Bath hour with a tractor driver

The stuffiness in the car gave way to a sharp December chill as I stepped out into the bumpy parking lot of the Taiga bathhouse. Steam billowed from the exhaust, as if the car itself had breathed a sigh of relief. I had come alone—on purpose. After three months in the smoke-filled office, after his calls begging me to come back, I needed a shake-up. Or oblivion. A bathhouse, I decided. Alone. The old log cabin had turned black with age. Inside, it smelled of smoke, damp wood, and something deeply earthy. The owner, a woman with a tired face and nimble hands, handed me a sheet and a broom. "Are you taking the whole hour?" she asked again. "It's free until eight. Just... It's a wood-burning stove, so you have to heat it yourself. Can you handle it?" I nodded. Drowning is even better. It'll keep my hands and mind occupied. The dressing room was quiet and empty. I slowly undressed, looking at my reflection in the fogged window. The thinness he'd called "elegance" now seemed mere fragility to me. I wrapped myself in a sheet, grabbed a bucket of water, and entered the steam room. The heat hit my face, burning my lungs. I tossed a log into the stove and sat on the bottom shelf, listening to the crackling of the logs. Loneliness finally began to envelop me, not as anxiety, but as a warm, heavy wave. I closed my eyes. The click of the door handle. I shuddered and instinctively pulled the sheet over my chest. A man stood in the doorway. Tall, very broad-shouldered, wearing only shorts. His skin was dark, as if scorched by wind and sun, and on his left shoulder was a bluish scar in the shape of a crescent moon. His damp hair fell in a dark strand across his forehead. He froze, his eyes—light gray, almost transparent—slid slowly over me. "Oh," he said hoarsely. "It's busy." The voice was low, without a single note of apology. More of a statement. “Yes,” I managed to say. “I… took an hour.” He didn't leave. He stood and stared. His gaze was so direct, so physical, that it made me feel hotter than a stove. It was as if he were weighing me, this city mouse who had wandered into his domain. "Semyon," he said suddenly, taking a step inside. The door hissed shut behind him. "I'm a local. Sorry, I forgot I had a schedule. I lit the stove this morning; it holds up for a long time. I thought there was no one there." He sat down on the bench opposite me, so close that I could see drops of water on his sculpted stomach, the dark nipples on his powerful chest. The sheet I was wearing suddenly seemed ridiculously thin. “Alena,” I muttered. "I see you've arrived alone," Semyon said, his eyes narrowing. "That doesn't happen often. Ran away from whom?" His unceremoniousness was stunning. But there was no malice in it. There was a raw, almost animalistic interest. “On my own behalf,” I answered honestly, unexpectedly for myself. He chuckled and nodded at the broom in my hands. — Oak. Hard. You'll wear your skin off with it. I have a birch one, soaked in water. Come on, I'll help you steam yourself. The right way. Otherwise, an hour will be wasted. It wasn't a proposal. It was... an announcement. His tone was so confident, like someone who knows his stuff, that I, always the one in control, simply gave in. I nodded. “Lie on your stomach,” he commanded. I lay down on the rough wood of the top bunk. The heat devoured my skin. I heard him dip the broom into the basin, then approach. And then... Then there was a sound—a rich, wet slap on my skin. Not painful. Deep, vibrating. The warm steam raised by the broom burned my back. I gasped. "Be patient," he said, and the second blow landed on my lower back. The muscles, clogged by the office chair and stress, twitched, clenched, and then… released. A groan escaped my throat. Long, low, and not at all proper. "There you go," he said approvingly from somewhere above. "They say steam doesn't break bones. But with you, I see, they're almost invisible." His hands, rough and huge, adjusted my position. His thumb ran over my vertebrae. I shuddered. He continued to whip me, but no longer casually, but with a knowing method. On my thighs, on my calves. Each blow was like an electric shock—painfully sweet, getting the blood pumping. I moaned. I couldn't stop. My body, having forgotten what it was like to be touched by someone else over long months of tenderness, responded to this rough caress with a wild, primal response. Between my legs there was warmth and a pulsating wetness. I bit my lip, feeling myself blush, not from the heat. The broom fell to the floor. His palm, rough and hot, landed on my lower back. "Turn over," he said, a hoarse note creeping into his voice. I obeyed. The sheet slid off. He looked at my naked body, at my chest, rapidly rising, at my stomach, at that wet, dark spot between my legs. His eyes darkened. "City porcelain doll," he murmured, and his fingers touched my nipple, tugging it roughly, almost carelessly. A spasm of pleasure ran through my body. "And inside... fire." He leaned down and took my nipple into his mouth. He didn't kiss it, he just grabbed it, captured it, burned it with the wet heat of his mouth. I cried out, my fingers digging into his hair. He moved to the other one, and his hand slid down, ran across my stomach, and rested his fingers on where I was all wet and throbbing. "There you go," he breathed hoarsely, and one thick finger entered me effortlessly, deeply. "I'm all worked up from the broom. You like it, huh?" I could only nod, thrashing under his hand, catching his finger inside me. He added a second, stretching me roughly, possessively. The pain mingled with such piercing pleasure that I screamed as the wave of orgasm washed over me, sudden and brutal. My body arched, twitching in his arms. He pulled out his fingers and licked them, without taking his eyes off me. "Not much," he stated. "This is just a warm-up." He dropped his shorts. His cock was huge, hard, almost frightening in its raw power. He positioned himself between my legs and brushed the head against my lips, coating them with moisture. “It’s cramped on the shelf,” he said. “Against the wall.” He lifted me like a feather and pressed me against the hot wooden wall. My legs wrapped around his powerful hips. And without preamble, in one long, relentless movement, he entered me. I howled. He filled me completely, all the way to my womb, stretching me, tearing me apart from the inside. It was painful. And God, how sweet. He began to move. Not quickly, but with a slow, sweeping force, as if plowing the earth. Each thrust drove me into the wall. His hands held my hips, his face bukvoeb.run close—his jaw clenched, a wild gleam in his eyes. I bit his shoulder, the salt of his skin on my tongue. He smelled of smoke, sweat, pure male animal sweat. "You're as light as a feather," he growled in my ear. "And you take it like a whore." His words burned hotter than steam. I came again, with a helpless cry, convulsively clenching around him. He only grunted with pleasure and continued, accelerating. "I'm cumming," he warned through clenched teeth and thrust into me one last time, deep, and I felt a hot stream pulsate and burst inside me. He flooded me. We stood leaning against the wall, breathing heavily. He pulled out of me. I slid down the wall to the floor, trembling, exhausted, and… alive. God, so alive. He left silently and returned with a wooden tub. Icy water splashed in the tub, and chunks of ice floated around. "After the steam room, into the ice hole," he said. "But there's no ice hole. That will happen." He stepped into the tub. A splash of icy water drenched the floor. He turned, looking at me. The challenge in his eyes was clear. I stood up. My legs were wobbly. I walked to the edge. I was shaking from overheating. He held out his hand. I stepped into the icy water. The shock was so intense it took my breath away. Icy needles dug into my skin, squeezing my heart. He pulled me close, sat on the edge of the tub, and pulled me onto him. My scream caught in my throat. Icy outside, his cock, hard and demanding again, entered me from within. The contrast was unbearable, insane. Every nerve in my body screamed. I wrapped my arms around his neck, and we moved in the icy water, and his kiss was rough, wet, tasting of blood—either his or mine. It was a short, furious act. We both came almost simultaneously, in silence broken only by the splashing of water and our hoarse exhalations. He carried me out of the tub, wrapped me in a dry sheet, and dried me with rough but surprisingly gentle movements. Silently. Then he dressed himself. "You still have half an hour," he said hoarsely, standing by the door. "Throw on some more wood if you feel like it." And he left. I sat on the bench, wrapped in a sheet, listening to the outer door slam. My body ached, hummed, and sang. There were bruises on my inner thighs from his fingers. Everything inside me burned. I touched my lips—they were swollen. I didn't add more wood. I sat and watched the embers smolder. The solitude I'd been seeking was different now. It was fulfilling. Rough, smelling of smoke and semen, painful and cleansing. As I was leaving, I saw him on the porch of the neighboring house. He was smoking, looking off into the forest. Our car drove past, and he didn't even turn his head. I never found out if he really forgot the bathhouse was occupied. Maybe he saw me arrive alone. Maybe he was used to taking what he needed. Or maybe he sensed the same wild, hungry emptiness in me that he felt in himself. I didn't return to that bathhouse. And I didn't answer my ex's calls. And when, a month later, I discovered a crescent-shaped bruise on my lower back—an almost exact replica of his scar, only yellowish and fading—I laughed. Rough, rustic, just like him. It was the best souvenir from my business trip to myself. And a reminder: beneath the thin glaze of civilization, embers still smolder within us, ready to burst into flames at one careless, rough touch.