“Do you believe in coincidences Moya Printzessa?”
Orlov helps me to the royal chair again and fills our flutes.
We raise our glass to his chums. The toast is the same.
“To the Greater Rossiya. Ura!”
A real patriot. But the Champagne is French, not Russian. His suit Savile Row, London. His fine patent leather shoes, Italian. His bank account – according to the research I made at the Agency about the potential customers I could have met – Swiss. But denominated in US dollars. A patriot, and a citizen of the World.
Monsieur and Milord join the toast, raising their whisky and cognac.
They sip, in friendly conversation, waiting for their servant who is tying the fiddlers, bent over, side by side, on the table. He eventually raises their whole full skirt with a theatrical gesture, and their round, pale bums shine for a moment under the sun, their bare slits visible between their spread legs, high heels tied to the table’s legs. Almost in sync, after a small adjustment, the gentlemen enter them slowly but fully from behind, then they settle to a steady, relaxed rhythm, accompanied by the Baroque duo.
“It is really a nice coincidence, Moya Printzessa. My good French friend over there seems really interested in your oral skills. I am eager to enter you through the back entrance I had already secured with the Fabergé egg. This leaves just an option for our British friend. But he seems happy with the choice. We’ll do that all together this afternoon. Looking forward to that!”
Lad, in front of me, smiles and winks, whistling softly.
Meanwhile, Orlov summons Drago and gives him a detailed order in impenetrable fast Russian. The bodyguard seems uncomfortable – I notice he demonstrates his discomfort by moving unconsciously his hand towards his concealed big gun - but he eventually nods, looks at me, and displays a hesitant smile. I guess his master promised him something.
“Drago Ivanovich here will accompany you to Court Moya Printzessa, and you will be back together in the afternoon for our private party. He has the responsibility of bringing you, the pendant, and the egg back to me. This is why he is so nervous now. If you could please reassure him the egg is in its proper place Moya Printzessa”
I promptly spread my legs, sliding slightly forward on the small throne, until the buttplug gets visible. Poor Drago relaxes visibly, his hand gets away from his gun and closer to his slightly bulging crotch.
Half ashamed, half pleased at the effect, I try to conceal the embarrassment by asking a competent question to the oligarch.
“Fabergé eggs are known to be Easter Eggs, Moy Printz. I never knew about the other hmmm… usage.”
Orlov laughs, relaxed, in full control, glad to have been recognized by what he believes to be his proper title.
“You are an art lover like me Moya Printzessa… well, you may be surprised, but all Fabergé eggs until 1885 were… hmmm… pleasure eggs. They became very fashionable among the Russian aristocracy. But the servants started gossiping, and as you may imagine it would have been difficult to explain to the half-starving God-worshipping Russian peasants what was the real use of the jeweled eggs. So the Tzar had to devise a clever – although expensive – cover-up story. And Fabergé started creating the famous, bigger Easter eggs. Almost all the original eggs were destroyed by the revolution. Bourgeois depravation. And this one you are wearing is the most beautiful among the survivors. Its value is… astonishing.”
He helps me to stand-up, and as I step down the pedestal with a small jump the egg makes its four-bars sound. Sending vibrations in my lower belly. Making me emit a sigh I can’t stop. Pervert old Fabergé titillates me across the centuries.
Lad and Sarge start sniggering, but they stop immediately as Orlov glares at them and Drago slips his hand into the flap of his jacket.
“The sound it makes is the beginning of the Tzarist anthem. We tried to produce a version playing the first bars of the Internationale, then one featuring the Star Spangled Banner, for our female spies in the US, but Russian Soviet industry was best at making nukes than jewels, so all attempts failed. The thing you are wearing is truly unique. Now, Moya Printzessa, please go. I’ll see you in the afternoon, and I am sure you will be ready.”
Reinstated in his former authority, Sarge again cuffs me behind my back, under the strict control of Drago. Suspicious, glaring at the guards, he eventually slides his hand between my legs to make sure the Fabergé egg is still there. His big hard hand brushes my pussy, then the devilish thing emits its four-note chime, and I sigh again, so he apologizes:
“Izvinyayus’ za neudobstva, Moya Printzessa” Apologies for the inconvenience.
Along the short uphill path that separates us from the classic building on top of the hill, two gardeners in green overalls are working on the already perfect hedge. When our small party passes by something suddenly connects in Lad’s mind. He stops on the spot, a clever smile on his face:
“I say, Docteur. Was it a beauty mole I saw on your bum just before?”
Shit. Shit. Shit. The third camera.
Without waiting for my answer, the man grabs my pinioned hands and makes me forcibly bend over. Then he raises the cape exposing my ass to the world. Including the poor gardeners.
They were already looking, the older one leaning to his spade, the younger just staring. In his twenties, he has curly blond hair and an angelic face, and – except for the green overalls - could have just stepped out a Renaissance Church Tryptic.
Lad is about to bend me more and check the fake mole, but before he can move Drago is on him, yelling in Russian, waving his big gun under his nose. It is an impressive, rather big Glock 17, the man is serious about weapons. Lad jump back as Sarge – who understands Russian – translates in a hurried tone:
“Our friend here says you are not to get close to her ass again.”
Poor Lad tries to comply “But Sarge…”
The dumb man cuts him short, grabbing his wrist viciously.
“You are not to get near the damn bitch again. Am I clear, guard?”
He grimaces and quickly nods “Yes Sir.”
Drago checks the precious jewel, again. It is still in his proper position. The younger gardener also notices it shining in the sun. He drops his garden shears to the ground, mouth agape like a singing Cherub. He probably didn’t know the existence of such a thing, but he understands its meaning immediately. His older companion’s smile broadens, and he cuffs the youngster on the back of his head, muttering a couple of words in Italian – probably dirty words, but they sound like music.
But Drago does not appreciate it. He strides towards the couple, yelling, and shows them the Glock. The Italians nod and quickly retrieve their work. But as the Russian gets back I can see the cherub can’t resist looking at me again. Flushing crimson I smile at him and wink. Drago’s expression puzzles me, and it takes me a moment to understand. Amazing. He is jealous! I have found a suitor.