'Phoenyx: Flesh and Fire' Sample: Svetla - Sex Stories

'Phoenyx: Flesh and Fire' Sample: Svetla

... angry.” She leaned in close to me, blowing hot breath all over my neck. “Oh, so I've found your weak spot then, have I? Sounds like you've just taken up the challenge, girlie. So let's make it public. Our Cold War, out there, will be won on stage. What about that? You and me, in a battle for total domination. If only politics could be so easy, eh.” “The audience will never take to you,” I warned her, “You'll be a villain for ever.” “Maybe, but I'll also be victorious. Who says good guys always have to win? That's your dumb Western allies who sell you that propaganda. And don't forget: without the massive Soviet sacrifices in World War Two, you'd all be wearing armbands and jackboots.” She dipped her fingertip in my black eye-shadow tray and smudged it over my top lip, giving me a comedy moustache. But it was a comedy that only she found amusing. Svetlana's manner was such that I couldn't tell when she was playing around, and when she was being serious, although I was having difficulty finding anything very playful in her latest tirade. She had never really opened herself up to the rest of us, and it had been hard at times to get to know her on any kind of level. She drank Smirnoff and cola as though it were water (and constantly reminded us that vodka meant 'water' in Russian). Her 'whiptease' routines seemed to be more cathartic than erotic at times, usually involving stripping down to a sheer bodystocking and then shredding into strips with her bullwhip, and I did wonder if ...

... she had a lot of socio-political anger to work out of her system. Perhaps she really was a red-hot Red Star Soviet, forever stuck on the wrong side of the border and estranged from her beloved Motherland. But that wasn't my problem, and I wasn't going to allow her to make it so, either. My f****y had suffered directly due to Soviet occupation of the city, whether justified or not, and that made it personal. I'd been denied a normal, stable environment in which to grow up, and undue hardships inflicted upon my mother due to my father having to flee to the East to help his own f****y when I was barely a year old. And we had never seen, nor heard from him, since that day he crossed the border and the Wall was put up behind him. “Next time,” she hissed at me, “I'll be dressed with pride. Challenge me if you're made of the right stuff. And if you don't, then I know exactly what youare made of.” “I'm not your enemy, Svetlana,” I shouted after her as she strode off towards the wings. “What did I ever do to you? We're all in this together. We're supposed to be friends.” She stopped as she reached the doorway and turned to me. “That's what your Allied friends told my country in 1945,” she spat. “My people don't appreciate being stabbed in the back. And we don't forget.” I floundered in helpless silence as she stomped off out of sight. Perhaps I should have paid more attention to history at school, and then I might have been able to come up with some kind of sensible counter-argument. ...