Chapter 1

Introduction

When people hear my wife’s foreign accent, and they see her fair-skinned beauty, sometimes they suspect she was a mail-order bride. It doesn’t help that my hairline is receding, which began even before I turned thirty, and my wife is three years younger, and she looks younger still. There is definitely a negative stigma to it, something seedy about ordering a bride, with hints of prostitution and exploitation of desperate young women. It’s rather unfair to me and my wife, whom I love deeply and did not by any means purchase through the mail! However, the true story of how we met is far, far stranger and more perverse than the wildest imagination of my American friends.

I was a very young man, 19 years old, from the American Midwest. I was in my last year of high school and already accepted to a prestigious university, at which I would start in the fall. My interests were in international studies: I was active in the Model UN club, followed the international news closely, and loved to talk about culture and global politics well beyond the patience of my family and small town. My parents and friends were not entirely surprised when I announced my desire to spend the summer at a “language immersion” volunteer job overseas. They were surprised, though, that I chose a remote country in Eastern Europe. In fact, most of them had never heard of it. To protect the innocent (and the guilty) in my story, I will call the country Molvania. (For the geographically challenged, there is no real country by that name!) I have changed people’s names to commonplace Eastern-European names. I have disguised and left out many details that would identify me, my wife, or the country. As for my own name, for this story I’ll call myself Ethan.

The events described below took place in the mid-1990s. Back then, the “World Wide Web” was still very new. My ability to purchase books and practice tapes in the language of the country I would be visiting via this “Web” was still an exciting surprise. I listened to the exotic, incredibly foreign-sounding tapes again and again. It seemed impossible that I could ever learn to make the strange sounds of Molvanian, but I was determined.

Arrival

I said goodbye to friends and family, and packed a few things I feared I might not find in Molvania, like soft American bathroom tissue. After a long flight to Europe and a connecting flight from Frankfurt to the Molvanian capital, a young man met me at the airport holding a sign with my name on it. This was Alex, the same age as myself. His family would host me for the three months of my visit. The company that arranged my trip had worked out all the visa requirements and chosen Alex’s family based on location and the fact they had a son my age.

Alex cheerfully helped me lug my baggage off and we took a long taxi ride from the capitol to a small town a good distance away. The countryside was not so remarkable, after seeing and reading so much about picturesque parts of Europe, but I loved hearing the exotic Molvanian language everywhere around me. What had been a tinny recording from an obscure country was suddenly very real, vibrant, and all around me. The taxi drove crazily along narrow highways and bumpy roads, finally depositing us in front of a simple-looking house. Alex’s parents came out and there was an explosion of exuberant greeting, almost completely in Molvanian with a little thickly-accented English for my benefit. I quickly realized that although Alex spoke English well enough for me to understand, his parents did not. He cheerfully tried to translate bits for me here and there. After the long flight, the time difference, and the disorienting experience of landing in another language and culture, my first day in Molvania was a bit of a blur. The room I would be staying in was tidy, the food quite strange, all the spoken and written words around me unintelligible. I tried to make a good impression, but I doubt I was good company before collapsing in bed.

The next day, the family let me sleep in till noon. I unpacked slightly, looked out my window, and stared at my Molvania language instruction books again. When I managed to ask my host mother “What time is it?” in Molvanian, she smiled brightly, corrected my pronunciation, then told me the time in Molvanian. I was delighted to have been understood for the first time, but had to go back to my book to work out what she had said. So it went with most of my attempts to speak the language for the first month.

On my third day, Alex showed me how to take a bus - the only one that passed through his town - to a larger town where I was lumped in with a handful of other international students, mostly from Western Europe, for a morning of language instruction. The class was slow, and the other European students not terribly friendly. I was happy to return to my small town, where Alex was out of school and spent the afternoon taking me for a walk around town. I saw many things, but my attention was caught not by the architecture or the landscape, but by the numerous young women we saw, who all seemed to be very attractive. Of course, as a single 19-year-old male, my sex drive made me see the world in a somewhat distorted way, but there was no denying that a lot of young women in this town were objectively beautiful!

I had a girlfriend in my senior year of high school, for several months, and we had gone “all the way” many times, so I wasn’t a virgin. However, it had ended badly and I had been single ever since, so I was used to having sex with only myself. In my room alone at night, my fantasy life soon focused on the Molvanian girls of the town. As you would expect of a boy my age, my masturbation was fueled by imagining them naked, imagining having sex with them, even wild fantasies of having sex with a whole group of nubile Molvanian beauties. I figured my chances of actually finding a girlfriend here were slim. Besides the language barrier, there was the culture barrier. In this country and this town, what was an acceptable way to approach a girl? How could I possibly know who was single? Would I get beaten up or embarrassed by flirting with the wrong girl? It was too difficult and dangerous. My days were filled with longing and sexual frustration, my nighttimes with fantasy and release.

Mira

When I actually met a girl, it came as a great surprise. A few days after arrival, I worked up the courage to walk down the main street of town by myself, and stepped into a bakery. There were no customers inside, and a girl around my age sat behind the counter. From my first glance at her, I could tell she was very bored. From my second glance, I determined she was quite beautiful. A pale face, dark hair just past her shoulders, dark pretty eyes. I looked around the shop, trying to look at the baked goods to avoid staring at her. I was terribly self-conscious, and my pulse sped up. Finally, I gathered all my courage, pointed to a pastry, and asked “How much is that?” in my best Molvanian.

She looked puzzled at first, then her face lit up with a smile. I stared in fascination, as the smile made her face even prettier. There was a long moment when we looked into each other’s eyes. Finally she spoke.

“English?”

It took me a long moment to realize what she had said.

“Yes, uh, yes, I’m American.” I stuttered.

“I speak some English.” She then told me how much the pastry was, and I fumbled nervously with the strangely-colored money in my pocket. She watched with an expression of polite amusement, helped me out by making change. Lacking any excuse to hang around, I mumbled Molvanian for “thank you”, and awkwardly made my exit. The image of her smile stayed in my mind for a long time afterward.

That night, my fantasies settled very directly on this mysterious girl at the bakery.

It became a part of my daily routine, after my morning classes were done, to stop by the bakery. There was almost never any other customers, and each day I became a little bolder. On the second day I asked her name, and learned it was Mira. On the third day, she asked my name, and the name of my hometown in America. I learned that she went to school in the morning, then worked in the bakery each afternoon, which was owned by her father. Apparently, Molvania didn’t have the same idea of “summer vacation” as American schools, so she was still in school in June. She spoke surprisingly good English, which she tried to explain, something about exposure to American music and movies, combined with a little bit of instruction in school.

She asked why on earth I chose to come to Molvania, and I tried to explain about my interest in lesser-known parts of the world, my geographic curiosity, but she still looked puzzled. Why would an American come to her poor country? It was quite clear that many Molvanians, including Mira, would be happy to leave it to go to America, or just about anywhere else.

On the fourth day, I hung out and talked with her for a long time. We spoke with words, but our body language was definitely communicating a great deal as well. I tried not to let my eyes wander over her body as we talked, but her breasts pressed against her dress in an attention-grabbing way, her hands were pretty, and I eventually realized I was being a little too obvious in my glances. That’s when she surprised me by making the first move.

“I’m almost done today. Would you like to go for a walk?”

I blinked, pausing, unable to believe my luck. “With you?”

She laughed gently. “Yes, with me.”

“Yes!”

“Good,” she said simply. I studied her expression, trying to figure out if she was really flirting with me, whether this was an innocent proposal or a date. She closed up the bakery, and led me down an alley onto a trail, which wound down along a stream which I hadn’t realized flowed through the town. She gestured toward a fallen tree. I sat down, and the view of the stream and trees was quite pretty. My hopes were raised and my heart pounded as she sat down next to me, very close to me. Our location off the trail was fairly hidden from view. I instantly realized this was a perfect spot for young people seeking to avoid attention.

“I like you, Ethan.” She looked into my eyes.

“I really like you, Mira.” I managed, then cursed myself for how dumb that probably sounded. I put my hand on hers, and one thing led to another. We kissed, gently at first a very long time, then cautiously we moved up to heavy petting. Her breasts under her dress felt heavenly. I was surprised when she boldly put her hand between my legs to feel my obvious erection. She smiled then resumed kissing me while lightly moving her hand across my cock through my clothes. In my intensely aroused state, this tiny stimulation was incredible.

Eventually it ended. She led me back to the bakery, said goodbye and walked away. I walked home, my body still buzzing. My host family noted my positive change in mood, my increased appetite for dinner. That night, I came three times thinking of my time with Mira. All I had to do was imagine her slipping off her clothes, and that did it.

First Steps

I actually enjoyed my next day at the language school. We would have a full month of instruction before being sent to our volunteer jobs, so there was no hurry. My mind was definitely elsewhere, though - specifically, on seeing Mira again. Not wanting to be too obvious by hanging out in her bakery for a long time, I showed up just before I knew she would be closing. She smiled when she saw me.

“I think you would like to take a walk with me again.” she said almost teasingly.

I just nodded.

“Then let’s go.”

She led back to the same spot. This time, she sat immediately next to me, and we fell into kissing immediately. In just minutes, she had her hand moving over my erection through my pants again. That’s when she totally floored me.

“Would you like me to...” she seemed to pause, thinking of the word in English, “suck it?”

I stared at her. This was way beyond my hopes. I had no idea what to expect of the sexual openness in Eastern Europe in general, or Molvania in particular. I had imagined it might be stuffy and conservative, perhaps highly religious. Mira’s words dispelled that fear in an instant.

“Um ... sure, um, yes. Is that OK?” I asked, unable to believe my luck.

“It’s OK. Nobody will see us.”

We went back to kissing as she unzipped my pants. I helped by scooting forward on the tree and undoing the button fly. She pulled my briefs carefully over my erection, then with no further warning she knelt in front of me and took the head of my cock in her mouth. I almost fainted, my legs quivering, fearing I would come right away. She just sucked gently, focusing at first on my cock, then looking up at me while sucking to gauge my reaction. I just beamed down at her, and mumbled something about how wonderful it was. She grew bolder, and took more of me in her mouth. Her hands were busy holding my pants open, so it was just her mouth touching me, her hot, soft lips and tongue.

“It’s OK, you can do it.” she stopped sucking long enough to say, then went back to sucking.

My mind whirled. Do it? She must mean coming. There was no question I was about to come, and now there was no question of where. She bobbed her head a little faster, and I lost it, exploding in her mouth. When she felt it, she stopped moving and sucked harder, drinking me down. I could feel her head moving slightly as her throat swallowed several times. She stayed down there, nursing on my cock until she was certain it was completely drained, then she came back up to sit next to me.

“You liked that?”

I gave her a wide smile. “Way more than liked it. I don’t know how to tell you, thank you, that’s the most amazing thing I have ever felt.”

She gave me a curious look. “You have been with a girl before, right?”

“Yes, I mean, yes I used to have a girlfriend. I’m not a virgin. But what you just did ... we never did that. I mean, in her mouth.”

“Oh.” She looked puzzled. “I liked doing that for you. If you don’t do it in her mouth, where did you do it, when she sucked you?”

“Uh...” my mind whirled. Trying to imagine my ex-girlfriend was difficult when my mind was totally on Mira, but she seemed very matter-of-fact about it. No overtone of jealousy, just curiosity. “She ... always stopped before I came. Sometimes she did it with her hand, sometimes we...” I paused. It was really weird, talking about my ex this way.

“Yes?”

“Sometimes we did it afterwards, I mean, we had sex, she didn’t suck me all the way.”

“Oh. OK, I understand.”

That was apparently the end of the subject for her, as she went back to kissing me. I tried to feel for the location of her nipples under her dress. She didn’t seem to respond sexually to my caresses of her body, but she certainly liked kissing. Eventually we broke the kiss and sat embracing and looking at each other.

“What is your family like, back in America?”

I tried to explain about my family - how I had grown up, my siblings, my parent’s jobs. She seemed very interested, prompting me for more details of how well we got along as a family.

“What about your family?” I asked.

She frowned. “I don’t like to talk about them.”

“Oh. OK. Your father owns the bakery, right?”

“Yes. He also owns a petrol station. He is also a businessman.”

I learned later that “businessman” was a euphemism for someone operating some shady enterprise on the black market, or the semi-legitimate “grey market”. I was curious, but Mira dropped the subject and went back to kissing me. We passed some time pleasantly, kissing and talking, avoiding any mention of her family. Finally we stopped and walked back to town, going home separately.

The next day was the weekend. I went by Mira’s bakery, but there was another woman working there. Alex took me on a bus trip to visit a larger town a half-hour away. I met some of his friends, and tried out my Molvanian on them, much to their amusement. My mind was elsewhere, though. I pondered telling Alex about Mira, but decided against it. Alex seemed very friendly, but who knew what personal history might exist in a town as small as his? It was safer not to mention it.

Sunday also went by too slowly. Mira wasn’t at the bakery. I went in anyway to buy a pastry I liked. The older woman behind the counter didn’t speak any English, but I managed in Molvanian.

Finally, it was Monday afternoon, and I rushed over the bakery after getting back into town. I was delighted to see Mira in the store. It wasn’t time to close, so I hung out and we talked pleasantly about all sorts of things. I noticed that instead of a full dress, she wore a conservative blouse and a long matching skirt. When she closed up, there was not even a question of where we would go. We eagerly headed out to our private spot on the stream, and fell into kissing. This time, she unbuttoned her blouse.

“I think you like my body?” she said simply.

I took the encouragement, and reached into her blouse to cup her bra-clad tits. “Yes, I love your body. You are so beautiful, everything about you.”

“My ... breasts?”

“Breasts, yes. Tits.”

“Tits?” she smiled. “And this is penis?” She touched me between my legs.

“Penis, um, yes. Or dick, or cock, or a lot of other slang words.”

“What do you say, penis, or the slang words?”

“Uh ... I guess it depends who I’m talking to.”

“What if you are talking to a naked girl that likes you?” She smiled and batted her eyes at me.

“Um, I guess I would say cock.”

“Cock!” she smiled. “And you want to see my ... tits?”

“Yes, very much.”

There was some mutual fumbling with her bra, and soon I beheld her tits, which were even more magnificent than I had fantasized. Perfectly proportioned for her frame, not overly large, with small pink nipples and subtle areolas. I played with them as we kissed deeply, then I moved down to suck on them. She let me suck, with an amused expression on her face, then we went back to kissing as she fished out my cock which was hard as a rock.

“I’m going to suck your ... cock.”

I just nodded, as she knelt and proceeded to give me a fast, deep blowjob. I barely lasted a minute, bursting in her mouth without any ability to stop myself. She hummed as she swallowed, then she came up and we were kissing again. There was a little taste of my cum in her mouth, which under the circumstances I could hardly complain about. I sucked her tits again, kissed some more, then I bravely put my hand under her skirt and ran it up her inner thigh. She spread her legs wider to give me access. I couldn’t see what I was doing, so I had to depend on my sense of touch to find the edge of her panties. Encountering no opposition, I slipped a few fingers under her panties to explore the lips of her pussy, and felt the heat between them.

“What do you call it, what you are touching, when you are with a girl?” she asked.

“Pussy.”

“OK, pussy. You can touch my pussy.”

I knew enough about a girl’s anatomy from long hours of experimentation with my ex-girlfriend. Boldly, I started to stroke her clit under her skirt as we kissed, paying careful attention to her reaction to find what motion and speed she liked. This went on for a long, delicious time. I was amazed and totally delighted when I actually managed to bring her to orgasm.

“Very good...” she moaned, then said something in Molvanian, of which I didn’t understand a word. The language sounded so very pretty when she spoke it. After she gathered her composure, we talked about English slang words for orgasm, then moved onto words for sex.

“Are you a virgin?” I dared to ask.

She looked at me for a long time, with a far-away look on her face, before slowly shaking her head. There was almost a look of sadness there.

“We shouldn’t do that,” she said finally.

I hadn’t been suggesting that we have real sex. That was well beyond my hopes. But now the question was out in the open and it had been answered.

“Can I suck your cock again, instead?” she offered.

I considered explaining that I didn’t expect sex from her at all, but decided to simply nod my head. She eagerly dropped to kneeling in front of me, and gave me a long, deep, passionate blowjob. I lasted much longer this time. At one point she sped up, her loose tits slapping lightly against each other as she bobbed her head. She slowed down again to try taking me deeper, and I was startled by how deep she could take me. There was something in her confident manner that suggested she had given head many, many times. One of her hands played with my balls, and I came deep in her mouth.

Sometime afterward, as we sat kissing, she asked me my age. I was surprised that the subject hadn’t come up before.

“I’m 19. And you?”

“I’m 16.”

My head spun. From her face and her body, I wouldn’t have guessed a day under 18. I must have looked panicked.

“What?” she asked.

“In American, it is very illegal for me to have any kind of sex with you, because I am over 18, and you are under 18.”

She considered this. “There is some kind of law like this here, but it is not important.” She shrugged. “The police do not care.”

“What about your family?”

She paused, with a strange look on her face, as if amused and sad at the same time. “If a girl’s family does not approve, then breaking the law is not the most big problem you have.”

“Would they approve of me?”

She paused again, for a long time, lost in thought. Finally she said, “Let’s not talk about my family.”

“OK. I’m sorry I mentioned it.”

We went back to kissing, then we adjusted our clothes and walked slowly back along the stream, holding hands. Mira seemed to stand closer to me, and was more reluctant to part when we got back to the street.

Girl Talk

The next two days were similar. We would meet at the bakery, talk, walk to the stream, and she would give me an incredible blowjob in the course of making out. I brought her to orgasm once more, on Wednesday, and after she came on my hand, I brought the fingers up to my mouth to taste them. She looked at me, wide-eyed, then she amazed me by tasting her own pussy on my fingers as well.

“You know about sex between a girl and a girl? Lesbian.” she said.

“Um ... yes. I know about lesbians. Why?”

She smiled mysteriously. “Oh, it is nothing.”

“Have you been with a girl?” I dared to ask.

“Maybe.”

That was all she would say. She sucked me off one more time, and while she was doing it I was already imagining her naked with another girl. The image was too much for me, and I came in her pretty 16-year-old mouth faster than I expected.

“You were thinking about me with another girl,” she said, as if reading my thoughts.

I glanced down, guiltily. “I ... I guess I was.”

“Why is that? Why does a boy get excited, sexual, thinking about two girls together?”

I thought for a long time. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know either.” she concurred. “So, you think about other girls?”

“I only think about you!” I answered quickly. It was true. “When I imagined you with another girl, it wasn’t a real person, just an imaginary one.”

“Don’t worry, I understand.” she smiled.

We kissed, holding each other close. I drew her into my lap, so that I could hug her from behind and kiss the back of her neck as we watched the stream flowing. The moment felt so perfect. I felt so close to her, and yet still so far away, as there was so much I didn’t know about her. I had no idea then of exactly how much I didn’t know.

Her Father

The following day, Thursday, was the day everything changed. I arrived at the bakery as usual, and was deeply in conversation with Mira when a large man strode into the store. He looked at Mira, looked at me, then barked something in Molvanian at her. Mira looked panicked. They had a quick conversation of which I didn’t understand a word, then Mira spoke to me in English.

“Ethan, this is my father.”

I faced him nervously. He had a strong, beefy frame and a tough look. Did he know anything about Mira and I? Was I about to get killed? I struggled to act calmly.

“I’m pleased to meet you, sir,” I said, then kicked myself for not attempting it in Molvanian. I also realized that I couldn’t address him by name, as I didn’t even know Mira’s last name.

To my great relief, he smiled and put out his hand. “Pleased to meet you. My name is Drago,” he said in English, his accent much thicker than Mira’s. For a moment, he and I just stood there, staring at each other. Then he continued, “You are Mira’s boyfriend. You are American. You come to my house, tomorrow. For dinner.”

I nodded my head, almost afraid of what might happen if I said no. I looked over at Mira, who looked upset, shaking her head slightly. My thoughts were in a whirl. She didn’t want me to come to dinner? She probably didn’t want me to meet her family. There must be something about her family she doesn’t want me to know. Maybe she’s afraid they’ll disapprove of me, or I’ll be scared away by them.

He left the shop, and I waited until Mira closed the shop. She had to lock the door before she felt she could speak freely with me.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “You must come to dinner tomorrow.”

“Yes, I don’t think your father was offering. It felt more like an order.”

“He is like that.”

“What are you scared of?”

She paused. “My family ... my family ... it is nothing. Maybe it will be OK.” She looked really upset. It was heartbreaking to see her beautiful face looking that way. I hugged her, and she hugged me back tightly.

We didn’t go to the stream that day, or the next. I did stop by the bakery, and after she closed up on Friday, she led me home to her house.

Family and Dinner

The house was massive, set back a little from a side street at the edge of the town. The architecture was far more modern than the rest of what I had seen in Molvania. It seemed a little out of place, in fact, as if someone was showing off their wealth, rather than building something that made sense.

Mira’s father met us at the door and ushered us inside. Mira went off somewhere, and Drago directed me to a sofa in what was probably a living room, where he politely but intensely began to question me.

“Where in America you come from? What does your father do? Why do you come to Molvania?”

I slowly answered his questions, pausing a few times to use simpler words. His English skills were well below Mira’s. Finally, the grilling ended when he got up and led me into another room, where the rest of the family was gathering at a table. I was introduced to each person in turn.

Anton, 17, and Nikolai, 18, were Mira’s older brothers. They were relatively handsome young men. Nikolai actually looked a bit like me. They tried to greet me in English, which was a bit difficult for Anton, but Nikolai spoke English better than his brother. Next was a young woman named Katarina, who was strikingly pretty. She actually bore a bit of resemblance to Mira, but she wasn’t introduced as a family member, so I was left to assume she was some kind of cousin, or perhaps the girlfriend of one of the boys. We sat down, with my seat immediately to Drago’s left, and I met Mira’s mother as she shuttled food to the table. Nobody offered her name. Drago simply introduced her as “wife,” and she moved quietly to and fro.

Over the course of dinner, I quickly realized that this family had a clear power structure: male dominated, with Drago above everyone. Even his sons didn’t dare to interrupt him. Katarina hung on his every word, smiling supportively. As we ate, Drago kept asking about me. He was delighted to learn I was accepted to a well-known university. Apparently, he had heard of this American university, and this boosted his impression of me greatly. I was flattered but kind of nervous to be the focus of so much of his energy.

At some points toward the end of the meal, some clear hard liquor came out in small glasses. After the first glass, Drago said the first of many things that shocked me.

“Katarina is my girlfriend,” he said, pausing to gauge my reaction. I just blinked at him. “Yes, I have a wife, and I have a girlfriend. I am a successful man. Is this common in America?”

I tried to think clearly. Katarina did look pretty enough to be a trophy, in fact she looked young enough to be his daughter. This was apparently a very open arrangement, as Drago’s wife, who looked around 40, was still shuffling around us. Drago’s wife wasn’t bad looking herself, but of course she couldn’t hold a candle to the younger Katarina. I tried to say something about wives and girlfriends in America, then realized that I had no real knowledge other than what I saw on TV. I told Drago this, and he seemed to accept it.