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Whore-R Stories May 20, 2005
 
The Sorrows of Young Vera
By Mark Ames Browse author Email
 
 

On the eve of the celebration of the victory over the Nazis, I felt duty-bound to find myself a whore with German roots. A re-enactment of the famous Soviet sweep through East Prussia, which was sort of like Ladies' Night at the Hungry Duck played out along a 1000 mile front. By the time the Soviets reached Berlin, half of the Aryan race became, shall we say, genetically modified.

As luck would have it, I scored a partial-Aryan. It was a slow Sunday during the holidays, with a slow rain. Some of the whores were out, some lived in inconvenient places. Vera's apartment was, as she explained, right near Prospekt Mira, just a couple of metro stops from me.

I liked Vera's voice. She sounded reasonably enthusiastic, even a bit chirpy without pushing it. Generally there are a few different types of whore voices over the phone. One common type is the bitter voice. No matter what time you call, you're bothering her. And you probably are -- she's either sleeping, or she's watching a soap opera or movie. Then there's the voice of the whore who is so happy to hear you, you start to worry you're the only customer stupid enough to pay for her. You assume, "If she's that warm to me, something must be wrong with her." It's the Groucho Factor: I wouldn't want to sleep with a whore who'd want to sleep with me...

Vera lived on the sixth floor of a Brezhnev-era brick apartment building across the street from the American Medical Center. A group of teenagers lurked around her podezd when I called up -- they snickered when she buzzed me in. She answered the door, wearing a loose fake-silk semi-see-through nightgown. She looked pretty much as she did in the photo on the Net. She was thin, with a nice almost Western smile which she was proud of, shortish red hair pulled back into a small ponytail. A plucky whore.

She asked for the money up-front: fifty dollars, or "fidee" in wigger-talk. Then she sat me down on her double-sized bed with its ornate brown-gold bed spread cover. Like so many of these whores in their private salons, she had: 1). A cheap Soviet dresser with mirror, all sorts of cheap hair products neatly arranged on top of the dresser; 2). A roommate whom I never saw; 3). A small stereo box with all kinds of trinkets and colorful hairbands, ribbons and decorations hanging from it.

"You can shower," she said, but I just had showered and didn't need to again. Although that got me a-thinkun': wouldn't it be great to take a huge shit, not really wipe well, then fuck a whore? I mean, what's she gonna do? I don't mean that rhetorically, like a jerk, I mean it literally: what's she gonna do?

Vera asked me to take my clothes off, so I stripped down to everything but my underwear. She started to rub my thighs. That's one of the advantages to going to a prostitute's "salon": usually they just want to get right down to business.

"Where are you from?" I asked her.

"Kharkov."

"I have a friend, Limonov, the writer, who's from there. Know him?"

She smiled and said she probably had heard of him.

"When did you come to Moscow?"

"Two months ago."

"Do you like it here?"

"It's so big, you know," she said. "It's of course so much nicer than Kharkov, where there's nothing. You know, everything's got worse ever since Yuschenko seized power. That's your country did that," she said, rubbing my leg harder.

"You mean it's already gotten worse?" I asked.

"Yes. Pensions are lower. You Americans..." she smiled as she said this. "What was that all about anyway? Half the country voted for Yanukovich. We didn't want Yuschenko, but you made us take him. Now we're going to be torn from Russia. It's really not right."

"So people in Kharkov don't like Yuschenko?" I asked.

"He can't even come to our city. He would be thrown out," she answered.

"But what if in a few years Ukraine becomes wealthier and more Western, like Poland. Wouldn't that be good?"

"It won't happen, Mark," she said. She tried grabbing my unit, squeezing it. "Strange, your member isn't really responding. I've never had this happen to me before. You're the first one. You should already be erect, every other guy I've been with is erect by now. Are you nervous?"

"No."

"Is this your first time?" she asked, smiling.

"Far from it."

"Well this is strange, it's never happened to me."

We lay down on the bed and she continued to rub my legs, and to try to get me hard. I figured maybe I'd try to feel her pussy. She had manicured it well. I had her lie on her back, and open her pale, thin legs. I touched her clit and then the outer wall, and was amazed at how dry it was, really like lips in a sandstorm. As a rule I never touch a whore's pussy, but I was curious and kind of distant.

After a short period, she stood up and said it was time to have sex. "Time's flying, we only have forty minutes left." She pulled a tube of lubricant out from her dresser, condoms and tissues. She squeezed the clear lubricant onto her hand, then rubbed it into her vagina. I think Vera understood my revulsion from my wince.

"I have to do this," she said, "ever since I started doing this kind of work. I didn't used to have this problem. It's okay, it will help."

And indeed it did. She put the condom on my half-hard dick, pulling the balloon every which way to fit it. Then she stuffed my half-hard unit into her lubricated orifice, and rocked on it. It was kind of cold and gooey inside her lubricated vagina. After a few minutes, my unit started to come to life. And right away I knew I wanted to cum and end it as quickly as I could. It was the most repellent sex I'd had in ages, like fucking a jar of ointment. I lasted for maybe 10 minutes, came, then rolled onto my back. Vera pulled the condom off and wiped me with tissues. She put her nightgown back on, and as I dressed, we spoke a little bit more.

"Are you Ukrainian or Russian?" I asked.

"Half German, and half Russian," she answered.

So that was why her smile seemed so familiar, so un-Russian! The sharper jawline, the strong teeth... I felt like I'd done my duty for Mother Russia, nailing a German. But I liked Vera, if only because she was polite, so there was nothing fun or "punk" about having fucked her, no matter what the occasion. It was just something that had to be done for Russia, that's all.

"I've been to Germany," Vera said. "I could have emigrated there. We have some family. But it's too late now, the law has changed," she said.

"Did you like Germany?" I asked.

"I loved it."

"Well maybe you can still move there?"

"Mark, it's too late, really. It's impossible now. I just try to stay positive and make the best."

"Why did you leave Kharkov? Do you have family there?" I asked.

"Well, yes. Father. And a sister. I don't see my father though. He's...I don't like him. We don't talk." And just like that, her smile transformed into a kind of grimace.

"Why?"

"You know, alcohol, and everything that comes with it. They all... I haven't seen my father in years. Don't want to."

"I see. What about your mother?" I asked.

"She died."

"Oh, I'm sorry," I said. "How old were you when she died?"

"Eight."

"How did she die?"

Vera's chirpy voice cracked. "She was murdered."

"She was killed? That's horrible! What happened?"

"Mark, I... She was killed on Women's Day, on the holiday. You see? She was wonderful, and she was murdered on Women's Day. I don't want to talk about it anymore, Mark."

She stood up and briskly walked out of the bedroom, waiting for me at the front door. She wasn't angry with me. She just didn't want to talk about it.

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Ames
Browse author
Email Mark Ames at editor@exile.ru.
 
 
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