The knickers were a little tight, her bottom just slightly too large, but it was close enough, especially as the bra fitted her well and was extremely comfortable.
The dresses were a range from plain to flowery, from unadorned to one so laden with sequins and other paraphernalia that she immediately discarded it.
The red dress looked wonderful and she slipped into it, falling against the mirror as she overbalanced.
The glass gave a little groan but did not break and she recovered herself, buttoning the front and smoothing it into place.
Her nipples were extremely prominent and, for that reason alone, she decided against it, although she surprised herself with the thought that she should be all woman this evening. She ran a finger over the prominent left nipple, feeling little shocks as she pressed firmer.
‘Why not show them what a real woman looks like eh?’
She shook the bizarre idea from her head. She was not to know that the tea she had drunk had a special ingredient, one that started its clandestine work on her mind from the moment her body started to absorb it.
Wary not to fall again, she propped herself against the wall and removed the red dress, selecting a knee length black one instead.
Repeating the performance, without the tumble this time, she ran her hands down the sheer material that hung to her body like it was tailor-made for her.
The dress was simple, with no frills, but it was of superb quality.
She selected a strappy shoe for no other reason than to assist in keeping her metal support in place.
A small white leather bag completed the ensemble and she was nearly ready.
On the dressing table were a selection of perfumes and after shaves.
She opened the cap of an American brand, liked what she sniffed at and sparingly applied the parfum to all the places that a woman does.
It smelt wonderful, and she examined the bottle more closely.
‘White Shoulder by Evyan. I shall get some of this for when I next see my husband.’
It might prove difficult of course, but being the head of the GRU Europe was not without fringe benefits.
She closed the door and returned to the lounge. Within a minute, a knock on the door indicated that her transport had arrived.
Once the sound of the car had faded, the man with the camera heaved a sigh of relief.
“You know, when she started playing with those fat titties, I nearly shot in my britches.”
“Fuck, yes. Mind you, when she fell against the mirror, I thought you’d shat your pants. Fancy gasping like a girl!”
“I didn’t see it coming, tovarich. The camera was against my eye. Anyway, no harm done. It’s very rugged.”
He rapped his knuckles on the two way mirror by way of emphasising his point.
Sarkisov shook his head.
“That’s some fucking woman, tovarich. I’d love a piece of her myself. Never fucked a General before… at least… not in the traditional sense.”
NKVD Colonel Sardeon Nadaraia laughed a sort of laugh that was without humour of any kind.
“Perhaps you may get your opportunity, Rafael. Who knows what could happen once the party is over.”
With a straight face, NKVD Colonel Rafael Sedrakevich Sarkisov delivered a telling line.
“Which party, tovarich? The General Secretary’s, or the one our man has planned for the GRU bitch?”
Nadaraia laughed and slapped his fellow officer on the shoulder.
“Well, as we aren’t invited to the formal ceremony, I think we’ll have to do it here.”
He carefully undid the camera and removed the film.
“Let’s get this developed and see what delights we can set before Comrade Beria.”
Sarkisov slipped out of the orderly’s tunic and recovered his own jacket.
“What was that stuff anyway, comrade?”
Nadaraia spoke of the ‘tea’ that his counterpart had served the GRU General.
“Fuck knows, tovarich. Old Vovsi said it would prepare a woman to be more… err… amenable to suggestions of a certain kind.”
Entering the main premises, Nadaraia took his leave to seek out the photographic office, whilst Sarkisov waited for the new orderly to arrive.
Sergeant Malenkov had a special physical gift that was to form part of the night’s amusements, and the NKVD Colonel just wanted to check that the man fully understood what was required of him.
Nazarbayeva was not the only woman there, as the hierarchy had brought either wife or mistress and, in one case, both.
However, whilst she was not the thin, painted women that many of the men had their affairs with, her full and totally feminine form, for once revealed out of uniform, drew many looks.
Somehow, it didn’t bother her, although part of her felt that it should.
She selected a large glass of her favourite wine, a Georgian White wine, made from the famous Rkatsiteli grape.
Beria’s agents had done their research well and the Rkatsiteli was also more than it appeared to be.
Beria had planned a narcotic assault upon his nemesis, one that would end in his dominance and control.
An army of attendants fussed back and forth, bringing trays of canapés, many topped off with the finest Beluga caviar.
It was never something that appealed to her, so the tasty snacks with meat and cheese got the most attention.
“Try the beetroot and Zakusochny, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Exquisite, truly.”
“Good evening, Comrade Marshal. I will.”
Normally, his closeness would make her feel uncomfortable but, she conceded, the relaxed nature of the party made even his presence seem acceptable.
There was a part of her brain that railed against her acceptance, the same part that positively exploded when he grabbed her arm and steered her towards the food area, selecting one of the cheese and beetroot snacks that he had recommended.
The larger part of her brain was simply affable and accepted the man’s proximity.
“That’s very special, Comrade Beria.”
“Indeed it is, Comrade Nazarbayeva. Now, if you will excuse me.”
Beria retreated, happy that the drugs were obviously working, given the woman’s tolerance of his presence.
‘Good. Soon, Tatiana, soon. The Zakusochny is very special indeed.’
The evening progressed with more food and drink, punctuated by gift presentations to the General Secretary, some from fawning communist party members, some from Ambassador’s and representatives of allied states, yet more from the inner sanctum.
The latter seemed to vie with each other to present the most personal gift, something that the leader might use every day.
Nazarbayeva had not come prepared. However, she had in her possession a gift for her husband, to be given to him on his next leave.
The petrol lighter had been taken from a dead British pilot, and had found its way into her possession.
Solid silver and heavy to handle, it lit every time.
What made it eminently suitable was the inscription that was heavily inscribed on both sides.
‘Chivas Regal.’
It was the dictator’s favorite tipple, and was presently half-filling the old tin cup that he used for serious drinking.
Tied in a white cloth handkerchief, Nazarbayeva waited her turn.
“Thank you, Comrade Nazarbayeva. A splendid gift. I shall treasure it.”
Hardly pausing for breath, Stalin leant forward and whispered in a conspiratorial fashion.
“The Bulgarian ambassador can’t take his eyes off you, Comrade General. His wife’s back in his country and his girlfriend is heavily pregnant. He looks fit to bust but, please…” he looked across at the aging man and smiled disarmingly, “If he does do anything foolish, please try not to break him. I’ve need of his cooperation soon.”