Mail Order Bride - Part One
By Wanderer
My new Russian friend.


This is adult material. Please do not read if you are under age 21 or laws in
your country forbid you to do so.

Copyright 2006 by Wanderer

I'd had it. Here I am, thirty-five years old, and I've already had three
marriages. All big busts (the marriages, not the women). I'm a stock broker. I
try hard, but if clients say to me "Is that a good deal?" I'm the kind of guy
who has to answer honest. I tell them "Well, maybe not, but my branch manager
says I have to move this stuff." I lose a lot of commissions that way. So I
make a modest living, not as good as I could do if I were more pushy.

So my first wife, she comes to our office Christmas party and she's impressed
with the office manager, a fifty year old coot. She's especially impressed
with his Maserati. So pretty soon she's gone and I get booted out of that
brokerage company.

Then I meet a nice girl. Too nice. After we get married she tells me she
wanted to try a heterosexual relationship but she really is a lesbian and
she's decided to go back to her girl friend. Bye-bye.

The next one is young and giggly and peppy and on our wedding night she
snuggles up to me and says, "Honey, I've got a little surprise for you."

"Oh," I ask, expecting something like a nice blow job or something like that.
"What is it, sweetheart?"

"Well, I've got a nice little stash of cocaine right here. Let's get it on!"

Despite what you might have heard about stock brokers and their high style of
living not all of us are drug addicts. Oh, I may take an aspirin or two now
and again, but that's it for me. She was out the door next morning. I could
lose my license as a broker with that kind of stuff going on around me.

So I'm in this bar after work, lamenting my state of affairs, and maybe I've
had a couple too many. But I can take the subway home and I walk to the
station, so I get loaded every now and then when I feel sorry for myself. I
strike up a conversation with the guy sitting next to me at the bar, and
pretty soon I'm telling him my life story.

"Three marriages, three disasters. I'm never getting married again! I don't
mind banging some broad, but that's it for me, buddy!"

"Hell," he says, "I know what you mean. I said to my wife one day when I'm
watching a football game on the TV, 'Honey, would you bring me a beer,
please?'"

"'Get off your lazy ass and get your own God damn beer, you fuckin' asshole'!
she says. Wasn't that sweet? You can imagine how long that marriage lasted.
You should do what I did."

"What did you do?" I asked.

"I got me a mail order bride from Russia," he says.

I couldn't believe what I was hearing. I'd heard stories like that. Arranged
marriages in India. Japanese brides. But a mail order bride from Russia? So I
told my new friend, "I just don't have a couple months to go over there and
try to meet someone."

"No, that's not the way it works," he says. "Now with the internet you can
stay right here and e-mail. You just get yourself a catalog and pick out who
you want to e-mail."

"What is it, a catalog from Sears Roebuckski?" I ask.

"Well, kind of," he says. "Actually the catalog only costs you twenty-five
bucks. The girls pay to get listed and get their picture in the catalog.
They're not that crazy about staying in Russia. It's tough making a living
there, the weather is really lousy, and the Russian men treat them like their
personal property. Besides, they've all heard about how wonderful the United
States is. And when they get here they stay pretty agreeable because they
don't want to have to break up with the American and have to go back to
Russia. My Russian wife cooks and cleans, and I take her out to dinner every
once in a while. And she brings me a beer from the kitchen any time I ask
her," he adds. "Our government has been looking closely at these mail order
brides so the women know they can't just get married and gain U.S. residency
and then leave the guy. They probably have to stay as long as the average U.S.
marriage lasts, and who knows, they might get used to you and stay with you."

Well, none of my first three marriages lasted as long as the average so maybe
it was worth a try. Hell, what have I got to lose? Twenty-five bucks. I spend
more on a couple porno tapes. So I get the address from the guy and I write
away for a catalog. Ostensibly the catalog holds itself out to be a "Make New
Friends in Russia" catalog but really it's all about getting a bride.

So I get my catalog and I'm leafing through the pages and I see a couple
pretty good lookers. They don't look like they've been on too much of a potato
diet, so I e-mail them. Turns out one has already come to the United States
and is living with a guy, but the second one is still in Russia and she
answers my e-mail.

"Hello, my name is Tara. Thank you for sending me message"

Well, I'm impressed. She knows some English and she's polite. She says thank
you. So I e-mail her back. "My name is Steve. I live in Chicago. I saw your
picture in the "Make New Friends in Russia" catalog. You are a very pretty
girl. How old are you?"

"I twenty-five," comes the reply. "Thank you for compliment. How old are you?"

"I am thirty," I lie. It doesn't hurt to take five years off. It would be hard
to tell the difference between thirty and thirty-five anyway. "What do you do
in Russia?" I ask.

"I am a teacher," she says. "What do you do?"

"I am a stock broker," I answer. "You know 'stock broker' in Russia?"

"Yes," she answers. "Russia becoming capitalist country."

"Your English is very good," I say. "Where did you learn English?"

"At Moscow University," she says. "But also I come to the United States two
times."

"Oh," I say, "you like the United States?"

"Yes," she replies. "People are nice. Weather warmer than Moscow. I like very
much. You see Russia?"

"No, never," I say. "But you can tell me lots. I like talking to you. We can
e-mail. I tell you about the United States. You tell me about Russia. You
sound like a nice person, Tara."

"You too, Steve," she says. "You send me picture of you. I send you pictures
of me. We have fun. You e-mail me again tomorrow. I like talk to you. Practice
English. Maybe I teach you some Russian. It very late here now in Moscow. I go
to bed. Dream of you (giggle, giggle)."

"Me, too," I say. "I dream of pretty new friend in Russia."

Well, we e-mailed back and forth every day. I sent her a picture of me when I
was thirty. I don't look that much different today. And maybe she isn't
twenty-five, either. Who knows? She could be thirty, thirty-five, or forty.
Maybe she's playing games at her end also. But I found out all about her
family. Her mother had died in an auto accident and her father had remarried
and moved away to Minsk so she didn't see much of him. I told her I had been
married once (I didn't tell her three times, I didn't want to look like a
loser), and that my ex-wife was a drug addict and she was beyond my ability to
help her. Tara said she understood as drugs were becoming a problem in Russia
also.

She thanked me for sending her my picture. She said I was a very handsome man,
and that I must have many girl friends in the United States. I told her that I
had been so disappointed in the results of my marriage that my heart had been
broken and I really didn't seek the companionship of women and that I was very
lonely. So she said she understood as really her only remaining relative, her
father, had more or less abandoned her, and that if she were in the United
States she would try to comfort me and make me feel less lonely. Well, hell, I
had visions of her climbing into bed with me and pulling my head to her bosom
and stroking me in all sorts of places and I know I would feel better. She
told me she was five feet five inches tall, so that would fit pretty good with
my six feet, and since I'm a gentleman I didn't ask her weight, but from her
picture I'd estimate maybe a hundred ten pounds. She looks like she has nice
shoulders, too. From the head-on shot she sent me you can't really tell, but
from the way her blouse wrinkles in the front it looks like she's plenty
stacked.

So I got interested enough to see what could work out. Being single and not
having to pay alimony to any of my three wives (we weren't married long
enough), I had extra dough. I still made good money as a stock broker even
though I wasn't a top seller, so I figured why not take a chance? So I e-
mailed her.

"My work keeps me in my office. Maybe when you have your summer break from
teaching school you could come visit me. I could send you money for a ticket."

"That would be very nice of you," she replies. "I love the United States, and
I could visit my handsome Stevie, make him know that not all women are like
his ex-wife. Maybe I could make him happy, make him forget ex-wife."

Well, I'm sitting in front of the computer screen, getting a hardon already.
This is the best twenty-five dollars I ever spent, ten times better than any
two porno videos I could buy with twenty-five dollars. This could be the real
thing.

So a Tuesday morning in June found me at O'Hare International Airport at the
arrival gate waiting for the 747 to arrive from Moscow. I was a little
anxious. I was a little nervous. After all, how often do you import a woman
from a foreign country with salacious intent. My intent, not hers. Well, maybe
hers, hopefully. How nice if we both wanted to be salacious. So here come all
those people dragging their asses down the exit ramp and I'm looking for the
young woman who resembles the photos she had sent me. I'm waiting and waiting
and then here come the Russian flight attendants and I realize I've been had
again. I sent Tara hundreds of dollars for her plane ticket. She's probably
sitting home in her Moscow apartment having a good laugh at my expense. She
probably plays this game with dozens of guys in the U.S. Boy, played for the
fool again. I turned away, dejected. I thought maybe foreign women played by
different rules. I should have known better. Women are the same everywhere.

As I slunk away from the reception area I heard a crash over to my left, near
the first class arrival gate. Some guy had run his baggage cart into a pillar
and spilled his load of crap all over the floor. His girl friend helps him
pick up his stuff and put it back on the cart. Damn good looking broad. Oh, I
guess she's not with him, she keeps coming. She keeps walking towards me down
the first class arrival ramp.

Funny, she looks something like the picture Tara sent me of herself, but this
woman is much more beautiful. Average height, not tall like a model, but
beautiful. She has a big smile on her face, like she knows she's got it. She
has a sexy role to her hips as she puts one leg in front of the other with an
out and in move to get one big calf past the other. I just have to stop and
gawk at her, my mouth open, as one seldom sees this much beauty collected all
in one place. But every other guy in the room is also staring at her so I
don't feel like an oddball. She keeps coming in my direction, still with that
big smile on her face. I suppose she wants directions to the luggage carousel
because all the signs are in English, none in Russian.

She goes right by me, turns around, says "Stevie?" I hate being called Stevie.
It reminds me of my childhood days. "Stevie, come give mommy a big hug," blah,
blah, blah. How does she know my name?

"Huh? Yeah, I am Steve," I answer. How does she know? "Who are you?"

"I Tara, you no recognize me?" she says, with a little pout.

Holy crap! This is the girl I bought a ticket for to come be with me? She's
gorgeous! She's got her silky blonde hair tied back in a ponytail so that when
she moves her head it swings back and forth sexily and she has the most
gorgeous radiant smile I've ever seen.

"Tara!" I exclaimed, stupidly. Then I just stand there, speechless.

Finally, she breaks the silence. "You OK, Stevie?"

Now I found my tongue. "Oh, yeah, sure, sure, but I didn't recognize you. The
pictures you sent me don't do you justice," I say, with some sadness in my
voice. I'm sad because I'm not a bad looking guy but I'm no match for this
beauty, she's out of my league. She needs an Adonis, not a Steve Anderson.
"You don't look twenty-five," I added. "You look twenty. You didn't lie to me
in our e-mails, did you?"

"No, no, Stevie," she says. "I twenty-five. You thirty? You look older."

"Oh, I'm just tired," I lied. "Did a lot of work getting ready for your visit,
you know. But you're like the last person to leave the plane," I say. "I
thought you would be coming out the coach class door. How come you came out
the first class door?"

"Pilot, he see me get on plane in Moscow," she giggled. "He say, 'Come sit
here in first class.' He sit with me all the way from Moscow to Chicago, he no
fly plane. Stewardess fly plane. Well, maybe co-pilot but she sit on co- pilot
lap, they have fun," she giggled. "Drink vodka. Good thing plane have
automatic controls.

"Pilot say to me, 'Why you go to United States?'

"I say, 'I visit friend.'

"He say, 'You no have to go to United States, you stay in Moscow, I be your
friend.'

"I say, 'If my friend like me maybe we get married.'

"He say 'You come back to Moscow with me. I Russian. You Russian. We good
match.'

"I say, 'No, Moscow too cold. I go to United States. Life better there. If my
friend no like me then I come back to Moscow.'

"He say, 'You come back to Moscow with me, I let you sit in cockpit, I let you
fly plane.' He nice pilot, no, Stevie? I think he like me," she giggled, and
then she continued her story.

"He say, 'I give you good life, baby. I divorce wife. She fat Russian pig,
anyway. I make you happy.'

"I say, 'I no break up unhappy marriage. I no home breaker.'

"He say, 'I tired of old bag, anyway. You some looker.'

"I want to put him off, so I say 'I try America, I meet Stevie. If no work I
get on plane with you later, fly back to Moscow.' But I no break up marriage.
Not me. He find other Russian girl. I try make life in United States with
Stevie. He good man, I hope," she added.

For this beauty I had to build myself up. "Yes, I am a very good man," I said.
"Women don't appreciate a good man in the United States. I'm sure you have
different and better values," I added, hopefully.

"You nice to Tara, Tara be nice to you," she said, with a little hip toss that
promised a lot. "Not like Russian man, make me work hard, have lots of babies,
not even buy me clothes, not even shoes," she laughed, as she stuck a foot out
to emphasize the point that she had on a beautiful pair of brand new shoes,
pointing her toes right and left so I could admire her taste. I'm sure the
shoes were purchased for her trip to America, but I wasn't looking at the
shoes so much as I was looking at her calf. This was the biggest damn calf I
had ever seen, man or woman. It was wide and it looked hard. Very hard. Now
some women have big calves but it's mostly fat and shapeless. The shape of
Tara's calf could be right out of an anatomy book. Or a body builder's book.
An 'I can only wish' body builder's book. Somehow, I, who had no interest in
muscles on girls, felt an erection beginning in my pants. Maybe it was because
all those curves on her leg made the leg look sexy as hell. Or maybe it was
the shoes.

But sticking her foot out like that also hiked her skirt - I love short skirts
on women - my, my, that's quite a bit of definition on her quadriceps muscle
there on top of her leg, and as she's turning her foot at the ankle so I can
admire her new stylish shoes I'm also getting a peek at some very defined
cable-like muscles running up and down her rather large thigh, jumping in and
out under her skin as she turns her foot this way and that way. I'm thinking
this is a rather fat looking leg, it looks like the size of mine, or even
bigger - silly thought - as my penis is pressing harder and harder against the
fabric of my pants. What a dichotomy. Her big musclely freaky looking leg is
turning me on like I've never been turned on before. Maybe I'm just horny. I
think I need another visit to my psychiatrist. "Oh, my girl friend has thighs
that are twice the size of mine, but it's because of her big leg muscles. Her
calves must be like twenty inches around, so that must make her thighs like
thirty inches." I think he would probably commit me to the loony bin right
then and there. Anyway, it's probably my astigmatism causing me a distorted
view. I think I may need my eyeglasses changed.

"Very nice shoes," I mumble, trying to regain my composure and suppress my
erection. "You get them in Moscow?"

"Yes," she says. "Russia getting very hip, but I think I like Chicago better."

"I hope so," I said. "Would you like to go down to the luggage carousel and
get your bags?"

"We go," she said, gaily. She took my hand in hers and hand in hand we
descended down to the luggage carousel, her with a little skipping gait,
something like a young child who was so happy over winning some kind of prize,
me with a triumphant look on my face as I noticed other men stop and stare at
this beauty who was holding my hand so tightly, as if I was the last man in
the world and she didn't want to lose me. She was kind of leaning up against
my left arm as we walked, and I could feel her large firm right breast
pressing up against me. This should be fun, I thought. It seemed much more
than I had hoped for. In our e-mails I had been rather discrete; I didn't want
to offend as I realized Russian morals were a little more reserved about
things like weight, bust size, and all those personal things. All I knew was
that she was five feet five inches tall and liked sushi. I never pressed on as
I didn't want her to think I was some kind of lecherous American whose only
interest was her body, even though I was a lecherous American interested in
her body. But I was also interested in a long term relationship with a finally
successful marriage as the end result. I knew she was good looking from her
picture, but then sometimes pictures are deceiving. Her picture could be five
years old, or of some good looking friend, you never can tell. So I was
pleasantly surprised, but I didn't expect to be this surprised. She was
absolutely gorgeous and probably stacked beyond belief. Who cares if she had
muscular calves? Who cares if she has musclely thighs? I don't have to make
love to her calves. I might make love to her musclely thighs though. I'm a
boob man anyway. My penis was already anticipating the delights to be coming
my way.

So we head down to the luggage carousel to get Tara's bags. She says, "I only
bring two. Thank goodness she's not a clothes hog. I let her pick her luggage
off the carousel because she can recognize which are hers.

"Oh, there one," she says, and grabs it off and swings it behind her while she
looks for her second bag. I pick up her first bag to put it out of the way.
That is, I try to pick it up. My, I must be really out of shape. I think I may
have wrenched my right arm out of its socket. The bag is so heavy I can't
believe it. I glance at Tara to make sure she's not looking - she's not, she's
looking for her second bag - so I slide her first bag along the floor with my
foot and out of the way. Even sliding it isn't easy. So here comes Tara
carrying her second bag. It's bigger than the first one but it seems real
light the way she's carrying it.

"That one is bigger so I'll carry it for you." Maybe she can wrestle with the
first heavier one and I won't look like a wimp.

"Oh, no," says Tara. "This one heavier. You take first one, it lighter." The
second one is even heavier than the first one?

Then she has a good idea. "I carry both," she says. "That way Tara be
balanced," she giggles. "You lead way."

Well, after failing to pick up the first bag and having to slide it with my
foot I decide maybe she's more used to carrying her bags. "OK," I say, and I
lead the way to my car in the parking lot. Now it's pretty far because parking
close at O'Hare Airport is never easy. But Tara doesn't seem to be having any
problems. I'm walking beside her and I'm getting these dirty looks. Here's
this small five foot five inch girl who looks twenty years old carrying two
heavy looking bags and this six foot guy is walking beside her making small
talk. The women are glaring at me and the guys are turning around to stare
after this gorgeous blonde and it wouldn't surprise me if one of them comes
over to carry her bags, but no one does, thank God. But the stares make me
feel pretty guilty.

"Let me carry your bags," I say.

"Oh, no," she answers. "Stevie maybe hurt himself. I want Stevie to stay
healthy. Tara have plans for Stevie," she giggles. Now what the hell does she
mean by that?

We get to my car - I open the trunk and she easily lifts the first bag - the
one I couldn't pick up - up and over the bumper and into the trunk. Then the
same with the second bag. So I open the passenger side door for her and she
gives me this great big smile and says, "Oh, you gentleman. In Russia men let
women open own doors." Well, I'm happy. Score one for me.

I get in the car and we drive off to my home. As I'm driving I'm stealing side
glances at Tara. Her hair is tied back in a pony tail which is very appealing.
Also, it makes her look younger, like twenty. Here I am with a twenty year old
looking girl and I told her I'm thirty and I'm really thirty-five. What are
people going to think? Well, who cares? What counts is how we feel about each
other, and so far she thinks I'm a gentleman. Which I am, of course. Her
thighs look a little heavy but I guess that's par for the course for Russian
girls - lots of potatoes for lunch and dinner, you know. But I'm really
pleased about her chest, what I can see. I'm guessing, but I figure maybe a
forty D, hopefully. Maybe double D - a lot for a girl only five feet five. But
it looks in proportion on her because she's got pretty wide shoulders.

We really never got into that stuff when we were e-mailing back and forth. I
figure most foreign women, other than the French, you can't ask them outright
what size is your chest? "So I'd e-mail, "How tall are you? What color is your
hair? What color are your eyes? You like shoes?" We didn't get into more
personal stuff. I was hoping she would volunteer. I wasn't looking for a 32A.
Still I figured that could all wait until she got here.

I'm making small talk on the way to my Chicago suburb home. "So you like the
United States?" I ask.

"Oh, yes," she says. "Men all very nice, treat me good when I here."

Well, I can see why. Even in a country of fashionable, pretty women she's
going to stand out.

"You told me in your e-mail you've been to Chicago before," I say.

"Yes, one time. Very nice. Pretty lake," she says.

"Since you're a teacher, did you come to the United States for teacher
seminars?" I ask.

"No," she says. "Teacher meetings I go in Russia. I come here for gymnastics."

"Oh," I said. "You were a chaperone?" I know the Russians keep a pretty close
watch on their athletes. They don't want them defecting.

"No," she says. "I competitor."

Competitor? Gymnastics? "No," I said, "if you don't mind my saying so, you're
... er ... you're a little too ... er ... heavy in the top, you know ... for
gymnastics."

"Oh, I not always this way," says Tara. "I smaller until I get to twenty. Then
I stop taking pills, not tell coach. I get bigger and bigger. Finally he say,
'You too big, not have good balance anymore. You off team.' I sorry to be off
team, but I happy I look more like woman. You like?" she giggles, and she
takes a deep breath, throws her shoulders back and sticks out her chest.

I practically run the car over the double line into oncoming traffic. I've got
an instant erection that's threatening to bust right through my pants. What's
worse is that she sees it, puts her hand on my erection, and says, "I see you
like," she chuckles.

Well, I come instantly. I've got an instant wet spot on my pants leg and she
says, "I see you really like," she giggles again.

So I guess now may be the right time to ask, although I don't know how she's
going to react, being European and all (but not French).

"I forty-four DD," she says. "Most Russian men like. Americans like?"

I don't want to look too eager. "It's OK, I guess," I say, noncommittally, but
I've got another instant erection, and damn if she doesn't see this one also.

"Ooohhh, American men like too," she says.

Before I can get any more embarrassed we arrive at my home. "OK, here we are,"
I say. I unlatch the trunk using the switch inside the car and before I can
get out to help Tara has already unloaded her bags from the trunk and she has
one in each hand, ready to go. My home is perched on the top of a hill, but
there's no road to the top so my garage is at the hill bottom. I have to climb
two flights of stairs to get to the top. I look at it this way. Climbing those
stairs is my exercise for the day.

"Here, let me help you," I say. "My house is up there on top of the hill so
the stairs are pretty steep."

"No problem for me," my intended - maybe - wife-to-be says. And she starts up
the stairs in front of me. She's a couple steps ahead of me so I'm staring at
her legs about even with where her calves are. I can't believe how big they
look. I thought I had pretty good size calves but mine are puny by comparison.
Remind me never to go to the beach with this girl. The diamond shape where the
calves split up the back is awesome. OK, I'm getting bold. "I can see your
calves are pretty big," I say. "They look pretty big for a gymnast. How big
are they?"

"Oh, fifty centimeters, or like you say in America, twenty inches. I think
maybe strong legs make up for having big chest, but coach he say no. He mean
man, but he boss. He very respected in Russia."

We were having this conversation on the first landing of my two flights of
stairs leading up to my home atop the hill. Evidently the architect knew
people would have a tough time getting up to the top all at once so he
designed a little rest area with a bench for people to stop and catch their
breath. It wasn't the most desirable location for a home but the trade-off was
a spectacular view of Chicago and Lake Michigan. I had sat down on the bench
to catch my breath, as I usually do, and I was still breathing hard after a
couple minutes, but Tara remained standing all this time and she was breathing
normally as if climbing the stairs had been a piece of cake. And she was
carrying both bags!

Tara was watching me as we talked and now she had a concerned look on her
face. Nice to know a girl who was thinking abut someone other than herself.

"You OK, Stevie?" she asked.

"Oh, yeah, sure," I mumbled. "I always like to stop here and admire the view,"
I lied.

"Tara help, you stand up," she said. What did she have in mind? I stood up,
and then I realized what she had in mind.

"No, no, I'm not going to lean on you, you're carrying those big bags," I
said, gallantly.

"No lean on me," Tara said. "Push me over. Tara carry you."

"What?"

Before I know what's happening Tara bends a little at the knees, puts her
right shoulder under my middle and stands up with me draped over her right
shoulder. Hell, this is some feat for a five foot five inch girl with a six
foot guy, but then she does a little knee bend again, picks up her two bags,
one in each hand, and with me draped over her right shoulder, she starts up
the second flight of stairs.

"Wh ... what are you doing? We'll both fall down the stairs and break our
necks!" I yelled.

"Stevie no worry," Tara says. "Stevie lightweight."

Six feet tall and two hundred pounds and I'm a lightweight? Russian girl
gymnasts must all be crazy! But I'm enjoying the view. The more I see of
Tara's muscular calves the more I'm getting turned on. And her flexing right
calf is practically bumping into my nose as I'm draped over her right
shoulder. From this angle it looks enormous. Well, no wonder she can carry me
like this. If her calf is this big I wonder how big her thighs are. But Tara
interrupted my musings.

"Stevie like ride," she giggled. "Stevie stick big boner in Tara shoulder!" I
realized that for the third or fourth time since Tara arrived I had another
enormous erection. "Stevie like so much Tara do all the time. Maybe find other
things make Stevie happy!"

I can see this is going to be a very interesting visit with my new Russian
friend. What the hell had I gotten myself into?

End of Part One.

To find out what the hell Stevie had gotten himself into read part two of
"Mail Order Bride."