This story contains some female reluctance, as well as male behavior that is pushy / handsy. It is sheer fantasy in all respects, and is intended for the purposes of erotic entertainment only. In real life, it is crucial that we always treat the people around us with respect. I love to receive positive feedback and constructive suggestions. I hope you enjoy it.

Max slumped on the couch—jet-black curls spilling down over dark eyes that refused to meet mine.

I was boiling. “Do you have any idea what this is like? To have the principal call and say you’d been busted? With drugs? How can you do this to me?!”

His voice was low and sarcastic. “You know not everything’s about you, right?”

“Don’t talk back to me. You’re lucky he didn’t expel you—or turn you to the authorities for Christ’s sake!”

“Mom—it was one freakin’ joint. The cops could care less. Yes, it was stupid. I won’t do it again. But it’s only a week suspension. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Please spare me your ‘no big deal’ crap! I didn’t come to this country, slave for you every day, just for you to throw it away. You have to keep your nose clean and walk the straight line if you want to make it anywhere. Now give me your phone.” I held out my hand.

He rolled his eyes to cover his embarrassment. “This isn’t Russia, mom ... Look, I’m sorry ... I didn’t-”

“Give me your phone. I swear to God, if you don’t give it to me right now, I’ll cancel your number.”

As I said it, I knew it was a weak threat. Pathetic, even. Max had an after-school job at the KFC. I made him put most of each paycheck away for college, but he was perfectly capable of buying his own phone plan if push came to shove.

The truth of it was that, like all parents of teenagers, I was losing him. Day by day, bit by bit, our roles were reversing; and I could see the time coming when I needed him more than he needed me (though I will never admit it out loud). I told myself that it was the natural order of things ... but so what? It still hurt. Still made me feel out of control.

Max was only halfway through his senior year, though, and not quite ready to cut the apron strings yet. The impasse dragged on for an uncomfortable 10 seconds or so, and then he swore under his breath. “Goddamn it, ma, you just don’t...” Clamping his jaw shut, he slapped the iPhone into my palm.

“You can have it back in a month. And don’t think I won’t tell your father about this. We’ll see what other punishments there are.”

Still fuming, he stalked off to his bedroom and slammed the door.

I plopped down into the chair at my desk, heaving a helpless sigh. This American son of mine thought he could do whatever he wanted. That it would all just be handed to him. He didn’t seem to have any common sense. Any self-control. Hell, I knew I had never been that young and stupid!

And then, unexpectedly, a jolt of self-awareness punctured my stormy mood, and I couldn’t help but laugh at the irony. Bozhe moi—I’d become my parents!

I sat there a while longer, lost in my thoughts. At length, stirred by a sudden impulse, I turned on my PC. It took only a couple of x-rated web searches to find the video-clip I was looking for...

♪ ♫ ♪ Ba-ya-ya, ba-da ba... ♪ ♫ ♪

Music spilled from the speakers as the video started to play. Cheesy, crooning notes that battled to be heard above the clink of beer mugs, and the hum of rowdy drinkers. Fuck me, “Kiss From a Rose!” I hadn’t thought of that song in years. Now, just the first few chords swept me back—back to another life. How had I ever forgotten?

The video-player showed a couple of pretty boys, capering theatrically atop a sprawling bar-counter. They were big, muscular, shirtless—smugly confident in their youth and desirability. One look at their swagger and you felt you knew their personality, through and through.

I chuckled. Hell, both of them were probably paunchy and balding now. Working days at some factory, and wallowing in cheap vodka every evening. But that was real life. On the internet, all that energy they displayed, that virility—it would be preserved forever, like bugs caught in amber.

As the music continued to swell, they strode from one corner of the bar to the other, scanning out over the sea of people, lifting their hands to exhort the crowd. A ragged chorus of inebriated femininity rose in response.

Soon they spotted their prey: a fetching blonde in the front row, laughing, showing her teeth, slightly tipsy. As they approached and beckoned her to join them, she made a show of waving them off, and tried to melt back into the throng—but escape was blocked by the man beside her. Gripping her by the shoulders, he shouted encouragement to the boys on stage. Her face grew pinker and pinker, but she made no effort to break free, and in a trice she was hoisted up onto the bar. I wrinkled my nose, trying to remember what it had been like to be her. Way back in those days when I’d dyed my hair yellow. It was hazy ... I hadn’t realized I’d worn so much makeup then—trying too hard, like we’d all done in the 90’s, I suppose. But nevermind the overdone eye-shadow and lipstick: I’d been a stunner. Not just pretty, but a woman with ... mmm, something, you know?

In her clothes—my clothes—I recognized the uniform of a Moscow party girl. Pale-pink blouse with flared, feminine cuffs; black polyester pants; calf-high boots. We’d had heaps of style, but not so much money, and practically nothing worth spending it on anyway. So, the key wasn’t so much what you wore, as how you wore it. (Oh, and we had absolutely no use for skirts. That icy breeze was liable to freeze your pussy off on the way home!)

The bar was cavernous and squalid; but in 1996 it was the hottest ticket in Moscow. It had a funny name ... yeah, “Hungry Duck.” It’s no secret why we liked going there. We were simply sick of everything—sick of old gray communists; sick of food lines; sick of scolding babushkas. All we wanted was to have fun. And if there’s one thing the Duck was, it was fun. On Ladies’ Night the beer was so fucking cheap, and the music was so loud, and the strippers were so angular and alluring, that it was ... oh, it was just stupid, and insane, and I lived for it.

It took a moment to place the hatchet-faced guy I’d been standing with in the crowd, the one who’d volunteered me to dance on the bar ... hm, Gusev, that was it. He’d been a fellow on the make, a comer, into black-market everything. Later on, after I left, he got shot by some gang-bangers. At least, that’s what I heard. But back when I was sleeping with him, Gusev was swimming in money, and I always made sure to dip my ladle.

♪ ♫ ♪ ... love remained a drug... ♪ ♫ ♪

The girl on the video was slow-dancing with that pair of half-dressed studs now. Sandwiched in-between them, in fact—her arms draped around the neck of the one in front, while the other one pressed up against her backside.

The hands-down favorite performer at the Duck was a Nigerian colossus named Dylan; but he wasn’t in the lineup that particular evening. I didn’t care—the boy swaying before me was billed as Dmitri, and I liked him too. He cultivated an edgy look: strong jawed, with long, choppy locks, and glossy, skin-tight leather pants. But the thing that made him special was the depth and feeling in his eyes. Some of the strippers genuinely did seem cold, but with Dmitri you knew it only ran skin deep. He connected with the girls. He was there. He saw you.

So ... how had it been to dance with them? Or more specifically—with him? Mmh, the hairs pricked at the back of my neck to recall it.

The fact of the matter is, it had been exhilarating. You know, a lot of crazy women did a lot of crazy things at the Duck. They wanted the notoriety, or just enjoyed letting themselves go. They’d pop out their tits for no reason at all, and sometimes take it further. But that was other girls, not me. I’d never done anything like that in my life. So that night—to be the very center of attention; to feel the energy exuding from that drunken crush of humanity; to brush my fingers over the taut, sweaty adonis standing before me? And then, in the back of my mind, to have a pretty good idea of what was going to happen next...? It sent electric shivers down my spine.

I mean, sure—watching it now in my den in New York, hunched over my computer in the gathering dusk, of course I recognized that the whole scene had been ridiculous. Yet, in the video, I saw my expression back then had been dead-serious. And I discovered I liked this younger me, with her oval face and wide, sensuous eyes and solemn-furrowed brow. She gyrated with a slow, supple grace; and seemed to lend the song a gravity it had scarcely earned.

As the clip continued playing, the man crowding up against my back reached to unbutton my blouse. His fingers were insistent, and I saw that my younger-self had done nothing at all to resist him. Surrendering one’s top was basically the price of entry to this game—I’d known it would happen as soon as Gusev handed me over to them. I guess it just seemed like a lark.

After no more than a few seconds, my shirt gaped open. Then the guy in front, Dmitri, took over—sliding the satiny fabric from my shoulders and arms with a theatrical flourish, so that the garment fluttered to the floor.

Even a quarter-century on, I still keep in shape—watching what I eat, hitting the gym before work, dressing chic, all that stuff. I’ve never lacked for self-respect. But age does creep up on us, and I’d forgotten that special kind of vitality and freshness I’d possessed at 22. Yes, that girl on screen had a body to be reckoned with. Flaunting her tight, flat midsection ... brushing back her long, wavy tresses ... working her hips and shoulders to show off that physique. In short, simply reveling in her youthful magnetism. Magnificent!

♪ ♫ ♪ ... the light that you shine... ♪ ♫ ♪

Those strippers at the Duck liked to keep things moving. They had a rhythm, and a routine, and wanted to get in a good show before the song ended. So, with my top removed, Dmitri forged on ahead. Trailing large, expressive hands down my bare flanks, he clasped my hips loosely for a few beats—allowing his forearms to simply rock with my gyrations. And then, then he reached to my fly, and opened my slacks.

The other male dancer that evening was some blonde, Baltic specimen. I can’t think of his name. But he was keeping up his end of things too, and by this point he’d knelt to unzip my boots. And with that accomplished, it took but a moment for the pair of them ... working together ... to ease off my pants.

Nowadays, I’ll coordinate my underwear before a night on the town; but my younger-self must have lacked the polish. She’d twinned an unremarkable peach-colored bra with black french-cut panties. Even so, I imagine they’d cost me a pretty penny. Anything vaguely feminine was a breath of fresh air after the matronly dreck of Soviet times, and tracking down Western lingerie had been one of our major pastimes.

Watching the girl on screen slowly writhing to the music—tossing her hair, grinding her pelvis—I found my gaze lingering on the graceful line of her legs. Long and toned, with just a hint of meat on calves and haunches, so as not to be too skinny. And ok, I’ll admit that my movements weren’t as graceful as I probably imagined them to be at the time. A bit affected, a bit overdone. Still, prancing around up there in my underthings, I looked goddamn sexy. My younger self had the sort of desirability people craved; and she was very much aware of it.

On screen, the guy behind me snaked his hands around my abdomen, pressing his crotch up against my round, satin-clad ass. Without changing expression, I responded by mashing my body back against him. This drew a big grin from the man, accompanied by a ‘thumbs-up’ to the camera. Then, with a sudden, fluid motion, he stepped away—and unhooked my bra at the back.

Once again, Dmitri weighed-in to help: reaching to slide the bra-straps from my shoulders. The lads were pushing the pace so quickly that I hardly had any chance to think or react. This time, however, with a quick shake of the head, I managed to demur—pursing my lips and clapping slender hands to the cups of my bra, so as to keep it firmly in place.

My refusal caused Dmitri to pause, and to peer softly into my eyes. I remembered that look. Silently, his inky, liquid stare pleaded for more. Not for the crowd, mind you; not for his pal. No, just for him. And after a few seconds, touched by the ardor of his gaze, I found that I had no choice but to relent, dropping hands to my sides. Ever so gently, he eased the straps off, and the bra fell away.

Mmhh, those tits! After Max came, my breasts got round and full and heavier. It’s the way of things—but if I’m to tell the truth, even today, they still don’t feel entirely like me. In my heart, I think I’ll always have the youthful pair I paraded in that bar—pert and springy, with firm, rosy nipples that poked out brashly, as if to snare the audience and hold them spellbound.

♪ ♫ ♪ ... the more I get of you... ♪ ♫ ♪

Like I said, those performers didn’t mess around. No sooner were my tits out, than the other guy grabbed hold of my panties. The video-me must have felt his fingers graze her hips, though, and only just in time. Like lightning, she seized the waistband herself—fingers clutching on doggedly to prevent her underwear being jerked down around her ankles.

I guess that was sort of a red-line for women at the Duck. Going topless wasn’t so scandalous. Even down at the Black Sea beaches, you could see babas ditching their bikini tops once in a while. But surrendering one’s panties? That was different. A good girl didn’t strip off completely—she always held a little something back.

It was that tension that made the game worth playing, really. Those guys just loved to get a chick naked—to display her pussy to the world, and deprive her of that last small fig-leaf of feminine modesty. Whereas the women, consciously or not, must have relished the challenge of fending them off. Why else would they have gotten up there on the bar? Ok, admittedly, the free-flowing beer played its part; without it, the men probably wouldn’t have stood a chance. But even as it was, their victories were few and far between. Ladies took this game seriously, and thwarted the lads’ efforts more often than not.

And Dmitri, at least, was no bully. Faced with my unwillingness, he slapped the other guy’s hand away from my backside, throwing in a reproachful glower for good measure. Then, focusing deeply into my eyes again, he caressed the back of my neck, letting his fingertips brush lightly over my collarbone ... down my bare sternum ... and across my abdomen. The softness of his stroke made my flesh tingle; and the intensity of his gaze blotted out the carnival atmosphere around us. Wrapped up in that magical, wordless exchange, transported by its intimacy, it felt as if there was nothing in the world except him and me, swaying together on an empty dance floor.

After a moment he stepped back—and, with an air of formality, raised my hands to his chest, inviting me to reciprocate his touch. I’d never had a boyfriend built quite like Dmitri, and my palms roamed gladly over his torso, soaking in the feel of him. Some primordial urge within me reveled in the firm bulk of his shoulders; the coiled-energy of his upper-arms; the iron bands of muscle beneath the glistening skin of his pecs. Unbidden, an intoxicating fire began to kindle in my loins...

As my fingers went on exploring his contours, Dmitri reached down and tore away his leather pants (engineered, no doubt, for the purpose). Once again, the mob erupted in a babble of girlish excitement. I wasn’t shy about ogling the results, and found the man clad in nothing now but the tiniest of cobalt-blue speedos. There was a skimpiness to the thing that would have made an aborigine blush. And if that wasn’t shocking enough, it was also practically bursting at the seams—straining to contain a rather spectacular erection!

My eyes bugged out a little at the sight. I figured the strippers probably padded their codpieces; and I’d certainly never caught a hint that any of them actually got hard while gyrating on the bar. This was just an act for them, right? A job?

Well ... maybe not. Dmitri snared my wrist and guided my hand gently to his crotch. One squeeze confirmed what I already knew to be true—it was him, and only him, jammed in beneath that flimsy bit of fabric. Hell, I could feel the beat of his heart as it pulsed through the shaft. Grinning at my expression, he leaned over to murmur in my ear. “It isn’t normal, you know, devka. You’re special. You drive me crazy.”

Look, I was nobody’s fool. Guys say all kinds of things, and I’ve never taken any of it too seriously. But masculine arousal like that couldn’t be faked, and it elicited a response in me. It felt good to be wanted like that—and I was in the mood to feel good.

♪ ♫ ♪ ... my pleasure, my pain... ♪ ♫ ♪

Dmitri took a melodramatic knee before me then, face full of earnest longing. Those smoldering eyes of his begged me to yield to the passion of the moment, and the potency of his desire. It was absolutely corny, but ... fuck, I loved it, and couldn’t help breaking into a self-conscious smile. In the video, it made me beautiful, like a ray of sun had kissed my face—and the man’s expression lit up too, basking in the reflected glow.

Tentatively, inquiringly, he raised hands to my waist—tugging gently at the panties that I once again gripped reflexively. My features were blank; but inside I was buffeted by a thousand warring impulses. I longed to grant Dmitri this favor; but recoiled from the indecency of it. I yearned to be a free spirit; but blanched at the thought of giving it all up to a pack of strangers...

At last, hopelessly torn, I surrendered—releasing my hold. But if Dmitri took glory from my dishonor, he concealed it well. His face remained solemn, as he eased my panties slowly to the floor.

Not many girls in Moscow had waxed back then, but I did. At first, I just liked the novelty, and how it felt to be fully bare down there. Pretty soon, though, I realized the guys I slept with tended to find it exciting. So, I kept it up, and made sure to work it to my advantage.