Mail Order Bride – Part Four
By Wanderer
My new Russian friend.


Copyright 2006 by Wanderer

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

We had a nice, quiet wedding. We scheduled it pretty quickly because the
Immigration Service frowns on extending visas without some definite
arrangement for marriage. And it was number four for me so I would have
preferred a civil ceremony, but it was the first for Tara and I didn't want to
deprive her of the opportunity to have her day. She got a beautiful white
wedding gown and she looked absolutely gorgeous We made sure to get long
sleeves so we could hide her bulky upper arms but there was no way to hide the
width of her shoulders capped off by her powerful deltoids or the solid
trapezius muscles running up her neck. Anyone who made mention of it I
explained that Tara was a very well conditioned athlete from Russia. Most of
my friends let it go at that. Actually there weren't a lot of people at the
wedding to ask questions. Tara didn't know anybody in the United States so I
invited her father and Tara's stepmother from Russia for a visit - Tara's
mother had been killed in that auto accident, of course - and I paid for their
transportation. Tara thought that was a generous gesture on my part. I was a
little embarrassed to invite people from my office to my fourth wedding but I
did invite a few of my closer friends who knew my circumstances and wouldn't
be too critical of me. "Oh, there goes wife number four, I wonder how long
she'll last. Do you think he's picked out wife number five yet?" No, this was
it for me. If number four didn't work out there sure wouldn't be a number
five.

We had a nice ceremony with flowers lining the aisle and with organ music and
all that stuff, and I even arranged for the organist to play a few Russian
melodies. We said our "I do's," kissed and ran up the aisle with people
throwing rice at us. I was glad to get it over with - after all, this was my
fourth time - but Tara, she's elated. She starts turning cartwheels on the
front lawn of the church. That caught the attention of a local TV station
camera crew doing a segment about pigeons and ducks living in the park across
the street. They turned the camera on Tara and they did a segment on her that
night which they titled "The Joys of Marriage." Well, my wife didn't end with
cartwheels. She starts doing a series of double forward somersaults - with
high heels on, mind you - her ankle length wedding dress forming this
billowing cloud around her as her body is rotating in the air. Then she does
backflips. It was spectacular and exciting and people started to gather around
the church lawn and applaud and yell encouragement. Brides often are not this
enthusiastic. Who is that woman? She was an instant sensation. How many new
brides do cartwheels and double front somersaults and back flips in high heels
on the church lawn immediately after saying "I do?"

Well, the last thing I wanted to do was stick around while my bride put on a
performance for the gathering crowd and for the TV camera. This was our
wedding night and I wanted to get to our honeymoon cottage, which in this case
was going to be my home because it was going to be a couple days before our
ship left Miami on our honeymoon cruise. So I grab Tara by the wrist, lift her
into my eager arms, and run towards the waiting limousine, carrying her sturdy
body pressed hard against my chest so she doesn't fall out of my arms.

But it was more than I anticipated. "My God, you're heavy" I whispered in her
ear as I struggled to keep her from falling out of my grasp. "I never asked
before. What do you weigh?"

"One hundred eighty-five. Muscle heavy. Stevie want me to carry him instead?"
she giggles.

"No way," I say. "This is easy for me!" Yeah, right. Why the hell didn't the
driver park his limousine closer? Five feet five inches tall and one hundred
eighty-five pounds and not an ounce of fat on her. I'm seven inches taller
than she is and I only weigh fifteen pounds more. No wonder I was having a
problem keeping her in my arms. But I managed to get to the limousine without
dropping her and we piled into the back seat. "Home, driver!" I commanded.
"And make it fast!" He knew what I meant and he took off like a shot.

But I couldn't wait. I mean after all I'm the man here, with all the rights
and privileges of the new husband in a male dominated society, and I'm going
to make damn sure all that good stuff comes my way. And the words "I do" put
me in charge of all that good stuff sitting right next to me and I can't wait.
I pull Tara onto my lap - at one hundred eighty-five pounds it wasn't easy -
and I'm working on those forty-four double D's. Just think, this is all mine
from now on!

All that work on Tara's boobs gets her as hot as I am, and when the limousine
driver stops at the bottom of my staircase we both pile out of the car as fast
as we can. I pay off the driver and we're both ready for a night of revelry.
And maybe tomorrow, too. Tara grabs me up in her arms, cradling me tight
against her bosom, and she runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time,
giggling all the way. Of course, I couldn't help laughing either because I'm
thinking finally, in my fourth marriage, I got it right. It didn't bother me
much that she was carrying me. She'd already done it a number of times,
sometimes as a joke since she had promised me she would do it the very first
time we climbed these stairs together, and sometimes she did it because I was
so looped from a night out on the town that I didn't think I could make it on
my own. Besides which I didn't know what the tradition was in Russia.
Obviously the bride doesn't carry the groom over the threshold (except maybe
in certain instances - some of those Russian women are pretty husky) but does
the groom carry the bride over the threshold in Russia? I decided it was no
big deal so I let Tara carry me up to the front door.

Tara stops at the door and says, "Obey?"

I said, "What do you mean?"

"Obey not in vows," she said.

"No it wasn't, that's kind of old-fashioned, and that phrase isn't used much
in the vows anymore. Besides which I know it won't be a problem for you to do
as I tell you, will it sweetie?"

But she ignored me. "Say now," Tara said. "Say obey."

Well, what the hell. I was expecting the best night of sex yet, so I'll humor
her.

"OK, I obey," I grinned. "Now you say it."

"Tara no say obey," she said.

Now I was confused. "I say obey, you no say obey?" I asked.

"No, Stevie obey Tara, Tara no obey Stevie."

"But why," I asked, even more confused. "It's only a silly old-fashioned word.
How come I have to say it and you don't?"

"Because Tara stronger. Avoid much fighting if Stevie learn at start he obey
Tara. Tara give orders, Stevie do what Tara say, save Stevie much pain and
grief."

Good heavens, what kind of marriage was this going to be? Was I going to be
jinxed again, for a fourth time? "No, no," I said, "marriage in the United
States equal. Husband and wife equal."

"In Russia I read that man in charge in United States, man stronger, tell wife
what to do, very bossy so many divorces. Tara stronger than Stevie so Tara
tell Stevie what to do. Stevie obey, then no divorce."

This was a turn of events I hadn't foreseen. I was taller, I was heavier, I
earned the money, it was my home, I expected to make the rules even if I
wasn't stronger than Tara. But she couldn't punish me. Oh, I know, she would
do what all American wives do when they want to punish their husbands. "So
when I do something wrong and you want to punish me you won't give me any
sex?" I asked.

That made Tara chuckle as she held me still clutched against her expansive
bosom. "No, no," she said, "Tara punish Stevie, Tara not punish Tara. Tara
like sex with Stevie. Tara think of other ways to make Stevie behave."

"Well, then," I said, "if Tara's not nice to me then I will get even with
Tara. I won't give you sex!"

That made Tara laugh out loud. "You funny man," she said. "Look, you have big
boner for Tara already and we not even in door yet. I like that about Stevie.
Stevie always ready for Tara. I think I train Stevie. I say 1-2-3 and Stevie
be ready with big stiffie. If Stevie still say no then Tara rape Stevie. No
problem. And Stevie know Tara can do it, too."

Well, it was true. I already had a big erection and we weren't even in the
door yet. And the way Tara would maneuver my body when we had intercourse,
throw me around, pin me down, even hold my two hands over my head trapped in
one of her own, I knew she could force me into sex as long as I had an
erection going, and I hadn't failed to have one yet when I was in her
presence, or even at my office when I started thinking about what was waiting
for me at home. I'd have to think of some other way to make her behave.

So I didn't want to stand outside and argue all night long about who would be
boss. I wanted to get the evening's festivities under way. My boner was
beginning to ache. So I said, "OK, Tara boss, Stevie obey Tara. It's cold out
here. Can we go in now?"

Tara laughed. "Stevie good boy. Make Tara happy. Stevie do what Tara say,
Stevie not get hurt. Tara feel bad if have to discipline Stevie, but it for
Stevie's own good, make marriage last."

Well, I know it was just talk, and the only thing hurting me now was my
erection trying to pop through my trousers. Tara soon took care of that and we
had a night of glorious sex, the best yet, because now that we were man and
wife all the bars came down and we went at it tooth and nail. Tara is so
strong that even at her most playful it's almost like rough sex and when she's
in the throes of an orgasm I was worried for my safety. You know, broken ribs
and stuff. But what a night!

We took a break around 11:00p.m. and so we turned on the TV in the bedroom to
watch the news. The newscaster was saying, "We showed this film clip at
6:00p.m. of a bride celebrating her marriage. She's doing cartwheels, forward
double somersaults, back flips, all Olympic quality, perfect tens. Since six
o'clock our station has been flooded with calls from people who want to see
the film clip again and want to know who she is. Well, we found out who she
is. Her father is in Chicago, visiting from Russia, to attend his daughter's
wedding, and he spoke to us through an interpreter. She is Tara Kolinsky,
winner of three gold medals at her last international competition, and now the
wife of Steven Anderson, prominent stock broker - when did I become prominent?
- here in Chicago. Welcome, Tara, and best of luck to you and Steven!"

I was speechless. I knew Tara was a gymnast, that she told me.

And I knew she had to be a good one, she was so damn double jointed and
flexible in bed, but three gold medals? "That's you!" I screamed at her.
"Three gold medals? Why didn't you tell me! My God, we won't get a moments
peace! The phone calls and TV interviews are never going to stop! A winner of
three gold medals living here in Chicago! You're a celebrity!"

Tara was starting to sniffle. "That why I no tell you," a tear forming in the
corner of her eye. "Gymnastic competition part of old life, part of life in
Russia. Tara no more gymnast. That old glory. Tara want to make new life, here
with Stevie, here in United States. Please, you no be mad at me. Tara make you
good wife. You see. You be proud of me because I good wife, not because I win
three gold medals." Well, I couldn't think of a better new goal for her.

People kept flooding the TV station with calls. They wanted to see the
champion gold medal gymnast celebrating her marriage on the front lawn of the
church over and over again. In high heels, yet. That woman - now my wife - had
a team gold medal, another in floor exercises, and the third on the uneven
parallel bars. I didn't know any of that. I had married a celebrity.

But it turned out it wasn't all bad though. When we got back from our
honeymoon everybody at the office was slapping me on the back and
congratulating me. The president of the brokerage firm had assigned me a new
office instead of a cubicle, and I had a new name plaque on my desk. It no
longer said "Steve Anderson, Broker." It now said "Steven Anderson, Vice
President." And I had hundreds of telephone and e-mail messages waiting for
me. Turns out everyone wanted to do business with that prominent stock broker,
the one that married that gymnastic world champion gold medal winner. My new
wife was a magnificent asset. She was beautiful, luscious, strong, sexy, and
her instant notoriety doubled my income in a matter of days. I'm the same guy.
I'm not any smarter. The only smart thing I did was to marry an international
champion gymnast with three gold medals to her credit, and I didn't even know
she was a gold medal winner when I said "I do." Win some, lose some, win some.

End of Part Four.

In Part Five we look in on our love birds to see how they're doing.