As Don reclined on the bed, chewing his tongue and staring at nothing, he couldn't help but admire the genius of how thoroughly Katya had fucked him.
In both senses, he thought wryly. He looked down at the massive rack he had groped at just a few hours before. It was still sticky from his cum. His eyes traced the faint blue lines of veins under the surface of the pale skin of his mammoth right breast. The dimples and goosebumps of his areolae stood out in shadow from the clear morning light through the hotel window. He had never spent much time inspecting Katya's body; their meetings had never lasted more than a couple of hours every few weeks and he spent every minute of that time fucking her brains out. He pushed his tits together to make cleavage then let them drop.
She certainly was a lot cleverer than he had given her credit for and her English must have been better than he had thought. She had stolen not just his body but his entire life. In the minutes after the spell had taken hold, when he had lain there immobile and terrified as Krystal got dressed in his body and flicked through the contents of his briefcase he had begun to put it all together. She must have made a copy of his diary in order to know that today of all days he would be visiting the American embassy for his visa renewal and so would be carrying not just his passport but his banking information and cash to bribe the Russian officials. She couldn't have picked a better time. He knew that she would be on a plane at this point, headed God knows where to start again. And here he was, laying on a sex-spoiled mattress in a cheap Moscow hotel, no longer rich, no longer American and no longer male.
He ran his fingers over his flat stomach. No longer old either. Or tied to his thankless job. And there was a reason he had spent so much money on Katya over any of the other escorts in Moscow. She was stunning. He felt a tingle down his spine.
Don sat up and looked around for his bra. Katya had definitely fucked him. But why did he feel so good?