The morning sun cut through the curtains in golden blades. Alizeh's voice came soft against his ear, a melody still thick with sleep. "Morning, Mr. World."
Her lips found his. He felt her naked body pressed against his side, warm and satisfied. "Morning," he murmured.
Cherry's voice filled the room through the hidden speaker. "Morning, sir. I trust you rested well."
Alizeh pulled the sheet up to her chin, suddenly aware of the AI's presence. Cherry laughed, a warm digital sound. "Don't worry, Miss Shah. I don't have that sense. I hope you had an amazing night."
"Oh, you bet." Alizeh's hand traced down his chest. "More than amazing. And Musab has other talents, too. One that he showed me last night."
"Wonderful." Cherry's voice carried genuine pleasure. "Sir, you have to be in Moscow this evening."
Alizeh's fingers stopped moving. "Moscow?"
"Meeting with the Russian president." Musab sat up, the sheet falling away.
"But I wanted more of you." Her voice was a pout, her hand reaching for his arm.
He caught her wrist gently, brought her knuckles to his lips. "You can't have the whole world at once."
She smiled. It was a good smile — the smile of a woman who understood the game and chose to enjoy it.
They dressed. Breakfast was quick — eggs, black coffee, the morning news playing on a screen Cherry had pulled up. Musab barely touched his food. His mind was already in Moscow.
At the door, a black car waited. Alizeh turned to him, pressed her body close. Her kiss was long, deliberate, tasting of coffee and lip gloss. "When you visit Pakistan," she said against his mouth, "come see me."
"Sure." His hand found her ass, squeezed through the fabric of her dress. She laughed, swatted his chest playfully, and slid into the car.
The door closed. The car pulled away.
"Cherry. Add her to my favorites."
"Done, sir."
"Now. Putin is work today."
He went back inside, changed into a black turtleneck and tailored slacks. His private plane waited on the tarmac, engines already humming.
The flight to Moscow was smooth. He sat in the leather seat, watching clouds below, running scenarios through his mind. Cherry's voice interrupted somewhere over the Baltic. "Sir, incoming message from President Reyes."
"Play it."
The American's voice filled the cabin, warm and calculated. "Hello, my friend. So I see you're visiting Putin. I hope you remember our conversation."
Musab didn't reply. But the message sat in his chest like a stone. He was being tracked. Every move watched. Reyes knew where he was before he landed. Putin's people would know he'd met with the Americans. This was the game now — every nation wanting a piece of him, every move monitored.
He needed to disappear.
"Cherry. Call Sarah and Emily. Lab line."
Two seconds. A click. Sarah's voice, young and eager. "Sir?"
"I need you both on a project. Dr. Emily, you there?"
"Here." Emily's voice was older, sharper, already processing.
"I need protocols. Systems that can only be initiated by me. Designed so that after initiation, no one can track or trace me anywhere in the world. Not satellites. Not ground surveillance. Nothing."
A pause. Sarah spoke first. "That's... sir, that's a massive undertaking. The encryption alone would take months."
"You have Cherry. I'll give you fifty percent access to help. If you finish before the week ends, you'll be head of my R&D. My personal favorites."
He heard Sarah's breath catch. Emily's voice came through, measured but hungry. "We'll try our best, sir. We won't let you down."
"Good. Make me proud."
The call ended. The plane began its descent.
Moscow sprawled below, gray and vast. The runway came up fast. When the door opened, cold air hit his face — sharp, clean, smelling of jet fuel and snow.
High security was already on the tarmac. Black SUVs, men in suits with earpieces, rifles visible in the vehicles. A black car pulled up, door opened by a soldier.
And then he saw her.
Sofia Putin stepped out of the car. White hair — long, flowing, catching the gray light like spun silver. Blue eyes that held the cold of the Russian winter. A face that belonged on magazine covers, high cheekbones, full lips painted a subtle red. Her figure was impossible in a tailored white dress that hugged every curve, a fur coat draped over her shoulders.
She was thirty-four. She looked like a goddess who'd descended from a frozen throne.
"Welcome, Mr. Farooqui." Her voice was low, melodic, with a trace of an accent that made every word feel deliberate.
She extended her hand. He took it. Her skin was warm, her grip firm, her eyes holding his a beat longer than necessary.
"Mrs. Putin. The honor is mine."
A man stepped forward to introduce her. Musab already knew. He didn't need introductions. He'd studied every face in the Kremlin before this flight.
They got into the car. The motorcade pulled out, a procession of black vehicles cutting through Moscow traffic. Inside, the seats were leather, the windows tinted, the air smelling of expensive perfume and cold metal.
"You have quite the reputation, Mr. Farooqui." Sofia sat across from him, legs crossed, her dress riding up just enough to show the curve of her thigh.
"I've been busy."
"So I've heard. The world's most powerful AI. Created by a boy in a garage." Her smile was sharp. "You must be very proud."
"I'm satisfied. Pride comes after the work is done."
"And is the work done?"
He met her eyes. "The work is never done, Mrs. Putin. That's what makes it interesting."
She laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "I think I like you, Mr. Farooqui."
"The feeling is mutual."
The car drove through security gates, past armed guards, into a facility that looked more like a fortress than a government building. Concrete walls, barbed wire, soldiers in heavy gear. The car stopped at an interior entrance.
Sofia led him out. Her heels clicked on the concrete floor as they walked through corridors, past checkpoints where guards saluted her and eyed him with cold suspicion.
His earpiece clicked. Cherry's voice, low and private. "Sir, this site has two hundred fifty-eight soldiers with heavy weapons. Multiple armored vehicles. Air defense systems active."
He didn't react. Just followed Sofia up a flight of stairs, through a heavy door, into a conference room.
The room was long, paneled in dark wood. A table stretched from end to end, polished to a mirror shine. At the far end sat Dimitri Putin — broad-shouldered, gray eyes, military bearing, the face of a man who had crushed nations and slept soundly.
Military generals flanked him. Agency heads. Scientists. Experts in suits and uniforms. Every face turned toward the door.
The chair at the far end, directly opposite Putin, was empty.
Sofia gestured. "Mr. Farooqui."
He walked the length of the table, feeling their eyes on him. He sat. Leaned back. Met Putin's gaze without blinking.
Putin smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "Thank you, dear, for taking care of our guest." He nodded at Sofia, who took a seat near her husband. "So, Mr. Farooqui. You've already met my lovely wife."
He introduced the others around the table — generals with scarred faces, scientists with cold eyes, agency chiefs who looked at him like a specimen. Names he already knew. Faces he'd seen in files.
"We are gathered here," Putin said, his voice dropping, "to see whether Russia and you can become friends. Or whether we have to start a nuclear war."
The room went still.
Musab smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Putin, for the company and the welcome. And my apologies, but your husband isn't very welcoming."
The silence sharpened. A general shifted in his seat. Sofia's lips curved, just slightly, before she hid it.
"Mr. President." Musab leaned forward, his voice calm, unhurried. "I appreciate your enthusiasm. But I'm a man of peace. I want a peaceful and extraordinary future. I'm here to end the era of wars. To build something better."
Putin laughed. A short, hard sound. "You've already shaken hands with Reyes. That makes you our enemy."
"Why fight each other when we can all be friends? I can shake your hand, too."
Putin's eyes narrowed. "We can. But on my terms. We Russians are different from Americans. Our soil is ours. We fight for it."
"Sure. But then you have to accept my terms as well."
They held each other's gaze. The room held its breath.
Putin broke first. He nodded. "Fine. Sofia, take Mr. Farooqui to the guest room. I need to discuss terms with my people."
Sofia rose, graceful and composed. "This way, Mr. Farooqui."
He followed her through a side door, down a short corridor, into a smaller room. A couch, a table, a window overlooking the facility's courtyard. The door clicked shut behind them.
She turned. The professional mask slipped, just a little. "You're the only man who's talked to my husband with that kind of confidence."
"Thank you." He stepped closer. "You and him don't quite match. I mean no disrespect, but he's too old for you, Mrs. Putin."
She turned her back, walked to the window. "You're right. I'm just a symbol. The first lady should be beautiful. He takes me with him as a trophy."
Musab crossed the room. His hand found her shoulder. Warm through the fur. "If you need something — or someone — you can ask me."
She turned. Her eyes were different now — hungry, wanting, a woman who hadn't felt a man's touch in years. She leaned in.
A knock.
"My lady. The president has called for you and the guest."
She pulled back, composed herself in a breath. "Another place. Another time." She opened the door.
They walked back to the conference room. Musab took his seat. Putin laid out his demands — access to Cherry for the Russian navy, the nuclear program, satellite systems. He wanted Musab to work from Moscow, under Russian supervision.
Musab agreed. His eyes found Sofia. She was smiling — not because of the deal. Because of what it meant.
The generals congratulated each other in Russian. Cherry's voice clicked in his ear. "Sir, the nuclear—"
He shook his head, barely visible. She stopped.
Papers were signed. Vodka was poured. Putin raised a glass, his eyes on Musab. Musab raised his back, his eyes on Sofia.
She held his gaze over the rim of her glass.
When the formalities ended, Putin spoke. "Sofia, please escort Mr. Farooqui back to his plane."
Musab stood. "Mr. President. For your reassurance, I can take your wife to London. For inspection of Cherry. You can send some of your personnel as well, if you want."
Putin's eyes sparked. A chance to get eyes on Cherry. He didn't see the real play.
He agreed.
Sofia's smile was a blade. "Of course, Mr. President."
They left. The car ride was silent, charged. At the hanger, the plane waited, engines humming. They boarded. The door sealed with a hydraulic hiss.
His private chamber at the back of the plane — a bedroom, really, with a bed, a small couch, a window that looked out over the wing. Sofia followed him in.
The door clicked shut.
She grabbed him. Pulled him into a kiss that was all hunger, all years of being untouched, all the want she'd buried under state dinners and diplomatic smiles. Her hands tore at his blazer, ripped his shirt open — buttons scattered across the floor.
"How clever," she breathed against his mouth, "taking a Russian president's first lady with you so you can have her."
He grabbed a fistful of her white hair, pulled her head back. "So, Miss First Lady. If you don't want this, you can visit the lab. See Cherry. Or..." His voice dropped. "You can have my banana in you."
Her eyes went wild. She dropped to her knees, fumbled with his belt, his pants. His cock sprang free, hard and thick. Her breath caught.
"Ohhh. I want your big banana."
She leaned in. Sniffed him. Her white hair spilled across his thighs. "I've never seen a young man with this size."
Her mouth opened. Took him in.
The sound was wet, hungry — her lips sliding down his shaft, her tongue working the length, her throat taking him deeper than he expected. She gagged, pulled back, took him again. Her lipstick smeared across his skin, red and raw.
He grabbed her hair, pushed deeper. She moaned around him, her hands gripping his thighs. Her shirt had come undone — her breasts swung free, heavy and pale, nipples hard.
He fucked her mouth. She took it. Every thrust. Every inch. Her throat convulsed around him. He came deep, hot ropes down her throat, and she swallowed, kept sucking, didn't stop until he pulled out.
He lifted her up. Stripped her pants off. Her body was a masterpiece — white skin, heavy breasts, a cunt glistening and wet, ready for him.
He turned her around, pushed her face against the window. Below, the Russian landscape spread out, forests and rivers, the plane climbing toward the clouds.
He pushed into her from behind.
She screamed.
Her cunt gripped him like a fist, hot and slick, and he drove into her, deep, deeper, his hips slapping against her ass. Her face pressed against the cold glass, her breath fogging it, her moans filling the cabin.
"Fuck—yes—"
He slapped her ass. The sound cracked through the room. "So, Mrs. Putin. Now you're my lady."
"Yes—ahhh—yes—I'm yours—just don't stop—"
Her cunt squirted, fluids running down her thighs. He kept pounding, her body rocking against the window, her hands pressed flat against the glass. The plane hit turbulence — a drop that pushed him deeper into her, and she screamed again, her orgasm hitting her in waves.
He didn't stop.
He took her on the bed, on the couch, against the wall. Her body was a thing of wonder — she came again and again, her voice hoarse from moaning, her makeup running, her hair a wild white mane. He filled her, emptied into her, watched his cum leak out of her and pushed it back in with his fingers.
The pilots heard her. The staff heard her. The whole plane knew what was happening in the back chamber.
As they began their descent into London, she lay in his arms, spent, trembling, her body marked with bites and bruises and the evidence of what they'd done. Her holes were full. Her face was a mess of smeared lipstick and dried tears of pleasure.
They dressed in silence. She fixed her hair, wiped her face, became the First Lady again.
The plane touched down. The door opened. A black car waited on the tarmac.
She stepped close to him, her voice a whisper against his ear. "That was the most pleasurable flight of my life."
He smiled. "Welcome to London, Mrs. Putin."
She walked ahead of him, hips swaying, the First Lady of Russia stepping into a new world.