Mail Order Bride, Part Five By Wanderer Stevie thinks it might be time to return his mail order. Copyright 2007 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. To my readers: I want to apologize to you for the time it has taken me to submit Part Five of this story. Usually, if I have more than one part to a story I run them closer together. After I submitted Part Four my Windows XP computer crashed. The repair guy said it wasn't worth fixing so I bought an Apple iMac. Well, it isn't easy to learn to use a different operating system (It wasn't easy for me, anyway). In case you need to refresh your memory Parts One to Four can be found on the Wanderer bookshelf. And now, Part Five. It was better than I expected. When I mentioned sex to my first three wives they always acted bored and then developed headaches. Now I was awakened each morning by Tara nibbling on my ear or kissing my neck, or on top of me, pressing my body into the mattress. She was only five feet five inches tall but she weighed one hundred eighty-five pounds due to her amazing musculature. Next thing I knew I was inside her and brought to orgasm. Well, after that expenditure of my energy I just wanted to sleep. So Tara would carry my tired body into the shower, prop me up against the wall with one hand while she soaped me down with the other. Then she would pick me up in her very muscular arms, turn me this way and that way so the running water would wash the soap off my body, and then dry me off with a big fluffy bath towel. She practically had to dress me as I was pretty well drained physically since sex with Tara was pretty much the equivalent of an Olympic competition. About the only thing I did was to tie my shoelaces. "I go make breakfast for Stevie," Tara would say. "Nice hot coffee, Stevie go to office, be big shot," she giggled. By the time I got downstairs there would be a nice hot breakfast and steaming hot coffee to get me going. Tara was a human dynamo. Do you think she went back to bed after getting me on my way? Hell, no. She would clean the house, then watch the morning cooking shows on TV, order the food from the market, work out with the weight sets in the afternoon, and cook up the fancy dinners she had seen prepared on TV by some famous chef. When I walked in the door, exhausted from another day at the office and the morning sex orgy, if she was downstairs and not up in the bedroom working with our weights, she would pick me up and carry me up the stairs to our bedroom, give me a good screwing, and then bound down the stairs and get that night's dinner set up while I took a short nap to recover some stamina. We would have dinner and afterwards sit in front of the TV set and snuggle, and when she felt I was ready (she was always ready) she would pick me up again, carry me upstairs to our bedroom and we would have another round of sex and blissful sleep would descend on me until the next morning when we would do it all over again. Don't get me wrong. I'm not complaining. She was a five foot five inch powerhouse. She never tired. I guess all those years in gymnastics had built up endurance beyond description, and after the first three duds who had been my wives this was a welcome change. I didn't have to do much. Tara would do all the work. She would get on top of me, move my body around, every once in a while put me on top so as to salve my ego, and when I was on top of her she would enclose me within the powerful grip of her vice-like thirty inch thighs until I had to beg, "Please, Tara, my ribs are bending!" She would giggle,"Oh, Tara not know own strength! Not want to hurt Stevie. Stevie my baby!" Somehow this powerful little girl throwing me around in bed like I was a little baby made me feel like a little baby, but hey, who's complaining? Baby or not, tired or not, I was having so much fun I couldn't wait to get home. If Tara wasn't waiting for me downstairs then I knew she was upstairs in our bedroom working out. I would take my coat off as soon as I got in the front door, drop it, and my tie was gone before I got halfway up the stairs to the bedroom. Generally I managed to drop my shirt before I got to the bedroom door, and I was working on my belt and pants zipper as Tara saw me walk into the bedroom. It always made her giggle. "Stevie very messy boy," she would say. "Tara work hard all day to make house nice and clean. Stevie mess up in thirty seconds. Stevie should be neat. Tara not happy. One day Tara teach Stevie right from wrong." Well, it was probably true. After having three wives come to my home and then dump me I wasn't exactly in the mood to be Mr. Neat and Clean. I would drop stuff on the floor wherever I removed them and I never bothered much about where things were supposed to go. Each of my wives complained about that but I figured it was a wife's place to pick up after her husband and I didn't see why things should be different with wife number four. But we would forget about all that when I would walk into the bedroom, see Tara's muscles pumped up with blood as she went through a couple hours of her daily training routine, and she would grab me around the waist and lift my feet off the floor in a bear hug, I think partly because she was so glad to have me home and partly to intimidate me. The bear hug was nothing compared to when she decided to include me in her workout, especially when I would come in and she was doing the military press. One hand on my neck, one hand on my crotch (I think on purpose), and before I knew it I was floating up over her head. Now I know my two hundred pounds was nowhere near her limit when it came to the overhead press so I knew she just wanted to remind me who was boss. How could I forget? On our wedding night she had tricked me into promising to obey, and without her reciprocating. Well, no big deal. I was the American male, the home provider, the breadwinner. I figured it was just a matter of semantics, anyway. When Tara was holding me over her head, bringing me down to eye level, then pressing me back up again I wasn't thinking much about semantics, I was thinking about those gorgeous forty-four double D's. Man, with me up over her head with her full arm extension her chest was inflated beyond all reason. I couldn't even see the floor, her boobs were sticking out that far. And with her workout low cut leotard on it was fascinating for me to be staring down into her deep cleavage. And this was all mine. Up, down, up, down. She would do ten reps, but she had such stamina (not to mention such big biceps and deltoids and trapezius) I sometimes wondered if she could do a hundred. Almost invariably she would finish the presses, pull me down into her muscular arms while I would run my hands over her inflated biceps and she would carry me over to the chair in the bedroom, sit down with me in her lap and start making love to me. Well, I would respond to her touch so quickly it was only about thirty seconds later that we were on the bed, screwing. Could life get any better? But I could tell Tara was getting a little annoyed with me. "Stevie, I love you, but please help. Try to be neat boy. Pick up clothes. Put top back on toothpaste. Hang up bath towel. No? Please, make home look better. Please? Tara keep house nice, but Stevie need to help. If he help a little he appreciate what Tara do more." "OK, OK," I would say, but I never did much. I went to work, I brought home the paycheck, the home was in my name, she could do all the little crap around the home, I figured. Unfortunately I figured wrong. One day, after I had come home and thrown my clothes all over the floor, Tara said to me, "Stevie no listen to Tara. Tara ask Stevie to pick up clothes, be neat. Stevie no obey Tara like he promise on wedding night." Well, that made me laugh. "Yeah, Tara, you tricked me good. I obey, you no obey. What kind of deal is that?" "Tara say have to punish Stevie if he no obey. Tara running out of patience with big lout of a husband." Well, I was big. I was six feet, but I wasn't a lout. "Back off, Sweetie. I may not be the neatest guy in the world but I'm not a lout. Be respectful or I'll have to give you a good spanking," I said in jest. But Tara took me seriously. There's no accounting for the Russian sense of humor. "Tara try hard," she said, "but Stevie not listen. Tara run out of patience. Stevie right. Spanking good idea. I happy Stevie think of it." So Tara comes over to me, puts my right hand in a hammerlock behind my back so that I'm bent over, marches me over to a chair, sits down and forces my body across her lap. Then, holding me helpless in her hammerlock, she undoes my belt, unzips my fly, and pulls my pants down to my ankles. Now my butt is sticking up in the air, protected only by my shorts, which she promptly rips off my ass. She says, "Tara sorry, but home must be run like Tara say, not what Stevie say. Stevie promise to obey, but not do. Tara not have choice. Gymnastics coach, if Tara not do what he say, coach spank me. Stevie not do what Tara say, Tara spank. Tara not want to beat Stevie up, give black eye or break bones; spanking best way. Stevie learn to do what Tara say or Tara hurt Stevie." And with that I got the worst spanking I ever got in my life. Now my mom and dad were old fashioned that way. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Time outs were a no-no, spanking was the way they went. But they never gave me the kind of spanking my five foot five inch bride gave me. The tears were rolling down my cheeks and I hadn't cried since I was maybe six or seven years old. I never even shed a tear when each of my three wives left me. But since Tara had just worked out her muscles her palm was being propelled onto my rear end by a twenty-four inch bicep and believe me, it left an impression on me. Not only was I physically hurt but all of a sudden it was like I was into another crummy marriage. I loved Tara but my psyche was in bad shape, tattered, in ruins. Each of my first three wives had taken pleasure in deprecating my self-esteem verbally, but none of them had been able to demonstrate physical superiority over me because they weren't physically superior. This small five foot five inch girl was physically stronger than I was, as she had just demonstrated. I could now see that she was determined to control my actions, and her physical superiority had just demolished my ego. Here I am, the typical American male, and my dear little wife is stronger than I am? She has bigger muscles. What the hell kind of a relationship is that? She's shorter, lighter, ten years younger, and she can beat the shit out of me? Where do we go from here? Well, to bed, and I felt better. She even let me get on top this time, as if she knew my ego had taken a beating. But unfortunately this first time spanking opened the flood gates. I guess in reality I'm not very good husband material. I do persist in doing things my way. I guess it's just my style. I don't mean to be uncooperative but being thirty-five years old I am pretty well set in my ways. Now you think maybe a five foot five inch tall girl spanking a big six foot two hundred pound guy she's not going to hurt him much. In fact, maybe it's just a little foreplay for most guys. But when the palm of the spanker is descending on the ass of the spankee propelled by a twenty-two inch bicep which has just been inflated to twenty-four inches by doing three sets of ten barbell curls with four hundred pounds, then it does leave an impression on one's rump. So it was not strange to hear my reply to Tara's question as she paused between swats to ask, "Stevie...(swat)...promise...(swat)...to pick up clothes?...(swat). "Yes...yes...honey...I will pick up clothes...honest...please stop!" "Oh, Stevie good boy now," she said. Tara lifted my body up and turned me around so that I was now sitting on her lap, not sprawled across her thighs, and she starts crooning a Russian lullaby to me and brushing my hair back from my forehead and giving me little kisses and nips on my neck. Well, when I was five years old and my mother spanked me I know I cried, and now that I'm thirty-five years old and my twenty-five year old wife spanked me it was deja vu all over again. The tears are rolling down my cheeks and I can't stop them. It's like the shame of being spanked by a little girl is too much. Maybe it's the frustration of three failed marriages, and it looks like my hopes for my fourth are going up in smoke. Even though I'm terribly embarrassed and my rear end hurts like hell Tara's little kisses and nibbles on my neck are getting to me, and with my pants down around my ankles Tara can see the effect she's having on me. My penis is growing longer by the second as it's caught between her thighs and her huge quadriceps as they're flexing back and forth, putting pressure on my penis as she counteracts the movement of my body against her legs from the pounding she's giving me. 'Ooohhh," says Tara," Stevie like spanking, Stevie kinky," she giggles. "Tara spank Stevie a lot more, make Stevie happy." Then she picks me up off her lap, carries me over to the bed, and I, who am hurting too much to move my rear end, she pretty much rapes me. And not once, three times. It was the best sex we had since Tara's arrival. Tara had misinterpreted my response. She had convinced herself spanking me was a good thing, and that I was pleased, regardless of what I would say to dissuade her. "Mmmm," she would say, "Stevie play coy. Play hard to get. Look at big erection Stevie get when Tara spank. Best sex yet. Stevie love it. Tara spank hard. Maybe two or three times a day," she giggled. And damned if ever;y time she spanked me I didn't get a raging hard-on, despite the pain involved. It was like I knew the sex to come would be spectacular and I was reacting to that and not the shame and embarrassment of being spanked hard against my will by a small girl. The second spanking came soon after the first. Football season had rolled around and we had just finished our Sunday brunch. Tara asked me to wash the dishes but I said no, I'm going to watch the football game on TV. Tara says wash dishes first, then watch TV (She didn't understand the importance of football to the American male). Tara showed a little temper for the first time. "Do now!" she ordered. My clever answer was "No!" Well, that was my second spanking. Regrettably the spankings became routine. If I came home late from work so that Tara's superb dinner preparations had to be altered I got a spanking. If Stevie didn't put the TV remote control back in its proper place Tara spank. It was great fun for her. Sometimes I would try to resist, but it was the same as it was when I was a five year old and my mother spanked me. It was useless to resist. Twenty-four inch biceps and thirty inch thighs topped my twelve inch biceps every time. She thought we were just role playing and nothing I said or did would convince her otherwise. My large erection said to Tara Stevie like this, regardless of my protestations. Spanking seemed like such a natural thing for her. It seems that in Russia parents still discipline their children with spanking. Timeouts are unheard of there. And her gymnastics coach did the same. Blow a routine, get spanked, even though by the time she was fourteen or fifteen she was probably stronger than he was. Her mother did it, her father did it, so what could be wrong with giving or getting a spanking? In the Russian culture, where Tara grew up, if you transgressed, if you did something wrong, you could expect to be spanked. Big deal. Sometimes the pain would become so great that the tears would come to my eyes and start rolling down my cheeks. At first Tara was astonished. "Why Stevie cry? When Tara perform bad and coach spank her she no cry. Is American way?" she asked. "Y...y...yes," I sobbed. "Americans cry easily. That way they show they're sorry." "Oh," Tara said. She turned Steve from the spanking position, sprawled across her thighs, and set him upright on her lap. She pulled his head down onto her broad shoulder and Steve's tears ran down into her cleavage as she soothed him. "There, there, Stevie, Tara now know Stevie sorry because he cry. Stevie be good boy, Tara no spank no more. Stevie be good boy now, obey Tara?" she asked. "Yes," I sobbed, "I'll be a good boy." "Oh, Tara so happy now, let Stevie lick tears from between Tara's breasts. Stevie like?" "Yes, Stevie like," Stevie said, brightening considerably. "See, Stevie be good boy, Stevie get big reward," she giggled. When I had pretty well tongued up my tears from Tara's deep cleavage Tara brought my head up to where she could kiss me, holding my head steady with her left hand behind my neck. She filled my mouth with her tongue, then, satisfied with the kiss, she rose from the chair with me cradled in her arms and carried me to the bedroom. "Tara get, how you say, horny. Stevie such a good boy, obey Tara, Stevie get big erection." I knew I had one. I didn't have to see it, I could feel it pressing against the fabric of my pants. "Stevie promise to be good boy. Tara make Stevie happy now," she giggled. "Make Tara happy too," she laughed. I spent more and more time at work standing instead of sitting at my desk because my ass was so sore. "Co-workers would say to me, "Why are you standing?" "Nervous energy" was my lame excuse. Then I had a bright idea. I could bring Tara's father and stepmother over to the United States - they had returned to Russia shortly after the wedding - and maybe that grand gesture might mellow out my disciplinarian. Tara was home all day alone, and even though she kept busy with cleaning the house and cooking and her heavy workout schedule I knew she was getting pretty lonely. There was no Russian community or any Russian speaking people around for her to bond with. So I surprised her. I brought her father and stepmother from Russia for an extended visit. God, was she surprised. She kissed me and hugged me and picked me up onto her right hip and her father onto her left hip and she's dancing around and twirling around holding both of us on her hips at the same time. What a hoot! They're chattering away at each other in Russian and then I'm beginning to think maybe I made a mistake. Now I'm the one who's feeling lonely. I'm being ignored. It used to be that when I came home I got Tara's undivided attention, even though sometimes her undivided attention involved a good old-fashioned spanking. Oh, well, papa-in-law and mama-in-law are only going to be here for six months, I guess I can tough it out. But slowly I began to have nagging doubts. On the one hand Tara was beautiful, she kept the home spotless, the sex was great with this athletic babe, better than I had with my three ex-wives combined. But what did I really know about her? She is the product of an entirely different culture. Won't being disciplined by spanking get old pretty quick for me, even if the comforting in Tara's muscular arms and the sexual intercourse that followed afterwards was phenomenal? And how about my ego? Was I slated to always be second fiddle in my own home? Of course I was. I could never be as strong as my small wife. I could work out from morning to night and my small twelve inch biceps would never grow to challenge her twenty-four inch guns. I had to accept that what she said goes. Her word was law. I would have to do anything that she told me to do if I didn't want to get punished. Was that any way for an American male to live? To be punished by a small Russian girl if I did anything to displease her? How can you live forever with a woman who can outmuscle you? What could the future hold for me? For us? A few months with a person wasn't long enough to be sure, especially if it was supposed to last until death do us part, the fourth "death do us part" for me. And Tara and her father and stepmother were always jabbering away in Russian and I began to worry. I said "Tara, when you and your father and stepmother are talking to each other in Russian are you talking about me?" "Oh no, Stevie, we talk about weather, family and friends at home, Russian politics, we no talk about Stevie." Oh, yeah? She forgot that Stevie in English also come out Stevie in Russian. They say "Blah blah blah Stevie blah blah blah Stevie." I started to get really worried. Suppose they're plotting to get rid of me, maybe poison me. As my wife, Tara would acquire everything - my home, my bank account, my car, my sizable stock portfolio, everything. And, as her closest relatives, her father and stepmother could stay in the United States, they wouldn't have to go back to cold, cold Russia.Then it struck me. They wouldn't have to risk poisoning me. One night Tara could just pick me up and throw me off the home balcony. The house was built on top of a cliff and the balcony hung out over a two hundred foot drop down to the garage level. It would look like an accident, especially if Tara and her father feed me a couple of vodka martinis before she throws me off the balcony. "Ooohhh," she could shed a few tears, "my poor Stevie, I loved him so much, boo-hoo, boo-hoo." Well, can you blame me for getting paranoid? I got jumpy. If a door slammed I would jump out of my skin. I absolutely refused to go out on our balcony. So I tried to explain it to Tara. "Look," I said, "you know I like you and I love you. That's why I married you. You're very pretty. You're a fantastic cook. You can get lids off jars that I can't. But I know you'll start to miss Mother Russia. You'll miss your friends. You'll miss your father when he goes back to Russia when his visitor's visa expires. You'll leave me just when I'm getting used to you, just like my first three wives did. By then I'll probably be too old to get another wife. I'm thirty-five years old now. I know, I lied to you. I told you I was thirty. I told you I was married once. I was married three times before I married you (I was hoping these grim revelations would help her change her mind about staying). Soon I'll be forty and with four failed marriages. Who's going to want a guy like me? Over forty and a four time loser. Maybe if you go back to Russia now I'll still have a chance to find an American girl I can hook up with. Your visa extension is going to run out soon and I can force you to leave by telling Immigration that you married me under false pretenses. I'll tell them you intend to divorce me as soon as your residency becomes permanent. Let's make this easy and we can always remain friends. We can even keep corresponding by e-mail. Wouldn't that be nice?" Tara looked at me unbelievingly. Her eyes welled up with tears and she fled to the bedroom and locked the door. That night, for the first time since Tara arrived in Chicago we did not sleep together in the same bed. Tara slept in the bedroom and I slept on the couch in the living room. I went to work with a heavy heart the next morning. After all, it was better to do it now than to wait until she had put down roots in the Chicago community. She looked so sad this morning, but she still got up and prepared breakfast for me, and that made me feel even worse. I left work early that day so I could get home and help Tara pack. I was hoping small acts of kindness on my part would make the parting a little easier. I tried to put on a cheerful front as I walked in the door. "Hello, Tara, I'm home," I yelled out with what I hoped was a cheery tone to my voice. So here comes Tara, a big smile on her face, rushing to greet me. She gives me a big bear hug, my little five foot five inch powerhouse, with her swelling biceps bulging the sleeves of her blouse, easily raises my two hundred pound body off the floor and dances around with me in her arms, hugging me so tightly I'm having trouble breathing. "I decide to no go home!" she declares. "Stay here with Stevie, make me happy, make Stevie happy too!" "No, no," I said, "you don't understand. The Immigration Service will take away your visa when I tell them I am dissolving the marriage!" Tara gets a serious look on her face. She puts me down on the floor and puts both hands under my armpits and lifts me up again off the floor, very easy for someone who can curl two hundred pounds single handed, puts her right foot up on a nearby chair and sets me down on her right thigh. Now she knows this is one of my favorite positions. When she does that she always flexes her quad and I get a ride up and down and I can feel those muscle bundles moving under my ass and my penis is in contact with the quads and the friction drives me wild. But this time I'm not going to let her get to me. I've made up my mind and that's it! "No, no, Tara, it's no use!" I say. "You need to go back to Mother Russia! Your friends will miss you, your father will be retuning to Russia when his visa runs out and he will miss you and you will miss him - pretty soon you'll be begging me, 'Oh, Stevie, please bring father to United States again, I miss him so much! Also bring stepmother, like good husband.' Then I will have to support them, just like I support you. They can't support themselves. They don't even speak a word of English!" But Tara was determined. She thought maybe more persuasion would help. "Stevie like sex on Tara thigh? Stevie get big penis," she giggled. "Stevie want more sex? Here, Tara be good wife to Stevie!" While I'm sitting on her thigh she reaching down and unzipping my pants. Out pops my boner - even if I've decided she's going home I'm still reacting to her - and she puts both hands on my waist and lifts me straight up in the air off her thigh and pops my erection into her mouth. Now she hasn't done that before - we've so far always gone hot and heavy into the main event, the intercourse, and now I find out her mouth and her tongue are absolutely fantastic! Damn! I'm practically on the verge of changing my mind to send her home, but I steel myself - that is, after I come into her mouth. "No!" I say. "It's best that you go! In a year you'll be sorry you didn't go! Leave now!" Tara gets the saddest look on her face that I've ever seen on a human being. She puts her right leg back up on the chair and sets me back down on her thigh. Well, maybe I can come again, this is one of my favorite positions, as I said. She likes this position also because she can look me right in the eyes and it just emphasizes her control and dominance over me, especially when she flexes her powerful peaked biceps right in front of my eyes, an implied threat to my continuing well being. "Tara no go!" she declares in a very firm voice that sent shivers up and down my spine. "Stevie go!" What does that mean? I'm not going to Russia, that's for sure! Tara puts her right hand up to my throat, keeping me firmly balanced on her thigh with her left hand, and starts to squeeze down hard on my larynx. I writhe violently, trying to dislodge her hand from my throat or my body from her thigh but this damn powerhouse is holding me immobile, like I was a small kid or something. Finally I get a few grunts out. "W...w...what...are...you...doing?" I croak. "That...hurts!" "Tara already tell you," she says. "Tara stay, Stevie go. Stevie go bye-bye." "You don't understand, Tara...(gasp), I belong here...(gasp)... this is my home, it's registered in my name, I pay the property taxes...(gasp)... you don't even have an income, you can't even buy food if I move!..(gasp..gasp). "Stevie no move, Tara not move, Stevie go bye-bye!" Tara said. As Tara's pressure on my throat increased and I was beginning to black out all of a sudden I understood. "You...you're...going to kill me?" I gurgled. "I'm not going to let you do that to me! Now get your hand off my throat!" I tried to swipe her hand away but her grip was too firm. From my position sitting on her thigh I can see the enormous swelling of her right sleeve as her bicep expands with the effort of shutting down my windpipe. No way is the feeble effort of my twelve inch bicep to make her loosen her grip going to have any effect on her monstrous twenty-two inch bicep! I felt really bad for Tara. She was an emotional Russian, but I had never seen her cry like this before. The tears were just streaming down her cheeks. "Goodbye, Stevie, Tara so sorry for Stevie short life"...sob...sob. I couldn't let this go on. Tara would have a nervous breakdown. Of course, I wouldn't know it, I'd be dead. I was beginning to see shadows and blackness and my life was rapidly flashing before my eyes. How could such a small girl have such a strong grip? Well, I guess if you're going to do handstands on the uneven parallel bars you'd better have a strong grip if you want to stay in the handstand without rotating out of it. As my short experience with wife number four flashed in front of my eyes I decided I'd better do something - fast - if I wanted to live to see wife number five. I had one more card to play. "If you kill me...the police...will find you...and hang you for murder," I croaked. "Police no find Tara," she sobbed. "Twelve million illegal aliens in United States. Tara make twelve million and one. Police no find Tara after she kill Stevie." I could see the logic of her argument. I was screwed. I had lost the ball game. "OK," I gasped with my last remaining breath, "Tara...stay!" "And papa stay?" Tara asked. "Yes...papa stay," I croaked. "And mama stay too?" Tara asked. "Papa no stay without mama." "Yes, mama stay too," I managed. "And Stevie be good husband? Stevie work hard and support papa and mama and Tara?" My future was sealed. "Yes, Stevie support everybody, Stevie big sucker." "What that mean?" Tara asked, suspiciously. "Nothing," I said. "Just stupid American expression. Means Stevie sweet, like sucker." Well, Tara's tears stopped flowing, and a big smile spread across her face. "Stevie big sucker," she said, without knowing what that expression implied. She picked me up in her big rounded arms and carried me to our bed. She laid me down and repeated, "Stevie big sucker, make Tara happy, suck Tara now." And she climbed on top of me and placed her genitals right over my mouth. I made Tara REALLY happy that night. She got to stay in the United States. She was too strong and too dangerous for me to ever try to send her back to Russia again, against her will. Somehow I knew she would get me, one way or another. And I made application to the Immigration Service for papa and step-mama to stay in the United States, which was OK with the Immigration Service as long as I assumed financial responsibility for their welfare. But it wasn't all bad. Papa did the gardening around the house - he had a green thumb - and step-mama turned out to be a great cook, as long as you liked borscht. That left more time for me and wife number four. Who needs wife number five, anyway?