I'll be late, don't wait.

They rented a dacha for the summer, an old log house on the edge of the village, with a sagging fence, apple trees, and a sauna house at the back of the property. Neighbors were rare, mostly on weekends, and on weekdays it was so quiet you could hear the overripe apples falling. That Friday, Lena arrived alone. Her husband was supposed to be arriving later; he had a big emergency at work, so she decided not to wait for him in stuffy Moscow and instead dash out of town. By the time she got there and unpacked her bags, it was already dark. The house greeted her with the smell of old wood and dust. She opened the windows, letting in the night air, scented with grass and river dampness. A text came from her husband: "I'll be late, don't wait up." She chuckled, put her phone down, thought, "Here we are, romance!" She poured herself some tea, and sat on the veranda. She was too lazy to heat the bathhouse alone, but her body ached from the journey and she wanted to wash away the dust of commuter trains and taxis. She threw on a robe, grabbed a towel, and went out into the yard. The path to the bathhouse led through a currant bush; the lantern by the porch was out, and she walked almost blindly, using her phone for light. Inside, the bathhouse smelled of birch twigs and ash. She splashed water on the stones with a ladle, closed the door to the steam room, undressed, and stepped into the warm shower in the anteroom. The water hissed, she closed her eyes and did not hear the gate creak. The first thing she felt was a draft. Then someone's hand landed on the back of her neck, squeezing gently but powerfully. Lena jerked, wanting to turn around, but another hand had already grabbed her wrist and twisted it behind her back. She tried to scream, but only a strangled wheeze came out. She was pushed face-first into the wall, pressed against it with her whole body. The man was heavy, smelling of fire and tobacco. A thought flashed through Lena's mind: "Robber, maniac, why did I go alone?" She struggled, but he had already tied something rough around her wrists, a clothesline, it seemed. He pulled her from her place and dragged her into the steam room. It was dark, only a small window in the ceiling let in moonlight. They sat her down on a bench, her legs spread wide, her ankles tied to the legs. Her hands remained tied behind her back. She sat naked, wet, shivering, and stared at the dark silhouette before her. Its eyes were invisible. It was silent. This made it even more terrifying. He stepped away for a second, and Lena heard the ladle clink. Then he returned, and icy water poured onto her chest. She gasped, her nipples instantly tightening, goosebumps running through her body. He ran his hand down her stomach, lower, his fingers sliding between her legs. Lena squeezed her thighs, but the ropes held her. He touched her there, not roughly, more exploratory, and she felt a horrifying response inside her. "Not this," flashed through her mind. He splashed water again, this time on her pubis, and began to rub it with his palm. The water was cold, but his hand was hot. His fingers parted her folds, found her clitoris, and began to stroke slowly, in a circle. Lena bit her lip to keep from moaning. She didn't want it, she didn't want it, but her lower abdomen was already growing heavy. Suddenly, he leaned down and ran his tongue down her neck, nibbled on her earlobe. It sent a shiver down her spine. He stood between her spread legs, unbuttoned her pants, and she felt his penis press against her thigh. He entered her in one thrust, but she was already wet. She cried out and leaned forward as far as the ropes would allow. He began to move, holding her hips, hard, deep, lifting her backside off the bench with each thrust. Lena bit her lip, clenched the ropes, but moans were already escaping. The heat from the steam room, the smell of wood, the darkness—everything was mixed together. He changed his rhythm, going slower but deeper, and leaned toward her ear: - Do you like it? She didn't answer, just shook her head, but her insides tightened. He grinned and pulled out. Then he turned her around and placed her on her knees on the bench, stomach-first, her back pressed to his chest. One hand settled on her throat, the other slid between her legs again. He entered from behind, and she moaned loudly this time. The steam room at bukvoeb.org had become even hotter, sweat poured down her body, her hair stuck to her cheeks. His fingers tormented her clit, his cock throbbed deep inside, and Lena felt herself overwhelmed. A spasm ran through her entire body, she arched, froze, and he made a few more sharp thrusts and pulled out, leaving hot seed on her back. Silence. Only breathing. His hand loosened the ropes. Lena slid off the bench onto the floor, hugging her knees to her chest. She was shaking. Shame, horror, and underneath it all—a still pulsing, vile pleasure. The door slammed. Footsteps were heard. Then the switch flicked, and a bright light hit her eyes. Lena closed her eyes, and when she opened them, she saw her husband. He was standing in the doorway of the steam room with a bottle of champagne and two towels. "Well, welcome back, my love," he said and smiled. "I told you I'd be late. Surprise!"