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Message-ID: <39103asstr$1036365005@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} "The Russian Front, pt. 2" 
Date: Sun,  3 Nov 2002 18:10:05 -0500
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The Russian Front, A Love Story

by H. Jekyll

Part Two: Submission and Dignity

* * * * * *

Note: I'm not using story codes. This is a story about rape and 
domination and love and loss and happiness in the middle of war. 
There are graphic rapes and other graphic sex. It's a "sex" story 
but not a sex "genre" story. If you want something that's "just" 
about sex, you'll be disappointed. Give this a pass. There are 
very well written pure sex stories out there. I even wrote some 
of them. Search them out.

This is a slight revision of a story originally posted at 
Ruthie's Club, based on an idea first put into print by Neil 
Anthony (see his "Housewife, 1946" series at Ruthie's Club). The 
formatted and illustrated original can be found there.

Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely granted to post 
on any site that does not charge for entrance, as long as full 
attribution is given to the author. The story should not be read by 
anyone under the legal age to read sexually explicit stories, or by 
anyone in a location where it is illegal to read such stories. 

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms, and I 
absolutely promise to respond to them. Please send them to: 
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

The H. Jekyll stories are archived in the Alt Sex Stories Text 
Repository, at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

Also at "Ruthie's Club" -- http://www.ruthiesclub.com/

*  *  *  *  *

The Russian Front, A Love Story
Part Two: Submission and Dignity


She remembers the first bath he gave her every time she bathes 
the children. They can run only one or two inches of hot water, 
so little that she often merely sponge bathes herself. He had the 
riches of conquest, though, an ancient bathtub with four claw 
legs. He filled it well up with water so hot they had to wait 
before they could use it.

She had remained kneeling when he pulled out of her mouth to run 
the water, his obedient subject, hands on thighs, face red and 
wet. He led her to the tub by her hand, helped her in, and let 
her soak, immersed in impossibly warm water while he left the 
room. Then, when she was completely warmed, he helped her to 
stand and began to wash her. The water wasn't the only impossible 
thing. He was impossibly gentle and caring of her wounds, 
especially the bruise around her eye and the new welts on her 
back. He dabbed at them tenderly, then soaped his hands and slid 
them over her whole body, slippery hands over her breasts and 
down to her vagina, slipping his two hands up and down her 
thighs, one thigh at a time. He made her nipples stand by moving 
slippery thumbs over them several times. He spent much time on 
her vagina and ass.

She couldn't make her mind move away from his hands, take it to 
some safe place, because of the gentleness. She knew she could 
never face sex again, but even though it was obvious he wanted 
sex the hands didn't repulse her. She didn't feel sexual 
pleasure. She couldn't have stood that. No, but she could come to 
crave those hands that brought her to a world that wasn't so 
horribly frightening as the one she had left.

He made her bathe him. This forced her to look at his body 
closely, not just his cock, which she had to soap and clean until 
it grew again, but everything. He had gruesome wounds. The worst 
was a pit in his right chest just inside the shoulder. It was so 
large and deep that she thought she could put three fingers into 
it. She looked to his face in surprise and he said, "Mortar."

When she washed his legs she found two pits on a thigh, on 
opposite sides, one of which joined three long and jagged lines. 
Long, thin, raised scars ran along both arms and one cheek. And 
there was a thick crease at the corner of his forehead. When she 
touched it he said, "I was shot in the head, just barely 
Liebchen. It broke off a little of my skull. Some of my men think 
I am immortal. When I returned from the third wound the entire 
regiment surrounded me, cheering. They took to calling me 
'Rasputin' because I am so difficult to kill, and they consider 
me lucky to be around. Of course I share my given name with the 
monk, Grigori, which clinches it for my poor, empty-headed boys."

He spoke in a frank and friendly tone, as though the two were new 
friends who sat on a bench in some park and told tales about 
themselves. His empty headed-boys, his men. She suddenly realized 
she had been caught in the moment and forgotten to think of them, 
and that he loved the ones who had raped her. She began to cry 
again.

"Why do you let them do... what they did?" she finally asked.

"This war is very hard for everyone."

* * * * * *

She knows he is a Rasputin in more ways than merely his 
indestructibility. She listens to her husband breathe through the 
night, the husband who, after he absently comforts or caresses 
her, always lets his eyes travel to her stomach and then stops 
touching her, and she remembers those soft hands. She hadn't 
wanted pleasure, hadn't wanted to love him. She would be his 
obedient slave, or his whore, nothing more, except that he had 
this way about him. The nights are the worst time for these 
thoughts as much as for the others, because she has no activities 
to distract her. She does masturbate sometimes, in the bathroom 
or rocking before the heater in the middle of the night, but it 
doesn't satisfy her. She thinks if one of the Americans pursued 
her she would let him have her, even though it might cost her 
job.

Grigori, my love, my demon, who first used me, then deserted me.

* * * * * *

He began that first night. When they were both clean and wrapped 
in bedclothes he led her out to the fire, where he had set a 
small dinner on a coffee table. There were mainly Russian 
rations, but he had procured some sausages, fresh rolls, and wine 
as well. He ate quickly but she knelt passively, with her hands 
on her thighs, as she had before.

"Eat, Liebchen."

She replied in a tiny, quavering voice, but she didn't look up at 
him.

"No, bitte, I cannot. I will lose it again if I do, sir." Now 
that she was wide awake to the world, whenever she thought about 
putting anything in her mouth she saw the red-brown sauce 
spurting from that one man's prick, tasted it, and felt herself 
swallowing it. Even empty as she was, she had to control waves of 
nausea.

"For me, you will keep everything down sweetly, schöne Fraülein. 
I cannot have you growing still thinner. You would disappear 
entirely."

He fed her tiny bits of food, so tiny they were hardly more than 
specks, and gave her plenty of time between bites to finish 
swallowing. In between he gave her sips of wine, more wine than 
solid food. She wouldn't feed herself but she took what he held 
to her on his fork. He watched her face carefully, to tell when 
one of the waves had passed, and each time he let her rest a 
minute before giving her another tiny bite. Dinner was thus very 
leisurely, proceeding into the night. He restored the fire in the 
middle of it to keep her warm and relaxed.

After he decided she had eaten enough he told her to lie down on 
top of her sheet, on a little mattress he had brought out to the 
fire.

"Now, Fraülein, I will play with your body and you will do what I 
tell you. I will not hurt you. Do you understand?"

"Yes sir."

"And you will not call me 'sir.'"

She lay before the fire and he moved those hands over her 
forehead, down across her neck, to her shoulders. He lifted her 
head and used a brush to spread her hair out like a golden brown 
halo, then for a long time he brushed from her scalp to the ends 
of her hair. She had not been able to relax for weeks, even 
before the rapes, but he seemed able to bring it on. After awhile 
her muscles loosened, though she didn't know when it began. Her 
eyes closed by themselves. 

He knelt over her face and kissed her eyes, then her forehead, 
then her neck. He kissed her mouth and she became completely 
tense because she remembered the mouth of the rapist who had 
forced her to kiss, but this mouth was clean, tasting only 
slightly of wine. She obediently returned the kiss. He brushed 
her hair some more and it wasn't long before she didn't want him 
ever to stop. 

She fell almost asleep, so supine that her state was trancelike, 
but she was aware of what his hands were doing with her hair 
and then was aware when he moved to her nipples and licked them 
while caressing lightly all around them. He petted her pubic hair, 
soft light brown stuff, still barely touching her and, like one 
would do with a cat, he stroked it again and again.

Finally he spoke to her again. "Fraülein. My dear. You will come 
here every evening and stay until morning, as long as I want you. 
Is this agreeable?"

She opened her eyes, half way. She was a long distance away, but 
there was something she needed to ask again. Her voice sounded
obsequious even to her.

"You won't hurt me, will you?" 

"No. Never. You will do everything I ask voluntarily."

"What if I don't want to?"

"Then I will release you. I am sure there are others who would 
like you."

Ah, that was the threat.

"You'll protect me from the others?"

"Yes. A little badge on your coat will tell everyone you are with 
me. My men will know in any case."

"What of my children and mother-in-law?"

"I already affixed a sign to your front door. They will not be 
bothered."

"Yes, I'll come every evening, as long as you want me."

She was lying, but she would come as long as she had to. She 
thought she should rouse herself to do something he would like, 
and she tried without much success to half-rise, but he pushed 
her back down, gently as before.

"Tonight only I will do things."

He began the caresses again. Soon her eyes were closed and she 
entered her half trance again. She felt him spread her legs wide 
and push two fingers inside her. She thought his fingers might 
hurt her because of the rapes, but she was slippery and the 
fingers felt nice after all. They were part of the massage. He 
masturbated her intermittently, while stroking her and kissing 
her elsewhere, so that her breathing became more sonorous and 
lovely. She wouldn't pursue pleasure but she couldn't bring 
herself to resist and she had to let him do what he wanted.

Then he entered her and fucked her for several minutes, and she 
began to feel real pleasure.  He brought her closer and closer, 
and she gasped with him though her arms lay at her sides. So 
close. Let him finish now. Let him finish alone. He did, which 
pleased her. She hadn't orgasmed for him. He pulled out and 
curled on his side, drawing her to him in a spooning position. He 
pulled bedclothes over them and then they both fell asleep.

During the night she woke once from a nightmare, shaking and damp 
again, and when she felt his naked body she felt safe. He was 
unlike anyone she had ever known. Later an errant shell fell 
close by and she awoke startled, terrified, remembering every bad 
thing, but he also woke up and pulled her to him.

"There, there, Liebchen, nothing can hurt you when you are with 
me." She knew he was telling the truth.

Her head was raised, her neck and back completely tense, eyes 
wide and mouth open as she stared into almost black space, and 
he, who seemed to be able to see a little better, slid an arm 
under her head. She turned around toward him and nestled in, her 
face under the covers, hands touching his chest. And fell back 
asleep.

* * * * * *

He was up and dressed before dawn. When she awoke he was sipping 
a cup of real coffee and looking at her.

"I have a long day ahead, so I cannot stay to eat with you, 
Fraülein. Here is some meat and coffee for your family. I hope to 
be back by the time you come, but wait for me in any case."

He bent to kiss her, a kiss she did not return, and left. 

She didn't hurry to rise or leave his place. She didn't know what 
to expect outside. There was food here and she was able to eat a 
little. Finally, though, she dressed to leave, then was struck 
with terror that she couldn't find the emblem he had promised 
her. She went through everything in the room looking for it. It 
must be here someplace! Only after she'd given up hope of finding 
it did she see that he already had fastened it to her coat. She 
picked up the coat and held it to her. She was soaked in sweat. 
Her heart was pounding. She'd been sure the rapists would get her 
again.

Outside was the same world it had been the day before. She was 
almost paralyzed because her courage left her when she began to 
step toward the street. Grigori! Why did you leave me? She held 
her coat closed in such a way that the emblem was a shield going 
before her, and walked fast. She couldn't escape, though. Three 
soldiers sauntered down the street, blocking her way and 
grinning, giving way only when they say Grigori's mark. They 
taunted her in Russian as she passed and one grabbed at her ass. 
She half ran for a block. Other men stopped their work to make 
catcalls. She turned a corner directly into the path of the 
rapist who spoke German and two other men who looked familiar. 
She backed up to a light post, trying not to panic, but they 
followed, coming right up to her face and leering. She couldn't 
back any further and couldn't seem to breathe.

"Do you miss us already? We are planning another party and you 
will be our main entertainment. We will let you show us more of 
your talents." His face was almost touching hers.

"Stop! Stop or I'll tell Grigori!" Oh God, what are his family 
name and his rank?

"Already using given names, are we? Do not worry. When Rasputin 
is done with you he will throw you back down to us. After all, we 
found you first!" He reached down to grab her sex hard, and when 
she hit him and broke away the men all laughed.

* * * * * *

She was finally home. How could she go back tonight? How could 
she not? She leaned against the door with the sign that protected 
them and worked for ten full minutes to calm herself. Then, time 
to make an appearance. She had to tell her mother-in-law, because 
she wouldn't be home in the evening any more and she would have 
to explain. She thought she wouldn't be able to, but it was easy.

"An officer rescued me. He will protect us all, but only if I..." 
How to phrase it?  "Only if I spend the evenings with him."

At first her mother-in-law seemed perplexed, but after a moment 
she asked, "How bad is it?"

She had rehearsed her line: "It is nothing, and anyway, there is 
nothing we can do."

The mother-in-law looked at her in a thoughtful manner for about 
ten seconds. Finally she nodded several times, took the coffee 
and meat, and went into the kitchen. They never again spoke about 
it.

* * * * * *

It is instructive to study Gustav Doré's etchings of nineteenth-
century London. A bleak place, full of want and vice, filthy, 
dark, cold, a place much like she walked that evening before she 
orgasmed for him. No one grabbed her though everyone seemed to 
look at her, and she was certain they all knew what had happened 
to her and what she was doing. How many of them had done her 
themselves? She left her house early because there was no street 
light and she couldn't bear the thought of being outside after 
dark. She had to wait at roadblocks, though, where she was 
questioned in atrocious German, and take approved detours around 
bomb craters and collapsed buildings, so that darkness overtook 
her. There seemed to be new fires. The air was full of smoke, 
sometimes so thick it obscured the street. There was a steady, 
distant bombardment, the vibrations of which came through the 
concrete to her feet. She almost lost her way twice. Once she saw 
a girl being forced into a doorway by several soldiers. A child. 
She certainly wasn't more than a girl, not a full adult, and she 
was crying and begging, struggling, but she had no protector. The 
housewife looked away and hurried past. When she encountered 
Russian soldiers she looked past them and pointed her index 
finger at her little emblem. It was a tiny regimental decal, all 
that stood between her and them, and scarcely visible in the 
twilight.

She had planned to be coolly subordinate to the officer, whatever 
he was -- her protector, her master, her own private rapist? She 
was humiliated by everything associated with him, having relaxed 
for him, sleeping with him, finding him safe and warm, feeling 
the pleasure forced upon her. That wasn't what happened when you 
were raped. You didn't feel good about anything at all. He had 
somehow taken such advantage of her vulnerability! Well, she was 
stronger today, so it wouldn't happen again. She would let him 
have his way but keep herself removed and above it all, 
sacrificing her body but keeping what was more personal away from 
him.

She couldn't do it though. She just couldn't. She tried but it 
was too awful. Long before she got to his door she was shaking 
all over again, just like the previous night, filled with that 
panic, afraid her sanctuary would be gone. When she finally found 
the door it was locked. She knocked, then pounded on it when he 
didn't come, and called loudly "Grigori!" Please please be here! 
The door opened and candlelight poured over her and she 
remembered what she had wanted to forget during the day, how 
deliciously nested he had made her feel when she snuggled against 
him during the night. She put her face to his shoulder, put her 
arms around him. Make the shaking stop! Make it go away!

He put one arm around her waist and held the other hand to her 
head.

"Liebchen, Liebchen, it is okay. You are safe my darling." He 
kissed her head and she could feel the warm breath on her scalp. 
"Nothing bad will ever happen to you, I promise."

"I thought you were gone, that I would have to go back through 
the streets!" She was trying not to cry. She already felt foolish 
but she couldn't stop her chin from quivering and her eyes were 
watering.

"But I am here for you, no? I will always be here for you."

They stood for the longest time until, by and by, as he kissed 
her hair and held her to him, she calmed. When he bent to kiss 
her mouth she returned the kiss, then he escorted her to the 
inner rooms.

* * * * * *

She orgasmed because she couldn't do otherwise. He didn't use 
tricks of seduction. In fact, he almost repeated the previous 
evening: had her undress while he undressed; sat on the stool and 
told her to hold his penis in her mouth while he loosened her 
hair and caressed her all over; described how beautiful she was, 
her hair, her breasts, her skin. Tonight, though, it made her a 
little hot, even holding and tasting his cock. She tried to 
concentrate on things besides his hands and his voice, and the 
penis helped, but he was mesmerizing. He was Rasputin. He was 
Svengali. Maybe it wasn't her fault if she couldn't resist him. 
Maybe he had special powers.

He did fuck her mouth a little when he was ready to come. She had 
no trouble swallowing his semen. He drew a full, hot bath again 
and they washed each other again.

He did one thing differently. Washing her, he concentrated on her 
vagina, using a soapy, terrycloth rag. He washed her sex on and 
on it seemed, and of course she had to let him do what he wanted. 
After awhile she became high. Her breathing quickened and she 
leaned her head back a little, half closed her eyes. Though she 
began to realize he could excite her, and that she couldn't do 
anything to stop it, she tried not to show it.

He told her to lean over in the tub, to put her hands on its back 
ledge. "Good. Now spread your legs wider, to the sides of the 
tub." When she was thus posed, he pushed a soaped thumb into her 
rectum. It went in easily. She had never ever had anything back 
there, so she gasped out a long "ahhh" more in shock than in 
anything like pain, but she didn't move. He held the thumb all 
the way in her while he continued to wash her vagina with the 
terrycloth rag, and this got her higher and higher, until she was 
actually showing her desire, gasping, dismissing her resolve 
because the excitement had taken over and she was in a world far 
away from the events of the day. She wanted him to do it. She was 
almost at the brink when he stopped, dropped the rag, and pulled 
his thumb out of her. No!

"When you are aroused, Fraülein, you are the most delicious woman 
in all the world."

Don't stop! She looked at him with pleading but she wouldn't beg.

At dinner he insisted again on feeding her and insisted she feed 
him. She didn't care about the food. What she wanted was to be 
transported, like during the bath, so she was openly sexual, 
kittenish, goading him toward fucking her. When she fed him she 
called him "my Bolshevik" in a voice like that of Marlene 
Dietrich. She played with putting the fork to his mouth, then 
saying "nooo" and yanking it away when he tried to take his bite 
of food. He retaliated by pouring a whole glass of wine down her 
front when she tried to take a sip. She promised to be good, but 
the next time she offered him a sip she poured the wine on his 
penis instead. They started wrestling until he could hold her 
still long enough to pour the rest of the wine bottle all over 
her.

They were laughing and she was happy and thoughtless for the 
first time in months or years, and then they were kissing 
passionately, moving lips back and forth over the other's open 
mouth and tasting the wine on each other's face. He lay her on 
her back and she helped him put his penis into her and they 
fucked and she came. She came quickly but he didn't, not after 
using her mouth earlier, and then she came again. She grew 
breathless. Both were sweating and gasping, but still he fucked 
her and she came a third time, hardly able to gasp it out, 
lacking the strength to move her body with his anymore so that 
she merely lay there under him, until finally he came and pushed 
his crotch as hard against hers as he could and she was hit by a 
fourth orgasm that she could only lie there and feel.

* * * * * *

She remembers that evening when she sits in front of the heater, 
and she is both mortified and aroused. The two responses always 
occur together. Nothing like that had ever happened to her, 
before or since, not even with her Rasputin. She wonders if he 
did that to other women. Then she wonders where he is, if he was 
killed at Berlin. Oh God no. Or caught up in the post-war purges 
that Stalin apparently had begun, or if he has become a high 
officer, married, making his own children. Tonight she recalls 
the fucking with a kind of sweet regret, with thoughts of what 
was and what could have been only in fantasy.

The day afterward, though, she had been angry with herself, 
furious that she had given in to him so completely, only one day 
after being raped and hurt, given in to that Russian who had 
manipulated her. It was important to make this a contest, to 
wrest control away from him, so that night she had acted coldly 
and done her best not to show him any desire, even when he petted 
her vagina and spoke beautifully to her. She kept great face and 
breath control, though she grew slippery inside. He seemed 
vaguely uncertain about her mood at first, but after awhile came 
to some decision and made her suck him off again. She had won.

The next evening he wasn't there. The door was unlocked and there 
was a one-sentence message that he would be out with his men and 
that she should wait. Was he angry, telling her he would play 
without her? He'd left some food by the fire. She sampled a 
little, telling herself she was lucky because she might not have 
to sex him tonight, but the evening passed and he didn't return. 
She re-stoked the fire herself. Finally she slept, not well. 
Distant artillery fire had begun again, after a day of near 
quiet. It woke her when it started, but later it was like thunder 
in the distance and she forgot about it.

He wasn't back the next morning and she didn't know if she should 
wait or go home. She began to think he was through with her. What 
if? What would happen? Was it so important to retain her dignity 
if her safety and her children's safety were at stake? She grew 
fearful and went through all the worst possibilities. He was 
going to punish her by abandoning her. Her damned pride had 
brought her to the brink of ruin, though he hadn't been cruel to 
her. Don't abandon me, my Grigori! I'll be such a good lover to 
you. Come back.

Every few minutes she looked out the windows. Would he come? 
Would he send the soldiers to take her? She straightened out the 
apartment, to make it nice for him when he returned. She swept, 
did the dishes. It gave her something to do. She thought she 
should check in at home, that they would worry about her and that 
her mother-in-law might need her, but she was afraid to not be 
there for him. When would the telephones be back up? Finally she 
left a note saying she would be right back. She signed it "Love" 
but looked at it for several seconds afterwards, wondering if she 
shouldn't have. It scared her a little. It overplayed her hand.

She ran home just to say she couldn't be there that day. Her 
mother-in-law asked if she was okay and she answered yes, but 
that an emergency had arisen. Then she ran back, feeling the 
bombardment through her feet. It had grown misty. A few flakes of 
snow swirled around the streets, but there were almost no 
Russians.

Nothing had changed in the apartment.

She tore up the note she had signed "Love" and burned it in the 
fire.

In the afternoon an aide of some kind came in to clean. They 
looked at each other uncertainly. The aide didn't understand 
German, so finally she got her coat and pointed toward the 
emblem. Then she kept out of his way until he left. Grigori 
wasn't back by evening. Where could he be? The aid surely 
wouldn't have come if he were gone forever. She dozed. It grew 
dark. She tried to eat a few scraps, but her appetite had 
deserted her again. What should she do? The artillery fire grew 
in intensity bringing her the thought that his troops had been 
called back into battle. She built the fire up and waited.

* * * * * *

She was at the door before it was completely open, a sheet 
wrapped around her, otherwise naked because she had thought he 
would want her that way. She wasn't sure if she'd been asleep.

His uniform was dirty and he smelled strongly of gunpowder. She 
came close to him but suddenly didn't know how she should act, 
and he didn't move to touch her.

"There was a little counteroffensive, Fraülein, very small, so 
they sent us out to handle it instead of taking troops from the 
major offensive. Then we could not return because the roads were 
blocked by supply trucks." A pause. "I am happy to see you."

"I was worried about you. I guess you're okay?"

He slid his coat to the floor and she saw that his left forearm 
was burned. It was red with some bloody blisters and had clearly 
not been treated.

"What happened? What happened to you, Grigori?" She wanted to 
pretend to be angry with him, to maintain superiority. She wanted 
to mother him. She wanted him to want her, and it scared her that 
he could have been killed.

"I always need a souvenir, you know."

"Why hasn't a doctor seen this?"

He shrugged. "There is an offensive on, lady. There are men who 
need them more. I left three at the aid station and three others 
will not go home at all. Do not go on so about a little burn."

He seemed irritated with her, but he took a long breath and 
winced and she knew the burn was hurting him badly. She pulled 
him to the fire, sat him on the little stool where she had sucked 
on him, and took off his shirt. The burn was dirty and could 
become infected so she rounded up materials to clean it. She 
washed it with soap and water, as gently as she could, but some 
blisters sloughed off anyway and it bled. She spread ointment on 
it and wrapped it with fresh bandages. She tried not to look him 
in the face while doing it. He didn't complain, but by his 
breathing she knew it hurt him. Once it was bandaged it seemed a 
little better. 

"Can I get you some wine?"

"Vodka."

She brought a pan to sponge bathe him, first helping him out of 
the rest of his clothes. She was certain he would not want sex 
tonight, but he grew erect while she washed him. She ignored the 
erection except when she washed it, and then she didn't comment 
on it. She was pretty sure he wouldn't throw her out, and with 
this knowledge her new and old resolves went around in her mind. 
She didn't know how to act.

"You are a good woman to me, even if you do not want to be here."

The statement came out of nowhere. She was unprepared for it and 
couldn't at first answer. Somehow it changed the atmosphere in 
the apartment. She felt she was passing into something new and 
different, something she didn't understand.  

Finally she sat down beside him and said, "I'll do whatever you 
want, Grigori. You know that. Willingly."

"No, not willingly. Not really."

"Yes, willingly. I..."

She had to stop. It was obvious what he meant. There was no use 
trying to lie, so she looked away from him and said, "I can't 
change my feelings. I can't make myself someone else. I can do 
anything else for you, though. I can. Let me, please."  She 
looked back to him as she said the last part.

"The other night you let your feelings go. You wanted to be 
here."

So this was how it ended. What would he do? She thought he might 
still give her protection but it was utterly depressing. Once 
again she looked away, a little past him and toward the fire.  
She replied quietly and thoughtfully, "I was weak then, 
because... because of what happened. It helped me forget 
everything. But I'm not just a toy. I'm not a plaything. I can't 
allow it. I have to be stronger, for myself."

"You were happy, Liebchen."

She didn't answer him at all. She sat staring down into the fire, 
after a few moments moving fingers across her eyes, back and 
forth. It was so sad. He spoke again,

"You do not even try to deny it. Here, look at me please. Look at 
me."

She had been crying a little. She turned toward him and he 
continued, "I can have you, yes, whenever I want, and you are 
such a woman that it is worth it to me even if you try to deny 
your pleasure. But you can have some happiness too. You know when 
I want I can make your body respond to me. I will do it, too. 
What I want is that you relax your will to let your body give you 
joy."

She wiped her eyes before she answered, "Please don't try to make 
me do that. I don't want that."

"I will do it. I will play with your body until you cannot help 
yourself."

"Please, no, don't take that from me. I'll do anything else. 
Please don't make me. I beg you, please Grigori."

But his face was touching hers and then he was kissing her, and 
in a minute she was obediently kissing him back with lips covered 
in tears. He was caressing her body with those hands, caressing 
her like before. She couldn't stop the pleasure because she had 
to let him do what he wanted, though twice more she asked him 
"Please stop." No he wouldn't stop. He concentrated on her body, 
stretched and spread below him in front of the fire, not letting 
even his burned arm stop him from getting chill bumps to run 
across her chest, playing with her nipples until they stood out 
fiercely from her breasts, running his hands in a continuous play 
down her vagina, palm to fingers running down, one hand then the 
other then the first, so that there was no gap between them, no 
time when a palm wasn't sliding down her sex.

Of course he won. He had all the advantages. Before he finished 
she was crying out and kissing him all over his face and holding 
him tightly, banging her hips against his and feeling wave after 
wave of pleasure travel up through her body from her crotch to 
her chest. Deep inside was a quiet voice, one she couldn't hear 
for the moment, that said this wasn't really her, wouldn't be her 
afterwards, that said she hated him.


End of Part Two.



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