Page 23 of Triplets for the Russian Boss

Bonnie

Itry not to think about the other women that Kostin has probably entertained here, if he has a string bikini laying around for me to wear. I hardly think he’s running around wearing such a thing, but the image is still funny enough for me to entertain.

I slip the tragically small fabric over my hips, wiggling into it and snapping the matte black straps down against my skin. It squeezes me like a fucking ball of dough, which brings up a slight embarrassment over my less than model-thin figure, but I’ve learned to ignore the voices in my head telling me I’m not good enough. Working at a strip club was good for something, at least.

I’m not the skinny, perfect girl that men like Kostin seem to like, but that never stopped him before. I’m good enough, even if all that will come of it is a firm denial from yours truly.

My bare feet slap on the pale green tiles as I walk out of the changing room. Kostin is sitting in a lounge chair, tossing pineapple bits into his mouth in nothing more than a black speedo. I shouldn’t stare, but holy shit does he have a large package.

I’m eager to get into the water before he looks up and sees my tragically small bikini, but I’m also afraid that this thing will come off me if I make a run for it and dive into the water. It’s best to pace myself, but I shuffle a bit quicker as he lifts his head.

“Damn, is that Bonnie or an angel?” he asks, raising his thick eyebrows.

I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly an angel, but I can be a devil if you push me.”

“I’d like to find out,” he replies, tossing another chuck of pineapple into his mouth.

It takes everything in me not to sneak one last look at his bulge before I slip into the pool.

The water is cool, but it feels good against my flushed skin. I didn’t realize how hot I was – how hot Kostin made me – until I experienced the fresh water. I feel weightless, and relieved of the pressures that so recently held me down. Every movement is gentle and easy, and my body no longer feels like a burden.

I almost manage to forget about Kostin as I carefully swim laps in the pool, but I’m worried about the state of my swimsuit, and I don’t go to quickly. Kostin is always in my peripheral, watching and waiting for the moment it slips off into the water and displays my nudity.

He could’ve gotten that, if he had paid me enough at the club, but then he had to go and shoot Jerry. That means no tits and ass for Kostin, and honestly, that’s his loss, not mine.

I spring off the gritty cement on the side of the pool, using my legs to propel me in the opposite direction. I should be tired from work, but all this excitement has me coiled like a spring, and I’m glad to be able to burn some of it off before bed.

Kostin, on the other hand, seems completely content sitting on the sidelines, eating, while I swim. To him, this has been a normal night, and the show he’s receiving is the highlight. He’s enjoying the evening, while I’m left to sort through my feelings without support.

Somehow, his indifference makes this more bearable. His stoic attitude is like a thick log in the forest, perfect to lean on and use for shelter. I almost wouldn’t want to leave it, to continue my journey back to civilization, but I have three incentives waiting at home for when my three months are over.

For now, I try to forget about how bad things have gotten. Swimming is the only positive thing that can take my mind from the constant stress it’s been under. Anything else must be negative, like drugs or kisses from a Mafia Boss.

I shudder as I swim, goosebumps rising on my skin under the water. I’m glad that Kostin can’t see them, or he’d be stroking my arms, running those thick fingers up and down my flesh as he tried to encourage more bumps to come out. Then, he’d know I’m pathetic next to him, fully willing to undress and let him have me if he really wants it.

I don’t want him to know. He’s done it before with such ease that I’m terrified he’ll finally remember and claim me, over and over again. I can’t imagine falling for him like that, being bent over every piece of furniture in this building and fucked like it’s the only thing I’m good for.

To him, it would be. He’s an objectifying piece of shit, but that’s what makes it so damn good. Why is it that the most disrespectful men are the ones who can make you feel the most alive?

I begin to grow tired, and I’m ready to cover my body in a towel to keep Kostin’s hungry eyes off me. I’m not in nearly as good shape as I was when I was swimming every day, but it feels good to be back at it.

I climb out of the water, feeling a sudden rush of heat from somewhere above me. The pool water isn’t heated, but the rest of the room is, making it surprisingly pleasant to be walking around in so little. I have to assume this room was built with that intention.

“You have a body to die for,” Kostin says, standing up from the plastic lounge chair and placing the little white plate down on the armrest.

“That body needs a towel,” I reply, as I walk up to him. Water rolls down the inside of my thighs as I wait for his response, but he takes his time giving it. He wants to observe me, to wrap his eyes around my flesh like ropes and bind me with his lustful stare.

“Hey, my eyes are up here,” I remind him as his gaze sinks into the ridiculous amount of cleavage this bikini provides.

“Right,” he mutters, taking another few seconds before he’ll look at anything but my breasts.

I sigh, looking around for a towel, but there is none that I can see in this room. “I need a towel,” I repeat.

“Yes, of course,” he says, reaching under the chair and brandishing a small white one. “What else shall we get into tonight?”

I take it from him, letting it unfurl in front of me to hide some of my body. It’s too small to wrap around me, which again, I believe to be intentional. Kostin knows how to steer people into doing what he wants them to do. It’s how he got me here in the first place. I wouldn’t even be surprised if he killed Jerry just to get me to his headquarters.

“I’m not looking to get into anything else tonight,” I say, keeping my voice as stern as I can. “I’m exhausted.”

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