Meeting Online Friend Neha From Baroda Gujarat 8211 Part 1
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The Baroda Pearls free porn video
A tale of war, murder, greed, lust and romance… and a famous string of pearls.
1/8
The tumultuous 20th century was fizzling out, like a spectacular fire-cracker spewing out the dying embers of its explosive payload. Sergei Androvich was enjoying a life of self-indulgent decadence at his luxury villa in Odessa, on the Black Sea. Like several other fabulously rich high-profile Russians, he had made a staggering fortune out of the collapse of the Soviet Union through cheap acquisition of state-run industries.
Androvich had become an obsessive collector of art and rare gems. His private collection would make any international gallery curator drool. Many pieces were unsaleable, notably the Raphael ‘Portrait of a Young Man’ — unseen by anyone for over fifty years since hanging in Hitler’s drawing room.
Another of his prized possessions was a necklace — a single string of 36 phenomenally large, equal-sized, perfect white pearls, selected from the famous Baroda Pearl Necklace owned once by a Gaikwad Maharaja, who squirreled it out of India to his love-nest in Monte Carlo before the end of the British Raj. Its ornate diamond clasp was fashioned and signed by Cartier.
One particular balmy evening, Sergei was entertaining a young lady at his villa. The girl was hand-picked by the escort agency he himself bankrolled. His plans for her would enable him to wallow in the obscene opulence of his own wealth.
He brought the necklace up from his basement strongroom, and fitted it around the naked girl’s neck. The pearls gleamed against her flawless olive skin, and danced in perfect step with her long lustrous black hair and hazel-green eyes. His fetishistic impulses would soon involve him kissing and caressing her neck, shoulders and breasts, using the pearls between his lips. Then, he would be twisting the string with his fingers as if to strangle the girl, and she would doubtless gasp as a result of the tightening tourniquet. Thus aroused by the perverted symbolism of the power of riches, he would indulge himself with her body, in simple animal lust.
Androvich broke into a leering self-satisfied smile, and began undressing himself. Seconds later, he lay dead.
He had no idea what hit him. The hired squeeze grabbed her clothes and fled, scared out of her wits. She was never again seen in the Ukraine. The tall, athletic, fair-haired assassin disassembled her rifle and slipped away, as stealthily as she had arrived, undetected by the estate’s security system, and reasonably confident that her contract had been honoured.
You cannot attain mega-tycoon status without making one or two enemies.
2/8
In what is now known as Kosovo, unspeakable atrocities were being committed on innocent civilians in the name of political ambition and ethnic ‘cleansing’.
John’s unit, part of the United Nations peace-keeping force, had for some weeks been patrolling the streets around Pristina, the main city. Things were relatively quiet, and there was a mood of optimism amongst both the residents, and the Albanian and U.N. troops who were encouraged to fraternise with the local people.
Despite living under a terrible cloud of danger and uncertainty, life went on, to some extent at least. People ate, drank, shopped, socialised, cheated on their partners, watched TV and argued about celebrities — all the things normal people do all the time. Many establishments stayed open for ‘business as usual’ — the oldest profession in the world, to mention just one.
On the edge of the Dardani district, just off the highway south towards Macedonia, was a brothel. Despite its all-encompassing name ‘Club Rotterdam’, it made no attempt to disguise what the entertainment was. And apparently there were no restrictions on what services could be made available, as long as enough dinars were forthcoming, or any other international currency, come to that.
John was a young man and it seemed a long, long time since he had been with any girlfriends back in the west. Local girls were notoriously difficult to get to know — the language barrier being the least of the problems. Albanian-Kosovan families robustly protected their daughters from troops of any kind.
Among the various multi-national agencies there was precious little available talent either, and those worth considering were generally too pre-occupied with some emergency to have time to socialise. Alice, one of the aid workers alongside John’s unit, he certainly found attractive. But she took her responsibilities far too seriously to entertain any thoughts of dalliance, and particularly not with anyone in the military, for whom she had declared herself off-limits on several occasions.
Other guys seemed to be flocking shamelessly to Club Rotterdam. Why shouldn’t John?
3/8
‘Am Tatiana. You like?’ There wasn’t much not to like about Tatiana, was John’s immediate opinion. She had youthful beauty, hazel eyes, a flawless olive complexion and a perfect figure. She was dressed in an expensive-looking black leather shirt-dress which accentuated her cleavage and rode high on her thighs. Simple slip-on heeled sandals emphasised the shapeliness of her legs. Flowing black hair glistened with a lustre which belied the war-torn environment in which she lived and survived. John was particularly impressed by the presumably cheap, white plastic bead necklace she wore. It provided such eye-catching contrast.
John was a soldier. He was ready to kill the enemy, but underneath, he was a good and conscientious person, always ready to make friends, and reluctant to take advantage of anyone. But when it came to a woman in black leather, he was a slightly different animal. Any woman thus attired just seemed to be saying to him, ‘Please fuck me.’
‘I like very much,’ John replied. ‘I am John.’
Tatiana remained impassive. ‘Want massage, in price pay. Want blojo 30 dinar extra, front hole 100 dinar, back hole 200 dinar. Bareback extra. You want?’
‘So, romance is not dead,’ thought John.
He actually wanted to slowly remove her shirt, fondle her breasts as they became more and more exposed, play with her nipples using his lips and tongue, slide his hand down the front of her panties, finger what he felt certain would be a smoothly shaven pussy — all manner of recognised foreplay activities, in fact. But how does one communicate that desire to a stranger who is probably working under duress, and whose command of the English language has progressed little further than ‘front hole’, ‘back hole’ and their associated worth in local currency? He would give it a try, though.
‘I want to make love with you… kiss you, feel you… run my fingers through your hair… stroke your fanny… squeeze your bum… strip you… lay with you… have sex with you…’
Tatiana was understandably reluctant to negotiate anything she didn’t fully understand. Pluckily, she strove to pin down John’s requirements: ‘Want fuck front hole? Tatiana good fuck. You like. Sure.’
‘Sure,’ sighed John, abandoning any more attempts to communicate. He counted out 100 dinars.
Two days later, Club Rotterdam was razed to the ground by Serbian communist tanks. There were no surviving occupants. Tatiana, or whatever might have been her real name, became another statistic in the ongoing horror story of man’s inhumanity to man.
4/8
John had been doing a stint at the misplaced persons centre they had rigged up in the City Hall. He found sharing the traumatic experiences of people desperately seeking their lost loved ones could almost be as stressful as dealing with the heat of battle.
A swarthy middle-aged man with a black moustache had approached him. He spoke English well, with an east-European accent. Had anyone seen his daughter? Her last known location was the Dardani district. John checked the lists. No, no one of that name. Could the man provide a description? Yes, he could — he had a photograph. John’s heart
sank. It was ‘Tatiana’.
At the temporary morgue, retrieved bodies and body-parts were photographed and roughly catalogued. There was neither time nor resources for much more detailed identification. John had already checked, and had not seen the girl there, although, distressingly, most of the exhibits were unrecognisable anyway. He reasoned it was better for the man to go there and verify it for himself, rather than being told that a soldier recognised his daughter because she worked in a knocking shop.
It was getting late. John headed off to his makeshift billet. A jeep pulled up alongside as he walked.
‘Get in,’ the single occupant, a tall athletic-bodied young woman called across. She wore the uniform of a U.N. Police Officer, her light-blue beret, with its ‘world map’ motif, perched jauntily over her cropped fair hair.
John was trained to be wary of stepping anywhere beyond his predefined route. He was therefore reluctant to do her bidding, even though an invitation like that from someone who personified sex-on-legs was hard to turn down. ‘And you are…?’ he cursorily checked.
‘Get in,’ she repeated, politely, but in a tone of diminishing patience.
Sheepishly, John got in. ‘Sorry, er… Officer. Just, I don’t get chatted up by too many women UNPOLs.’
‘Problem with that, Private Baines?’
She knew his name? Was he in some shit? But, hell, she was sexy, her piercing blue eyes looking as though she’d just breezed off a Hollywood film set rather than a dusty road pock-marked by shelling. ‘No problem, er… Officer.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Welcome to the modern world. Call me Nicky. Now shut up for a minute, I’ll drive you home.’
5/8
The UN had commandeered floors in several of the city hotels, and John was fortunate to have a small, though rather dingy single room to himself. ‘Welcome to the honeymoon suite,’ he quipped.
Nicky didn’t reply, but took a sheet from her attaché case. ‘Recognise this man?’ she asked, showing John the picture of a swarthy middle-aged man with a black moustache. John recounted his meeting with the man, who had claimed he was from Moldova.
‘And had you ever come across the girl in his photo?’
John wondered briefly whether Nicky’s wording was deliberately suggestive. ‘No,’ he replied, economising on truth.
‘You want to pull down your pants and show me your ass?’ Nicky asked, quite matter-of-factly.
John was momentarily taken aback. Ironically, that was the very question he had longed to ask her, but hardly dared to. ‘Shouldn’t we have a drink first, perhaps, Nicky?’ he tentatively suggested.
She produced another photograph from the case, continuing: ‘Only… I wanted to compare it to this one.’
John peered into the gaping chasm of his undoing — a hidden cam at the Club Rotterdam had captured him in flagrante delicto. There was no weedling out of it. John came clean about everything, feebly offering his excuse that he didn’t want the man to know about his daughter’s activities.
‘Very noble of you,’ said Nicky sardonically. ‘Now then, listen up. Your grieving Moldovan father is a Russian master-criminal, has no children, is a KGB hit-man and is wanted by law enforcement agencies world-wide. Did you not wonder why he spoke good English and his grown ‘daughter’ didn’t? You may even now be on his hit-list, so if you meet him again, shoot first and ask questions later, Ok?… was the girl any good?’
A stun grenade would probably have had the same effect. John tried to take it all in, but before thinking to ask what a KGB hit-man was doing in a UN controlled war-zone and what it had to do with a woman UNPOL officer, he observed Nicky unbuttoning her shirt.
She was clearly a devotee of the ‘girls on top’ principle, unbelting John’s pants, letting them fall with his shorts around his ankles, then shoving him backwards onto the chair. She completed stripping herself, then sat astride his lap, thrusting her breasts into his face. John, an athletic type himself, felt no urge to resist, deciding to take his chances of being ravished by the hottest of Amazons he was likely ever to get lucky with. ‘Make the most of it, mate,’ he said to himself.
Her assault briefly halted while she found and applied a condom, as he admired her natural blonde verification and a chunky horizontal clit-ring. She resumed the frontal assault, pushing her nipples in turn into his mouth and grinding her genitals against his. When she was good and ready, she took him by the hand, kneaded him to full firmness, and guided him in. Her energy was fearsome. John had no say in the timing. Anticipating his point of no return, she applied a vice-like grip on the tops of his shoulders, crushing what seemed like every nerve-end in his body, then orchestrated their simultaneous climax. John justifiably considered himself well and truly fucked.
As they dressed, Nicky said, ‘John, be a sweetie and pop down to the kitchen and get us a cup of green tea, with lemon and honey.’
John doubted the catering would stretch to it, but went as bid. And while he spent that time, she searched his room, and every bag, holdall and rucksack. She didn’t find what she was looking for, and neither could John find any green tea, nor his latest lover by the time he got back to the room.
6/8
Alice lost patience. ‘These people need fresh water, and they need it now, not tomorrow, not next week… get out of my way, I’ll fetch the fucking stuff myself!’ Alice could be very single-minded at times. She heaved the container onto her shoulder and strode purposefully across the tarmac strip towards the bowser.
‘Oh shit. Stupid woman,’ thought John — an opinion shared with just about everyone else at that moment. They shouted to her, but there was little anyone could do — she was in the open and a sitting duck for the sniper that had been spotted in the building opposite. ‘Hell,’ resolved John, ‘I’m going to do at least something gallant in my life. Probably get killed in the process… shit… now or never…’ and he ran.
He dived at her like he was back in his school rugby team, cutting off a try attempt by the enemy school’s speedy wing threequarter. The tackle was a bit high, but effective. They both hit the deck, painfully, and rolled. John managed to direct the roll so that they ended lengthwise in the culvert by a post at the side of the road. The high kerbstone gave them some cover from the sniper’s line of fire.
Alice fumed. ‘You idiot! You clown! What do you think you’re doing!? Will you please get off me this minute!’ She tried to sit up, using the wooden post to support herself. John immediately pushed her back down, smothering her in a most ungentlemanly fashion to stop her retrying. A split second later, the bullet from a high-powered Zastava sniper rifle shattered the five by five wooden post, at the height Alice’s head would have been. They both were showered in debris.
Alice gasped in shock and horror. Sometimes it takes such a near miss to remind us of one’s mortality, like falling asleep at the wheel and waking up bumping along the grass verge, rather than not waking up at all. She looked into John’s eyes — they were that close, there was little else to look into. She blinked.
‘Thanks for saving my life,’ she said calmly and collectedly, after coming to her senses.
‘Pleasure,’ said John, tersely.
‘And sorry I made you risk your own.’
‘No prob.’
‘What do we do now?’
‘Nothing,’ said John. ‘Just be patient. Snipers know that sooner or later their target will decide it’s safe to put their head up again. But he knows our guys will be trying to pinpoint where he is, so he won’t want to hang around forever. You’ve just got to out-stay him. Lay still. Keep calm.’
John was actually quite contented. He was finally atop Alice, whose parted legs had afforded him a snug position below the kerb-line, cushioned from the stone by her thighs. He had her shoulder
s pinned to the ground to stop her bobbing up again, and her torn uniform gave him a welcome view of her rather pretty lacy bra and the curves of her breasts.
They lay, quiet in the drain. Cold dirty water, carrying sodden litter and sludge trickled beneath them and was gradually soaking them both. The stones were hard and rough, and the smell was anything but fresh. Alice whispered, ‘Come here often?’
John’s heart skipped a beat. Had he at last pierced the body-armour of Alice’s heart? Apparently, she was human after all — and sexy when she wanted to be, reasoned John, taking logical thought progression forward in ridiculously quick steps.
‘Only in the mating season,’ he replied. ‘You?’
‘Only when I’m made to lie in a cold wet filthy ditch underneath a randy squaddie.’
‘What makes you think I’m randy?’ John asked, feigning innocence.
‘Well, I assume that’s not a gun sticking into my tummy.’
John realised the source of Alice’s discomfort was his radio, holstered to his belt. But he chose to let the comment ride. Smiling, he continued the repartee: ‘Doing anything after work?’
‘Yes,’ said Alice. ‘A hot shower, washing this shit out of my hair, putting on some clean dry clothes and having a glass of wine.’
‘Oh, you like wine? Fancy a pint of the local Riesling? It’s very acceptable, I hear.’
‘Chateau Lafite for me, preferably a ’75,’ Alice replied with straight face.
‘I prefer the ’98 myself,’ said John, trying to sound like James Bond.
‘Asshole. You’ve never had a decent glass of wine in your life — you’re all mouth and trousers.’
7/8
John felt that any barriers between them were well and truly breached. He was confident that stealing a kiss would not send her into indignant hysterics. So he did. She didn’t reciprocate with much passion, but that was hardly surprising given their grim situation. Then after a short awkward silence, Alice asked, ‘Is that the best you can do?’
John didn’t need any more green lights. He wasn’t bothered about an ensuing court martial accusing him of civilian assault or something. He could always claim he needed to keep the panic-stricken woman calm by any means available — tenuous defence, but viable. A Land Rover skidded to a halt nearby.
With his free right hand, John tenderly stroked the exposed breast which had been tantalising him for so long, and was about to kiss her more passionately when a familiar-sounding female voice broke the silence: ‘You two having fun down there?’
It was Nicky, in fatigues rather than her police uniform, and brandishing a Kalashnikov.
‘Get down!’ John shouted. ‘There’s a sniper in the building opposite…’
‘Was,’ said the tall athletic blonde. ‘He had an accident. Broken neck, it seems. Amateur.’
‘But… how? You?’
Nicky suddenly sounded menacing. ‘John, don’t get up. I only have a short time before the rest of your motley oppos get here. I count to five and the girl dies. You can blame the sniper. But you can change all that. John, where are the pearls? One…’
‘Pearls? What pearls?’ John’s pathetic response sounded exactly like what it was — a hackneyed melodramatic response to buy time.
‘Two…’
Alice interjected, with understandable concern. ‘John? What’s she talking about? What pearls?’
‘Three…’
There was no way John could deploy his rifle, or indeed, offer any armed combat response from the position he was in.
‘Four…’
So he did his best to cover Alice — sheer instinct. She was a totally innocent victim of circumstance, he less innocent, but clearly the cause of their joint predicament. He held his breath, and prayed.
But ‘five’ never came. Instead, there was a thud, and the tall, athletic, fair-haired assassin crumpled in a heap, blood oozing fast from her left temple.
‘You guys ok?’ asked the swarthy man with the black moustache, putting away his pistol.
‘And you are…?’ John enquired, trying to sound cool, and determined to check people’s credentials more thoroughly from now on.
The man readily introduced himself, thrusting his ID badge towards John: ‘Francis Dick, Interpol. Sorry I had to put on the grieving father act the other day. Couldn’t afford to spook you in case you were in cahoots with this one,’ nodding towards the ground. ‘Look, get your arses over to Medical, have yourselves checked out. I’ll take care of things here. Catch up with you in a while.’
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