A cold wind drove gray, stinging snow through the streets, melting it into mud beneath the wheels of the cars. The city lived its own harsh, oil-fueled life. It wasn't pretty, but it was as strong as a fist. Those who didn't fear long months in the north, far from home, on endless shifts, made good money here. Pyotr was one of them. Milana, standing by the window of their old, not yet completely empty apartment, watched the twilight swallow the gray panel buildings. Longing. Deep, aching, like an aching tooth. She was twenty-seven, and she had spent most of those last three years waiting. Waiting for a call, a message, a return. Peter was her husband, her love, and her greatest source of anxiety. A tall, lean, dark-haired man with a stubborn chin and jealous eyes, he graduated from the Oil and Gas Institute and dedicated his life to endless business trips. She, on the other hand, was an advertising executive, or, as it's fashionable to say these days, an SMM specialist. Her world was contained within a laptop screen, and her heart within a smartphone awaiting his messages. Their union was strange in a modern world full of disposable relationships. Peter saw Milan as the most beautiful and fragile creature in the world, and every passing man as a potential threat. Milana, in turn, idolized him for this possessive, almost wild love. She was a short brunette with eyes the color of a clear sky and a childish, slightly offended expression on her plump face. Nature had endowed her generously: ample breasts, striving for a C-cup, seductive hips, and a wasp waist. But she carefully concealed this beauty beneath baggy sweaters and shapeless dresses. Tight clothes, low-cut skirts, short skirts—none of that was for her. Only for him. And only when they were alone. Peter appreciated her understanding of his jealous nature. She never gave him the slightest reason to doubt him. Never. Not even in his thoughts. She considered it unacceptable for a married woman to have sex toys; it would be infidelity. A betrayal of his trust. But the shifts were long. Two, three weeks. And being alone in the quiet of the apartment, knowing that your body, created for caresses, was languishing in solitude, was torture. Longing and physical desire intertwined into one tight, painful knot beneath your heart. One such evening, during a video call, they expressed their pent-up feelings. She expressed her loneliness. He expressed his constant worry for her. "I can't do this anymore, Petya. I miss you. I'm scared to be alone." "Do you think it's easy for me? I'm here in this hotel, and I keep wondering who's walking past you, who's looking at you..." The solution came naturally. They would move. To the very city where Petr's company was based. Milana worked remotely, needing only the internet. They looked for an apartment together: she searched for options online, he viewed them on site. They were lucky. The apartment was newly renovated, with new appliances, in a good neighborhood. The owner, a mature, intelligent woman who had once worked at the same company, accommodated the young oil worker's family and included utilities in the rent. It was Milana's doing; she was able to find comparable options and argue her case. That's where her talent for analysis, bargaining, and finding the best deal lies. The only thing left was to move. They had accumulated a lot of things: furniture, appliances, boxes of books and clothes. It all couldn't fit into the apartment at once, so they rented a secure warehouse hangar. The plan was this: a transport company would load the things at their place, deliver them to the city, and local movers would unload them on site. The warehouse manager Milana spoke with warned her that they didn't have any official movers, but he gave her the contact information of a trusted person named Sergey. "The guys are reasonable, neat, and free of bad habits. Many people move through them." And so, one day, when Milana was making a list of things for Sergei, a message came from Petya. "Milusha, I miss you. I want to see you. Send me a photo..." Milana was embarrassed, as always. This was their game. Forbidden, exciting. She went into the bathroom, pulled down her sweatpants and panties, lifted her blouse and bra, revealing her firm breasts and smooth lower abdomen in the mirror. Catching a frightened, excited look in the reflection, she took a photo and, without looking, sent it to her husband. She waited for a reply, his approval, his passionate words. The message arrived almost instantly. "How long will it take? Lunch will be over soon." Milana's heart sank into her heels, then leaped into her throat, thumping hysterically. She glanced at the chat. The top message wasn't sent to Peter. It was sent to Sergey. The loader. Panic, sharp and blind, gripped her. Her fingers shook, and she frantically swiped at the screen, trying to recall the message. Her vision blurred, and instead of "delete for everyone," she desperately clicked "delete for myself." Now this stranger could see her naked body, and she couldn't undo it. "Please delete this! It's a mistake!" she sent with trembling fingers. The response came almost instantly. Not text. A photograph. Sergei stood in what appeared to be a public restroom. He was wearing a blue work uniform. He was also taking a picture of himself in the mirror, his pants and camouflage trousers lowered. He was holding his penis in his hand. Large, thick, impressive even when not fully erect. The photo was crude, straightforward, and devoid of any aesthetic appeal. Under the photo was a short message: "No discounts." Milana's world collapsed. Shame flooded her face with a burning flush. She, the one who despised frivolous girls, who considered intimate photos for her husband the height of candor, had just exchanged such scores with a stranger, a complete stranger. She had become the very thing she condemned. She tried to write again, to apologize, to explain, but there was silence. And in the chat with Petr, new messages were already popping up: "Mila, where are you? What's going on?" She couldn't confess. Never. His jealousy, his disappointment... she couldn't bear it. But inside, everything was screaming. She spent the whole evening in anxiety, chewing over what had happened. "It's okay," she tried to calm herself, "there are millions of photos like this online. Mine aren't the most revealing. He's already forgotten." Lying in bed, in pitch darkness, she couldn't sleep. That photo was before her eyes. Rough, masculine. His penis. She imagined Sergei, the loader, looking at her photo, getting aroused, touching himself... And this thought, shocking and shameful, made her legs warm and wet. She tried to push the image away, but it was persistent. Unable to resist, she picked up her phone. Her correspondence with Sergei had been clear, except for that fateful exchange. She opened his photo. She examined it closely. "He's so... big," she whispered into the silence. Her hand, as if against her will, slid under the blanket, beneath the edge of her panties. Her fingers encountered a damp warmth. This was wrong. Horribly wrong. She, a faithful wife, lying in bed, looking at a photo of someone else's manhood, caressing herself. The thought that she was bad, that she was breaking all her own rules, made her blood rush. The orgasm washed over her unexpectedly, brightly and deeply, knocking her off her feet. There was something bittersweet in it, the forbidden delight of falling. Being good was safe. Being bad was stunningly pleasant. She fell asleep, and in her dream, Sergei stood before her. He masturbated, looking at her photo, and then she found herself kneeling before him, his huge, bloodshot head so close that she could feel its warmth. His wild, commanding gaze paralyzed her. She waited in horror and languor. Morning brought relief. The situation seemed less tragic. A businesslike message arrived from Sergey: "Are you going to hire movers?" Overjoyed at the chance to fix everything, Milana bombarded him with details, volumes, and instructions. Long, dry messages were meant to bury the awkward incident under a layer of mundane matters. And it worked. Sergey responded strictly to the point, politely, and professionally. But at night, the demon returned. She opened the messages, found his photo, and, eyes squeezed shut in shame, brought herself to orgasm again and again, dying with thoughts of Petya, sleeping hundreds of kilometers away. Petr returned, and the rush of packing began. They packed the last of their belongings, loaded them into a large Gazelle van, handed the apartment keys to their parents, and flew to a new city. The new apartment greeted them with the scent of freshly renovated furnishings and emptiness. They bought groceries, laid out the mattress they'd bought first thing, and lived in limbo for three days. Milana liked the city. It was larger, more modern, with gleaming shopping malls and well-kept parks. Near the house, she noticed a new fitness club, and a long-held dream stirred in her soul, immediately suppressed by the familiar fear: "Petya won't approve. He'll say I go there just to be looked at." On the third day, the phone rang. It was the Gazelle driver. "Hello, I've arrived at the warehouse, where are your movers?" Milana dialed Sergey with bated breath. Hearing his voice for the first time—low, velvety, with a slight rasp—she felt a shiver run down her spine. It was exactly how she'd imagined him. “I understand you, we’ll do everything in the best possible way,” he said, and there was no hint of that correspondence in his voice. When he and Pyotr pulled up to the warehouse, they were greeted by a sight strikingly different from what they'd expected. Instead of rumpled men reeking of alcohol, a team of four strong, trim men in clean, new overalls awaited them. At their head stood Sergey. Tall, broad-shouldered, with short hair and a calm, confident face. His gray eyes swept Milana coolly and appraisingly before he nodded to Pyotr. The work began immediately. Everything was organized smoothly, without fuss. But a problem arose. The Gazelle driver, looking at the leaden clouds overhead, flatly refused to take any of the things to the apartment. "They're going to close the road; the cyclone is moving. If I get stuck, it'll be a day or more. I need to get out. Now." Panic gripped Milana's heart again. What should they do? They couldn't leave their things outside. Oddly enough, Sergei came to the rescue. "I can transport you," he said to Peter, but his gaze lingered for a moment on Milan. "I have a van, not that big, but we can get there in a few trips." After a brief moment of consideration, Peter agreed. It was a lifesaver. After paying the driver, they waited. Sergey pulled up his smaller Gazelle van. They began picking out the essentials: a mattress, boxes of clothes, a refrigerator, and a microwave. Peter, squeezing Milana by the elbow, whispered, "Listen, we need to split up. I'll hang around the entrance, make sure they don't steal anything. You'll meet them at the apartment, show them where to park." Milana wanted to protest; she was terrified of being alone with these men, but Petya was adamant. "It's safer this way. I'm looking after you." They arrived quickly; the warehouse wasn't far away. Petya helped unload the first boxes at the entrance and stayed at the door to hold it open. Milana climbed up to the apartment, her heart pounding. Soon, the movers, out of breath, began carrying the boxes. They piled them in the center of the living room, and soon a waist-high wall had formed. Milana fussily pointed: "These go in the kitchen, please. And these in the bedroom." Sergei was the last to enter. He glanced around the room, assessing the situation. The other movers left for another shipment. They were left alone. The apartment was filled with a ringing silence, broken only by their breathing. He came closer. Milana instinctively retreated. "You look great," he said quietly, his velvety voice sounding gentle. "Just like in the photo." The blood drained from her face. She tried to pretend she didn't understand. - What?.. Me. "Admit it, you didn't just send it for no reason, did you?" He took another step, closing the distance to zero. He was enormous, and his physical presence was overwhelming. "Did you look at my photo? Did you like it?" "No... I didn't watch anything. I made a mistake, it happens to everyone," she squeezed out, looking at the floor. Before she could process anything, his hands grabbed her. Roughly, possessively. One grabbed her around the waist, pressing her against him, the other began to grope her body: her breasts, her thighs, her buttocks. She froze in shock. This was impossible. This couldn't be happening. She tried to break free, but he was stronger. His fingers found their way under her sweater, under her bra, squeezing her breast. Painfully. “Let go... Petya... downstairs...” she moaned. "Will you tell him everything? About the photo?" he whispered in her ear, his breath burning her skin. She froze. He understood everything. And he was right—she wouldn't be able to say anything to Pyotr. Shame and fear paralyzed her will. Her body went limp, yielding, treacherously responding to his rough caresses. Inside, everything screamed, but on the outside, she was just a rag doll. At that moment, one of the movers entered the apartment with a box. He saw them, smirked, said nothing, and went into the next room. They had their own conspiracy. Their own mutual responsibility. "Do you want to see my friend in person, not in a photo? I know you do," Sergey said, his voice now sounding like an order. He pressed down on her shoulders, and Milana, without resisting, sank to her knees before him. Her mind was blank, her ears were ringing. He quickly unbuckled his belt, unzipped his overalls. And his penis, the same one she'd seen in the photo, but now huge, erect, menacing, was right in front of her face. Petya had a modest, almost boyish organ. But this was a weapon. Rough, primal. She couldn't look away. "Good job, Seryoga, give it to her!" came a cheer from the hallway. These words made Sergei shudder and become even more aggressive. He grabbed the back of her head and pulled her toward him. His fingers dug into her hair. The head of his cock, wet and firm, slapped her lips and cheeks. He drew on her face, staining it with his precum. It was disgusting, humiliating. “Open your mouth,” he ordered. She didn't move. Then he pulled his hand back and slapped her cheek with a loud, powerful blow. Pain pierced her consciousness, tears sprang to her eyes. Her cheek burned like fire. - Open your mouth, otherwise the other cheek will turn red too. She had no choice. It was a nightmare from which there was no waking. She helplessly parted her lips. He thrust into her mouth with force, deep, almost to the point of a spasm in her throat. She coughed, tears streaming down her face, mixing with saliva and his lubricant. He moved roughly and rhythmically, his moans mingling with slurping sounds. Milana closed her eyes. She no longer existed. She was just an object, a thing being used. In the corner of the room, near the ceiling, a small spider felt the vibration of its web. It reached a butterfly entangled in the fine threads. It was beautiful, with delicate blue wings, but it could no longer escape. The spider carefully began to weave a cocoon around her, enveloping her in a sticky, invisible shroud, slowly and inexorably. And down below, at the entrance, Pyotr, patting his sides from the cold, commanded the movers, imitating Sergei’s commanding voice: — Be careful there, you’re not unloading firewood! The movers, carrying boxes past him, exchanged glances and grins. They heard him and obeyed, but their smiles held a secret, a shared knowledge that had no place for Peter. He was master of the entrance, but in his own apartment, in his fortress, a foreign, rough, and merciless world was already in full swing.