https://www.tugstories.com/viewtopic.php?f=17&t=19796
Just for the record, time wise the events of this story occur before Caeser73's 'Cross of Romanov' muse.
And so it began, the longest and loneliest walk of my entire life so far. Well, when I say longest, obviously it wasn’t in pure distance terms, we’re only talking about from the centre circle of a football pitch to the penalty spot before one of the two goals. But it felt like it, make no mistake.
Because the pressure upon me could not have been higher. This was it, miss and the match would be lost. What match, you ask? Only the Champions League Final! For this, the penalty shot that I was about to take was the tenth and final one of the first part of the deciding ‘shoot-out,’ the previous nine all successfully converted. If I scored, then the ‘sudden death’ part of the equation would begin, miss however and the contest would be over, with the team I played for, Chelsea, having been defeated.
Placing the ball on the spot, I attempted to ‘out-stare’ both the opposition goalkeeper and the crowd of Bayern Munich fans behind the goal he sought to defend. For as usual the odds were against him and supposed to be in MY favour. Place the ball correctly and he’s beaten, penalties are scored far more often than saved or missed.
None of this counted at this precise moment of course, it was him against me. I stepped backwards, to begin my run up, I knew where I was going to direct the ball. But just before I reached it however, my left foot slipped on the grass, resulting in my right foot hitting the ball slightly lower than I’d intended, and it rose far higher than I’d wanted or planned, sailing about two feet (0.6M) over the goal frame crossbar. I’d MISSED!
As I sunk to the ground in despair, the German ’keeper was busy jumping for joy, as were his countrymen behind him, all emitting sounds of pure ecstasy, I realised that I’d be defined for the moment for ever. I’d be remembered as the man who lost the Champions League Final, denying Chelsea the chance to have THEIR name engraved on the famous trophy. It wouldn’t matter that I’d just played the match of my life, as a central defender I’d played an absolute blinder, breaking up attack after attack, winning the ball from almost all of the direct Bayern ‘set pieces,’ and was almost solely responsible for the scores being level in the first place, after the normal match and extra time. For my side HAD been totally outplayed, and it’s certain that without myself playing so well we’d have lost the match. But now, NOBODY would remember that, for ever I’d now be the man who had cost us this game!
Bitterly dis-appointed though they’d be, I knew my team-mates WOULD understand. As would the manager and back-room staff. And the majority of OUR fans, THEY would ALL fully appreciate the role I’d played in the main game itself. After all, some of the chances, many of which my play had initiated, had been squandered. If just ONE of them had been taken, if just one had gone in, then maybe it wouldn’t have come to this?
Some of said team-mates did approach me, NONE speaking with ANY malice or ill feeling, as I knew would happen, they all DID appreciate the level of performance that I’d displayed during the match itself. As did the manager, who was full of praise for said display. But I also knew there’d be ONE person for whom my match heroics would be totally forgotten, and who would blame me sorely for this loss. Chelsea’s Russian owner, Boris Oblomov.
I wasn’t wrong. Winning this most prestigious trophy in European Club Football had been an obsession to him ever since he’d purchased Chelsea in 2003. And clearly, in his mind if nowhere else, I had cost him his deserved prize. To even further compound my ‘error’ the match had been played within his native Russia, Moscow in fact, and possibly it was this fact that caused him the most pain. In his mind I’d humiliated him in his own ‘back yard.’ As he scowled and started cursing my name, a VERY beautiful dark-haired woman, with high cheekbones and piercing grey eyes, sitting right next to him in the Director’s Box, began to whisper in his ear.
“That English fool needs to be taught to show you the appropriate respect, Sir. And I know just the method and the person to do precisely that.”
“Yes, I can’t argue with you there Natasha, he needs to be shown a lesson, about that you are totally correct. What have you in mind, and I assume you’re about to volunteer yourself for this ‘mission,’ aren’t you? Well out with it, I’m interested in what you have planned for him.”
“Shall we see if he’s quite so disrespectful after a good few hours tied to my bed and subject to my sexual desires? You’ve planned to have the Chelsea team invited to your home in a couple of days’ time, have you not? Let me have him for the night, I’ll teach him a lesson he won’t forget in a hurry!”
“Yes Natasha, I DO believe that you WILL! Yes, for that night you CAN have him. Show him NO mercy!”
“I have absolutely NO intention of showing ANY of that Sir, I can fully assure you there!”
With myself totally oblivious to that conversation of course, my teammates and I reported to Oblomov’s home for the planned ‘party’ with myself slightly fearful, quite naturally. But, accompanied by Natasha, whom I didn’t know at this stage, he surprised me by greeting me warmly. “Please do not feel responsible,” he pretended to assure me, “somebody has, quite correctly, informed me that you played VERY well during the match itself, and it was largely YOU who was responsible for us not losing in the actual play itself. So, you are welcome here.” He even offered me his hand, which I took. “Anyway, I must ‘mingle’ as I believe it’s called, so I’ll leave you with the lovely Natasha here, who has promised to me that she’ll ‘look after’ you!” He actually winked at me as he left the gorgeous Lady in my company.
Natasha Bolgonskaya, adorned in a delightful low cut blue dress that fitted her shapely torso perfectly, with her long legs coated in VERY sheer nylon, looked me straight into my eyes, her own I noted, being a truly luscious shade of grey. “A promise that I FULLY intend to keep, Sweetheart. You played SO well the other night, I completely agree that you were correctly granted the ‘Man of the Match’ award.”
“Thank you, eh, Natasha. Please believe me I was SO gutted when I missed that penalty.”
“But you had the courage to at least volunteer to take it. You MUST accept that you are NOT responsible for the loss of the game. Far from it! Anyway, I intend to take your mind far away from football tonight!” And she smiled at me, which was precisely the point where my mind lost control of the situation and my cock took over.
For we were talking about an absolutely, stunningly sexy woman here, as she fully knew. When those eyes of hers stared right into mine, she just KNEW I was HERS for the taking! She leaned forward and, quite deliberately, allowed her lips to make contact with mine.
It wasn’t any sort of ‘snog’ at all, just a very brief meeting of lips which only lasted for about a second, but it sent a jolt of electricity flowing throughout my whole body as excitement and sexual anticipation completely took over. And then her mouth was by one of my ears, as her delicious voice made its presence heard. “Sweetheart, do you wish to remain here all night, or would you like to accompany me to somewhere a little more private?” As one of her hands ‘wandered’ towards a certain part of my anatomy and found just it was looking and hoping for. An uncontrollable and raging boner!
What, you think I WANTED to refuse? Although, part of me wasn’t sure, I mean would I be missed from the party? “Are you sure Natasha, won’t Mr Oblomov object to the two of us simply ‘dis-appearing?’ Won’t he think it a little dis-respectful?”
“Oh, don’t you worry yourself about that. Boris knows EXACTLY what I intend here and has given me his FULL blessing!” A true statement in fact, but of course he KNEW just what Natasha had planned for me, whereas at this point in time I didn’t!
“In case then, lead on please, Ma’am!” Miss Bolgonskaya responded by taking hold of my hand and leading me out of the large reception room.
Boris Oblomov’s Russian home complex was huge and it took a few minutes before we reached Natasha’s own quarters. She opened the door, almost pulling me through over the threshold, before releasing her grip on my hand, shutting the door and locking it. “Now we will NOT be disturbed Sweetheart!” Before kissing me again, and this time it was a PROPER kiss, one that seemed to last for ever! The ‘fly’ had now well and truly entered into the ‘spider’s web,’ be in NO doubt about that!
Now interestingly enough, those who suggest that ‘history repeats itself’ were being given a case here in order to fully justify that claim. For I was not the first member of the family to have been seduced by a Russian beauty. You see my mother, Lisa, had a brother who I’d never met, back in the Soviet Union era he’d worked at the British Embassy in Moscow. Apparently, he had been due to marry a Russian girl named Anastacia Petrova but found himself seduced by a high ranking female K.G.B. officer named Svetlana Dementieva instead. And he’d never left Russia after that. A shame because as mum explained to me, he was a big football fan. Especially of the team from the city of both his and my birth, Leicester City.
Because my career as a professional footballer started with the ‘Foxes,’ as I passed through their youth academy, and worked my way up into Leicester’s first team. Where my uncle would have delighted to have been able to see a member of his family play for his favourite team.
I played for the Foxes for several seasons before, having been bought by Boris Oblomov, Chelsea came calling. Therefore, I swapped one blue shirt for another, and with Chelsea being one of the ‘big’ teams, my collection of Trophy Winning Medals began to build up quite nicely. Several Premier League winning ones, a few F.A. Cup wins, but the one I REALLY wanted, the Champions League, still evaded me. And now of course, possibly my last chance had gone. For, with myself having passed into my ‘thirties,’ my career was being to approach its ‘twilight’ years. Would I get another shot at winning this Trophy, the one above all that Oblomov also wanted to ‘win’ too?
At least with this game having taken place in Russia I DID mange to meet my relations for the first time in my life. For I had managed to contact my uncle and aunt, obtaining for them a pair of tickets for the final. And so, in the evening after the match, I finally met Uncle Robert and Aunt Svetlana. Several things were quite clear almost immediately. Firstly, although fast approaching her seventieth birthday, Svetlana was utterly beautiful still. Sure, her advanced age had diminished her looks somewhat, but it was totally obvious that when, many years earlier, she’d seduced my mother’s brother, she must have been stunningly sexy and completely gorgeous. And, despite wearing a delicious leather skirt on this occasion, it was unarguable that it was her who ‘wore the trousers’ in their relationship, I knew that I was looking at a submissive male and dominant female. But what was also utterly abundant was that this suited the pair of them very well, if my uncle was firmly under the control of his wife, he showed NO sign of resenting that position. In fact, he displayed all the hallmarks of actually WANTING to be ‘under her thumb.’ And who am I to argue about it IF he was happy to be so?
But what I didn’t know was that Svetlana had booked a room at the same luxury hotel where the Chelsea squad were staying, and after I’d left the dining room, the three of us having shared a lovely meal together, she led my uncle up to their room. Incidentally, she could comfortably afford to pay for it. Like most high ranking K.G.B. officers, including her father who’d been a full General, when the Soviet Union had collapsed in the late 1980’s and early 1990’s, Svetlana had carefully managed to hold on to her, well compared to the ‘ordinary’ Soviet Citizen, considerable wealth and power. Because, make no mistake, she was a very smart ‘cookie,’ so Russia actually becoming ‘free’ enabled her to cement an extremely comfortable life for herself and her ‘captive’ husband.
Once they’d stepped inside, Svetlana made a point of locking the door. “Now then Darling, I think you know just what I want from you now. Don’t you?”
“Yes ’Lana.” My uncle started to remove his clothing even without an order from his wife, he’d been living under her command for well over thirty years by now, fully knowing that he was facing a night of being shagged by her whilst tied to the hotel bed. Not that he was unwilling at all, he WANTED this as much as she did.
Less than five minutes later that’s exactly where he found himself, and as usual with Svetlana doing the tying, there was NO possibility of escape for him. However, he wasn’t bound too tightly or in any danger of reduced circulation at all. Over the years, remember, she’d had plenty of practice after all! “Comfortable, Darling?”
“Very much so, ’Lana, comfortable and ready for YOU!”
“Good!” Replied his wife as she removed his ability to see her by placing a blindfold over his eyes. And then began to work her ‘magic’ on his helpless and bound body.
With her own ‘pussy’ already fully wet, simply because of the anticipation of her planned night, Svetlana began proceedings by ‘playing’ with her captives ‘tools,’ his cock FULLY erect by now, as you can well imagine. And then she guided said ‘organ’ into her vagina, descended very slowly onto it, and FULLY savouring EVERY moment! Up and down, she began to move herself upon his cock, up and down. Slowly at first before she began to accelerate the process. Although, due to the pair of them being nearly seventy years old, it took a little longer than it would have done back when they first met, soon ‘THAT’ point was rapidly approaching! Suddenly Svetlana’s climax arrived, arching her older but still beautiful body she screamed uncontrollably as ecstasy FULLY claimed her. Obviously, her ‘pumping’ action upon her bound spouse ended, but she’d done enough by now as he also cried out loudly while his seed shot into his wife’s pussy!
Once the pair of them calmed down enough, and her husband’s cock became hard again, Svetlana resumed the ‘action’ bringing the pair of them to FULL climax again. And once more, the third occasion of the ‘session’ before she called a halt to the proceedings.
For while neither of them had quite reached the stage where it would ‘take ALL night what they USED to DO ALL night,’ they weren’t ‘spring chickens’ anymore. And there were other ways in which the defining parameters of their relationship had altered since those earlier days. For if Svetlana still ruled my uncle with a ‘rod of iron’ as it were, it was as if said implement was now covered in some sort of ‘soft, cushioning’ material. You see, if when she’d effectively ‘captured’ him back in the mid 1980’s, her desire for him was TOTALLY driven by sheer ‘lust’ and the wish to completely control him, by now she HAD mellowed and actually developed feelings of TRUE love, possibly even respect for him. After all, he’d been utterly loyal to her throughout all of those years, and bondage sex sessions, that they’d shared together.
Once Svetlana had released him from the bed, the pair of them settled down to sleep. And when they awoke, many hours later when the sun was well and truly risen, they coupled again, but this time my uncle was fully free to move, and their sex was now in the form of gentle ‘making love’ as opposed to the relatively frantic ‘action’ from the night before. It was while they lay in each other’s arm’s afterwards that Svetlana expressed her very real, fears for me.
“Darling, I’m worried for your young nephew, I’ve got to be totally honest. For I know Boris Oblomov, the owner of Chelsea, the football club he plays for, and he’s a nasty piece of work, make NO mistake. I understand he wants to win the Champions League above everything else, and it’s my belief that he’ll blame your young man for losing it, totally ignoring his brilliant play during the match itself. Oblomov once asked me to become his ‘Security Chief,’ thankfully I was able to refuse without occurring his real wrath or resentment. But the young Lady who DID take the position, Natasha Bolgonskaya, is an almost ‘carbon copy’ of myself in terms of ruthlessness when I was her age, in fact I did once regard her as the daughter I never actually had. I’m serious Darling, your nephew is in for a VERY torrid time if he is unfortunate enough to fall into HER hands..…”