Stella
A Russian mobster unceremoniously dumps another shovelful of Styrofoam packing peanuts into the Stella-sized box I’m currently standing in.
“Excuse you!”
I put on my best I want to speak to your manager pout and glare up at him.
“Can’t you read? The box says handle with care, dickwad!”
“I can’t wait to get rid of this blyad,” the mobster tells his cohort.
He dumps another shovelful down on me. The Styrofoam feels weird against my bare nipples—because yeah, I’m totally naked right now.
“Can you believe some poor ublyuok paid a cool million for her?”
“Not so poor, then,” a voice I know all too well says back.
I thought I was going to lose my virginity to that voice.
Or, at least, to the dick that’s attached to it.
I had my whole awesome fucking life laid out ahead of me on a silver platter before Moscow fashion week.
Harvard degree. International modeling contract. The whole Hensley family fortune coming to me as soon as my parents have the decency to kick the bucket.
But fucking Moscow. Moscow is where it all went wrong.
The night before the Moscow fashion show, I had found myself in the hotel bar. I was dressed to the nines in a black dress and stilettos that could kill a man. My blonde hair was looking thick and shiny and especially stunning.
So when he walked in, it felt pretty natural that his eyes went straight to me.
He was gorgeous. Tall, buff, blonde. Pretty much checking all of my boxes.
I moved my purse from the stool beside me, a silent invitation that he accepted without hesitation.
“How does it feel?” he asked in a thick Russian accent as he sat down beside me.
“How does what feel?”
“Being the most beautiful woman in the room.”
I laughed. Not because I hadn’t heard the same line countless times before, but because I’d never heard it from a mouth as captivating as his.
“At the moment,” I said, “it feels pretty fucking great.”
That was it. No games, no pretense of being coy. We flirted openly for all of five minutes before he asked me to come home with him.
In retrospect, I most definitely should’ve thought twice before accepting. I should’ve pondered those helpful PSAs about being a woman alone and abroad.
If I’m being honest, though, I didn’t hesitate even a little.
See, my virginity had become sort of a pest as of late. I had no attachment to it personally, but it seemed damn hard to find a man that was truly worth fucking.
In that bar, in that moment, I was pretty sure I’d finally found a means of ridding myself of my damn v-card. Forever. So, when he suggested we continue our little chat back at his apartment, I jumped at the chance.
Twenty minutes later, we were in his apartment, a swanky-set up which made me feel right at home. I sat on the leather sofa, heart beating even faster when he joined me on it.
In my imagination, I expected we’d get straight to business. But boy could this guy talk.
At first, it seemed routine enough. He asked where I went to school, and I told him Harvard. He asked what kind of functions I usually attended; I told him about galas and fundraisers, normal stuff.
Then, he got a little more personal.
“Correct me if I’m wrong,” he said, “but are you, in fact, a virgin?”
How some men have the uncanny ability to detect these things, I’ll never know. I saw no point in lying to the guy though. In for a penny, in for a pound, right?
“Sure am.”
“And would you say you’re…adventurous?” he asked in a strangely clinical tone.
“I—well yeah, I suppose I would.”
He smiled widely at that.
“Perfect.”
Normally, I’m a big fan of talking about me. But by this time, I was starting to get more than a little impatient.
I decided to take the initiative. I scooted closer, arching my back so that my tits, big already, appeared to double in size.
“Any more questions?” I asked, trying for a good mix of seductive and impatient.
“No, no more questions,” he said as he leaned in closer.
I closed my eyes and leaned towards him, happy to get on with it.
“Actually…” he said, stopping me moments from the kiss that was going to end my innocence for good. “One more thing.”
If it hadn’t been for that sexy accent of his, I would’ve stormed right out.
“Okay. What?”
“How do you feel about big, thick cocks?”
My eyes lit up like the sky on the Fourth of July.
“I love big cocks,” I told him, closing my eyes and leaning in again.
Suddenly, there was something pressing firmly against my face, and not in a good way. My eyes flew open to see my date had produced some kind of awful-smelling rag, which he held hard against my nose and mouth.
Fuck. Have I had something on my face this whole time? I wondered.
Then, there was darkness.
Until, of course, this moment right now.
The box. The box and the damn packing peanuts.
I’m nearly covered in the peanuts when I snap out of my memory-induced stupor. Around me, the Russian bastards continue to chat away.
“Comfortable, my sweet?” he asks from somewhere outside of my well-cushioned prison.
“Go fuck yourself!” I offer in return.
His only response is laughter.
I’m preparing something equally scathing to shout at him when I’m suddenly thrown back into darkness.
We’re apparently past the packing peanut stage then.
All sealed up and nowhere to go.
Suddenly, I feel the world shift as the box is elevated. Maybe there’s somewhere to go after all. I can’t say exactly how long I lay in the damn box.
Things get weird with no light.
It’s a long fucking time to wait for a girl like me.
Like, two or three hours tops.
I scream myself hoarse, demanding to be set free, threatening their lives and their dicks.
Finally, I ask in my very best impression of my mother, if they know who the hell I am. It’s really a great impression, but usually much more effective.
At some point, I begin to plot.
I’m forming some wonderful plans about exactly what I’m going to do when I get out of the Stella-box. There’s a recurring testicle theme in my schemes for vengeance. Ripping them from the bodies of stupid, sexy Russians, tea-bagging them with their own nuts—that kind of thing.
I’m busy thinking up newer, crueler things I’m about to do to these assholes when I suddenly feel the box deposited roughly back to the ground.
I hear muffled voices, the scrape of shoes on concrete, then a doorbell being rung. It’s not your usual doorbell. It’s a rich person doorbell.
I’ve lived in mansions all my life, so trust me—I can totally hear the difference.
The booming chimes even shudder through the place where I’m tucked neatly into my box. They remind me of home.
I hear the creak of an opening door and feel myself being lifted once again. When I’m settled back on the ground, it’s far gentler.
Deep within the mound of packing peanuts that has been my temporary home, I begin to smile. Visions of rendered parts and screaming Russians flit through my head.
It’s painfully obvious that these asshats really don’t have any idea who I am. I can catfight with the best of them—and I’m fucking dirty about it, too. They’ve definitely messed with the wrong blyad.
Whatever the hell that means.
I feel the box being opened before I hear it. I’m now lying on my side, which factors heavily into my little revenge plot.
I picture the moment the box opens. I roll free from my tiny prison, lunging faster than the clearly ‘roided-out mobsters can counter, French tips bared. It’s a perfect plan, and woe to the testicles that find themselves in my path.
My moment comes. The box fully opens.
I roll, lips pulled back in a vicious smile, and I lunge. Nothing can stop me now!
That is…until I see the man I’m currently attacking.
I think I must’ve died in that box because I’m currently kneeling before a god.
He’s huge. Six four at least, with a body so well defined that not even his clothes can hide it. He’s not the Russian—he’s actually even more gorgeous—but he’s got that same coloring I like.
His sandy blond hair near glows in the light from the chandelier, and his blue eyes seem to pierce me, seeing into my very soul.
He stares down at me, beatific, shining, and I—well, I’m naked on my knees in front of him.
I feel too many things at once. I feel the packing peanuts that cling to my body from head to toe, my hair that feels probably only half as crazy as it looks.
I feel that somehow, in my shock, my maniacal grin has frozen in place.
Worst of all—or best, I haven’t decided yet—I feel the huge, hot weight of his balls, which are still clutched firmly in my hand.