Below The Belt Part 1

For an introduction to this “dirty thirty” series of blog posts for my new book Below The Belt, go here.

Bloody Marvellous – June 2014, Baltic Sea 

dirty thirty series below the belt
I pity the cleaner

It had been a tough few days of daygame hustling on the grand streets of Saint Petersburg in Russia. I’d gone there on a reconnaissance trip, taking an overnight ferry from Helsinki and making use of the visa-free three day window allowed. The girls had, as predicted, been stunning but the blowouts, flakes and two near-misses had reminded me about Russian iciness.

I boarded the ferry from the docks in Saint Petersburg ready for my overnight trip back to Finland. It was mid summer and the infamous White Nights were in full effect, bathing everything in a solstice glow. After dropping my bag off in my 1-person cabin below deck I went up to watch the ferry depart and breath in some Baltic air, resisting the urge just to sleep after a few hectic days.

It was now around 7pm and I was strolling around on the top deck watching Russia fade from view as we got out onto the Baltic Sea. Tourists mingled around at the outdoor bar or lounging on deck chairs soaking in the last warm rays. On one of the chairs I saw a girl in her early twenties, blonde hair, sunglasses on, with a red and white stripped dress. Her high cheek bones and hot features told me she was Russian.

I couldn’t be sure if she was alone or if her friends / family / other half were somewhere around snapping pictures, so I walked on by and went back down to my cabin. Lying on my narrow bed I closed my eyes and was tempted to just crash out. But part of me felt guilty for not being on deck and filming the Nordic midnight sun panoramas.

Around 8pm I was back on deck for my last evening stroll. Suddenly the girl in the stripped dress walked past me, still with sunglasses on, carrying a camera. All the daygame I’d done in Saint Petersburg made the approach and opener instinctive and polished.

I told her she looked beautiful, and that her dress made her look like a sailor. She accepted the compliment but in true Russian style was frosty in the interaction, not obviously hooking and just letting me do the work. I found out some basic facts that she was indeed Russian, alone and heading to Helsinki for a short city break with a tour group she was joining there.

The wind was whipping up and the temperature dropping so the bounce inside to the bar / cafe was easy. The instant date itself was not.

She insisted sitting opposite me and drinking tea (after I’d ordered a beer for myself). She was a classic “Princess” girl – an only child, spoilt, a big fan of Disney movies about maidens and princes and a seeker of luxury. Typical hot Russian girl stuff. Her boyfriend of three years was back in her Russian city, but she was frustrated with him as he kept proposing and she felt she was too young to get married.

The conversation was hard work, and we were slipping into too much rapport, so I had to change things up a gear. As is normal with Former Soviet Union girls, challenging works better than teasing. I disagreed with her about lavish shows of wealth (which I called vulgar) and said I didn’t like Dubai (which she said was her favourite place).

To spike things up, I started the usual verbal escalation gambits: I said she had a sexy-but-dangerous accent, we talked about plastic surgery of Russian girls in Miami, I asked her what kind of guys she found attractive (“rough men”) and we joked about Kate Middleton’s sister Pippa having a great ass.

Despite the spikes, she was hard to read – a weak “maybe” girl, but certainly no green lights flashing. I told her about the tacky variety show taking place in the ferry bar later in the evening and that we should meet later to have a drink and watch it. She agreed saying she needed a shower and would meet me there.

Back in my cabin I had a shower too, put on my clothes which hadn’t been washed since I’d arrived in Russia and put a condom in my pocket. In the bathroom mirror I gave myself a pep talk.

“Run the train Tom. You’ve only got one night. Assume attraction. Don’t fall into rapport. Escalate towards seduction as the bad boy. Get her to the cabin. Pull the trigger!”

I arrived in the bar as the show was starting, found two seats close to each other, ordered a beer and lent back waiting for her. The free show was like something from a Soviet time machine – Eurovision meets the Russian State Circus. Every cliche was peddled out: Cossack dancing to techno Russian pop, ballroom dancing combined with a dog jumping through a hoop. It was a car crash of entertainment but weirdly engrossing.

Sailor girl arrived 20 minutes late (normal in Russia) wearing a little black dress, heels and make-up, taking her from a high 7 to a high 8. She squeezed in next to me and ordered a whiskey-coke. This was getting better.

The show was so loud that there was nothing else to do except lean into each other’s ear to say something or just be physical in the dark bar. I started the usual escalation ladder: incidental touching to point things out, comparing sun tans, pulling her in to say something, briefly holding her hand and brushing her hair from her face.

The first big green light was that she was “floppy” when I’d pull her in, leaning on me for a few seconds as we were watching the show. As the room got darker for the show’s finale (a cringing version of Swan Lake with what looked like a stripper twirling feathers and a half-broken smoke machine) I pulled her in closer and kissed her. She jumped me.

Game over I thought. “Let’s get out of here” I said in her ear. She replied that she wanted to stay and watch the end of the show. Lose the battle to win the war. I rolled off and endured another 20 minutes of Swan Lake Gone Wrong.

Luckily that was the final act, and the show ended as quickly as it had begun, the harsh room lights turned on and the audience sent scurrying as it was past midnight and the bar had closed. I stood up and led hard. “Let’s go for a walk, but first I need to get my jacket from the cabin.”

She was slightly hesitant but followed my lead, coming into my cabin which was only five minutes away. Awkwardly we sat on the narrow bed and switched on the ferry radio that was built into the wall. I remember Phil Collins blasting out of the speakers.

I kissed her once more, but she wasn’t as floppy any more. She said it was fast and that she hadn’t done this before. After a bit more kissing I realised her nervousness was largely to do with the fact she still had her heels on (a Russian norm is to remove shoes inside a house). She kicked them off and we lay down on the bed. “I have a boyfriend” she reminded me. “Let’s just hug, it’s ok” I said as I pulled her in and she moaned.

More kissing. Neck biting. More sighing. It was time for the classic Torero move: Get Your Dick Out (GYDO). I unzipped my jeans and got it out, putting her hand on it. The kissing intensified. But when I went to put my hand up her dress she stopped me. “It is my woman’s day” she said.

Still both of us fully clothed, I opened her legs, slid off her panties and began fingering her on the outside of her pussy, then pulling the dangling cord of the tampon she had inside. It sounds gross as I write this, but in that moment of intense passion we were like wild animals and it was totally fine. She finished pulling the tampon out and dropped it on the floor as I lifted up her dress and went inside her.

Fucking with clothes on often makes the experience even more intense, as it’s so spontaneous and furious. The sex was raw and primal – lots of biting, scratching, hair pulling and blood everywhere. On the sheets, on the pillows, on the sink after she’d gone to clean up.

“With you very wild. You like an animal” she smiled as we hugged after sex on the bed. I lay there glowing with pride at what I’d just managed to do: a fast Same Day Lay with a young hot Russian girl on a boat in the middle of the Baltic Sea. It was a key moment in my journey from the nice sweet boyfriend-like daygamer to the adventurous, naughty lover-mode daygamer which I’ll never forget.

On my leather belt that I mention in the prologue, there’s still faint dry blood marks near the buckle from that night in the cabin. The notch was one which changed my game and sealed my fate as a wandering cad.

Just after the lay happened, I made a blog video about it which you can see here:

5 thoughts on “Below The Belt Part 1”

  1. Love it tom! I remember you telling me the GYDO move in Portugal early in 2014 and it has got me many lays so thanks and well done for this writing more man

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