Olga stubbed out her cigarette, glancing across the dinette table at her shelf of photos. Her eyes passed over a yellowing family portrait, and Olga�...s eyes fixed on it for a moment. She missed them, all of them. Olga had raised three children in the slums of Moscow during the Cold War. While Michael Jackson was making millions with “Thriller,” Olga was standing in line to buy stale bread in the depths of winter. But she had raised them well; the two boys had gone on to University, and her. She grabbed my cock, much more forcefully than she did previously when she explored it with her fingers, and then later with the palm of her hand. She knew, now, how my cock moved and how much better it felt for her than her husband, and every other guy she had fucked. Now she was ready. With my cock in her hand and the power to be able to dominate me, as she wanted, she pushed my foreskin down a bit and introduced the tip of my penis to her sex. She looked at me with a terrible sense of. More

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