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Emmanuelle: Part Eight
By
Pixie_Hoffmann

Emmanuelle: Part Eight

Enter the Oligarch

I can’t say I wasn’t tempted. Emm looked a million dollars. The red silk dress she wore seemed to caress her curves, and then cascade from them in a way which emphasised the fluidity of her body as it moved. As the BBC technician, who was as a gay as I was, said to me as she walked past:

‘She’s poetry in motion. I wish I was bi!’

I couldn’t but agree about the appearance. Her body was shown off to best advantage by that dress. It showed enough cleavage to tempt with hints of what was underneath, but not so much as to be vulgar. The way the dress dropped from the bodice to the hips, and then cascaded to mid-thing length, attracted the eye to the firm, shapely legs of the swimmer she was. With her blonde hair falling around her shoulders, she was the cynosure of every eye.

‘I can’t Emm, sorry.’

And so, I passed the test. I would stay with Sophie and remain Pixie. She smiled at me.

‘I did not think you would resist, darling. I have to admit, she looked drop-dead gorgeous.’

‘Well, my love, she had you before I did.’

That reference back to the day before yesterday when I had caught Sophie eating Emm out, made her blush.

‘Well, she IS hard to resist.

Standing on my tippy toes, I kissed her sweet lips.

‘I love YOU, darling,’ I cooed, holding her hand. She squeezed mine.

‘Okay, once more to the breach. See you at the post-concert party.’

It was the last night of the series, which had been a rip-roaring success, and the Management had promised to pull out all the stops. Sophie and her team would be there, and nothing, not even Emm, would stop me joining them.

I sorted out a few last-minute snags (why did we always run out of brochures on the last evening, however many we ordered?), and took my place in the gods.

The Concert was divine. I loved sixteenth-century Catalan music, and the Ensemble played it to perfection. The break came almost too soon.

I wandered out to collect my gin and tonic, and caught up with Emm, Anne, Emily and their friend, to whom I was finally introduced.

‘This is Zoe,’ Anne said, smiling.

‘And WHO, might I ask, is this gorgeous creature?’

The accent was eastern European, probably Russian, I thought, as I turned and made eye contact with the cleavage of the woman who had made the comments.

Anne and Zoe seemed startled, Emily, like Emm, seemed interested. Nor was the reason far to see, even from my vantage point on the underside of her prominent bosom. Tall, with short white hair, you could have cut paper with those cheekbones.

Reaching out, over me, as though I was not there, she touched Emm’s chin.

‘And you, you are the girl for whom I have been looking. You will do me very well.’ She smiled. It was the sort of smile which made me happy to be below the line of her vision.

‘And who is this little poppet?’ She asked, patting my head.

So much for being below the radar.

‘I am sorry,’ Anne said, ‘I do not think we have been introduced?’

‘You are quite right, we have not been. Ivana, tell these women who I am?’

She turned to another tall, slender, gorgeous blonde, built on the same lines as Emm, but lacking that erotic punch my friend packed so powerfully’

‘Madams, this is my Mistress, Ekaterina Yusupov, you will have heard of her.’

Who had not? Ekaterina was reputedly the richest woman in Russia. A close friend of President Putin, she had inherited a fortune when her father, Dimitri, was gunned down outside their St Petersburg mansion. Any thought that the family oil empire would fall with him, were banished by the brilliance of Ekaterina.

Inheriting, it was said, $30 billion, she was now reputed to be worth ten times that. Her beauty made her a permanent feature in Vogue and Tatler, and the parties she threw were legendary, and, so legend had it, the most decadent since the reign of Emperor Caligula. She fixed her eyes on Emm. Patting me on the head, she ignored the rest of the group.

‘You will come with me at the end of this, my pet.’

Transfixed, Emm nodded.

‘And ladies, I trust there will be no problem. I can see you have trained her well, so I think some recompense for your expertise is right and proper. You, girl, come with me, Ivana, settle the bill.’

And so saying, she took Emm by the hand, walking with her to her private box.

‘You, little Poppet, you are her friend, and I think you can come to the box too.’

I nodded and followed.

I saw Ivana sign a cheque. Anne told me later it was for $100k, which, shrewd businesswoman that she was, she commented was not a bad return for two days’ work. But I could tell from her voice that she was sad, and missed Emm. Still, she did have Emily and Zoe, so was hardly bereft of women as gorgeous as herself. But, as she told me the following morning, arguing with a Russian oligarch was a fool’s game – and Anne was not that, never had been and never would be.

So, instead of my seat in the gods at the back, I watched the second half from the best seats in the House.

‘Tell me your name, my new pet?’

‘I am Emmanuelle, Mistress Ekaterina. You are divine, I want to worship you.’

‘Good answer, Emm. You will get between my thighs and eat me out. I need to relax.’

Unperturbed by the presence of myself, or Ivana, Ekaterina parted her thighs, letting a kneeling Emm between them, and proceeded to let herself be eaten while watching.

I knew how good Emm was at this. Her tongue seemed to have snake-like qualities, and it was soon obvious that Ekaterina had never experienced anything like it. Ivana looked at me, smiling, and I smiled back. Quite hard to know the etiquette when your best friend is on her knees sucking the pussy of a powerful Russian oligarch, so I thought I’d better smile. It seemed to go down well. She looked at me with interest.

I shook my head, whispering to her that I was spoken for.

‘A shame, little one, I’d have liked to taste you and for you to taste me.’

Poor Ivana. But I doubt she had much need of my sympathy.

She kissed Ekaterina as she began to moan at Emm’s ministrations.

The sight of Emm, still fully-dressed, eating out the fit, blonde Russian, was making me wet; and my pussy was nowhere near that skilled tongue.

With Ivana’s mouth muffling the scream, Ekaterina came, her lithe, somewhat muscular form convulsing at Emm’s expertise. She shook, shivering, holding Emm’s blonde hair. Pulling from the kiss with Ivana, she muttered:

‘Fuck, that was the best cunt eating I ever had, and I tell you I have had many cunt eaters.’

I did not doubt either of those statements. If she wanted her pussy eaten skilfully, she had chosen the right pet.

Emm looked up from between her thighs. Her face glistened with Ekaterina’s girl goo.

‘So, I pleased you, Mistress?’

‘Yes, my new pet. You will do very well with me.’

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