Wine and a Russian Read online

  “Okay,” I replied. Let him stick to his principles. “I’ll order dinner to be delivered to our room. I’m hungry for some tapenade. Maybe an aioli dish?”

  The suggestions were more common than I’d expected. I’d been thinking of some gourmet seafood, something extravagant as befitting our surroundings. I could see us dipping vegetables and rich, crusty bread into the aioli and perhaps feeding each other. In fact, it sounded decadent. “I’ll let you choose. I’m sure it will be delicious.”

  Anton laughed. “No blue fin tuna or escargot for the American? I would have thought you’d search for the biggest and most expensive of everything.”

  The stereotype hit a nerve, but I couldn’t be mad. Not when I encouraged the stereotype myself. “I know what I like, but I also know when to let someone more knowledgeable do the ordering for me. I suspect I don’t spend nearly half as much time here as you.”

  “You are probably right. Europe is almost like a second home.” With that he clammed up again, not wanting to say too much within earshot of anyone else. He hadn’t brought his phone to the beach, something which surprised me. So he stood and brushed imaginary sand off those long legs of his. “I have a bit of business to attend to before dinner.”

  “I could do with a bit of business time as well.” I helped him fold the blanket and together we walked back into our private courtyard and into the room. Anton grabbed his phone, flipped through the notifications, and walked in the direction of the bedroom, leaving me to the living room. I grabbed a complimentary sparkling water that was left cooling in an ice bucket by some thoughtful member of the staff and after making sure I didn’t bring any of the beach indoors with me, took to the couch.

  A quick call to the office confirmed that my schedule was indeed rearranged, and new client paperwork had already been faxed into the office. It’d all be waiting for me when I decided to log on. Nothing was urgent, and like Anton I was wary of using unsecured communications, though the VPN into the office was pretty damn secure. Maybe not NSA secure, but then again with a FISA warrant, nothing was. Ms. Snow told me about a couple of other itinerary changes and wanted to know when I’d be back in the states. I wasn’t sure, really, and the closed door to the bedroom precluded asking. A few days, I guessed, but told her not to set up any meetings until I let her know. “Mr. Wynne called for you again. I told him you were unavailable. Indefinitely if I haven’t missed my guess.”

  “You guessed correctly.” Mr. Wynne, a government official who was so clueless he’d trip over his own feet if someone didn’t point them out to him.

  Anton stepped out of the bedroom.

  “I’ll check in tomorrow and let you know when my schedule changes.”

  “Of course, sir. Have a good time.” Ms. Snow hung up the phone, and I ignored the hint of amusement in her voice. She ran my schedule, and my office, like a Drill Sergeant, quite surprising given that we were about the same age. She was worth her weight in platinum, and I knew absolutely nothing about her personal life.

  I laid the phone down next to me.

  “I’ve ordered dinner. I’m going to freshen up. Care to join me?” Just like that we were dare I say it, lovers again, and neither one of us spoke one word about our respective business.

  Anton swirled the radish in the aioli and held it toward my mouth. I leaned forward, making a show of wrapping my lips around it and drawing the morsel into my mouth. I chewed and swallowed, all without taking my attention from Anton. I picked up a small cherry tomato and repeated the motion, my cock hardening as his lips slid across my fingers. A little sauce dribbled down my thumb, and Anton cupped my wrist before licking the digit. He drew my thumb into his mouth and sucked, swirling his tongue around the end.

  Moments like this made me forget he was Russian, forget that our countries were supposed enemies, forget that I knew nothing of his background save for his work with PYZ Cayman Investments. I didn’t even know how to reach him, though he obviously knew how to reach me. An imbalance that would need to be remedied, and perhaps by the end of this visit it would. Anton released my thumb.

  He set the tray onto one of the night stands and then reached across the bed. He brushed the tip of one finger against the corner of my mouth, wiping away a bit of the aioli and brought it to his mouth. “Tastes even better on you. Maybe we should try? Lay down.”

  He gave an order I couldn’t resist. I lay down, and immediately he unbuttoned the edges of my shirt and opened it wide.

  “Here, let me take it off.”

  “Don’t bother. If I get it dirty, I’ll buy you a new one. Or they have laundry service here, you know?” His eyes twinkled with humor.

  “I’m sure we’ll work something out.”

  I would have said more, but he began to pour the aioli along my chest, dribbling it down to right before the waistband to my pants. He paused just long enough to unhook and unzip them, then followed the trail with his lips and tongue.

  “Tastes better on you. Lift your hips.”

  I complied and he pulled my pants down, removing shoes and socks until I lay completely naked except for the open shirt. My cock stood at attention, curving back toward my stomach.

  “Eager, isn’t it?” He dripped the sauce over my cock, then followed with his mouth.

  Whatever I would have said was lost in the hot, wet pleasure of his mouth on my shaft. His cheeks hollowed as he sucked, and damn if I hadn’t seen a more erotic sight. As he bobbed over my cock, I thrust my hips into his mouth. I grabbed his blond hair, the short, spiky strands not enough to get a handle on, and groaned as a finger, wet with his saliva, headed toward my ass.

  “Yes.” I moaned when he probed me with the tip of the finger, the penetration so slight I might have imagined it. Then a second figure came, stretching and preparing me for him.

  Oh god, I was going to come. The pressure built, the tingling at the base of my spine. My balls drew so tight, I thought they might go, but then with a ragged cry I shot into his mouth.

  Anton sucked me dry and licked me clean. He sat back on his heels and smiled. “On your hands and knees. Face the mirror.”

  I did, stripping my shirt as I went. When I looked in the mirror I saw Anton sitting there, his cock hard and touching his stomach. Drops of precum collected at the tip and damn I wanted to take it into my mouth. Not since the night in Oslo had I the privilege of doing that and I wanted to again. Maybe not this trip, but soon. I presented my ass to him just as he’d wanted.

  “Perfect.” He moved behind me, both hands on my hips as if I needed steadying. The rustle of foil caught my attention, and in the mirror I watched him put the condom on before pressing the tip of his cock against my opening. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath of garlic and the unique fragrance that was Anton to try and steady myself. Then, he pressed in, filling me to the hilt.

  For a moment he remained there, still. “Open your eyes.” His voice caressed my nerves and I did so, my cock twitching when I saw his blond head bent towards mine. His hand reached around my hip and cupped my cock. “Watch us.” And he began to move.

  His hips and hand moved in a rhythm that had me suspended between them. Push in with his cock, upward stroke of his hand away from my body. Then the hand slid down my shaft while his cock pulled out of my body. I moaned and struggled to keep looking at the mirror. I wanted to close my eyes and savor the moment. “Anton,” I whispered on a ragged breath.

  “Just feel.” His breath tickled the short hairs by my ear and a moment later he licked sweat from my shoulder. His movements grew quicker as the demands of his body increased just as my need escalated. “Watch yourself getting fucked. Watch my hand on your cock. Watch.”

  His orders kept me in place, not even moving to press against the exquisite push of his cock into my body. I wanted his hands to move, to speed up, and yet, he kept the same rhythm, stroking me as he was delightfully filling me.

  “I’m going to come,” Anton said. And like that he did, a hard, steady explosion of passion tha
t filled the condom and took me along with it.

  My cock twitched and spilled over his hand, onto the comforter of the bed.

  Without pulling himself out of me, his cock only semi-hard from his release, he drew me closer and then down onto the bed. “Tomorrow, I have to fly out and so do you. But for tonight, we have the wine.” He gestured to the bottle sitting on the nightstand with the remainder of dinner.

  “And very good wine it is,” I said and pushed all other questions from my mind.

  The private jet took me back to Heathrow and from there I boarded my rescheduled flight back to Dulles. Somewhere over the Atlantic my phone chimed. A text from Anton. Not just any text, but his phone number. The next adventure, he said, was on me. I could do that. In fact, I’d be in New York City in a couple of weeks. Perhaps I could arrange something since I hadn’t even begun booking my flights yet. I messaged Ms. Snow to let her know there was a good chance I’d be meeting with a new client in NYC and perhaps we should start to make arrangements. I needed to impress him, I’d told her, and trusted her to make sure everything was in order.

  A second text came right after landing. A package would be waiting for me at home, something to remind me of our time together. When I arrived, I was not at all surprised to see it was a fine bottle of French wine.

  About The Author

  I’m Dwayne Trapper, founder, owner, and chief rainmaker for Global Patriot Capital. When I’m not jetting off to exotic locations to spend time with my Russian, I’m fighting for American causes and making sure my clients bring in all the money they need from all of those who may otherwise not be able to provide it to them.

  It’s sad, really, a dollar bill that can’t find its way across the ocean to some tropical haven where it can bask in large funds just waiting to do good work. Okay, so it does…something. I won’t say what my clients do is good by any stretch of the imagination. But it is work, and it brings me money…lots and lots of money.

  That’s all that matters right? America and capitalism, they fit together just like well…me and my Russian.

  Occasionally I’ll also share with you stories of my clients, just don’t tell them that I was the one who told you.

  Website: http://dwaynetrapper.com

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/dwaynetrapper/

  Twitter: http://twitter.com/dwaynetrapper

  Are you ready to become a patriot?

  Join the movement http://dwaynetrapper.com/join-the-movement/

  Copyright Notice

  WINE AND A RUSSIAN ©2017 by Dwayne Trapper

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  This is a work of satirical, political fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  First Publication Date: July 1, 2017

  Don’t be a dick. That means don’t share, copy, or otherwise give this book away without the written permission of the author. This book is free. There’s no reason for you to do so. Just direct them to http://dwaynetrapper.com and they will receive this story for free when they join the movement.

  Resist!

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Join the Movement

  Wine and a Russian

  About The Author

  Copyright