Under the shadow of her grace Exactly one year had passed, long and thorny, since the moment Anna, my sun and my torment, left for another. His name was Artyom, a self-confident senior, and I, just her timid classmate, watched their happiness from the sidelines, like a bright but inaccessible picture. My whole world narrowed to her smile, her laughter, the flicker of her chestnut hair in the college corridors. By spring, a shadow of thoughtfulness had settled in her eyes, always so clear, and her laughter had grown quieter. The story unfolded itself, harshly and routinely: Artyom, having graduated, had left for his hometown without proposing marriage, or even a heart, or even a seat next to her on the packed train. He had simply vanished from her life, leaving silence in his wake. But autumn brought other changes. Returning to school, I saw that Anna had been transformed. A smooth, careful grace had appeared in her gait, and the contours of her figure revealed a soft, rounded line o... continue reading

The champagne was crap, but Lera was drinking it for the third glass in a row just to keep her hands occupied. The party was raging all around her: someone was shouting toasts from the balcony, bodies were rubbing against each other in the living room to wild indie rock, and someone's whiskey collection was already being sorted out in the kitchen. She felt like a ghost—in her most revealing black dress, which was supposed to inspire confidence but instead only exposed her back and made her cringe at the looks. New Year's. Again. Noise, hubbub, false laughter. She leaned against the doorframe between the kitchen and the packed loggia, watching the glamorous presenters counting down the final minutes on the TV. Her head was pounding with alcohol and fatigue. Her last boyfriend, Artyom, had been an ex for six months, and their sex, frankly, had been as predictable as this party. Carefully, according to schedule, in the same position. No madness. No loss of control. "Fuck,&#... continue reading

Masha lay on the bed in her Moscow apartment. She had just filmed another webcam video and was now reading her subscribers' comments. She always got extremely excited during filming, knowing how much her viewers were turned on by her practically naked dancing, and the requests and comments about what to do with her and in what positions made her pussy very wet. Masha quickly removed her soaking wet panties and reached for her 18-centimeter dildo. Spreading her beautiful legs wide, she began to furiously fuck herself. Masha often fantasized about being fucked by different men in various positions, and how she delightedly sucked cocks. But since Masha was a rather modest woman in real life, often starred in commercials for various brands, and was careful about her image, all these desires remained in her imagination. Everything changed suddenly. The next day, Masha woke up early, her body still aching from the previous day's masturbation. She stretched, feeling a slight dampne... continue reading

The car pulled up to a building somewhere in the neighborhood. I sat at a distance from him in the backseat. He seemed to pretend I wasn't there. I cautiously peered out through the raindrops to see what this place was like. It was already past midnight, but I felt calm. The master had explained back in the café that the girl had to ask him for a session herself, explained the rules, and the girl, without a second thought, did so. And now she was here. The screeching of brakes, the sound of drips on the roof of the car, and the sound of the door opening. The man walked around the back of the car, opened the door, took off his coat, and covered me with it to keep me dry. I got out of the car without meeting his gaze, and we hurried inside. It was a reception area of sorts, but it was so dim, so intimate. The girl behind the counter smiled at the man, and she clearly recognized him. I shrugged off his coat and hung it over my arm; it was barely wet. And I stepped aside. I looked... continue reading

His loft smelled of old books, leather, and the faintest hint of his cologne—something woody, tart. The candles on the nightstands cast dancing shadows on the walls, creating bizarre giants of light and darkness. I stood in the middle of the room, feeling small and fragile, almost translucent. My short black hair seemed even darker against my pale skin, and the tiny swallow tattoo on my wrist felt like my only talisman of protection. He was thirty-eight. Tall, with a graying beard and eyes that had seen too much. His hands—strong, with the sinewy fingers of a photographer and thin silver scars on his knuckles—now ignited a fire within me that sent shivers down my spine. He approached me silently, like a predator. "Ready?" His voice was low, almost chest-like, and it sent a shiver down my spine. I merely nodded, unable to speak. My throat was dry. We'd met several times, discussed boundaries, safe words. But the theory proved worthless compared to the practical items lyin... continue reading