Ossip, Sascha, Piotr, Bob, Sergei, Vlodya, Nikolai, Mili, Alex, & Ivan

Preface: We are in the Czarist era of stratified society just before life rises to the cusp of revolution. Gatherings around samovars in rich surroundings were their own excuses for pretexts and pretenses. What might have, must have gone on behind the cultivated glamor?

Dedication: To a reader whose excited comments have offered me encouragement in the past - ClanManA3.

“Ossip, why do you do what you do?”

“You mean, get screwed by any guy with the money?”

Sascha nodded, a sad look in his reformer’s eye. He bit into a lovely red apple from a basket nearby. Glanced at silk curtains, satin armchairs, oriental carpets, gilt-framed landscapes.

“Simple. I love cock. Especially here, in my adorable ass. Hard cocks do a lot for me: promote muscle tone, increase capillary circulation, rev up nerve endings, promote prostatic discharge, provide pleasure two ways.” A ripe peach drew his attention. Caressed and sniffed its fuzz.

So sensuous he was. Looked seductively toward his friend.

“You mean – umm – back and forth?” Sascha almost choked, asking that. Spat out a black seed.

“No. I mean for my visitor and for me. The small ones have their effect. Medium sizes satisfy by the very fact they are in the majority. Whoppers in girth or length – or both – reach special places the others only dream of.”

An uneasy moment passed. They both took bites of their fruit.

“Does it take long?”

“For what? For them to get their rocks off?’

“What else?”

“Oh, you poor sap. Guys come to me for that, sure. When that’s the case, my job’s to find out whether they want a quick tussle or a comfortable ride. More than you can imagine, as I see from the look on your face, want to be treated sweetly. No one outside these walls shows them the affection I do, the way I do.

“I know how, for example, to wash my men with warm, soapy sponges in our big tub. A massage of any part of a man’s body? My hands, my oils will ease away anxieties. Professional and domestic. If someone wants to be held and sung to, I know folksongs to sing softly in a man’s ear while snuggling him, or letting him snuggle me. Some want to talk more than to have sex, though I encourage that they move from the one to the other. Does them much good,” he laughed, “and boosts tips.” He gestured at the furnishings.

Ossip paused, studying Sascha’s opaque face. “My god, you really don’t get this, do you?”

“Not yet, although I’m getting impressed.”

“I can give you a specific example of how valuable my services are. Listen, and don’t interrupt.”

“All right, Ossip.”

With a linen napkin, he wiped his jaw of lingering peach juice. “One of my visitors – let’s call him Piotr – came to me secretively. He always did because many people knew him. Love had claimed his heart. Love for his artistic nephew who I’ll call Bob, okay?”

For the second time, Sascha nodded. His expression less milky.

Ossip continued, “In absolute distress, Piotr, who was about fifty and Bob only nineteen, wanted my help, discretely, of course. Had to be as it still does. Wait for it. Don’t interrupt. I know what you want to know. Here it comes.

“Piotr wanted me to coach Bob, who was scared of his own shadow where emotions were concerned. Big-deal family and all that. Sex? Only in the dark with his own hand, Piotr told me. All he’d done was to kiss Bob. Bob, shocked, kissed back, then broke down. Tears all over. He was a mess.

“Now Piotr’s super-sensuous. Used to kiss like a maniac. Loved to fuck – me – and he’s good at it. Had a nice biggie always at the ready. But, once the love bug bit him, he only wanted Bob’s ass.

“Bob dithered. Afraid and all that. Piotr’d only had one lover that he spoke about, earlier in life, some guy named Sergei. Sergei was a bottom boy from the get-go, so Piotr just got in there whenever he could, but they had drifted apart years before. After Sergei, Piotr managed get-togethers with this cavalier or some other officer – he liked uniforms – or boys off the streets who wouldn’t know who he was.

“Bob was embarrassed about me teaching him. He was a year older than I was, but champagne went down his gullet persuasively, you might say convincingly, and he let me tutor him. I made Piotr stay away from our proceedings, so Bob would be less nervous. His uncle intimidated the hell out of him – and most other people. But he was really shy, except around me. Piotr, that is.”

Sascha’s apple core began to turn brown.

“Anyway, he had this ‘thing’ about Bob and was going crazy with desire to top him. So, I fed the rather sweet fellow a line about how he didn’t really have to do anything much. Just turn over, relax, and let Uncle Piotr in. We practiced, not with my prick. No, no. I wanted him to want the real thing – Piotr’s. Won’t bore you with details, but I did bore into Bob with my dildos, session after session until he quite liked the whole idea. And, I’d always sing softly one of Piotr’s songs, None but the Lonely Heart, as I drove the point home. See? – conditioning of body and spirit.”

Water in a porcelain bowl took care of Ossip’s peachy stickiness before a fleecy hand towel dried manicured hands.

“Here’s where the story gets better. We finally were ready. Bob came in ahead of Piotr that day to be washed out and lubed up. Piotr arrived through a door in the back alley, witless with fright he might be seen. Dropped his drawers the moment he saw Bob waiting naked. Whoo! It was like two magnets the way they snapped tight to each other. Slobber went everywhere. Then Bob gave Piotr one of those knowing smiles I’d taught him – and turned over. His bottom was as pretty as any picture.

“Piotr climbed on and schlonged in. Fucked that boy better’n he had me. Most times they made love, Bob took to humming None but the Lonely Heart. I was in the room except when extra precautions had to be taken over a super-secret state visit. Don’t look at me that way. It was Connie – Constantine Romanov – the fucking Grand Duke, you klutz! Had to make sure neither Piotr not Constantine crossed paths in our establishment. All curtains were drawn. Some lovely baubles by Fabergé came my way for making certain those arrangements never meshed.”

“That’s quite enough. I take it that you understand me and my job now, that you realize I provide happinesses to others by my talents and skills, happinesses that would otherwise be impossible for them.”

“Did Piotr and Bob live happily ever after?”

“When they were under my care and supervision, a few hours each week brought highly ecstatic trysts to temper the rigid-system lives of both. Know what I mean? They were way up in the privileged classes. Anyway, disaster struck.

“Our cholera epidemic wiped out Piotr just after he conducted his big, emotionally charged new Symphony – openly dedicated to Bob Davidoff. What might have marked a new beginning for the two lovers ended with poor Piotr’s death and massive state funeral only to be followed not too long after by Bob’s suicide. Poor dear simply couldn’t go on, despite being Tchaikowsky’s heir. The money didn’t make him happy. I think he missed Piotr’s big dick.”

“And you’re somehow proud of that?”

“Proud? Yes, of what my profession and experience allowed them to discover in each other – safely. They were genuinely happy.”

A rap at Ossip’s door stopped Sascha from what he was about to say. 

“Avanti!” Ossip called, using one of the Italian words he had learned from a lusty sailor (to whom, in return, he had managed to teach only “Nyet” and “Da,” with emphasis on “Da.”).

“Hi. Am I interrupting?” The question came from a bright-faced, blue-eyed young man whose blond head covered in ringlets peeped in.

“Vlodya, baby, come in. This is my friend Sascha. Sascha, Voldya makes his livelihood here, too. What’s up?”

“Nikolai thought it’d be a good idea for you to check me out before tonight. You know, since what happened last week.”

“Sure. Sascha won’t mind, will you, my friend?”

“I guess not.”

Boyishly small-framed, Voldya slipped in, went straight to Ossip, dropped his robe and, without blinking an eye, stood there naked. And cute. Really cute. Button cute.

Blond pubes.

A masseur’s skilled hands traced shoulders, waist, buttocks. and upper legs. “All healed up,” Ossip said. “And here?” he prodded Voldya’s not-so-tiny pucker, “No more blood?”

The doll-like head turned, “Not after day three. Those balms and ointments were nice. Nikolai thinks I’m good to go if I’m careful.”

“Is there a problem?”

Voldya confided something not meant for Sascha to hear.

Ossip’s face shriveled in disgust. “Not that dreadful monk?”

More whispers.

Ears strained.

Vlodya donned his robe and, a passing hand waving in Sascha’s direction, slipped out.

Cute. Real cute. Button cute.

Blond pubes.

The expectant look on Sascha’s face was met with, “You must go now. We’re bracing for trouble tonight. Don’t ask. Just go – and make certain not to speak of this visit to anyone.”

“You didn’t tell me any of you was ever mistreated.”

“Almost never, yet now and then a visitor wants to spank one of us. No harm in that.  It’s just sex-play. Our bodies are playgrounds for pay. Last week, a landowner – you know, the kind that used to have serfs he could take advantage of – big guy with a great, gray beard, Count somebody, brought in a wicked knout and laid into Vlodya. Nikolai and Mili heard the screams and rushed in before the knout’s handle was all the way up Vlodya’s ass.”

“What happened?”

“Poor thing, Vlodya was shaking and crying all night. We took turns; stayed with him.”

“And?”

“Mili sent word to one of our nicest regulars, Dr. Dahl, who came at once. He brought medical salves and talked to Voldya in his special, quiet way to put him to sleep. That man’s a wonder. He gets a freebie with Nikolai for the treatment.

“When we were relieved, Mili wrote to Grand Duke Alexander, who loves Vlodya’s delicate blow-jobs, to ask him to do something about the Count. We here want peace, not war. Alex came over, took one look, left a small bag of rubles, and told us to care for his ‘darling.’”

“Does that have anything to do with your monk?”

“Alex alerted us that word in the back rooms of the palace was that Rasp…better not say the name…was tired of raping gypsy girls and wanted to try some boys – not those worn-out gypsy boys, some clean boys he could defile in the name of God. We may have to bar both doors against him unless we can get one of our wrestler friends – say, Ivan – to man the door. The monk’s not mad enough to challenge the imperial champ.”

“You mean, Poddubnyi?” Sascha was incredulous.

“Don’t blab that name around – not…any…place! Even the slightest mention of it by a dope like you could get you tossed in the Neva. Do I make myself clear?”

Chastened, Ossip’s friend felt shame – that he had come to reform his wayward buddy, only to discover a carrousel-ride life, fruit galore, drink aplenty (not that he had been offered champagne, but still), and accommodation swanky as the Grand Hotel. Excitement! Adventure! Celebrities! Food! Fabergé trinkets!

Excitement showed. Sascha stewed. Funny feelings simmered his stomach. As he thought, guilt shaped his face, clear as glass.

“You want to tell me something?”

“Ossip…I, um, want to ask you something.”

“The something is…what?”

“I know I’ve turned my nose up at you and what you do. I’m sorry. Will you accept my apology?”

“Yes. So?”

“How…can I…get into this…you know…your profession?”

“You can start by putting that nose of yours down between my legs. Come here.”

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