I can’t believe I just did that.

Any of that.

It still feels like some crazy dream I might wake up from at any moment.

I lie flat on my back on the gigantic cushy mattress, the bed sheets coiled haphazardly like some giant snake at my side. My chest is heaving, my bare breasts rising and falling with every deep, shuddering breath.

It feels as though my entire body is in a state of shock, but it isn’t scary. It isn’t painful. Sure, there is an ache deep in my muscles and bones that I’m sure will hang around for the next few hours at least, but it isn’t at all unpleasant.

I just feel full.

Whole.

Complete.

Like I have been waiting my entire life for this moment to arrive. Something has changed inside of me. I’m new and shiny and reborn—a woman now, no longer just some naive little girl. And it’s Vladimir who held my hand as we walked together through that final great barrier. I turn over on my side, propping my chin on my wrist as I watch my big, strong hulk of a man slowly stretch and languidly reach for a towel from inside one of the built-in cupboards along the glossy wall. He glances over at me with lidded eyes, that same fire still there like before, only now it’s less of an inferno and more like the soft, cozy smoldering of coals.

He grants me a gift in the form of a tender smile which floods my heart with warmth and affection. I don’t know how he did it, but somehow, I feel closer to this man, this near-stranger, than I have ever felt with anyone else before. I feel as though Vladimir is a part of me now, an irreparable change that has transformed us both into new versions of the people we used to be.

Vladimir sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress bowing under his weight. I wriggle closer to him, still achy and sticky with his come. He lifts one muscular arm and I duck under it, snuggling up to his chest and peering up into his sharp features with my wide, adoring eyes. He presses a soft kiss into my forehead and I can’t help but smile.

“You are so incredibly beautiful, you know that?” he murmurs to me in a gravelly voice.

I shake my head, averting my gaze as a blush spreads across my cheeks.

“You must know,” he insists gently. “How could a girl with the face of an angel and the body of a siren have no idea how gorgeous she is? You are not just any common beauty, you are a rarity, Autumn. You are the rose that survives the harsh winter to bloom with even more resplendence in the following spring.”

“Wow,” I whisper, genuinely flattered and impressed. “You’re awfully poetic for a man who carries a gun in his coat pocket.”

He smirks, a twinkle in his eye as he looks down at me. “Don’t judge a book by its cover. Is that not the saying you Americans use?” he replies, almost teasing.

“Yeah. Or don’t judge a man by his firearm, I suppose would be more accurate,” I giggle. But my laugh extends into a long, drawn-out sigh of a yawn. It dawns on me just how very exhausted I am.

“You are fatigued,” Vladimir points out, with perfect accuracy, as usual.

“I’m a little tired, yes,” I admit with a shrug. “Nothing I can’t survive.”

“A girl of your age needs her beauty rest,” he says. There’s a note of an almost paternal concern in his voice that makes me feel all warm and tingly all over my body.

“I’ve pulled a lot of all-nighters in my time,” I tell him with a smile. “Mostly in the university library during exams season. I used to lock myself into one of those designated study cells, put up some black curtains to block out the light and clear away distractions, and just force myself to pore over dusty old books and translations for hours and hours on end. I would come prepared with an electric kettle so I could make endless cups of tea, a little basket of small healthy snacks, and of course my treasured leather-bound notebooks and particular fountain pens in all different colors. Green for poetry. Blue for history. Black for prose.”

“Sounds as though you were a very organized student. I imagine you made very good grades,” Vladimir remarks.

Again, a rush of pride warms my soul, and it hits me just how delicious it feels to hear this man old enough to be my father telling me how good I am, how beautiful and unique and strong and clever I am in his eyes. I can’t help but lap it up ravenously. I never realize or acknowledge how desperately I crave the validation of a respected authority figure until moments like this, when I get what my heart has been aching for, and it feels better than any accomplishment or gift or orgasm ever could.

Well, almost as good as an orgasm. I can’t deny that my climax with Vladimir has far outreached my previous heights of pleasure, probably because all those other times, I was alone. Just my hands and my thoughts and an inexpert, nervous exploration of my own body. I don’t think of myself as a prude or even as especially self-conscious about my body and what it looks like, what it feels like, but there’s no pretending it isn’t a massive upgrade climaxing by someone else’s hand rather than by my own.

“Were you, Autumn? Were you a very good student?” he prompts me, that twinkle still glistening in his eye. I bite my lip and nod, sensing that there’s some kind of underlying sexual edge to his query.

“Yes, sir,” I murmur, playing along. “I was a very good student. A good girl.”

He smiles, looking like a cat who’d just caught a mouse in his teeth.

“I bet you were,” he growls, tapping me on the tip of my nose. Then he gets to his feet and groans as he stretches again, handing me the towel he plucked from the cupboard. “Here. You can get yourself cleaned up. I’m sure you have already found and made use of the ensuite bathroom over there. You can shower, even take a bath if you would like.”

“And what about you? Where are you going?” I ask, almost pouting as I scoot to the edge of the bed and blink up at him expectantly.

He sighs, looking every bit as tired as I am. “I must keep watch. A man in my line of… work… has to be on his guard all of the time,” he grunts.

“But you need your rest, too,” I insist. “Just lie down with me. We can take a little cat nap. We’ve both been awake for way too long. And I-I don’t want to be without you, Vladimir. I just feel much safer when you’re around.”

I can tell my words are having an effect on him. He looks almost convinced by my pleading. That same muscle is twitching faintly in his jaw, telling me that he is weighing his options, thinking it over. Finally, he relents, giving me a nod and a pat on the cheek.

“You are very persuasive, malyshka. I can see how you must have been very successful in your school essays,” he comments as he slides back into bed with me.

I gleefully flop over on my side and wiggle up against his chest, his arms folding over me in a protective embrace. I can feel the smooth, tight layers of rippling muscle and sinew of his body, curling around me as though I am something so precious and delicate I require his protection. I have to admit, it feels fantastic. I’m not particularly accustomed to the feeling of being taken care of.

Ever since I was a little girl and I lost both of my parents, I have had to grow up too quickly. My childhood was never very innocent. The long, painful years of my adolescence were marked by one disinterested, loveless foster home to the next. I never felt as though there was much of a threat to my safety, but I never once felt comfortable either, much less loved. I have learned to take care of myself, to not lean on anyone else, because nobody and nowhere in this world means forever.

But there’s just something about being cradled in the powerful, capable arms of a handsome older man like Vladimir that gives me a faint shimmer of what forever might feel like. What true affection might feel like. He makes me feel safe and relaxed, even though the circumstances surrounding our encounter are undeniably dangerous. There’s a part of me that knows I, too, should be on my guard, but it’s stamped out by the part of me that is so hungry and desperate for a sense of belonging that I melt into Vladimir’s embrace happily and freely. And with that warm, tingly glow surrounding me like an aura of protection, I quickly drift off to sleep…

Don’t stop. Please, please, for the love of god… don’t stop.

I beg him, my eyes shining and stinging with tears of rapture as his rough, calloused fingertips slide down the smooth, nearly-virginal flesh of my body. He traces abstract shapes and ancient sigils into my skin, pressing hard on the tender bruises and aches of my back, stretching me out like some calfskin canvas, only alive and so, so much sweeter to the ink. His fingernails, clipped short as they are, still drag tantalizing pink lines down from my shoulder blades down along my arching spine to the widening canal of my hips. I sigh and roll my hips as his large hands slip around to cup my ass, squeezing them in his hands, palming them with a desperation and a hunger that makes me weak in the knees. I can feel the tingling burn between my legs that begs me to beg him, and I know if I ask him nicely enough, he will grant me the most precious gift he can offer me: pleasure.

Suddenly, I feel hot oil drizzled down the length of my smooth back, and my skin prickles up in tiny chill bumps in response. Vladimir, hovering over me like some great horned demon in his shadowy cloak and heavy brows, sucks in a tight breath. It is taking all of his restraint to move slowly, to lull himself into the same languid rhythm he’s lured me into. His hands press into my shivering flesh, massaging away the aches and pains with the firm heel of his hand or careful pressure from his fingertips. He works me over so capably, so expertly, as though he alone holds the manual on how to please my particular body. He knows my every erogenous zone by heart, by instinct, by name.

My cheek rests against the pillow, my eyes heavily-lidded and nearly shut. Open just enough to see the flickering white candles all around the room, casting a golden glow over us both. I can feel his hands gradually, teasingly making their way down toward my ass and thighs. He smooths down the backs of my legs with his rough hands, giving me shivers and tingles of pure delight as he goes. I sigh and moan, my teeth biting the soft pillow as his hands slide deftly between my thighs, wedging them open so he can dip down and softly breathe in my distinctive sweet scent. He hums his appreciation as he noses between my legs from behind, his hands still sensually massaging my aching thighs while he extends an exploratory tip of his tongue to taste my slick folds. I whimper and spread my legs wider, rutting gently against the sheets while he licks and sucks at my pussy lips, lapping up my sticky sweetness as though it is the finest dessert a man could order.

Oh, it feels so good. So soft and slow and rhythmic. His tongue lathing up and down the length of my fragrant cunny while I arch my back and push back gently against him, moaning and begging incoherently for more. He groans against my clit, sending exquisite spirals of pleasure up through my body. Every nerve and muscle in my body is so relaxed. I feel completely open, totally safe, as long as I place my body and my heart in the competent hands of my protector. He is so wise and experienced, there is no man better to guide me along the path of my life, giving me pleasure and special attention all the while. He knows just how to please me, exactly the way I like it. He anticipates my every need before even I am aware of it. As he continues to slowly devour my pulsing flower, I dance closer and closer to the edge, my pleasure mounting higher and higher with every flick of his tongue or suck of his lips…

“Mmm. Vladimir,” I mumble, the heavy syllables of his name clumsy but delicious in my mouth as my body wakes up. I feel a twinge of regret as my sugar-sweet dream starts to fall away before I get a chance to finish.

“No, don’t go. Come back,” I whisper, but it’s no use. The dream is over.

My eyes flutter open and I sigh. A shiver runs down my spine and I realize I’m a little chilly now, goosebumps covering my skin. I roll over in bed, hoping to find Vladimir there beside me, but when I see that his side of the bed is empty, my heart sinks. Worry instantly floods my thoughts and I sit up straight in bed, looking frantically around the room. Suddenly, I feel so naked and exposed and unsafe. I need to be with Vladimir to feel good again.

“Vladimir?” I call out, my voice trembling slightly. “Are you there?”

I listen for the sound of the shower, but I hear nothing. He’s not down here. That means he must be up on the top deck, right? I mean, we’re drifting out on the open water. There aren’t exactly all too many places for a man well over six feet tall to hide.

So, wrapping a sheet around myself in an act of sudden modesty, I trundle into the ensuite bathroom to tidy myself up. I almost snort with laughter when I see my hair in the mirror, tangled and sticking up in every direction. It looks like I took a tumble down a wind tunnel or something.

I find a simple black comb on the counter and start to drag it through my hair, freeing the snarls and tangles until I manage to get it lying mostly flat and shiny again. I splash water on my face and use the towel to rub myself down, paying special attention to the sticky bits. When I deem myself decent enough for human interaction, I go to the cupboard containing my fresh clothes and select a little black dress of crushed velvet and lace, pair it with some knee-high black stockings, red flats, and a gauzy white cardigan. Satisfied with my look, I leave the master bedroom and go upstairs to the deck, looking left and right for Vladimir.

Finally, I spot him leaning against the railing at the back of the boat, his eyes scanning the horizon. There’s a rather solemn look on his face, almost sorrowful. I realize with a sinking feeling that he is staring off in the vague direction of Russia, even though no coastline or land is even remotely visible from where we are in the water. I stand there for a long moment, just watching him, wondering if it would be rude of me to interrupt.

And then, to my surprise, I hear him say in his deep, rumbling voice, “Did you have trouble sleeping, malyshka?”

Somehow, he knows I’m standing here. His instincts must be even sharper than I thought.

I come strolling up slowly behind him. “I had kind of a weird dream, actually,” I admit.

“Weird? In what way?” he prompts me, still not turning to look.

“Well,” I begin a little nervously, realizing how filthy my dream will sound to him. “I dreamed about you. But it’s a little dirty.”

“Dirty how?” Vladimir presses me, totally unashamed.

I bite my lip as I sidle up next to him at the railing. I’m too shy to look at him yet. “You were… doing things to me. I was begging for it. And you had total control over everything. You knew what I needed even before I did. I felt so safe. And… and loved. Like everything was going to be okay as long as I put all my trust in you,” I ramble, anxiously tucking my hair behind my ears as I explain.

He remains silent for a few minutes and I’m starting to worry I might have offended him when suddenly he speaks. “Do you know, Autumn, why so many Russian stories are sad?” he asks me out of the blue.

I frown in confusion and offer a shrug. “Well, I’ve studied a lot of Russian lit, but I have a feeling you know the answer better than me,” I confess.

“It is because we try so hard to be good,” he says, his voice low and growly. “We try so hard to do good. But this world—it does not always reward goodness. We try to band together, to work as a united front to achieve our goals, for the betterment of all mankind. And yet, no matter how hard we try, no matter how pure our intentions, there will always be bad men who ruin it all for everyone.

It’s like our working class. Full of brilliant, clever, compassionate, hard-working people. Good people who take care of each other as well as themselves. But the men in power, the ones who hold the money—they will never bend to that worldview, Autumn. They will always strike a good man down. They will always burn the good ideas and reap the harvest of seeds they did not sow. Try as we might, the bad man will always knock us down.”

I look up at him, stunned by this sudden burst of philosophy.

“Is that… is that what happened in Istanbul?” I ask softly, barely more than a whisper.

His face is unreadable, though the sorrow etched in the lines of his features is undeniable. He does not give me an affirmative answer either way. “Something like that, perhaps,” he says.

I lay a hand on his arm. “Vladimir, you must be so tired,” I suggest.

He nods slowly. “Da, malyshka. I have been tired for a long, long time,” he says.

“Then, why don’t you go lie down and get some rest?” I offer brightly.

Vladimir sighs. “That is not a luxury I can afford, I am afraid.”

I stare off into the distance, watching the clouds move across the velvety black sky, the black waters reflecting the pale glow of a crescent moon. I decide to push a little harder.

“Look, if you’re worried about me somehow escaping or whatever, you don’t have to worry about that,” I tell him gently. “In fact, if you’re really that concerned about it, you can… you can cuff me. To the bed, to you, whatever you think is best. I promise I won’t even try to run away, but the cuffs might help you feel more confident about that. What do you think?”

I look up at him expectantly, my heart pounding. I hope he says yes… for more reason than one. The prospect of being cuffed to him is oddly exciting to me. He seems to be considering it, but takes his time to give me his answer.