It wasn't too bad this time; he was kinder than usual and pulled it out of my mouth before ejaculating. I'd learned to fill my mouth with spit to make it more ... palatable; absolutely nothing could ever make it tolerable.
Sometimes he was kind enough to let me spit it out onto my tits or along the long shaft of his uncircumcised cock. Sometimes he wasn't so kind and insisted I swallow.
It had always tasted like caviar to me ... I couldn't be the only woman in St. Petersburg who hated the taste of caviar but it seemed that way; waiters and hosts practically forced it on you in every venue.
"Yes, Kiska," he grunted as the ribbons of his hot cum splashed across my pursed lips and cheeks.
I tilted my head to try to prevent it from getting into my eyes but he wasn't having it my way today. His grip on my hair was too strong for me to pull away and I could feel the hot splashes across my eyelids.
When I was a child and he called me 'Kiska', or 'Kitten', my heart would soar ... now it left a foul taste in my mouth; it tasted like his foul sperm.
Just to compound my misery he slapped my cheeks with his penis to smear the cum around before finally jerking out the last drops onto my chin.
"So good, Kiska ... you are always the best!"
He was done using my mouth now, so he let go of my hair to pull up his white-striped blue tracksuit pants.
I stayed where I was, kneeling before him in the bedroom doorway of the flat my Father rented for me, covered only in the sheer sky-blue French peignoir he'd bought me to wear last year - the one he liked best - anything I could do to get my shameful duty over quickly was an advantage to me.
"Do you know why I'm here today?" he asked.
I knew exactly why he was here; just not why he was here so early this time.
"You almost made me forget," he walked across the room to his mid-length black leather jacket draped over the back of my wooden desk-chair. It was the kind of jacket all of the local gangsters preferred.
Irrational fear gripped me when I heard his gun clank against the arm of the chair as he dug in the pockets. I was relieved when he pulled out a white-ribboned rectangular jewelry box instead.
Vasily 'The Headhunter' Chominkov was the most dangerous man in the region. Tall and muscular - he was a big man among big men.
It looked like a necklace case.
I stood and wiped the cum from my face with the sleeves of the much-hated peignoir.
He tossed it to me and cheerfully sang out: "Happy Birthday, Elenya!"
I let it fall to the floor at my feet without trying to catch it.
I'd forgotten my own birthday; I was Nineteen now.
"Thank you, Papa," I said mechanically.
He watched me for a second and I watched him back. I could tell he wanted me to say something more but I didn't see the need to thank him profusely after having just taken a load of his cum on my face.
"Well then," he sighed, "I will call you later," he gestured at the gift on the floor, "Let yourself enjoy something, Kiska."
Then he left.
I kicked the box under the bed with the rest of the unopened gifts that my lovers felt the need to leave me.
*****************************
After I showered away my disgrace, I decided that I would celebrate my birthday after all.
I chose a particularly short black miniskirt and a sexy button-up white blouse that flared around my wrists and bared my midriff. I'd discovered that a sexy navel was the quickest way to a man's heart - regardless of what the old mother's would tell you.
The shoes were the hard part and I struggled before finally selected a pair of black knee high leather boots. It was snowing a little already this year and boots were always perfect with the skirt in any case.
I decided to top it off with my long elegant Chinchilla fur coat, a gift from some of my father's gangster friends in South America.
I laid out the clothes on my bed and stood naked before the full length mirror that covered a wall of my bedroom to see myself.
The reflection in the mirror smiled at me in greeting.
I imagined that she was what my Mother looked like, though I'd never remembered seeing her. When I'd tried to ask Father about her, he'd ordered me to never speak of her or ask him questions about her again. I didn't even know my mother's name. All I knew of her was that my father said she was a whore.
*****************************
I turned from side to side and the reflection echoed my movement.
"Hello, Kiska," I said to her.
The Woman reflected in the mirror was so much more beautiful than what I thought anyone had any right to be.
She had high cheek bones and full sensuous lips, brilliant emerald green eyes. Her large breasts were young and firm, crowned with perfect pink nipples. My father had said that if every girl had those breasts he could finally kill the expensive German surgeon he employed to fix up his whores.
Her breasts, torso, navel, and hips, were all in perfect symmetry, and even the trimmed stripe of blonde pubic hair that ran down to thick full vulva and labia was pleasing to the eye. The legs were thin, long, and well muscled.
She looked like an object of fantasy and there was no doubt that men found her attractive.
I opened a package of smuggled French Oils I'd been saving for a special occasion.
"It's my Birthday today," I informed her.
"It's your Birthday, Elenya," Kiska said, running her thin oily hands over herself, "Let yourself enjoy something."
She lowered herself to the bed and vulgarly spread her legs to show me her pussy. She ran her hands down her body, spreading the oil over her skin until her fingers found the tender parts and the swollen lips between her legs.
She slid two fingers entirely into herself and rolled her hips while her other hand pinched and pulled at her pink nipples.
Our eyes locked and I watched her fuck herself in the mirror until we both came together, our moans echoing off of the glass.
*****************************
The club was amazing - and it was completely temporary. It wouldn't take long for a new club to appear somewhere else when this one sank into disfavor.
Places like this would open up, have a good run, and close their doors either due to pressures from the police or pressure from the dangerous mix of criminals who would descend on the place as it gained in popularity.
They would both be looking for new victims.
A year ago this place had been some sort of storage cellar for fruits and vegetables for a Soviet era market that had been at street level and now it was another posh hangout.
I sat at a private table lit with red candles in jars and sipped a screwdriver made with stolen Sicilian Blood-Orange juice and harsh potato vodka in an alcove where cabbages had once been stacked.
When Leningrad was gone, and St. Petersburg rose from the ashes, the market had disappeared in a frenzy of development only to be replaced by overpriced Western stores and outlets that most Russians couldn't afford to shop at.
The city's economy was crashing hard these days and food rationing had already been reintroduced in some parts of the city. Occasionally you'd even see aid being delivered early in the morning. Many people were already starving.
