Chapter 2. Evening of International Friendship

“Fudge my fudge, through the mother-fudging flux capacitor!” Andrey howled, hopping around the kitchen on one leg.

In front of him, at the kitchen table, sat his son Artyom—who definitely wasn’t supposed to know what his father was actually saying the moment his pinky toe slammed full-force into the chair leg instead of the slipper underneath. The commotion brought Olya to the doorway; she was on the phone and shot him wide-eyed, startled look, clearly not understanding what was happening. Andrey waved her off frantically—everything’s fine!—and she disappeared back into the corridor, still listening to whoever was talking.

“Is that chemistry?” Artyom asked, chewing on his poppy-seed bun.

“That’s a hematoma, ” Andrey replied vaguely, now limping on both feet at once. While performing his solo Irish jig—the abbreviated kitchen edition—he’d managed to plant his other foot squarely on the protruding nail head he’d been meaning to hammer down “one of these days” for the past year and a half.

Olya returned to the kitchen and absentmindedly ruffled her son’s tousled hair; her gaze was fixed somewhere beyond the horizon.

“Mom, I’m going out to play, ” Artyom announced, already finishing his tea.

“Did you finish all your homework?” Olya shifted her eyes to her husband and gave him a strangely intense look.

“They don’t assign anything for the weekend—did you forget?” Artyom was already answering from the hallway.

“Okay, but not too long, ” Olya called into the empty space; the boy had vanished like smoke.

“I’m sick of everything, ” Andrey said suddenly, gently rubbing his bruised toes. “I want to get away. Out into the wild. To the pampas. Far from all this worldly bullshit.”

“I know exactly where we can go for the weekend to relax, ” Olya perked up, throwing him another odd glance. “Larisa’s dacha, ” she continued, noticing his raised eyebrows. “She just called, and—”

“Hard no, ” Andrey cut in immediately, stopping his self-massage.

“Why not?” Olya asked, looking away.

“Why not?! The last time ‘Larisa called, ’ you ended up under that hairy Casillero, and I damn near dropped dead, ” Andrey said, peering under the table and carefully sliding his feet into his slippers.

“We’ve discussed this a hundred times, ” Olya rolled her eyes and scooted closer to him. “But look—fresh air, unlimited free village food, complimentary booze, a lake, the forest, shashlik...”

“A lake?” Andrey repeated. “Where the hell is there a lake?”

“How do you mean?” Olya hurried on. “There’s a lake nearby—fishing and...”

“Fishing? Are there actually fish in that lake?” Andrey suddenly sounded more interested.

“Loads of fish!” Olya exclaimed. She had no real idea, but nodded vigorously for emphasis.

“And who else is going to be there?” Andrey asked suspiciously, sensing a catch. “The Chilean national football team?”

“What team? What are you even talking about!” Olya threw up her hands. “No Chileans. Just some business partners or Larisa’s friends—I don’t know! She’s still looking for a boyfriend and can’t settle down.”

Andrey remembered that Larisa had been single for ages and this year alone had introduced Olya to three different “suitors”—all misses. Maybe this really was just an aging woman’s attempt to finally meet her little bit of happiness and solve the loneliness problem. Of course she’d want company so it didn’t look too much like an audition. And fishing, free snacks, and booze...

“What other arguments do you have to convince me?” Andrey asked, already mentally agreeing to the trip.

“I won’t get drunk like... last time, and... I’ll give you a scorching hot night, ” Olya said with a wicked smile, tossing her hair the way she used to when they were young.

“I’ve always been persuaded by convincing arguments, ” Andrey replied, pulling her onto his lap.

“That’s what Celentano said in The Bluff, ” Olya clarified, settling comfortably.

“And do I not look like him?” Andrey challenged, slipping his hand under her robe.

“Only in the bald spot, ” Olya replied with a smirk, and they melted into a sweet kiss.

It was a sunny Saturday morning. Having dumped Artyom with the grandparents, Andrey and Olya set off for Larisa’s dacha. On the way they picked up a bottle of non-Chilean wine—no point showing up completely empty-handed—and Andrey made a quick stop at the fishing shop for bait. It was early September, and outside the window the trees flashed by in their yellow-green finery. Nature had granted them one more warm day—one of the few left in this brief Indian summer—and Olya had dressed accordingly: a light, flowery dress down to her knees and a wide-brimmed hat.

For some inexplicable reason, the playful mood had already kicked in right from home. They fooled around the whole drive: Andrey, never letting go of the wheel, groped his wife under her dress in various places, while Olya resisted, pushing his hand away. But when the road demanded both hands on the wheel, Olya flipped the script—hiking up her dress and playing with her legs, shooting him sly glances. Finally Andrey couldn’t take it anymore and pulled over to the shoulder. He killed the engine and pounced on her. The most he got this time was a deep, lingering kiss and a tender squeeze of his cock through his jeans.

“Everything tonight, ” Olya whispered. “Be patient, darling.”

“Then stop teasing me, ” Andrey grumbled, calming down. “Or I’ll fuck you right while we’re driving.”

“Okay, I won’t, ” Olya said meekly. And when they pulled back onto the road, she turned her back to him, stared out the window, hiked her dress again, and stuck out her bare, tanned ass for full display.

Larisa met them on the doorstep in a black open swimsuit that was clearly way too small: even Andrey’s daughter Irina had something more modest, and she was only nineteen—Larisa was at least twice her age. The girlfriends hugged and kissed, then Larisa turned to Andrey.

“Well hello, darling, ” she said, planting a kiss on his cheek and pressing her breasts against him. “Thanks for coming!”

“Always happy to, ” Andrey replied automatically, unable to keep his eyes off her prominent curves.

“Sweetheart, get your eyes out of her tits and go unload the car, ” Olya said dryly as she passed him, pinching his ass.

“It’s all good, ” Larisa laughed, squeezing her own breasts playfully. “That’s a normal reaction from a healthy guy! It would’ve been worse if your Andryusha reacted to Dominique’s chest like that.”

“Who’s Dominique?” Olya asked with sudden interest, stepping hard on Andrey’s foot.

“My friends, ” Larisa said, swaying her hips as she headed inside. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.”

Andrey lingered, unloading the bags from the trunk—no one stayed to help. He locked the car and followed the women into the house. Dumping the simple gear in the hallway, he stepped into the large room.

It was a tastefully decorated hunting lodge: fireplace, expensive furniture. A spiral staircase in the corner led to a second-floor balcony that ran the full length of the room, framed by curtains and elegant balustrades. Doors to the guest rooms were visible behind them.

In the middle of the room stood a man in a turban and robe—some kind of Bedouin—studying the painting on the wall: Manet’s Luncheon on the Grass. Another desert dweller sat in an armchair smoking a hookah; the moment Andrey entered, he caught the scent of baked apples and tobacco. A shadow detached itself from the wall, and Andrey flinched: it was a pitch-black Black man in light shorts, his facial features hard to make out—just a dazzling white-toothed grin shining from the middle of a curly burnt coconut.

“Meet everyone: this is Aziz, ” Larisa said, gesturing toward the admirer of feminine curves. “He’s from Cairo, just like Jafar, ” she added, waving toward the clouds of smoke hovering over the armchair. Both Arabs turned to Andrey and bowed politely.

“Louis!” the hairy coconut introduced himself, extending a hand to Andrey.

Armstrong, Andrey mentally added, shaking the offered hand. When the pitch-black Black man stepped into the light, Andrey realized who he resembled: he was a dead ringer for Shrek from the cartoon, only very well-done and covered in curls. His palm was brown and pleasantly warm to the touch.

“And where’s Dominique?” Andrey asked, a little intimidated by the sudden abundance of foreigners—he hadn’t expected this at all.

“Dominique!” Olya called from somewhere behind him, and Andrey turned.

From the veranda, where the smooth blue surface of the pool glistened, Olya entered the room with her dress tucked into her belt—her legs were wet. Following her was a tall, bald pitch-black Black man of chocolate hue, wearing tiny swim trunks and built like a stripper. His body glistened with water droplets; he’d clearly just come from a swim. Andrey’s gaze slid over his pumped physique and he felt a pang of melancholy. When he noticed the bulge in those trunks, he desperately wanted to go home.

Larisa sauntered over to Dominique and patted his prominent chest.

“Dominique came to share experience and with an interesting contract, ” she said. “He’s from the Dominican Republic.”

“And Louis is from Louisiana?” Andrey asked dryly—he was completely deflated.

“No, ” Larisa smiled. “They’re both from the Dominican Republic.”

“Where’s that?” Olya asked, her eyes shining with admiration. She couldn’t decide who to stare at more: the muscular pitch-black Black men or the mysterious Arabs.

“The Dominican Republic is right next to Haiti, ” Andrey muttered.

“Bingo!” Dominique nodded, shaking Andrey’s hand. Something crunched, and Andrey winced in pain.

He tucked his aching hand under his armpit and glanced upward. There on the balcony stood a girl—it was Maria, the interpreter. She smiled at him and waved cheerfully. She was wearing the same short black dress, with white panties visible underneath.

“What’s the official language of the Dominican Republic?” Andrey asked Larisa quickly.

“Spanish. So What?” Larisa asked, surprised.

“Got it, ” Andrey replied. He turned and walked out of the room. Good thing he hadn’t unpacked yet—carrying everything back to the car took only a few minutes. “Get ready! We’re leaving, ” he shouted to Olya without turning around.

“Where are you going, Andrey?” Olya hurried after him under the bewildered stares of the guests. “What happened?!”

“What made you think I’m staying for this fucking tea party?” Andrey dragged the bags toward the car.

“Why ‘fucking’?”

“Because your Larisa is solving her own pussy problems, ” Andrey said nervously, cramming everything back into the trunk. “Stick a feather up her ass! What the hell do we have to do with it?!”

“I don’t have any ‘pussy problems, ’” Larisa said, appearing on the veranda. “And these aren’t my future boyfriends—they’re business partners. Both teams brought contracts worth almost three hundred thousand dollars. And I intend to sign them—with or without you.” Her voice was dry and official. “I just wanted to show Russian hospitality, that’s all. To make them feel valued and welcome in the team. Thank you for ‘not refusing, ’” she spat the last words, spun on her heel, and marched back inside.

“I think you were wrong just now, Andrey, ” Olya said quietly. “Larisa invited us to relax, and we... and you...” Her eyes filled with tears. “You hurt her!”

“Fine. To hell with it. Let’s stay, ” Andrey muttered, nervously twisting a strap on his backpack. “Maybe I really overreacted.”

Olya wiped her eyes, silently walked to the car, and began unloading the bags from the trunk again. Andrey glanced around: all along the perimeter of the dacha, security cameras glinted in the sun. It seemed to him that every single one was staring at him reproachfully. He turned to the nearest one and gave it a placating smile.

“We just forgot something in the car, ” Olya announced as she re-entered the room, addressing no one in particular. “One protective measure against, uh... mosquitoes!”

“Yeah, ” Andrey said, appearing behind her. “It’s called a rubber.’” But Olya shot him such a glare that he immediately lost any desire to comment further.

Andrey looked at Maria, who had already come downstairs to join the guests and was saying something to them in Spanish. Since their last meeting at the tasting, she had noticeably improved—Andrey caught himself admiring her, and didn’t notice Olya and Larisa exchanging glances and winking at each other.

Louis was listening attentively to Maria and nodding, his hand resting on her ass—apparently some ancient Dominican custom. Dominique dominated the room with his mere presence, and Andrey tried not to look at him. Aziz finally tore himself away from contemplating the naked woman in the Manet reproduction, approached the armchair, and dissolved into Jafar’s swirling smoke.

When the women retreated to the kitchen, Andrey unpacked the fishing gear and prepared his tackle. Soon the living-room table began to fill with various appetizers ferried in from the kitchen. Then everyone sat down “according to their purchased tickets, ” and after pouring the host’s wine into glasses, Larisa raised a toast:

“To close friendship between peoples, and peace throughout the world!” She repeated it in English for the Arabs while Maria simultaneously translated into Spanish. Then everyone ceremoniously clinked glasses.

The pitch-black Black men, in turn, delivered some gibberish—Maria, blushing and giggling, didn’t even bother translating. Larisa smiled, and surprisingly, Olya was smiling too!

“Since when do you understand Spanish?” Andrey leaned toward her. “Picked it up from Esteban, did you?”

“Piss off, ” Olya replied without malice, gazing admiringly at the group of foreigners. “How long are we going to keep coming back to this? You enjoyed it yourself—don’t you remember?”

“What else was I supposed to do?” Andrey defended himself. “In that situation, I just tried to relax and enjoy myself!”

Olya snorted and said nothing. The Arab rose from his seat and delivered a reciprocal speech. He spoke in English, but with such a monstrous accent that Andrey understood nothing. Besides, Aziz spoke in a monotone, quiet, measured voice, often keeping his eyes closed for long stretches, so Andrey began nodding off. He jolted awake when Aziz clapped his hands and Jafar produced a moss-covered bottle with green spots on its side from somewhere. He set it carefully on the table, and Andrey could have sworn something moved inside.

Now a genie’s going to pop out, Andrey thought, and couldn’t help smiling. Just need to rub it properly. Jafar in general reminded him of the Disney cartoon sorcerer—one parrot on the shoulder was all that was missing. Aziz deftly uncorked the ancient vessel and quickly poured “just a little gram” for everyone present.

“Andkum al-gorf ash-shagra?” [Do you have any free rooms? Arabic.] he asked Larisa for some reason in his native tongue, nodding upward.

“Thank you very much!” a happy Larisa replied, and knocked back the Eastern brew in one gulp—a liquid the sickly grayish-brown color of a diseased mouse.

“Dnde est la biblioteca?” Andrey declared confidently when the Arab handed him a shot glass with a grayish substance at the bottom, staring at him questioningly.

“Hal tatakallam bi-r-rusi?” [Do you speak Russian? Arabic.] Aziz asked, then waved his hand dismissively and nodded affirmatively: arguing with Andrey’s statement was poinless.

Andrey knocked back the Arab rarity, and in an instant felt all the forces of hell rush into his sinful body with clear intent to drag his soul away as quickly as possible. He looked at Larisa: she sat with bulging eyes, mouth opening and closing like a fish flung onto the shore. Don’t drink! he wanted to shout to Olya, but he couldn’t—only a hoarse croak escaped his throat. And his wife took a small sip: unlike her husband, she wasn’t so reckless with unfamiliar drinks—especially after promising Andrey she wouldn’t get drunk.

Even so, Olya immediately flushed crimson like a boiled lobster and began chasing the suspicious brew with huge gulps of juice straight from the carton. The Black men hadn’t touched the national drink of hell’s spawn; they were animatedly chatting with Maria about something. Larisa, catching her breath, joined the conversation too, while Andrey and Olya attacked the appetizers: after that Eastern treat, they felt they could see the road to the Spanish library with the naked eye.

Sated, Andrey leaned back in his chair and gazed around blearily. Everyone was engrossed in conversation—even Olya was nodding at the Black men in response. On the edge of the table lay spread-out documents and maps. The Arabs were animatedly discussing something with Larisa; words like products and price kept floating through the air.

D’Artagnan felt himself growing dull, Andrey recalled the line from The Three Musketeers by Alexandre Dumas, and he openly began to feel bored. I’ll get out of here: go to the lake and do some fishing, he thought, rising from his chair. With all of them it’s just deadly dull.

“Where are you going?” Olya asked, tearing herself away from the three-hundred-thousand-dollar negotiations as though she were in on the deal too.

“I’m going fishing at the lake, ” Andrey replied. “Want to keep me company?”

“Nah, I think I’ll lie down and rest, ” Olya answered, yawning. “I overate here, looks like.”

“A bit, yeah, ” Andrey agreed, a shadow of doubt crossing his face. “You’ll behave yourself?”

“Offended, boss?” Olya drawled in mock gangster style, and Andrey couldn’t help smiling. “Though you can stay here as the screw if you want, ” she added, stretching languidly.

Andrey headed for the exit, but neither Larisa nor her foreign guests even glanced his way—they were all absorbed in talk of joint business. Slinging on his backpack and grabbing the rod case, Andrey happily set off toward the lake—thankfully, clear signs lined the road. It was warm and pleasant, and anticipation of the fishing gradually swallowed him whole: a hunter’s gleam lit up his eyes.

And as he left, he didn’t notice how his wife’s eyes suddenly flashed: she was practically bursting inside with anticipation of the depraved madness her friend had promised over the phone when inviting them to the dacha...

“There goes your man, heading toward the sun, ” Larisa whispered to Olya, leaning close. “See him there on the monitor?” She pointed at the screen disguised as a painting and hanging deep in the room.

“Well, that’s perfect, ” Olya said; all trace of sleepiness had vanished. “Shall we take a break from the negotiations?”

“High time!” Larisa agreed. “Just give me ten minutes, darling: our partners are almost ready, and I’m hoping to close this deal successfully!”

“Fine, ” Olya said, rising from the table. “I’ll go lie down on the sofa for now.”

They moved all the snacks and drinks from the table to the windowsill, and Larisa folded the tablecloth and set it aside. In place of the food she spread out business papers, and after twenty minutes of lively discussion and animated gesturing, the partners reached mutual agreement. Olya watched with fascination as Larisa closed the deal. Sometimes with words, sometimes with her body—baring it “as if by accident, ” she confidently moved toward victory. Finally Larisa stepped back from the table, shook hands with the negotiators, and turned to the interpreter:

“Masha, tell Dominique to get started—I’ll put on the music now.”

“What’s Dominique going to do now?” Olya asked her friend, approaching the table.

“Have you ever seen a male striptease live?” Larisa asked, and Olya shook her head in frightened denial. “Then this will be your premiere, ” she added with a grin.

“And the Arabs—are they going to strip too?” Olya asked playfully, glancing at Dominique: he sat at the table in an impeccable three-piece suit of gray-blue and smiled.

“No, they don’t dance, ” Larisa replied, turning on the music. “But they give excellent massages and are wonderful lickers!”

“Lickers?! What do they...” Olya began, then blushed deeply and fell silent.

“All in good time!” Larisa said. “March to the sofa—the show’s about to start!”

Olya plopped back onto the sofa that stood almost in the middle of the room and made herself comfortable, tucking her legs under her. The rest of the audience settled in a semicircle—wherever they could—pushing the snack table aside. Louis picked up a bottle of reddish liquid from the floor that Olya hadn’t noticed earlier—at least fifteen liters—and poured it into glasses and mugs. Olya got a beer mug filled almost to the brim with ruby liquid. She took a cautious sip and smiled with satisfaction: it was cherry liqueur—far tastier than the Arab moss-covered poison.

Dominique stepped into the center of the room and began to dance, flashing his dazzling white-toothed smile. He must have been a real dancer in the past—his movements were sexually professional, and Olya couldn’t help but admire the mesmerizing sight. His clothes came off piece by piece, and Olya watched his trousers with growing interest. Something very large and impressive was hidden behind them: judging by the bulge in his swim trunks she’d noticed at the start of their acquaintance, a pleasant surprise awaited her. She’d even gone into the pool for that reason, modestly tucking up her dress so as not to get it wet.

Suddenly she felt hands on her body and glanced back: behind the sofa stood Aziz, who began massaging her neck and shoulders with soft but confident movements. Olya looked around: behind Larisa stood Jafar, not touching her yet—he was busy with the hookah. The black Shrek was already kneading Maria’s breasts, shoving his paws under her dress: apparently Louis wasn’t much of a masseur.

A sweetish smell spread through the room, and Olya caught the long-forgotten student-era scent of cannabis: Jafar had finally fired up his infernal machine. Without ceremony, the Bedouin stuck the hookah mouthpiece into Olya’s mouth and nodded with a grin. Olya took a deep drag and coughed: smoke poured out of her from every direction. Her mouth instantly dried up, and she took a big gulp from the beer mug. She inhaled again, this time without coughing, closed her eyes, and smiled: rainbow clouds floated through her head.

“Remember Carlos’s cock?” Larisa suddenly asked Olya, casually taking a drag from the hookah: for her, ganja in a hookah wasn’t anything exotic.

“Yes, ” Olya whispered, shivering as Aziz moved from her shoulders to her breasts, softly kneading them through her bra and dress. “So What?”

“That was a baby dick compared to Dominique’s, ” Larisa nodded for emphasis and giggled: Jafar had also started his massage, stripping off her clothes and baring her breasts for all to see.

Olya looked at Dominique just in time: he was about to remove the last piece separating his much-hyped organ from the audience’s eyes. Maria had also pulled away from Louis, to whom she’d already been giving a devoted blowjob: her dress lay on the floor, and a black hand had long since taken possession of her panties.

Andrey approached the lake—the silvery surface of the water was already visible—when a sudden thought struck him. He frantically rummaged through his backpack, and a minute later let out a groan of disappointment.

Damn it, I left them in the fridge! he thought bitterly, remembering too late about the bait: the excellent maggots and fresh bloodworms he’d bought at the fishing shop on the way to the dacha. I’ll have to go back—can’t catch fish on my own dick, he thought, quietly cursing as he turned back.

On the way to the dacha, his imagination suddenly began painting indecent images, in which his beloved wife somehow always took part. Some kind of global orgy involving the peoples of the world lodged so firmly in his head that Andrey unconsciously quickened his pace.

And what will you do if you catch your beloved Olya in the arms of a foreigner again? an unpleasant thought slithered coldly into his overheated mind like a snake. And what if not one, but all of them at once: remember that live queue to your wife’s body at the Chilean bacchanal run by that bearded, heavily loaded Bacchus Casillerovich? the insidious voice inside his head continued.

Andrey was almost running now: the rod case swinging at his side next to the backpack kept smacking him under the knees, forcing him into periodic squats as he moved forward in a ridiculous but energetic dance unofficially titled “Gotta Pee but I’ll Hold It.”

The gates of Larisa’s dacha loomed ahead, and Andrey slowed down, scanning for a path that would keep him out of sight of the ubiquitous security cameras: he wanted to approach the house unnoticed. He crossed the open space at a brisk pace, then pressed himself against the wall and crept toward the backyard.

Like some fucking spy, he thought with a smirk, and listened: music drifted from the house, and Andrey recognized the slow dance track he’d once burned up the floor to at prom. An unpleasant pang twisted under his ribs. Cinema, wine, and dominoes, the phrase floated into his mind for no reason, and Andrey stopped at the nearest window and cautiously peered inside. No—this is more like sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll! he thought, breath catching at the sight: they were really going at it hardcore in there.

Andrey couldn’t make out everything clearly, but several vivid details hit him hard enough to make his head spin: Larisa’s bare breasts being kneaded by a skinny Arab, naked Maria in the powerful grip of the overcooked Dominican stump, the chocolate bald dancer twirling his genitals in front of... his half-undressed wife, squeezed in the arms of the second Arab—and all of it in clouds of white smoke that Andrey inhaled deeply and immediately recognized by smell: hashish.

Just don’t faint! he thought: his heart hammered like mad, his legs buckled, and he pressed his cheek to the wall. Well? the question stood sharp and demanded an immediate answer. Andrey noticed an ivy-covered door two meters away that led into the house. Dropping his gear against the wall, he tugged at it carefully: unlocked. Now you’re all fucked. Irrevocably and mercilessly! he thought, slipping inside quietly.

It was a back entrance or utility room, cluttered with boxes, wooden crates, and random junk. No doors inside the little space. But almost immediately he found a spiral staircase leading up. Andrey climbed slowly, trying not to creak, boiling more with every step from insane jealousy and rage. When did you turn into such an incorrigible slut? he mentally asked, ascending like to the gallows. Once you've tasted the forbidden fruit, you're changed forever, aren't you?

Lost in grim thoughts, Andrey didn’t immediately realize where he’d ended up: he was in the second-floor corridor. To his left were several doors; to his right—a huge balcony overlooking the main hall. Andrey crept to the edge, hid behind a heavy curtain hanging at the side, and looked down.

Holy fuck! he suddenly heard his wife’s voice and gripped the railing to keep from falling: her tone was pure admiration and hunger.

Olya sat on the sofa with her legs spread wide, dress hiked to her navel: between her thighs on the floor crouched an Arab—he thought it was Aziz. He was without turban or robe now, wearing only white baggy pants and a wide red sash around his wiry torso. Aziz held Olya by the hips and licked between her legs. Olya moaned but never took her eyes off Dominique, who twirled his cock in front of her face, holding it in his hand. Even from this distance Andrey could see it was an impressive member, not yet fully erect.

Half-naked Larisa sat beside Olya on the sofa, caressing her breast. With her other hand she smoked the hookah, alternating the mouthpiece between her mouth and Jafar’s cock with enviable regularity. The Arab stood beside them, pants down, trying to shove deeper into Larisa’s mouth. His hands kneaded and rolled her breasts, occasionally shaking them for his own pleasure. From the armchair in the opposite corner came muffled gurgles, and Andrey turned toward the sound: Maria was diligently sucking Louis’s cock, kneeling before him. The huge Black man sat in the chair and occasionally forced her head down onto his shaft with such force that she gagged and rasped.

“Suck him off!” Larisa ordered Olya in a commanding tone, nodding toward Dominique. “Or you’ll never know what a real man feels like!”

“Come on, Lora, he won’t even fit in me!” Olya said, but nevertheless reached out and cautiously squeezed the Dominican national treasure.

“Then take as much as you can in your mouth—no one’s going to force you, ” Larisa said slyly, glancing at her friend, then added, “at least not yet.”

“I don’t know... this all feels kind of weird, ” Olya said, then suddenly gasped and arched back, pressing Aziz’s head to her mound. “Fucking incredible cunnilingus, ” she whispered, trembling and breathing heavily.

“See? I told you! Arabs are like that!” Larisa laughed. She suddenly pushed Aziz’s head away and latched onto her friend’s pussy with a deep, wet kiss. “Damn, girl, you’ve already come your brains out, haven’t you?” she added, pulling back from Olya’s crotch and licking her lips like a cat. “Now come on—suck Dominique. I said so! He’s our guest of honor today!”

Olya, who still hadn’t let go of the Black man’s cock, leaned forward and ran her tongue around the large head, parting her lips over it. Then she left a wet trail down the entire shaft and bent even lower to take his heavy balls into her mouth.

The Dominican cock towered like a beacon above Olya’s head, emerging through her blonde hair by a good third of its length. The Black man gently pressed her head to his groin and arched forward, rising onto his toes. Wet, slurping, sucking sounds filled the air: Olya began rimming Dominique’s ass.

Andrey stood frozen on the balcony, gripping the oak railing with white-knuckled fingers. The scene unfolding below made him forget everything: he no longer remembered why he was here or what had brought him. A powerful erection throbbed insistently against his clothes, and without taking his eyes off the incredible spectacle, Andrey unbuttoned his pants and yanked them off in one impatient motion. Now he was not only aroused but “armed.”

Peering from behind the curtain, he tried not to miss a single detail, his gaze darting from one pair to another but always returning to his beloved wife.

Maria let out a long cry, and all the participants in the group orgy turned toward her: she was straddling Louis, arms wrapped tightly around his neck, her hips convulsing in sweet orgasm. The powerful Black man gripped her ass and rocked her against him in wave-like motions with his hands, making her ride the waves of bliss. She sank her teeth into Louis’s ear and rasped desperately: saliva dripped from her mouth onto the Black lover’s shoulders.

Olya took another deep drag of cannabis, exhaled a thick stream through her nose, and returned to her interrupted task, eagerly taking half of Dominique’s length into her mouth. She gripped the Black man’s hips, but Larisa pushed her hands away.

“Hands behind your back!” she commanded, pinning them there. “Suck him like that! Yes—keep it in your mouth!”

Olya obediently nodded. Sliding off the sofa onto the floor with her hands bound behind her, she began sucking the black cock that resembled a medium-sized baseball bat. Dominique cupped Olya’s head and started fucking her mouth, showing no concern that she sometimes had no air to breathe. She gagged and rasped; thick saliva streamed down her cheeks, soaking her dress.

“Strip!” Larisa said, taking over Dominique’s cock for a moment and sliding it between her voluminous breasts. “Then crawl over to Louis and suck him off—he hasn’t come yet, I think, ” she added, moaning as Jafar lifted her hips from behind and impaled her on his lingam.

“Crawl?!” Olya repeated, stripping off not only her wet dress but all her clothes.

“Yes, on all fours!” Larisa said. “And make sure you...” The rest of her words became unintelligible: Dominique began thrusting the head into her mouth while continuing to pump between her breasts.

Larisa took the business partners’ cocks from both sides in silence for a while until Jafar finally drove her to an orgasm so powerful she blacked out momentarily. Olya looked at her friend with envy and crawled on all fours toward Louis, where Maria was energetically sucking him off on her knees, ass high in the air: Aziz was working her from behind. Together with Maria, Olya began sucking Louis’s cock in tandem. His wasn’t as long as Dominique’s but just as thick. Olya took almost his entire sack into her mouth and gently sucked it while Maria stuffed the swollen head into her cheek.

Completely naked now, Jafar approached Olya, crouched, and immediately drove his wiry Eastern cock into her pussy. Together with Aziz they worked the rears of the two women, slapping their wet asses while the women milked the life-giving nectar from the Dominican. Then, exchanging a few words in Arabic, they swapped places, and now Aziz was polishing Olya’s pussy, whipping her ass with his knotted palm. Olya squealed at every smack and eagerly bucked back against the tireless Bedouin.

Suddenly Olya needed to pee. The urge grew stronger and stronger, but she couldn’t free herself—neither from the blowjob (Louis held her head firmly and drove his rod all the way down her throat) nor from Aziz pounding her from behind. Olya felt the changing of the guard behind her again, wriggled her hips to postpone the Arab fucking, and finally tore herself free from Louis’s grip.

“Wait, everyone! I need the bathroom!” Olya finally blurted out, rising to her knees.

“You need to piss?” Larisa clarified, lying on her back before Dominique almost in a split: he was pounding her pussy, gripping her breasts tightly.

“Yes, ” Olya blushed. “I need to go.”

“No!” Larisa said, then began speaking in English to Jafar and Aziz.

The Arabs exchanged brief words, pulled the plastic tablecloth off the table, and spread it right in the middle of the room. Then they approached Olya and suddenly lifted her by the thighs.

“What are you doing?!” Olya screamed, struggling desperately, but it was futile: they held her firmly by the legs and ass.

Louis stepped up, and the Arabs spread Olya’s thighs wide—right in front of his cock—holding her body suspended. Louis rubbed the head along her swollen lips, collecting the sticky wetness, then slowly slid his cock into her pussy. Olya’s eyes widened and she gasped, instinctively bucking her hips toward the black shaft. Louis began to speed up, and Olya cried out:

“Larisa, damn you! I can’t hold it—I’m going to piss myself right here! Get this pole off me!”

Larisa stood, took Dominique by the cock, and led him toward the fucking group: the Black man’s skin glistened with sweat, light playing on the Dominican stripper’s muscles, looking for all the world like a thoroughbred stallion being led to stud. Larisa dropped to her knees behind Olya and thoroughly wet her friend’s anus with saliva, not forgetting to knead it by sliding her index finger deep inside.

“No!” Olya screamed, and Dominique, pushing Larisa’s head aside, pressed his formidable weapon against Olya’s ass. “Don’t!” Olya cried, and Louis paused for a moment, giving his friend the chance to enter the holy of holies of this pretty Russian woman. “Stop!” Olya moaned, and the two Dominicans moved toward each other asynchronously.

Andrey was so stunned by what was happening that he sometimes even forgot to jerk off, freezing with his cock in hand and holding his breath. His wife had been humiliated all evening—and by her best friend, no less! True, he hadn’t noticed Olya objecting much, but what Larisa had just done to her crossed every line!

What if her bladder bursts or something worse happens, God forbid? His thoughts were cut off by his wife’s screams:

“Larisa, fuck! I can’t hold it anymore! Where are you? Why are you quiet?”

“Pss-pss-pss-pss, ” Larisa said.

She dropped to her knees in front of Aziz and took his cock in her mouth, nodding at Maria. The girl squatted in front of Jafar and began sucking his shaft, rolling his balls between her fingers. Louis and Dominique fucked Olya from both ends, ignoring her cries, and she bounced on their cocks, arms wrapped tightly around the Arabs’ necks. Andrey stared at this depraved sculptural composition as if in some surreal dream, never stopping the furious motion of his hand on his cock.

Suddenly a small stream sprayed onto Louis’s stomach, then another, then more, and finally a powerful jet hissed and splattered in every direction, showering the fucking bodies with hot piss. Olya moaned in relief and pleasure, throwing her head back and locking lips with Dominique. The Arabs began sucking her breasts and nipples, while Larisa and Maria moved their tongues and lips faster, polishing the Eastern shafts.

Suddenly Olya froze for a moment, then convulsed several times: Andrey saw her toes curl in spasms.

“Aaaah!!! This is fucking insane!” Olya screamed, thrashing on the black cocks that drove orgasm after orgasm into her. “Lora, damn you! You bitch, you don’t even realize what you’ve done to me! Fuck me, fuck me more!!!”

Andrey watched in a daze as Louis jerked several times, gripping Olya’s waist tightly and impaling her pussy on himself; as Dominique howled, short thrusts of his hips emptying his cum into her ass. Then they lowered Olya to the floor, where she shuddered in paroxysms of pleasure. Larisa and Masha began jerking Jafar and Aziz off onto her face, squeezing their balls. Thick ropes of semen hit her cheeks and landed in her mouth. Olya lay on the floor with legs spread wide, tongue lapping at her lips to collect the dense cum, smiling.

But when Larisa began licking her friend’s crotch and Maria kissed Olya, gathering the last drops of semen from her face, Andrey couldn’t hold back: short jets shot from his cock, splattering the curtain he’d been hiding behind and partially landing on the carved balustrades of the balcony railing. One spurt reached the first floor and hit Dominique’s bald head. He instinctively wiped his forehead with his fingers and looked at them. Then he raised his head and saw Andrey.

“Tss, ” Andrey gestured, finger to lips, shaking his head no.

Dominique shook his head reproachfully in return, then winked at Andrey, and his face spread into a wide, white-toothed grin...