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The Anarchist and the Aristocrat
"Where on earth are we?" Lieutenant Mikhail Bogdanovich asked.
His friends and comrades smiled conspiratorially in the gloom of the carriage. "You'll find out soon enough, Mikhi," said Ivan, a young second lieutenant who had quickly become Bogdanovich's closest comrade in the military barracks.
"We wanted to surprise you," said Konstantin, another young officer whom Bogdanovich had come to know only recently. "You don't think we'd give it all away now!"
It was a part of Petersburg that Bogdanovich had never visited before, and the carriage had taken such a circuitous route through the dimly-lighted streets that he had grown first perplexed, then lost. Now they were nestled at the far end of a nondescript alleyway, surrounded by shuttered, secretive warehouses.
Bogdanovich stepped into the cool night air and stretched his legs. He had anticipated a night of carousing to celebrate his twenty-fifth birthday. No such celebration was complete, it seemed, without a paralytic bout of drinking that would leave him feeling like death the next morning. Bogdanovich was not overly fond of vodka, although to admit this was to risk the mockery of his peers. He'd knock back the peppery-tasting liquid with the best of them when the occasion left him no other choice. Left to himself, though, he preferred a few glasses of good French or German wine -- something to bring about a pleasant blush, but not the state of alcoholic catatonia that his friends seemed so addicted to.
Now his friends were joining him in the alleyway. Konstantin slipped round to pay the cabbie. There was a low conversation between the two, and Bogdanovich saw Konstantin rummage in his pocket for a couple of roubles' tip, which struck him as a little excessive. From the fragments of speech that reached him, he gathered Konstantin was buying the cab driver's silence about their destination -- and buying it dear.
"Come with me, Mikhi," said Ivan.
There didn't seem anywhere to go, but Bogdanovich followed his friend meekly a few yards further on, to the very end of the alley. There, a mottled brick wall rose to block their passage. Off to the left was a nondescript wooden door, a pale light glowing above the entrance. Ivan rapped sharply on the door: a strange, syncopated knock, obviously some kind of code. There was a pause, and the door creaked open.
The three young soldiers entered. Inside, to his surprise, Bogdanovich found a wizened old man in a formal servant's uniform. The passageway was as gloomy and crumbling as the alley outside. The servant pressed three cotton robes into Ivan's hands, which only added to Bogdanovich's confusion.
"You know your way to the changing room, I am sure, Master Ivan," said the old man in his gruff voice.
Suddenly his friends' plans were clear to Bogdanovich. They were to take a long sauna to purify their bodies for the interminable night of drunkenness and debauchery that would follow. Perhaps they would be adjourning, later, to one of the many whorehouses scattered around Petersburg.
Bogdanovich's heart sank. For him, the only thing worse than a hurried coupling with a prostitute was trying to muster an erection for the act through a haze of sodden inebriation. But one had to think of one's reputation! Begging out would violate the comradely code he had worked so hard to understand and adjust to. Cultivating a circle of peers was the only way to guarantee a fast rise through the ranks, even though his noble background -- Cossack stock -- gave him an excellent head start.
His first surprise came as they entered the changing room. In stark contrast to the reception room, it was frankly luxurious. There were oak-panelled benches, a stately samovar for heating the room and brewing tea; elegant paintings of Russian nationalist figures and military leaders arranged on the fine hardwood walls. Bogdanovich followed his friends' lead in stripping himself naked and putting on the embroidered robe.
His next surprise came as Ivan and Konstantin led him through an exit at the far end of the changing-room. They entered a chamber almost immersed in darkness, but with an audible murmur of voices. Despite the poor illumination, Bogdanovich could see the chamber was even better-appointed than the changing room they had left.
As his eyes adjusted he began to make out the dimensions of the chamber more clearly. It was a fair size, perhaps twice as large as the drawing room of an aristocratic house. And now he could see a few dim figures, nestled into plush, velvet-covered seats.
A voice boomed out like a cannon-shot from across the room. "At last you've arrived, Mikhail Sergeyevich! We were getting anxious for the show!" There were some chuckles, and a couple of high, pealing giggles. So women were present! Bogdanovich suddenly felt slightly ridiculous in his robe, especially as he realized that none of the other faint figures in the chamber seemed to be similarly dressed.
"We will sit here, Mikhi," said Ivan, and directed Bogdanovich to a seat towards the front of the room. His eyes now fully adjusted, Bogdanovich could make out the faces of the couple that sat a couple of seats down. A smartly-dressed middle-aged man with long sideburns, and a quite striking young woman at his side: blonde and well--proportioned, smiling at him indulgently, her face shining with good health and ... anticipation?
Suddenly there was another woman at his side -- an attendant with a tray of drinks. She pressed two tumblers of vodka into Ivan and Konstantin's eager hands. And a fine glass of red wine, almost black in the dim light, into his own hand. Bogdanovich's eyebrows shot up quizzically. "How ...?" But she interrupted him: "Château de Brossard for the gentleman on his birthday."
Bogdanovich turned to his friends. They were smiling with pleasure at the surprise on his face. They'd arranged things well! He shrugged and sipped meditatively on the rich, heady wine, letting the fragrance fill his nostrils and calm his strangely unsteady heart.
"Only a moment more," said Ivan, his voice also heavy with anticipation: clearly they were the last arrivals expected for whatever was about to take place. As if on Ivan's cue, a ring of gas lamps suddenly flamed into life, illuminating with yellow light a small circular platform, rather like a stage. The lamps were arranged on wrought iron pedestals; the platform was covered with a thick purple rug, intricately patterned, apparently from the distant Central Asian republics of the empire. Again the mysteriousness of it all struck Bogdanovich, and this time not even a gulp of wine would calm the heaving in his breast. Was this some elaborate practical joke? That would be just like Ivan and Konstantin. He remembered the time when --
There was a rustle of movement at the edge of the illuminated area. A woman emerged and stepped up onto the raised platform. Bogdanovich noted that she, at least, was dressed in the same robe he had been ordered to put on, and it suited her grandly. She was tall and limber-looking, with fine North Russian features which seemed to glow with fire in the ambience of the oil-lamps: high cheekbones, an exquisitely-proportioned body which clung to every fold of the robe. He could swear he saw her eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Good evening, noble ladies and gentlemen," said the woman. "You all know me as Sasha, your host for the evening's ... entertainment." More appreciative chuckles from the audience, which Bogdanovich estimated at no more than a couple of dozen people. A wolf-whistle from one of the more uncouth spectators. "I am glad," Sasha continued, "to see such a respectable turnout this evening. Apparently you have all heard about our latest attraction. I assure you she will repay your interest. And a special welcome" -- she turned to Bogdanovich and smiled at him, and her bosom seemed to tremble slightly as her eyes found his -- "to our special guest, Mikhail Sergeyevich Bogdanovich of the Petersburg Fifth Cavalry Corps. Friend Bogdanovich, many happy returns on the occasion of your 'quarter-of-the-cake."' She used the Russian nickname for the twenty-fifth birthday.
Sasha's voice dropped down a notch to a throaty near-whisper, but every word rang clear in the intimate confines of the chamber. "Without further ado, ladies and gentlemen ... please welcome our new friend, whom you will come to know as -- Fatima." The word slid from her lips like an endearment. A curious thrill shot through Bogdanovich. Fatima? That was not a Russian name. But he had no time to ponder it; a moment later he found himself with a more pressing task, namely, trying to restart his heartbeat.
From the wings had stepped a vision. Before him -- hardly fifteen feet away -- stood a beauty constructed of coffee and chocolate. She was so spectacularly proportioned that it was a few seconds before it dawned on him that she was nearly naked. Fatima stood adorned only in silver chains -- one of them draped around her light-bronze hips, with a pendant nestled at her loins, giving only a hint of lustrous black pubic hair. There was another one artfully laid around her shoulders and across her breasts, but to little avail: her full, lush bosom was almost entirely bare. The tips of her nipples were hidden, but the burnished hue of her large aureoles was amply exposed.
There was a collective gasp from the audience, but Bogdanovich hardly heard it. His mind was racing, trying to take everything in, to move beyond isolated aspects of Fatima's physique to comprehend the entirety of the creature that stood a few yards in front of him. In the name of the Holy Cross! -- her eyes, which had been raised above the head of the audience, suddenly moved down and burned a hole right through him. How much could she see from the brightly-lit stage? But still she seemed to settle unerringly on him as the target of her gaze. Her face was breathtaking. Surely she could hail from no closer than Samarkand, in those Central Asian regions only recently, and uncertainly, brought under St. Petersburg's central control. There was much of the thick ethnic stew of the Silk Road in her eyes and high cheeks which were filled to bursting with sensuality. There was a lighter, possibly Roman tinge to her complexion as well, something which lent definition to her nose and and a slimness to her waist. But she was still the duskiest woman Bogdanovich had ever laid eyes on, a powerfully exotic creation. Images raced through his mind from his earliest boyhood fantasies, when his father had read him tales of seafarers stranded in lands where people had two heads, or grew to ten feet tall; where women were so alluring as to prompt gruff Russian sailors to abandon ship, not to mention family back home, to while away their days in tropical indolence and indulgence.
"Good evening," Fatima said simply; her voice sounded the way burnt honey tasted. "I am pleased to be before you." And again he could swear she spoke directly to him.
Sasha had moved herself to the rear of the stage, and snapped her fingers. Suddenly two men emerged. They were Russian, they were handsome, strikingly pale-complexioned to eyes used to the darker beauty of Fatima. They were also quite naked, though they were wearing broad and unabashed grins. Most bizarre of all, each of them sported impressive erections whose bulging tips preceded them onto the stage by a good seven or eight inches.
By this point Bogdanovich would not have been surprised by the entrance of a couple of "Mars-men," those alien beings whose existence was so vociferously debated among Russian scientists these days. He sank back in his seat, beads of sweat gathering on his brow. As they passed Fatima one of the Russian men reached out a hand and brushed her buttocks with the tips of his fingers; he leaned close and whispered something in her ear, then reached his hand around and traced a finger along the soft underside of one of her breasts. Fatima smiled and shivered and whispered something inaudible in return, turning her head so Bogdanovich saw her for the first time in classic profile.
The men stood off to one side, their erections already beginning to droop slightly but still impressive. Sasha stepped forward again, and Bogdanovich saw she cradled a small dish in one of her smooth palms. "When you are ready, Fatima," she said cozily.
"Yes, Sasha," Fatima replied, and with one smooth movement that set the silver chains rustling, she moved over to the man on her left. A little tentatively, she reached out a hand to the young Russian's midsection and took gentle hold of his prick, which immediately twitched and quivered in her hand. With a smooth fingernail of her other hand she traced a line across his hairy chest, and smiled. Then she knelt down on the plush purple carpet. This brought her face to within a few inches of the penis stiffening again in her clutches.
"Lord," murmured Konstantin at Bogdanovich's side. He shifted in his seat. Bogdanovich became aware of an uncomfortable tightness in his trousers.
Ever so slowly, Fatima inclined her head forward and planted a tender kiss on the bulbous head of her partner's tool. Her supple tongue snaked out and licked the tumescent flesh. The man arched his head backward and grimaced, eyes closed. Then his penis was engulfed in Fatima's warm mouth, and she was teasing him with light nips and toothy flickers across his sensitive knob.
The Russian reached down and ran his hand into the wiry tangle of her tawny jet--black hair, drawing her further down on his erection. Fatima cupped his balls in a practised way and slipped a finger between his legs to tickle the tight rosebud at the rear.
"Christ, this is unbearable," hissed Ivan. Bogdanovich scarcely heard him over the pounding of blood in his ears. He saw that Sasha was kneeling down behind Fatima's perfect posterior. She brought the small dish in her hand close to the Asian beauty's muscular buttocks. She dipped a finger into the dish and it emerged glistening with a light oil. This she applied in smooth rubbing motions to the crevice of Fatima's haunches. A perceptible colour rose to Sasha's cheeks as she continued this sweet ministration. Then she motioned sharply with her head. The other Russian man had stood back and watched as though from a great distance as his prick stiffened at the sight of the treatment Fatima was bestowing on his comrade. Now he moved around to Sasha's side; the two of them shared a quick but friendly kiss. Sasha stood and disappeared into the gloom outside the circle of oil lamps.
With a blunt, instinctive movement born of his mounting lust, the Russian knelt and laid hold of the meaty buttocks presented to him. His hardness slid up and down the oiled crease of Fatima's behind, and Bogdanovich gasped as he saw the Central Asian woman writhe a little at the friction of the penis at her portal. "Now, inside you!" the Russian breathed, and pressed forward. His prick faltered the barest moment before pressing inside the tight confines of Fatima's ass. Clutching her behind even tighter, the Russian drove forward, and suddenly his thick tool was buried to the hilt in Fatima's oil-slicked rectum. A low moan escape Fatima, muffled by the staff that filled her wet, welcoming mouth.
"They say they find these men in the ranks of the Army," said Ivan in a low tone. "I myself have witnessed one performance with a young man whom I knew from the barracks, so perhaps they are right."
Bogdanovich said nothing, and the rest of the audience seemed similarly struck dumb. Glancing down the aisle he could see that the aristocratic young woman who had smiled at him now had her hand buried in the lap of her partner, and was squeezing his prominent bulge reflexively. Her eyes appeared transfixed by the action onstage.
The only sounds came from the trio on the platform. The Russian at Fatima's rear was pushing in and drawing out, his erection glistening with oil and juices. Fatima, meanwhile, was sucking more insistently at the stiff prick that filled her mouth, stroking the prong with an expert hand, more small moans escaping her. Her nostrils flared as she breathed in heavily. Her breasts shimmered and the chains dangled, so Bogdanovich could see her bosom bared in all its coffee-coloured glory.
Surely not long now ... And the Russian driving into Fatima's ass increased the pace of his strokes, a rivulet of perspiration running down the side of his face and shining in the lamplight. Fatima reached one hand down through her legs and caressed his balls as he ravished her most secret orifice. That did it: the Russian gave a gasp and pressed forward. His body shook with spasms as his orgasm began; Bogdanovich could imagine the thick, warm flood of sperm as the penis burst and spattered into Fatima's guts. Breathing heavily, the man drained the last spurts from his tool and then withdrew, his prick raw and wet and softening. He collapsed with a huff as a clatter of applause rose from the audience.
"Let us see it properly!" shouted an impertinent voice from the rear of the room. Fatima ceased her sucking and took her mouth off her partner's near-bursting tool. "As you command," she said with a smile. She twisted round and brought the pulsing erection into full view, pressing it against her cheek. She spared one glance for the audience, and then resumed licking and nipping at the tool, keeping it exposed for their eyes. Bogdanovich was mesmerized by her movements, licking down the entire length of the shaft, tickling the man's balls as though weighing the load of jism that would soon be hers. Then some quick, sharp stroking movements, and her partner gasped as his release bore down on him. "Ahhhh!" The prick in Fatima's hand jerked and jumped, and suddenly unleashed a spectacular volley of creamy sperm which splashed down the side of her neck and onto her shoulder.
Quickly she moved her mouth forward and, pulling her lover to her, pressed his spurting organ to her full, slightly-parted lips. A cascade of juice gushed from him and flowed over her lips and chin. Again her tongue snaked out and was instantly covered with a sticky layer of come, glittering like pearls. With a complete lack of inhibition, Fatima lapped and swallowed the effusions, her throat contracting spasmodically as the sperm slid down her throat. By the time her partner's orgasm ebbed, the lower half of the exotic woman's face was coated with juices; she smiled happily and licked at the man's wilting prick. A strong crescendo of applause rolled toward the stage, with a few cries of "Bravo!" for good measure.
The Russian man leaned down and planted a daring kiss on her sperm-spattered lips. Then he too exited, and Fatima rose, wiping the jism from her face and transferring it to her breasts, rubbing it over her large, hard nipples. She gave the audience a sticky, satiated grin. Mercifully, before the juices began to congeal, Sasha emerged again with a cloth, and tenderly wiped away the spunk from Fatima's face. She bent down and, to renewed applause from those gathered, licked a few remaining drops from Fatima's lips and chin; their tongues twined in a sweet and intimate kiss. The two of them whispered secretively for a moment, and Fatima grinned. Then Sasha stood straight and faced the audience.
"There is, of course, a finale to our evening entertainment," she said slyly. Knowing laughter came from the audience. "We have among us, as I have said, a certain young man who today celebrates his twenty-fifth birthday. Judging from his expression during the most recent events, he seems to feel a certain attraction to our dear Fatima." A delighted cry from an audience member: "Bogdanovich! Bravo!"
Bogdanovich, stunned, felt his heart rise out of his chest and float away into the air. He was disembodied, watching the scene from a mile away, his blood a cacophony of thrumming in his ears. Ivan and Konstantin were looking at him whimsically.
"And I can assure you," Sasha continued, her eyes sparkling, "that the attraction is returned, especially as a certain part of her is at present exceedingly wet, and hungry to be satisfied." Fatima giggled and Sasha slipped a hand quickly between the Central Asian woman's thighs, jangling the chain there and gently parting the oozing lips of Fatima's pussy. The performer's arousal was evident, and to bring the point home Sasha withdrew her finger laden with a thick womanly juice and brought it to her lips. She licked it clean to a scattering of audience applause.
"This being so," said Sasha, "I would like to invite the young Lieutenant-Colonel Bogdanovich to take the stage, where Fatima will issue him with further instructions." Cheers and laughter. Ivan and Konstantin elbowed their comrade sharply to jerk him from his stupor. "Go on, man! Can't you see she's all but bursting to have you?"
Bogdanovich still sat stunned. "I can't!" he moaned, voice shaking.
"Don't be ridiculous," said Konstantin. "Why, I myself have been to this club many times, and it's only expected that now and then you'll take the stage when one of the ladies catches your fancy. Don't try to tell me Fatima doesn't make your blood boil!"
But at that moment the decision was taken from him. Fatima was walking slowly out of the circle of lamplights and down the aisle to his seat. Her sudden presence was overpowering. Bogdanovich saw her smile. His mind registered the sheen of perspiration on her magnificent breasts, the sashay in her hips as she leaned forward to take his hand, the exotic aroma that came from her: sweat and sperm and expensive perfume, overlaid by the mysterious musk that was strange to him, but which he knew came from the orifice between her thighs.
Fatima tugged on his hand and he rose, walking on air to the stage. The audience clapped and cheered. Difficult as he found it to believe, the mere touch of her soft hand on his had banished his terror. Her confidence and the insistent lust which he felt transmitted to him through the touch of her fingers seemed to calm him, filling him at the same time with an unusual joy. Had he ever known desire like this, so overpowering and yet so natural, such that it could be paraded and consummated before dozens of eyes while preserving the private bond between the lovers?
What was it -- love? How absurd to feel such sentiment rising towards a woman who had only lately been eagerly lapping at a penis that was not his own, clutching and stroking the stiff tool while it ejaculated madly against her face. And how absurd that it didn't seem to matter.
Fatima turned and spoke to him for the first time, too low for the audience to hear -- they were still buzzing expectantly, allowing him a minute or two to collect himself. "It is special for you, yes?" said Fatima, looking into his eyes, her black gaze burning into his very being. "Tell me how I can make it special for you." She pressed close and embraced him, and he felt the links of her chains dig into him but also the buried softness of her breasts and belly and loins as she sought to nestle herself against his every hollow and crevice. And every bulge -- her moist pussy instinctively sought out the swelling in his groin, and she gave it a brief kiss with her pubes.
The surreal calm flowed through him. Bogdanovich leaned down and kissed her lips, not minding at all the faint tang of his predecessor's sperm still there. In fact, it aroused him even more. "They seem to want a show, Fatima," he murmured to her. "Let's give them one. Lie down."
Her eyes flashed and she slid in one limber movement to the carpet. The audience was now surprisingly hushed. Bogdanovich looked down at the vision reclining on the rug before him. Locking her gaze to his, Fatima reached down and slid the chain with its pendant away from her creamy slit. Then she spread her legs -- for him and for him alone, since her thighs hid the sight from the audience. He watched as her glistening, juice-sodden lips parted to his eyes.
The raw hue of her flowing interior drew him like a bee to honey. Hardly thinking about what he was doing, he knelt between her legs, closer to that beckoning orifice. Logically, perhaps, it should have been her servicing him, but that sort of arrangement was rendered obsolete by the fire that now burned between them. The audience took a second to adjust to what it was seeing: Bogdanovich kneeling down between Fatima's thighs and without further ado burying his face in her sticky pussy-flesh, making her buck and writhe. Then they caught on that they were indeed seeing something special, something above the call of duty -- and they burst into cheers and cries of "Bravo!," with Ivan and Konstantin's shouts rising above the rest.
Bogdanovich was in heaven. He slid his tongue through the rudely opened lips of Fatima's sex, his throat working to swallow the stream of sweet juices that pumped helplessly from her humid insides. He felt a sharp pain as Fatima clutched his hair and pulled him against her. His teeth found the angry nub of her clitoris and nibbled it; she twitched and gasped as the harsh scraping of his chin's stubble raked across her sensitive flesh. Then she was making harsh, inchoate noises, some words in a language he couldn't understand. She pushed her sweet meat against his face, nearly smothering, and he felt a perceptible flood of cream over lips and tongue and chin as she orgasmed. That was new to Bogdanovich -- his experience was not extensive anyway, and never had he imagined a woman's spasm could be accompanied by an ejaculation like a man's. But he drank eagerly at the fount, draining her, loving it. The audience screamed.
After a moment Fatima pulled him up over her heaving breasts and kissed at the fluid on his face. He was stunned to see a look of anger and shame on her face. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry," she said. He realized she was apologizing for the spurt that had accompanied her spasms -- and this after she had warmly welcomed what must have been half a gallon of male juice over her face, not half an hour before! Bogdanovich laughed and nuzzled into her ear so he could speak without being overheard. "Don't be silly. It was delicious."
She blossomed again at his words and a radiant smile crossed her face. "Inside me. Come inside me." She fumbled with his trousers latch, tore at his shirt. Ribald comments floated towards them from the pool of semi-darkness that lay beyond the ring of lamplight. Bogdanovich ignored it. A volley of applause greeted his prick as Fatima freed it into the open air and ran a desperate hand over its stiff length. Then she was pulling him down onto her and before he knew where he was he was buried in her, engulfed by her heated, muscular channel. Glorious, dear God! Had he ever known such pleasure? Fatima bucked against him, muttering fierce words of endearment, and locked the tight ring of her cunt around his straining tool; she seemed unwilling to even let him draw it out for the instant necessary in order to plunge back in! She arched her spine and pressed her full breasts against his chest, and clenched her sex tightly around him.
Bogdanovich felt his body moving into the exquisite tremors that warned of his impending orgasm. His face was a rictus of pleasure, and the audience saw how close he was to bursting. A woman's shout came from the darkness: "Don't stay inside her, Mikhail Sergeyevich! Let us see it!" That was greeted by a round of shouted agreements.
Fatima's hands on his hips slowed his frenetic pumping into her loins, and she looked at him beseechingly. He grumbled out loud, "Well, I suppose it is a show after all!" and heard a couple of women laugh with delight. Unwillingly, he pulled his prick from Fatima's pussy and kneeled so that it stood up hard and straining away from his body. Immediately Fatima reached down and started stroking it, cupping his balls with her other hand. Looking down at her still reclining posture, he saw the hard muscles of her stomach working as she pulled and pumped him. Suddenly those fluttering muscles were being covered with jets of come -- and then the paroxysms shook him, unbearably sweet, so intense they almost crossed the threshold into pain. He sputtered and spasmed, and intense jets of spunk blasted out in a fan pattern over Fatima's belly and breasts. She ran one hand through the flowing cream and with the other drained his dripping prick. From the shouts and screams of the audience it seemed as though several people were arriving at climaxes of their own -- a brief image flashed through Bogdanovich's mind of the young woman in his row with her hand in the lap of her mate. No doubt some dollops of sperm were finding their way into eager mouths at this very moment, and perhaps one or two couples had found their way into deeper darkness, where their straining loins could melt into each other unmolested.
"Good health to you on your birthday, Mikhail Sergeyevich!" whooped Ivan exuberantly. Konstantin slapped him on the back. They were standing at a bar which had suddenly been illuminated at the rear of the room, and an eager throng of spectators were pressing around, congratulating him on his "performance." The maidservant had pressed another glass of warm red wine into his hand, and several attractive women had taken the opportunity to press something else on him -- their addresses, with hastily-scribbled notices to the effect that they would be "at home" on such-and-such a date at such-and-such a time, and would be pleased to receive him as a visitor!
But Bogdanovich scarcely noticed all the attention. He was still starry--eyed from his encounter with the dazzling Asian beauty. He sipped at the wine and smiled graciously as the compliments and warm words were heaped upon him, but his mind was somewhere else entirely. Finally the audience began to slip away to other destinations -- more than a few, he reckoned, would be heading straight home by carriage to consummate the fires that had arisen within them as they watched his antics onstage.
"You must be careful not to drink too much wine, Mikhail Sergeyevich," cautioned Konstantin. "You have a long night ahead of you."
Bogdanovich's heart sank again: so they had still not abandoned the idea of taking him out on the town and torturing him with pepper-vodka! Would they try to thrust some woman of ill-repute on him at the end of the evening? It would seem blasphemous after what he had shared with Fatima -- Fatima, whom he would surely never see again; she had disappeared from the stage not long after his orgasm had ebbed, with only a peck on the cheek for farewell.
"Ivan, Konstantin. I'm really quite exhausted. I'm not sure I'm up to further celebrations this evening."
Ivan grinned knowingly. "We have a fine way to revive you, Mikhail Sergeyevich." He motioned away, behind Bogdanovich, whose eyes widened with curiosity. But he didn't need to turn to follow where Ivan was pointing. A moment later he had smelled her, the rich perfume that haunted his nostrils from their sweet and sweaty coupling onstage. His heart throbbed with joy as she emerged from the gloom -- Fatima, but transformed. Now she was dressed almost as finely as a Russian noblewoman, a long, flowing dress that clung appealingly but not salaciously to her curves, the swell of her bosom evident under the bodice, a sliver of cleavage showing below the jewelled pendant around her throat. A spectacular set of earrings hung from her lobes.
Bogdanovich could find no words. His Adam's apple bobbled as he searched for his voice. But Fatima, calm and collected, extended her hand to his. "Hello again," she said, and Bogdanovich coughed as another hearty slap from Konstantin landed between his shoulder-blades. "She's yours for the night, of course!" Konstantin yelped.
Bogdanovich was momentarily irritated. Of course his comrades could not know all that had passed between him and Fatima onstage. But could they really speak of her as though she was some common whore, and in her presence, no less? He looked at Fatima, as if to apologize for his Konstantin's comment. It was hard to tell whether the Central Asian beauty had even noticed. In any case, her warm smile never wavered. She linked her arm through his and pressed close; her perfume made him dizzy. Then she was guiding him out the door and towards the waiting carriage, his friends' cheerful farewells ringing in his ears.
End of Chapter Two
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Location: A Public place | Roleplay: Other
Fulfillment: I will tell you later | Nature: I will tell you later