A centuries-old, gloomy forest stood like a wall on either side of the rutted road, sunken by recent rains. Spruce trees, like black guards, locked their shaggy paws overhead, not letting through even a ray of the midday sun. Only occasionally, somewhere high above, a solitary bird would cry out anxiously, and in the distance, an invisible quagmire would hoot heavily and piercingly. It was a godforsaken, remote place, the kind of place people used to say: "Here the devil would break his leg, and a man would lose his head." A lone carriage trundled leisurely along the bumpy road that wound through these gloomy thickets. A portly dapple-colored gelding, his ears twitching, lazily flicked his tail at horseflies. The coachman, a sleepy man, languid from the heat and the forest air, nodded off every now and then. Inside the covered carriage, upholstered in leather darkened by time, sat a young woman on embroidered cushions. Her name was Marfa Andreyevna Volkonskaya, wife of the Solikamsk governor. A youthful, stately figure, with a proud bearing and a sharp, chiseled face. She was traveling to her remote estate beyond the Vyatka River to check on her estate and take a break from the stifling bustle of the capital. She was dressed for the road, but richly: a dark cherry-colored summer jacket of fine cloth, embroidered with silver, and a light, sable-lined soul warmer draped over her shoulders. A pearl necklace hung around her graceful neck, and emerald earrings adorned her ears. Even on a long journey, she remained who she was—a noblewoman accustomed to adoration. Next to her, huddled in a ball, trembled a young servant girl named Grushenka. She was pretty, fair-haired, with frightened gray eyes. At her feet stood a wrought-iron chest containing the master's jewels and money. "Will we soon be past this damned forest?" Marfa Andreyevna asked, pursing her lips in displeasure, pulling back the curtain and peering into the dense wall of fir trees. "I can't stand it, it's so stuffy." "They say they should be out by evening, my dear lady," Grushenka babbled, "But this place, you know, is not a good place. People are up to mischief here." "Nonsense!" the voivode's wife snapped, adjusting a lock of hair that had escaped from under her headdress. "Who would dare attack the voivode's carriage? We have guards." There was indeed a guard—four mounted men, armed with sabers, trudging ahead and behind. But they looked as sleepy as the coachman. Exhausted by the heat, they didn't even notice how watchful, alert eyes had been watching them from behind the trees for half a mile. The first to be struck was the front line. A short, viciously whistling lasso lashed out, snapping around the rider's neck and yanking him from his saddle. The horses whinnied in fear and began dancing in place. Riders burst out of the forest thicket with whoops and whistles—ragged, bearded men, armed with flails, sabres, and clubs. The attack was so swift and sudden that the guards didn't even have time to resist. "Whoa! Stop!" roared the man with the black patch over his eye, grabbing the voivode's gelding by the bridle. The carriage stopped abruptly. Marfa Andreyevna, pale as a sheet, clutched the door. Grushenka squealed and hid in the very corner, covering the chest with her body. "Come on, get out!" the one-eyed man barked, yanking the door towards himself. "What are you sitting there for, little bird?!" It was the ataman. Tall, stocky, in his early thirties. He was dressed in a simple but well-made shirt, with a dark caftan slung over one shoulder. A wide belt with pistols hung from it. On his head was a Tatar cap, cocked jauntily. His face, slashed by a scar from his right eyebrow to his cheekbone, was stern, but a merry, devilish sparkle danced in his single dark eye. "Come out, come out, mistress," he said more softly, with a caustic grin, "Or can't you see you've come to visit us? And we're always glad to have guests!" "You... you know who I am?!" Marfa Andreyevna exclaimed, her voice trembling but full of indignation. "I am the governor's wife! You, a robber, will be impaled!" "They won't put you in jail, don't worry," the ataman chuckled, roughly grabbing her hand and pulling her out of the cart. "Your voivode is far away, but I'm right here, right next to you. And I want you, my beauty, to respect me." He turned to his men, who were already busily searching through the dead guards, removing harnesses from their horses, and taking supplies. — Hey, Baldy! Get that bag! And grab the girl! Take them both to the hut, there, by the stream! "Yes, father!" the giant responded, and, grabbing the screaming Grushenka in his arms along with the chest, he dragged her into the forest. "And you, my beauty, will come with me. On your feet, on your feet. Don't be afraid," the ataman grabbed Marfa around the waist and almost forcibly pulled her into the thicket. The walk wasn't long. A bandit camp had been set up near a small forest stream, amidst dense hazel trees. A hut made of spruce branches, a smoldering fire, and a cauldron of some kind of brew simmering on forks. The air smelled of smoke, wet earth, and pine needles. Several men were fussing around the fire, casting curious glances at the captives. "Get away!" the ataman ordered loudly. "I'll sit by the fire myself! Go over there to the carts and rummage around for something!" The bandits, obediently grumbling, departed, leaving the ataman alone with the captives. Marfa Andreyevna stood proudly erect, though her legs trembled. Grushenka sobbed incessantly, clutching the chest they had placed on the ground. "Well, mistress," the ataman slowly approached and walked around Marfa, examining her like a mare at auction. "She's beautiful. Smooth, well-groomed. Not like our forest girls." He yanked the collar of her summer robe sharply. The fabric cracked, tearing apart. Marfa gasped and clutched her chest, but the ataman intercepted her hands. "Don't flinch," he muttered. "You'll be safer. Your money is mine. But honor... Honor, you know, is a simple commodity. Amuse me, and I'll let you go in peace. But if not..." He nodded meaningfully towards the forest. "Oh, no," he continued, "my guys will respect you without asking. All around. And your girl, too. I saw how they were staring at you. So, lady, choose: either I alone, the good way, or the whole gang." Marfa turned even paler, terror flickering in her eyes. Pride warred with fear. She saw the bandits' faces darkened with lust, and saw the chieftain leisurely untie his belt and throw back his caftan. “You… you wouldn’t dare…” she whispered, taking a step back. “I certainly dare,” he pulled her towards him, pressing her so hard that she felt his stone core pressing against her stomach. The ataman's hands greedily raked her body, tearing away her clothes. The torn summer robe fell to the ground, followed by her undershirt. Marfa stood before him, naked to the waist, only the pearl necklace trembling on her chest. Her snow-white, full breasts, with pink nipples hardened with fear, burst free. “Glorious,” whispered the chieftain, leaning down and capturing the tight nipple with his mouth. Marfa moaned, trying to push him away, but he was stronger. His tongue greedily caressed her, nibbling, teasing. Rough, calloused hands squeezed her other breast, kneading and tugging at her nipple. The voivode felt a wave of heat spreading involuntarily in her lower abdomen. She hated this man with all her might, but her flesh, long deprived of a man's caresses, responded treacherously. “You’re sweet, lady,” the ataman croaked, tearing himself away from her breast, “I could just eat you up.” He pushed Marfa onto a bundle of hay abandoned near the hut. She fell on her back, legs spread. The robber yanked off her boots, then the rest of her skirts. Marfa was left completely naked, only the pearls cooling her heated skin. Below, between her white thighs, a dark, hairy triangle loomed, already glistening with the telltale moisture. "Look at you," the ataman chuckled, sliding his rough fingers into her cunt, "And how you're flowing! And all the same: 'Oh, you robber, oh, you voivode's wife!'" He unzipped his pants, and his flesh burst free—thick, muscular, veins bulging. The head, blue-gray and shiny, gazed predatorily at Marfa. “Please... don’t...” she whispered, but there was no longer the same confidence in her voice. “It is necessary,” the chieftain answered calmly and, spreading her legs, with one powerful thrust he plunged into her womb. Marfa cried out, arching her back. He was enormous, and the pain mingled with an unexpected, sharp pleasure. The robber began to move, not giving her time to recover. His hips slammed powerfully against her buttocks, each thrust deep, all the way to her core. He wasn't gentle. He was rough, but this roughness held its own, animalistic passion, which, despite everything, ignited a reciprocal fire within Marfa. "Look at me!" he growled, "Look how the devil takes the governor's wife!" Marfa obeyed and opened her eyes. The ataman's face loomed over her, distorted with passion, his eyes blazing. She felt the tension building within her. Her legs wrapped around his hips, her hands gripping his broad shoulders. "That's it," he croaked, picking up the pace, "Give yourself to me! All of you, without a trace!" Unable to contain herself, Marfa moaned, long and sweet. This moan, like that of a wounded dove, finally broke the last shackles. The chieftain growled like a wounded animal and ejaculated inside her, his entire body shuddering. His hot seed burned her from within, causing a responsive shudder of pleasure to course through her. He lay on top of her for a few moments, catching his breath. Then he raised himself and looked into her clouded eyes, filled with tears and unspoken pleasure. "Good," he said, smiling, "I'll let you go in peace. But I'll take the chest and the horses. And your girl, too. I liked her." “What?!” Marfa, instantly coming to her senses, tried to sit up, covering herself with her torn shirt, “How dare you!” "I dare," he said, already getting dressed, not looking at her. "Don't whine. Or do you want me to change my mind? My lads won't be back for a while. And I might not be averse to starting a second hunt." And he looked meaningfully at her naked body. Marfa fell silent. She knew there was no point in arguing. The ataman approached the trembling Grushenka, who, huddled near the chest, was staring wide-eyed at the scene. "Well, I'll talk to you later, little birdie," he said, gently stroking her cheek. "You'll be in the kitchen. And with me. If you're obedient, you'll have a good life." Grushenka, stumbling, only nodded. The ataman whistled. Several of his men immediately appeared from the forest. "Escort the lady to the Solikamsk highway!" he ordered. "Leave her a cart there. And don't touch it! If anyone touches it, I'll skin them alive!" Then he turned to Marfa, who had already somehow put herself in order, although her clothes were hopelessly ruined. "Don't think ill of me, voivode's wife," he said mockingly. "And if you miss me, know where to look. I'm Kuzma, nicknamed Sokol. Remember that." Marfa didn't answer. She simply turned away, so as not to see that hateful face with its scar and insolent, all-knowing grin. But in her chest, where the flames of passion had just raged, a smoldering ember remained. A smoldering ember of shame, anger, and... something else. Something she was afraid to admit to herself. Two days later, upon reaching her estate, the first thing she did was order the bathhouse heated. She scrubbed herself with a washcloth for a long time, trying to wash away both the man's scent and the memory of his caresses. But no matter how hard she tried, his single, burning eye kept appearing before her eyes, and the words "Look how the devil takes the voivode's wife!" rang in her ears. And at night, in the empty, cold bedroom, she caught herself reaching her hand down to her hot womb, remembering what, in her own words, should not have happened.