The Russian's Christmas Present

He looks down at me with a mixture of curiosity and confusion. His thick beard circles full lips and his face isn’t conventionally handsome or symmetrical. To the contrary, his nose is a bit crooked and his forehead hints at some lingering caveman DNA. His hands look like they know hard work, and the contrast of it all in this high-end formalwear shop, where the elite of Oakland Hills are tended to like royalty, is making me dizzy.

His eyes linger on mine, a brilliant lapis sort of blue like I’ve never seen, as he takes a sidestep with his right foot to give me better access to…his inseam.

God help me.

The front of his jeans are drawn tight down his leg in contrast to the way they give ample room everywhere else.

I do my best to hold onto the measuring tape as I bring the end up to where I need to start the measurement, but instead of confidently and quickly taking the measurement I drop the tape, staring at the clear outline of his dick hanging…

Way down.

I’m no prude, but experience with dicks is not on my resume. Watching my parents put the ‘D’ in dysfunctional marriage maybe had something to do with my disinterest in the opposite sex—or anything resembling a relationship.

Having the distinct honor of being the first girl in middle school to blossom and the inevitable gross catcalls and mooing sounds from the boys in the hallways didn’t help. I went from the awkward, geeky outcast to sudden popularity. At least with the boys.

When I realized it was all a sick joke they had come up with to see who could get under my shirt first, well let’s just say it left the taste of something like shit in my mouth.

To make matters worse, my best friend Alice convinced me to take my usual beige sort of no-color hair to a brilliant platinum last week when I was feeling my usual let down as Christmas day came and went in my house with no acknowledgement from my father. She said it was her gift to me and I have to say I’m still trying to get used to the new me.

I reach down and pick up my tape, taking a long shaking breath, and place it at the top of his inseam, dragging my knuckles down the softness of what I know are his balls, then over the harder landscape of the growing length of his dick down the leg of his jeans.

“You enjoying yourself?” His voice from above nearly sends me over the edge.

“Sure,” I reply, writing down the measurement on my pad of paper then looking up at the hunk of man meat that has me rethinking all my objections to giving up my V-card. “Are you?”

“Way more than I thought I would.”

There’s another low rumble like growl coming from him as I stand and stretch the tape down his arms, then around his waist, drawing in a breath of his deep masculine scent that has a direct connection to my clit.

He snaps his tongue along his front teeth, eyeing me up and down, and I notice the way his fingertips twitch when I bend over to make a note on my measurement pad, and his eyes get a generous view of my chest.

I’m teasing him and I’m not sure why. I’ve never felt so emboldened before. Maybe it’s the new hair, I’m feeling very Anna Nicole Smith pre-drug addiction, more like her Guess jeans era. For the first time I understand what my roommate, Alice—stage name Cherrie—tells me about the thrill of the tease.

She’s a stripper, making money to pay for her pre-med classes. She’s constantly trying to recruit me as well, but I have not just two left feet, but two left feet and the rhythm of a someone receiving shock treatment. It is not that I look down on her job, quite the contrary. I just know that breaking my neck on the first day would not lead to the goal of paying for design school. Whereas here, the worst that could happen is I stick myself with a pin several times a day.

With each measurement, I do my best Elle Woods inspired bend and snap…bending over to pick up a pin or my notepad, knowing his eyes are on me, and feeling that rush that Alice talks about when you have a customer in the palm of your hand.

But now that I have him, I have no idea what to do with him.

I finish up the measurements, listening to his every breath, doing my best not to drool or stare blankly at the obvious erection that now looks wildly uncomfortable straining against the fabric.

“So…” Mauricio strides in, hanging three suits on the hooks on the wall and breaking the tension for a moment. I turn on my toe, flipping my hair, imitating a few of the moves Alice taught me, arch my back, stick out my rear, high stepping and—