in an alcove where cabbages had once been stacked.

When Leningrad was gone, and St. Petersburg rose from the ashes, the market had disappeared in a frenzy of development only to be replaced by overpriced Western stores and outlets that most Russians couldn't afford to shop at.

The city's economy was crashing hard these days and food rationing had already been reintroduced in some parts of the city. Occasionally you'd even see aid being delivered early in the morning. Many people were already starving.

A pang of guilt hit me ... sometimes my father's men stole the aid and sold it at prices that were - for lack of a better word - criminal.

The pang disappeared in sense of pride. We were not those sorry Russians. We were the new breed. We wouldn't depend on Soviet style handouts like the brainwashed peasants that lived among us.

Doors opened for us, people stepped aside, and voices hushed respectfully when we entered a room. But ... in this kind of place everyone pretended not to take too much notice of me ... they knew better.

I turned to scan the other 'private' booths vaguely hoping there were some interesting people around tonight.

A pair of sensual eyes lit by the flair of a match caught my attention - deep dark brown eyes; a long foreign cigarette; shiny-black hair; skin the color of creamed coffee; sexy wealthy features; all wrapped in an unbelievably expensive jumpsuit I'd coveted myself in a shop window only yesterday.

I was jealous - the outfit was so expensive that it was beyond even my generous comfort level.

She was beautiful and seated only a few tables away. If she was in this section of the club she was wealthy, and because she was alone, she must be very wealthy.

She was a Latin woman - Italian or some region of Moorish Spain I guessed. Her eyes bored into mine and she smiled a familiar grin - a look of recognition?

There was a sensation in my chest I didn't understand. I was locked into her eyes, my blood rushed to my cheeks and it was like a tunnel formed around her and faded the rest of the world away.

A drunken man's voice broke the spell ... English words ... an American bellow.

My head swam for a second as I snapped around to look at him: " ... and I don't know if you understand me, but I gotta tell you that you are the most beautiful ... ."

Shit! Another 'Ugly American' and a truly unattractive one at that.

The bouncer would need a talking to. It wasn't polite to proposition the women in this section and he should've been removed quickly. He should have been informed that the whores sat at the bar.

He was pudgy and soft with a shock of unkempt red-hair and cheap clothes made in some sweatshop in China. I tuned him out and sipped my drink while politely looking into his eyes and smiling as he complimented me in a drunken torrent of words.

I finally got tired of being nice, shrugged my shoulders, and said: "I don't speak English very well at all, I'm sorry if that seems rude."

"Oh, okay ..." he stammered as he looked around for another target before walking away.

"Fool," I muttered to myself.

A pang of jealousy hit me when I wondered if he'd targeted the Latin beauty a few tables away yet.

I turned back to see her for myself - but she was gone. Suddenly, my desire to be at this club was gone as well.

*****************************

One of my Father's men was waiting for me outside.

I knew his name was Lev and he was new to the outfit. My Father never seemed to discuss anything important around him and that, in itself, indicated to me that he didn't trust him very much.

He always watched me closely when he was around. I could tell he wanted to fuck me; it was obvious.

"Elenya!" he called when I tried to sneak the other direction huddled in the Chinchilla, "Elenya, wait, please!"

I stopped.

He had asked me to stop, not ordered me. Wasn't he here on my Father's request? I found myself curious as to why. He walked towards me and held out his arms in a gesture of peaceful intentions.

He was close to twice my age but looked younger. He was strong and extremely handsome. His hair was a darker blonde than mine and his eyes were so blue they almost looked black. He had been in the army; the death-symbols and dagger tattoos on his forearms and wrists made that clear. They were a symbol of pride and a respected warning.

I could tell by the fit of his clothes that he still maintained his advanced fitness level. He would have to keep at it - if he wanted to get anywhere in his line of work for very long.

"Lev," I replied, "don't you have a body to bury or something else you do along those lines?"

"Elenya, why are you so ... difficult?" he put on a charming smile. "Where are you going?"

I struck a pose Kiska had taught me in the mirror, she had showed me how to appear haughty and in command.

"You act as though you have the right to question me, Henchman."

The effect was perfect. He froze and bowed slightly: "Forgive me, please."

"Go away now." I ordered.

He turned and walked away quickly. He kept his head down as if he expected a blow to the back of the neck.

A soft feminine laugh over my shoulder drew my attention, along with the smell of exotic perfume and cigarettes, a soft hand on my shoulder.

I turned around and the hand coalesced into the beautiful woman from the club.

"I have a car," she said in heavily accented Russian, an accent I couldn't place, "Would you care to join me?"

"Of course," I replied.

She ran her fingertips over the fur above my breast.

"You are very beautiful. I can't promise I won't try to seduce you," she said.

"I can't promise I won't let you try."

*****************************

She was over me but not crushing me, holding herself up so that her body hovered just in contact with my skin, my fur draped over her back.

Her beautiful brown breasts rested on mine and rotated slightly so that her nipples and mine caressed each other in rhythm. She was very experienced and excelled in stimulating the both of us with each movement.

Two of my fingers were inside the unzipped jumpsuit - deep inside her pussy. Her steaming wet clit slid back and forth across my upright palm as she slowly rocked her hips.

She moaned her breath along my neck and I overflowed in response, adding liquid-squishing sounds to the movements of her hand circling between my thighs.

"I think it's time," She giggled and ran her beautiful thick black hair down my body causing me to writhe and cry out from the pleasure. I arched my back and squeezed my eyes shut in a small quick orgasm as her mouth engulfed me and her tongue swirled inside me.

*****************************

When I opened my eyes again, Kiska was there with us. She was reflected in the curved glass of the rear windshield. My exotic lover was wrapped in the Chinchilla between her legs.

I watched the exotic woman seek out Kiska's locus with her tongue ... her body quivered and waves of pleasure washed over her from the tip of the woman's tongue, through her pussy, to the very tips of her toes and golden hair.

"Let yourself enjoy something," the reflection said to me in my Father's voice.

I came again, harder this time, my screaming orgasm bringing me to a place I didn't understand, a place where tropical ferns swayed and forested mountains topped with snow were kissed and engulfed by warm ocean breezes. The lovers in the reflection floated on a fur in clear blue surf and everything tasted like sweet electric orange juice.

*****************************

Banging.

I woke with a start. The banging was at my bedroom door.

"Shit!" I looked over to where my lover had been. She was gone. And once again, like in the club, my desire to be where I was had disappeared as well.

"Elenya?" Lev called through the door.

"Fuck off!" I shouted.

Something rattled and the door swung open.

"So you're a fucking burglar too?" I asked.

"This is not a social call, Kiska." he said sternly, stashing something shiny in his jacket.

I sat up and spat the caviar taste at him: "Don't you ever call me that again!"

I didn't care that I was naked and rolled swiftly to my bed stand where my little Makarov sat behind a stack of books.

When I spun back with the pistol he leapt at me from the door and effortlessly smacked it away before twisting my arm and forcing me face-down onto the bed.

I could still smell her scent in the sheets and it made me forget for a moment that a man was standing over my naked body, on my bed, and twisting my arm - not that it was the first time this had happened to me.

"Your Father wants to see you."

*****************************

He sat behind a giant beautiful Teak desk made in Osaka, a gift from some Yakuza clan. It was too bad the beautiful desk was in his shithole warehouse office. It was like a diamond in a coal field. Still, he was very proud of it.

He tapped his finger on the desk with one hand and rested his chin in the palm of the other, looking at me steadily for a moment before speaking.

"You realize that you have brought me some difficulty," he said.

"How so?" I asked.

He sat up straight and pushed a short stack of magazines at me. My heart jumped in my chest when I saw the woman who graced the covers.

The magazines were in Western letters but I could easily make out the name 'Vivian' splashed across her chest in blue-green letters on one of them.

So she was a Western fashion model and a famous one at that.

"You didn't know?" he asked.

"We didn't speak much."

The implication was not lost on him and I saw the look in his eyes that told me he was going to have to work out some frustrations on me soon.

"She's not just some model in town for a 'shoot'," he said making quotation marks with his fingers.

She was connected?

"So," I replied, "Your business doesn't concern me."

He sighed and tossed a few photos across the desk so I could see them.

I picked them up and recognized the location. I also recognized my father in the picture. He was younger and was shaking hands with a large bearded South American gangster the press like to refer to as Don Fernando 'The Bull Killer' DelToro. They were at my Father's estate in Kiev.

The next photo was a picture of DelToro with a young beautiful teenage girl sitting on a magnificent chestnut-brown Hanoverian Stallion.

The girl was a younger version of the one I'd loved last night.

"I see," I stated.

"Do you?" he asked as he pulled a grotesquely huge pearl-handled chrome revolver from under the desk and laid it on the desktop.

I shrugged to keep myself from shaking.

"Does this weapon frighten you?" he asked tapping it.

"No," I bluffed; guns didn't scare me, I'd been around guns all of my life; I just didn't like guns in his hands.

He picked it up, aimed it at me, and cocked the hammer in one smooth movement. The barrel was huge and I could clearly see the giant grey lead in the chambers.

"Please, Father!" I cried.

I'd meant God - not the sick bastard pointing a gun at me but I doubted he would realize that.

He set the gun down again, decocking it.

"Now, maybe you really do see," he said tapping the gun. "This gun is your woman." He raised his hand and made a trigger pulling motion with his fingers. "This is her family."

It occurred to me then that I was the only person still living who had witnessed my father pointing a gun at them ... then I found out why.

*****************************

The teak was hard and cold. The thick acetone-scented wood stain was sticky against my cheek as my Father held my head down with one hand, twisting it visciously in my hair.

The gun was in his right hand where he knew I could see it. It rocked with the motion of his body as he pumped my pussy mercilessly from behind.

I let my thoughts wander as he fucked me. It was only a matter of time now. I could tell by his pace.

I twisted my head in an attempt to see the images of Vivian on the magazines a few centimeters away from my forehead but they were out of my line of sight.

What I could see, from this angle, was a gnarled old oak watching us in our incestuous coupling through his dirty office window.

In the glass I could faintly make out Kiska. Only this time - she wasn't sharing my experience ... no father was bending her over his desk.

Maybe I was in this position because I wanted to be? The sensation of his big cock sliding in and out of me as he rocked back and forth wasn't entirely unpleasant. I sometimes found myself enjoying him fucking me ... even from behind. I absently wondered if I didn't suffer him out of some sick lust for him.

No! I grimaced at the thought. That was what he wanted me to think!

I was in control of my own mind ... I could choose what to think ... I would think of Vivian.

I looked to Kiska for confirmation but she had a strange faraway look in her eyes - like she couldn't see me.

I drifted into Vivian's arms and we were together, under the oak tree outside of the window - beside a bubbling spring. She was a beautiful Naiad and I was her victim. She fused with me and drew me into her dark deep pool of water to feed me to her tree.