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"Ah," she said. She stripped off the panties. Ryerson was sure that she had put them on only for the effect of removing them again. |
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And it was effective. She peeled back the silk comforter and considered his half-erect penis. Kneeling on the bed, she took him in her mouth and ran her tongue over the glans. Ryerson's knees trembled. After a time she straightened, regarded him speculatively, and then straddled him, her prodigious breasts hanging over his face. Despite this being their third copulation of the afternoon, it took very little time. |
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Ryerson hoped that Marina was not disappointed. But she lay down beside him and allowed him to wet her breasts with his mouth. As he rubbed his cheek against her skin, Ryerson found himself guessing about her past. Was she married? Had she ever been? How could one ever know? Women were such cheats and liars. She was probably in her late thirties, he thought, but possibly as old as forty-two or three. Born, then, after what the Russians called the Great Patriotic War, and well established as an academician by the time of the Second Russian Revolution (as Americans were now calling the Gorbachev-to-Yeltsin era of Soviet disestablishment). So her political skills had to be well developed. How many members of the Soviet nomenklatura had survived as well as she? |
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Sometimes, she tormented him with hints that she relished lesbian sex as much as she enjoyed men. He absolutely refused to believe it. He told himself that any woman who looked like Marina and fucked like Marina couldn't be a lesbo. Impossible. There was still much Grass Valley in Joe Ryerson. |
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The only time they had come near to a serious discussion of sex, Marina had laughed at him and accused him of lower-class prejudice. Despite her Soviet schooling, she had not meant it as a compliment. |
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"What happened to you today, Yosip?" she asked. "You were angry when I arrived." |
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"It was nothing," he said, not wanting to speak of Colonel Morgan. |
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